“I told ye this would happen,” he shouted at her as the villagers scattered away from the half-battling stallions.
“Do ye want to admit defeat?” she taunted him as she yanked her horse’s head around, and kicked it into a gallop again.
His laughter was her answer. They raced down the village street, around the kirk, and back towards the keep. He kept his animal just a pace behind her to avoid another battle between the two stallions. He fully intended pushing his horse ahead of hers as they reentered the courtyard. They reached the top of the path again, and dashed about the stone keep. Maggie was certain the victory would be hers, and when it was, it wouldn’t matter who won the combat by sword. There would be no clear-cut winner, for to win this challenge, one combatant had to win all three contests. Her stallion clambered onto the drawbridge again, his hooves pounding against the wood of the bridge. But to Maggie’s surprise, Fingal Stewart’s stallion was suddenly once again head to head with hers as they galloped into the yard and came to a screeching halt.
“ ’Tis a dead heat once more!” the old laird declared delightedly.
The two sweating stallions stood with wild eyes, foam about their mouths, and heaving sides as their riders slid from their backs. They were too tired to renew the fight between them as the stable lads led them away to separate ends of the stables to recover.
“Will ye be battling me with yer claymore in yer bare feet?” Fingal Stewart asked her, grinning.
“Will ye take off yer boots too, or are yer dainty feet still too cold?” Maggie mocked him, returning the grin.
“Put yer socks and boots on, lassie,” the laird told his granddaughter. “Ye should have done so before ye mounted that big beast of yers to race.”
“It didn’t affect my riding,” Maggie said, seating herself upon the stone steps into the house. She pulled on the warm knit stockings Grizel handed her, and then her boots. Upon standing she said, “I’m ready now.”
Clennon Kerr, the keep’s dour captain, handed Maggie her claymore. It was a fine weapon, fifty-five inches in length with a cross handle. It was a plain sword with no fancy or decorative embellishments about it. The captain handed Fingal Stewart an identical weapon. “They’re the same blade, my lord,” he said.
“So I see,” Lord Stewart answered. He had quickly come to trust Clennon Kerr, for Iver liked him, which he would not have had the captain been duplicitous. And an almost imperceptible nod from Iver told him all was well.
A chair, brought from the hall, was set upon the top step leading to the hall. The laird settled himself into the chair, his English kinsmen standing by his side. He would be able to clearly see everything from his position. Below them the keep’s men-at-arms formed a circle, and the two combatants stepped into it. They were garbed as they had come from the hall that morning, and wore no mail to protect them.
“Remember,” Dugald Kerr said in a stern voice, “this contest between ye both ends when first blood is drawn. Try not to injure each other seriously. It is a battle of skill between ye. Naught else. I will stop it if either of ye displays undue roughness. Ye may now begin.”
Their weapons required that they fight with two hands. Grasping the hilts of their claymores, they raised them in a salute to each other, and then metal met metal with a horrific clanging. Fingal Stewart was not surprised by Maggie’s skill with her claymore. With any other woman he might have been, but he had found her to be a woman not given to bragging. If she said she was proficient in something, he accepted that she was, and she had said she could wield a claymore as well as any. She could. It took all his skill to keep from being blooded by her.
He didn’t know why he cared other than the fact that a man, especially one who would one day control an important ingress into Scotland, should not be vanquished by a woman; yet he was uncomfortable with the reality that to win this contest between them he must blood her. If he could wear her down eventually perhaps she would yield to him without the necessity of it. But Maggie was a stubborn woman. Unless he won all three challenges, Fingal Stewart knew she would not respect him. Of course, the first two contests between them had ended in a tie, so if he had not beaten her, he had at least equaled her, which should gain him a modicum of her respect. But he knew that this last battle between them must yield a clear winner, and he had to be that winner.
