Callum winced. While he hoped his retching and dose of herbed water had been enough to halt the flow of poison into his body, it was hard to be sure. He had nearly downed an entire goblet of wine, and Lily of the Valley was a harmful plant. Certainly not deadly like Belladonna, English Yew, or Water Hemlock, but still enough to make a body very ill. God forbid he succumb to any sudden body purges during the fight. That would be a woeful tale to follow him for the rest of his life.
“My laird…” said Alastair, with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “Is there anything you need?”
“Just those I love,” he whispered.
His squire stared at him, tenderness and fierce pride in his eyes. “Good fortune.”
The king rang his bell, and the guests and envoys took their seats. “Welcome back. This tourney started with thirty men, and now just two remain, each hoping to win the hand of Lady Isla. To my right, the MacDonald of Carnoch!”
Loud cheers sounded in the hall, and Callum gritted his teeth. If they knew Red as he did, would his cousin still have this support? It was hard to know with the wheels of favor in the Scottish court ever-turning.
“And to my left, Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe!”
Generous applause followed, alongside some raucous whoops, and he stifled a smile. Yes, everyone else expected Red to win, but Isla and Alastair, and his unexpected supporters Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, would urge him on every moment of the swordfight. Maybe even the king as well.
Sir Lachlan stood between him and Red, an immovable man-mountain of judgment and justice. “Clasp hands.”
Red smirked and held out his hand. “Cousin. At least you are well used to defeat, having enjoyed it for a lifetime.”
“Cousin,” Callum replied, clasping it for the least time possible, before stepping back.
“The rules of engagement…have not changed,” said Sir Lachlan. “First man to three points…shall be the victor. Stop and start…on my command. No blades to the head. Trickery or misdeeds…shall be punished harshly. Here are your longswords.”
Red took his and strolled to the center of the Great Hall, waving to the guests seated on benches either side of him. Callum glanced at Isla then Alastair; both nodded in encouragement. Bolstered by their support and the green ribbon wound around his wrist that symbolized their trio, he set his stance. Left foot forward, both hands gripping the sword hilt next to his right cheek. Isla had tutored him, Alastair had massaged him, now it was time for his part.
The king rang his bell. “Begin!”
Red swung his sword in a wide arc. “Come to me, cousin. Show everyone your measure, small though it may be.”
Ignoring the taunt, Callum circled him and attempted a few false cuts, just to see what Red would do. While his cousin was much taller and stronger, his feet did not move overmuch. Red expected to win easily with a series of single blows. Because of Isla, Callum now knew ways to halt that. It would take speed, graceful footwork, and near-perfect timing; not to mention a few miracles for him to not curl up on the Hall floor with belly gripes as his herbal tonic fought its own battle with the plant poison.
But he had a chance.
Callum lunged and swung his blunted sword in a sharp downward cut. The clash of steel echoed in the Hall, and the shudder that went through his arms almost provoked a stomach purge, but he’d surprised his cousin. That much was clear.
Red laughed as they circled one another. “How are you feeling? Quite well?”
“Well enough to leap through a valley of lilies,” he replied, baring his teeth.
His cousin’s eyes widened, before he attacked with a straight thrust. Yet as was forever his trouble, Callum dropped his elbow and his attempt to deflect was weak. Red lunged again with a horizontal strike, and Callum’s sword fell to the floor.
“One point, MacDonald,” said Sir Lachlan.
Emboldened, Red fought as he’d done against Sir Leslie, trying to overwhelm with a flurry of cuts. Callum blocked the first, the second, the third…but the fourth was one of those swooping hawks that Isla had spoken of, and again it was Callum’s sword on the floor as the guests and envoys cheered for Red.
“Two points, MacDonald,” said Sir Lachlan.
The words sounded like a reprimand. Callum didn’t need to look at Alastair or Isla to know they would be almost clawing their chairs not to intervene.
Speed. Footwork. Timing.
Think, Callum.
Red circled close. “One point away from my wedding night. I shall enjoy breaking the little bitch. Even more so knowing you care for her, and she you…”
With a feral snarl, Callum swung his sword hard in a right upward cut. Caught flat-footed, Red’s block was clumsy, and when Callum tried again from the left, his opponent’s sword dislodged from his hands onto the floor.
“One point, Glennoe!” Sir Lachlan bellowed.
Fury darkened Red’s face as he collected his sword, then lunged with a straight thrust. However, this time Callum neatly stepped aside, then diagonally. As Red’s arms were up, exposing his belly a little, Callum brought his sword around in a horizontal slash. His cousin wasn’t quite swift enough to block it, not only receiving a cut to the arm for his trouble, but losing his sword once more.
“Two points, Glennoe!” said Sir Lachlan, a tiny smile lifting his lips. “The next point…shall decide the victor.”
“Weak, mewling scum,” spat Red. “Son of an English witch and friend to the lowborn sinner. I’ll have your woman, and your lands soon enough. You’ll always be nothing and no one.”
Callum laughed. It hurt his stomach, but the shock on his cousin’s face was worth the discomfort. “You bray like a mule. Always have.”
Roaring the MacDonald battle cry, Red rushed forward. His intent was clear: while his sword tip might be blunted, he intended to maim with the blade.
Speed. Footwork. Timing.
An odd sense of calm washed through him, clearing his mind and easing his stomach. The world around him seemed to slow, while he became swifter. Gripping his longsword tightly, Callum advanced and swung hard in an upward cut, before Red had completed his downward thrust. Their blades screeched and hissed, but Callum had planned for this and absorbed the agonizing shudder. Then he stepped and cut again and again without halting. Left. Right. Horizontal. Upward. Downward. Every movement hurt and his back was drenched in sweat, but he didn’t permit his cousin to attack. Instead, Red was forced to defend and defend until he actually began to retreat.
And stumbled.
Strike as a swooping hawk.
Callum almost heard Isla’s command in his ear. Lifting his sword above his head, he swung it down from right to left with all his might, dislodging his opponent’s sword. Red fell onto his arse, unleashing a guttural wail of despair as his weapon tumbled to the floor, the hilt bouncing once, twice, before settling with a noisy clatter.
For a long moment the only sound in the Hall was Callum gasping for breath as he mopped the sweat from his forehead with a shirtsleeve.
And then it came.
A soul-stirring sound he’d never heard before, one that started as a murmur and became louder and louder until it near lifted the roof of the Great Hall. “Cruachan. Cruachan. Cruachan!”
The king and queen, the guests and envoys, bellowing the MacIntyre battle cry…for him.