John regarded his opponents with a level look. “I’m no stranger to drinking games. What are the rules of this one?”
Davy chuckled. “Each man casts a die. The one with the lowest roll will drain his quaich to the dregs in one swallow—then he will perform a task set by the man with the highest roll. Since it’s the luck of the dice, ye can’t say it isn’t fair. Fate—and fortitude—will decide the victor, and that victor will be the last man still able to perform his assigned task and still stand afterward.”
“Very well,” John said.
The other lairds quickly called for their cups.
“Go and fetch the whisky, and get my quaich,” Donal said to Aileen. His eldest daughter hurried out of the hall. Gillian regarded John with concern, but he smiled at her, let her read courage and determination in his gaze.
When Aileen returned with her father’s quaich, four kitchen lads followed her, each carrying a pitcher filled with whisky. They set them in the center of one of the tables, and John and the lairds took their places. Donal sat at the head.
The MacLeod regarded the two-handled wooden bowl reverently, turning it in his hands for a moment before he looked at John.
“This is the quaich of the MacLeods. It was made from a tree that stood on the field of Bannockburn, where the first Fearsome MacLeod fought beside King Robert, and the English were defeated. The MacLeod was knighted by the Bruce for his service and granted this glen. I am a fair man, and all the men taking part in the contest for my daughter’s hand must be treated as equals. So I am offering this cup to you, an Englishman, one of the race of the defeated of Bannockburn. Does that insult ye?”
John felt every eye in the hall upon him. “Nay, laird, but it’s an honor I’d rather save for a welcome than a farewell—perhaps on the day of Gillian’s wedding.”
Donal’s lips pursed. “Are ye so sure ye’ll win her?”
John held Donal’s eyes. There were times when the arrogance of being nobly born and bred came in handy still. “I am.”
Davy snorted, and Cormag grumbled a low oath.
John picked up a plain clay cup. “This will do for me.”
“As ye will,” Donal said. He looked at his daughters. “Ye know I don’t approve of a man being drunk in my hall before women. You’ll all retire now and leave this challenge to the men.”
Donal’s daughters glanced at each other and didn’t budge. “But, Papa, this is Gillian’s future. She must be allowed to stay, and if she’s going to stay, then we should remain by her side,” Aileen said.
Donal pursed his lips. “Men have unruly tongues when they’re in their cups. What will no doubt be said and done in this hall tonight is not for the tender ears of lassies.”
Meggie raised her chin. “We’ve lived and traveled and eaten with clansmen all our lives, Papa.”
“And Gillian spent time with a band of wicked outlaws,” Isobel added. “I can’t imagine they guarded their tongues whilst she was besting them.”
Gillian blushed, though she said nothing.
Meggie squared her shoulders. “We’re not afraid, Papa.”
Donal frowned at them. “Then you’ll sit in the far corner by the fire and concentrate on your needlework.”
“Aye, Papa,” Aileen said and led her sisters across the room.
John watched as Donal’s steward filled each laird’s quaich and John’s plain cup with whisky and stepped back.
Donal handed each man a die. “Roll.”
Cormag Robertson had the high roll. Davy MacKenzie had the lowest.
Cormag grinned. “Drink, Davy, then give us a song.”
Davy drained his quaich and stood to sing a ditty about a Highlander leaving his lovers—all four of them—to go into battle, swaybacked, bandy-legged, and exhausted from going from one lass’s bed to the next. He satisfies them all, and leaves for battle with his sword well-polished and still standing ready for war. “And that’s another Highland tradition laddie,” he said to John. “Songs about a laird’s manly prowess—as bawdy and crude as possible—give their clan confidence in him.” He reached down and cupped the bulge beneath his kilt for a moment. “I have a very happy clan.” Donal frowned and glanced at his daughters, but John noted that they kept their heads dutifully down over their stitches.
“My own favorite ditty isBod brighmhor ata ag Donncha—‘Duncan has a Potent Prick’,” Padraig said. “It’s about the Campbell of Glenorchy.”
Davy giggled, his eyes already bright with drink. “Roll again,” he commanded.
This time, Davy won and Cormag lost. After drinking, Cormag was asked to stand on one foot on a bench with his eyes closed while another song was sung. As the bawdy words about Duncan’s proud prick died away, Cormag neatly dismounted with a belch that rattled the windows.