He had spent the past few minutes keeping her at bay. Now he began to fight her in earnest, raising his claymore with two hands, the blade striking hers fiercely as she blocked his attack. The clash of the two blades reverberated through her entire body, and Maggie staggered, surprised. She suddenly found herself on the defensive against him, and she realized he meant to win here unequivocally where he had not won before. She stiffened her spine, and fought hard driving him back, back, back, step by step by step.
“Jesu, she fights like a man,” Lord Edmund said, not realizing until his son laughed that he had spoken aloud.
“Still want her for a wife, kinsman?” the laird of Brae Aisir asked mockingly of his Netherdale cousin. “She’s more woman than any ye have ever known.”
“She’s magnificent,” Rafe said. “I hope we never meet in battle.”
“Yer a wise man, laddie, unlike yer sire,” Dugald Kerr told him.
“A lass belongs in the hall directing her servants,” Edmund Kerr said, finally speaking. “Not in the yard in breeks fighting with a man. Ye’ve let her run wild, Dugald. I don’t envy her husband. I hope he can successfully bed that wildcat of yours. He’ll have to if yer to get a male heir.”
“Tonight,” the laird told him. “Look closely, Edmund. My Maggie is beginning to tire. Fingal Stewart is a strong opponent. And his patience is coming to an end.”
“Aye,” Rafe noted softly, “she’s tiring. I’m sorry to see it, for she’s a brave lass.”
She was his wife, damn it! Fingal Stewart thought as he realized that Maggie was not going to give up. And he wanted her, not because a king had matched them to serve his own needs or even because it was his right, but because he was coming to love the stubborn wench. She was everything a man could want in a wife—noble, brave beyond measure, and loyal. She was honest to a fault, firm but kind to her servants, and the villagers would not have been so devoted to her had she not had all of these virtues. And with a modicum of total honesty he had to admit she was a beauty. Aye, Mad Maggie Kerr was everything a wife should be.His wife.
There she stood. Her capable hands gripped the hilt of her claymore as she fought him. Her shirt was wet beneath the arms, sticking to her back and breasts. She was gasping for breath, and near to falling on her face with her exhaustion, but she would not give up. The marriage was fact. The contest before the consummation had been to satisfy any discontent among the Kerrs’ neighbors that the king’s kinsman had had his bride dishonestly. His forbearance at an end, Fingal Stewart raised his claymore even as Maggie raised hers against him. With a mighty blow, he knocked the sword from her hand, over the heads of the men-at-arms encircling them, and across the courtyard.
Maggie fell to her knees, the force of the two weapons meeting having gone right through her. She knelt there in the dust, unable for a moment to arise, for her legs seemed unable to function at all. Everything ached—her shoulders and her arms, her neck, the palms of her hands. Her fingers were suddenly weak. She heard Grizel’s cry of distress.
As she raised her head, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She looked to her grandfather, ashamed to have failed, and Maggie knew she had indeed failed.
“My lord?” Fingal Stewart’s calm voice queried. Then he said, “I know the rules ye have set for this contest, but I will not, cannot blood a woman in combat. We have both fought fairly, and the only blood I will take from Maggie Kerr is that which belongs to her maidenhead and is rightfully mine. If there is a winner to this swordplay, then ye must declare such, my lord.” Then he bent, reaching out to draw Maggie to her feet, his strong arm going about her waist to hold her against his side. “Yer a braw lass,” he said low so that only she could hear him, “but I’m not as young as ye are, and ye’ve fair worn me out, madam. Give over now, and let there be peace between us, Maggie mine.”
Unable to help herself, Maggie nodded, giving him a weak, cheeky grin in reply.
“Enough!” Dugald Kerr responded in a surprisingly loud and strong voice. “I declare this challenge over. Both contestants have won in the footrace and the riding, but ’tis Fingal Stewart who has won the battle of the claymores. I name him the winner, and let none say otherwise.” He looked straight at his granddaughter as he spoke. “Margaret Jean Kerr, will ye accept this man, Fingal Stewart, as yer true husband in every way a man is husband to his wife?”
