“Aye, I’ve seen ye wield a sword a time or two. Dinnae think ye have been getting away with yer training, James.”
James swallowed, emotion building deep in his throat. “Da, I?—”
His father waved his free hand at him. “I know wot ye are going tae say, and there’s no need tae say it. I was harsh on ye afterward.”
“We both were.”
Irvine came to stand by James’s father, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I shouldnae have reacted the way I did.” He looked at his oldest friend. “We both would have done the same at yer age.”
“Wot we are trying tae say,” his father finished, giving him a sheepish smile, “is that we support ye in this fighting taeday. I want ye tae represent yer clan proudly, and when we get back home, we will have a talk aboot yer future.”
James wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. His father was allowing him to make his own decisions?
That was too good to be true!
Irvine stepped forward, giving James a true smile.
“I would be proud tae have ye as one of mah warriors, James.”
The two Scots exchanged a look before Irvine walked away, leaving father and son together.
“Go out there,” his father said, unstrapping his own sword before presenting it to James. “And come out victorious.”
“Aye,” James replied, his voice full of emotion as he took the sword. “I will.”
His father nodded, and James drew in a breath as he watched him walk off, the sword suddenly heavy in his hands. A Scot’s sword was a part of his body, like another arm or leg, and yet his father had entrusted James with his own.
It meant something that he couldn’t explain.
When James finally made it to the ring nearly an hour later, he was more ready than he ever thought he could be. His competition was a burly Scot with a tartan that James didn’t recognize, his sneer growing as James unsheathed his sword. While the other man was larger, James was likely quicker on his feet and knew that his ability to move about would fare him well in this battle. All he had to do was draw the first line of blood and he would be named the victor.
True to the laird’s instructions, neither Scot wore their battle armor or leathers, instead dressed in tunics and breeks that would provide very little protection from the prick of the sword’s blade.
Next to them was another sparring ring, with two opponents already inside, the clang of their swords barely heard over the roar of the crowd. It didn’t take long for James to realize that Iris was one of the opponents, going against a Scot twice her size.
Still, he was amazed by the way she wielded her sword, remaining light on her feet as she dodged the blows. It was a sight to behold.
Turning his attention back to his own opponent, James palmed the worn handle loosely. On one hand he wanted Iris to win, but coupled with the very fact that he might end up facing her at the end of the day, and what he was likely going to do with his own matches, he wasn’t so certain he could get through this.
His opponent charged suddenly, his sword raised over his head. James forced the thoughts out of his mind for now, sidestepping the slice of the sword before it could cut through him. The crowd cheered as James’s boots slid in the dirt, but heremained upright, looking for the weak points like Matteau had taught him.
His breathing became shallow, conserving his strength as he danced around the ring on the balls of his feet, keeping the sword clenched tightly in his grasp. He didn’t know if Irvine or his father was watching, but it mattered not.
He would use the skills that Matteau had taught him and defeat this Scot.
His arms vibrated as their swords clashed together, sending sparks into the air and to the delight of the crowd. While his father’s sword felt unfamiliar in his hands, James quickly learned where the strong points were in the nicked steel and how to hold it without having his grip slide. He still couldn’t believe that his father had seen him spar, had watched him enough to pick up on James’s weak points in his own fighting.
One day soon they would discuss how his father knew all along.
He was able to push the larger Scot back a few feet, ducking under a full swing that would have done more than just nick his skin and got behind him, his sword readied. When his opponent turned around, James was there, slicing the blade across the Scot’s chest, deep enough for a welt of blood to bloom on his tunic a moment later. It wasn’t deep enough to maim him, but it had served its purpose.
“Victor!”
Breathing heavily, James rested his sword pointed to the ground, watching as his opponent stared at the blood on his tunic. James had done it. He had won!
The Scot cursed but begrudgingly reached out his arm, and James clasped it.
