The horse was her secret weapon, and the reason she had been so confident. Dubh had never let her down (although he did require a set of steel nerves, as he liked to hang back until the end of the race). The skill of theeochaidh, or what the English called “eochy” or horseman, only accounted for a small part of a race.
Not that she wasn’t a skilled rider—she was. Duncan had always said she had an eerie way with horses. Even spirited stallions like Dubh, which would have been thought unsuitable mounts for a woman, seemed to quiet when she drew near.
She smiled when she thought of Finlaeie’s shocked expression as the “spirited black stallion” had been led out for her to ride. She must admit that she had suffered a moment of doubt or two when he’d brought out his own horse. Whatever the reason for her dislike of him, she couldn’t fault his taste in horseflesh. The beast was every bit as magnificent as Dubh.
She also could not fault his riding. They were probably equally matched in that as well. But size was her other advantage, and one of the reasons she thought women could compete with men when it came to speed—especially against big, heavily mailed warriors. Since she was a foot shorter and probably half Finlaeie’s weight—or more with all that armor—Dubh had much less weight to carry. Had Finlaeie MacFinnon been a smaller, slighter man, and removed his armor, he might have bested her.
She’d barely come to a stop before her exuberant brothers were pulling her off the horse and hugging her. “Hell’s bells, Maggie Beag, what a jump!” Duncan said, spinning her around. “I wasn’t sure you would clear.”
Truth be told, she hadn’t been either.
“You nearly stopped my heart, gel,” her father said sternly, but with undeniable pride in his eyes. “I thought I told you to stop jumping or you were going to kill one of us.”
“You did, Father, and I promised to stop.” She dimpled. “I just didn’t say when.”
Brigid came over and gave her a quick hug. There were a few more congratulations from her father’s men and some of his allies, but after the initial excitement wore down, Margaret realized it was rather quiet—especially compared to similar occurrences at Garthland. She frowned, glancing around the courtyard and realizing that the crowd had already dispersed.
She felt the first prickle of uncertainty, but quickly brushed it away. It was to be expected. The people were much more reserved at Stirling, and much less inclined to prolonged celebration. At Garthland something like this would send them feasting into all hours of the night.
She felt a pang in her chest, acknowledging only for a moment how much she missed her home and the life she knew. A life where she didn’t feel as if she were treading on eggs all the time.
She supposed there was also the delicacy of the situation that could explain the lack of excitement, given the tendency of everything in Scotland to boil down to Bruce or Comyn. Though the race had nothing to do with that, some would see it as a victory for Comyn over Bruce. Finlaeie MacFinnon, like Eoin, might not be publicly aligned in Bruce’s camp, but he’d been part of the earl’s hunting party. Too much cheering for one side might be taken the wrong way at what was supposed to be a gathering to come together.
She finally glanced at the much less ecstatic group standing a short distance away. Finlaeie was staring at her with an expression on his face that chilled her blood. Dark, thunderous, and seething with resentment, it wouldn’t be too fanciful to say that he looked as if he wanted to kill her. Eoin had his back to her and was clearly trying to say something to his friend, but Finlaeie wasn’t listening. He was glowering at her too hard.
With what he’d said to her before the race, she shouldn’t care. “When I win, maybe you’ll give me some of what you gave MacLean last night.” She’d been furious and even more intent on seeing him humbled. But she would have been a fool not to be a little scared. She’d seen men angry at loss of pride before, but never had she been the recipient of such virulent animosity.
Whatever satisfaction and joy in victory she’d been feeling a few moments ago fled. She’d won, but she’d made a dangerous enemy in doing so. One she didn’t want. She might not like Finlaeie, but he was Eoin’s friend. And for some reason that mattered to her.
Finlaeie said something harsh to Eoin—if she read lips she might say it was a curse about what he could do to himself—and pulled away. Mouth white, he marched toward her, leading the magnificent chestnut palfrey behind him. When Eoin started after him, their eyes met. He looked upset, worried, and something else she couldn’t identify.
Her brothers and father had seen Finlaeie’s approach and instinctively formed a protective wall on either side of her. He stopped a few feet away from her and smiled, though it was the surliest smile she’d ever seen. “Mylady.” He had a way of drawing the word out that made it feel like a slur. “I congratulate you on your victory. It seems I underestimated yourridingability. I heard you were good. Lots of practice, I assume.”
There was nothing specific in his voice, but something about what he said made the men at her side tense, and Eoin’s face go white with fury.
“It was a close race,” she said hastily. “Anyone could have won.”
For some reason her attempt at graciousness was met with even more rage by Finlaeie. “But the victor was you,” he said flatly. “Because of that jump.”
Margaret thought there were other reasons as well, but frankly she just wanted to have this conversation over. “Yes, I was quite lucky. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid we are frightfully late for the midday meal as it is, and I probably should change unless I want half the Hall to faint in shock.”
No one smiled at the jest.
“Aren’t you forgetting our wager?” Finlaeie said, pulling forward the horse.
Margaret caught Eoin’s gaze and at that moment knew exactly what she had to do. “Wager?” she repeated, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Oh, you mean the jest about the horse. I will not hold you to that, of course.” Her brothers exploded, voicing their objections, but she ignored them. “Had you won, I know you would not have taken Dubh from me.”
They both knew he would have done exactly that. But she’d given him a way out. A way to keep the horse that he could ill afford to lose. The loss of such an animal would be a huge blow to a warrior trying to prove himself. God knows, the palfrey must have cost a small fortune.
Forced to agree, Finlaeie bowed his head as if acceding to the truth of her statement.
“Good,” she said. “Then we will speak no more on the subject.”
She knew she would have hell to pay with her father and brothers later. They would be furious at her refusing such a fine animal, but it would be worth it if the gesture dulled some of the sting of her victory.
A glance in Finlaeie’s direction, however, told her that it may have—marginally—eased his anger, but it had increased his resentment.
Eoin, however, looked relieved. She caught his gaze and wanted to hold on to it, but mindful of their audience, excused herself again.
