* * *
He’d won. Gillian kept her expression flat and placid, but her hands were clasped so tightly together they ached. Her heart pounded an anxious tattoo against her ribs.
She remembered the day she’d watched John training the lads on the practice field at Carraig Brigh, and how she’d admired his skill, his strength, his grace. And now he’d bested Laird Grant easily.
Davy MacKenzie and Cormag Robertson were evenly matched, and they fought each other back and forth across the field, roaring as their blades clashed. Finally, both men slipped in the mud and fell. Davy’s blade caught Cormag’s cheek, and Cormag’s sword laid a scratch across Davy’s knee.
They turned to Donal for a decision. Donal went forward and looked at both scratches, measured the length of them with his forefinger. “Laird MacKenzie’s wound is smaller. He shall face the Englishman.”
* * *
John watched as Davy crossed the muddy ground, stalking him, his expression dangerous. “I’ll not make it easy for ye.”
He struck without warning, but John parried the blow.
The Mackenzie was a huge man, tall, broad, and strong. He swung his claymore as if it weighed no more than a twig, and John had to leap back from a hard blow that swung past his belly, barely missing. He deflected the next blow but felt the jarring shock of it run up his arms. Davy was grinning at him, his teeth white in his muddy face. Davy was left handed, and John changed the hold on his sword, matched Davy blow for blow, but the MacKenzie left no opening for John’s blade.
Then Davy kicked out his leg, and John tripped and went down in the mud. Davy raised his blade high. John had only an instant to raise his own blade as the blow descended. John let his sword touch the back of the laird’s hand as he rolled out of the way. He saw blood well on the MacKenzie’s knuckles. Davy looked at John in surprise as the cry went up. Instead of yielding, Davy swung his sword again and laid a long stinging cut along John’s upper arm, then grinned spitefully. “Ye might have won the first contest, Sassenach, but ye’ll not win the lass. I’ll see to that. Give up or I’ll cut your head off.”
John got to his feet. Donal’s daughters beamed, and Callum MacLeod nodded approvingly, though his expression remained flat. The defeated lairds stalked away with their men. Donal MacLeod’s face was a study in surprise and displeasure as John approached. “I can see why Alasdair Og Sinclair made ye his captain,” was all Donal said before he left the field.
John glanced at Gillian, read the quiet pleasure on her face, the glow of confidence, as if she’d known all along.
Callum took the sword from him. “Do ye know how to do a sword dance?” he asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” John said honestly.
“Then ye’d best come with me, and I’ll show ye a few steps.”
* * *
That evening the next contest began in the hall. John sat apart from the others, still under guard. After the meal, Donal rose. “I know ye know this, but for the bairns, and our English competitor, I’ll tell the tale of theGillie Callum. For centuries, the steps of our Highland dances have been used to teach our warriors endurance, grace, and agility. TheGillie Callumis danced before battle. The steps must be quick and precise. If the warrior touches a sword, it is said to be a sign that man will be wounded in the upcoming battle. If he kicks a sword, it foretells death.”
“Laird Robertson, ye’ll go first.”
Each laird had his own piper, and they laid their swords in a cross with Donal’s.
Cormag Robertson was light on his feet for such a big man, his steps neat and precise. It took half an hour before he finally nudged a blade with his toe and ended his dance. He wiped his sweating face with a cloth and grinned proudly at his opponents and at Gillian.
Padraig Grant danced for twenty minutes before he touched his sword with his heel.
John knew he was doomed from the start. He was a lithe and graceful swordsman, and he knew the steps of courtly English dances or Scottish reels, but this was infinitely more challenging, a test of skill and endurance. Though Callum had shown him the basic steps, it took only a few minutes before he touched a blade.
Davy MacKenzie laughed and slapped John hard on the back as he stepped up to take his place. He grinned and winked at Gillian and began, forming the intricate steps, his big feet flying across the swords, but his foot soon caught a blade, kicked it, and sent it spinning across the stone floor. A buzz went up in the room. “Death,” someone whispered, and Davy’s face flushed at the ill omen
Donal named Cormag Robertson the winner, and the Robertson clansmen cheered and raising their cups to Gillian, who quietly accepted their salute. She glanced at John, and he forced himself to smile at her as if nothing at all was wrong.
“May I suggest the next contest?” Davy MacKenzie asked.
“What did ye have in mind?” Donal asked.
“A drinking game.” Davy looked at John. “Of course, for Highlanders, it’s unfair to call it a game. It’s a tradition, a challenge, and a celebration among warriors.”
“He’ll need a quaich,” Padraig Grant said. “Ye don’t have one of those, do ye, Sassenach? We Scots carry our own with us.”
“The quaich is traditionally filled to welcome guests or bid them farewell,” Donal said.
“’Tis a farewell I had in mind,” Davy MacKenzie said, sneering at John. “This game is played with whisky, Sassenach. Highlanders can put down great quantities of that. We start drinking it as soon as we’re weaned off our mother’s milk, so it’s like water to us. Ye may want to cut your losses and hie yourself away south now, just like your countrymen did after Bannockburn.”
