Page 47 of Wicked Passions

Alastair turned to Callum and massaged his shoulders one final time. For the swordfight he would wear shirt and hose, but the hose had been trimmed at the ankle to leave his feet bare, so he did not slip on the floor.

“Lord Spalding is an experienced swordsman,” he murmured, “but his right shoulder is troubling him. He clutched at it after the stone put. Now is the time to be ruthless. I expect it of you. Isla expects it of you. Red cannot be permitted to win this tourney.”

“I know,” said Callum simply.

“Good fortune, my laird.”

They stared at each other so long he almost forgot himself and kissed Callum. But the last thing this day needed was a hue and cry from the Sutherlands about MacIntyre sin and immorality.

Callum smiled and squeezed his hand. Then he turned and walked to the center of the Great Hall. A servant handed him his blunted longsword, and he tested the weight and grip, slashing left and right before carefully resting the blade on his shoulder as Isla did.

Alastair stifled a grin. His laird almost looked…calm. All the hours of training with Isla, salt baths for his feet, and the foul-smelling poultices applied to his limbs to draw out aches and pains, had not been in vain.

Next, Sir Lachlan ordered Callum and Lord Spalding to clasp hands. “As in the first fight, the rules are thus: no blades to the head. On my command…you halt at once. A man who loses…his sword thrice, is defeated. I insist on a fair fight. Any trickery…will be punished harshly. I am the king’s champion. I will know.”

Both men bowed to the royal couple, then to Sir Lachlan.

Moments later, the first clash of steel echoed in the Hall.

Alastair couldn’t watch. Yet he couldn’t look away. Lord Spalding had an ease of movement that came from experience; his cuts were graceful yet deadly, and it was only Callum’s nimble feet that allowed him to avoid the slashing blade.

“Attack,” he muttered. “Faster. Remember what Isla said. Do not let him decide the pace and direction. And it’s his shoulder. His damned shoulder. Make him stretch it.”

As if he’d heard, Callum lunged with a sharp upward cut, forcing Spalding to defend at an awkward angle. A heartbeat later he lunged again with a straight thrust, and Spalding’s sword clattered to the floor.

“One point, Glennoe,” said Sir Lachlan, as applause sounded.

The men readied themselves; Callum looking more relaxed and Spalding a little tense. But the older lord was far too cunning to be surprised a second time, and lunged at Callum with a sharp downward cut. This time it was Callum’s sword on the floor.

“One point, Spalding.”

Alastair hissed at the result, and when he met Callum’s gaze, he touched his elbow. Plague take it, if Callum lost this battle because he neglected to keep his elbow high, he would chain it to his laird’s head himself.

Callum understood though, for this time he stood in the stance that Isla had taught him with his sword grip next to his cheek, his elbow high and steady. He and Spalding circled each other and his opponent lunged, but Callum did not allow him to complete the cut, forcing the other man onto his back foot with a deflection before attacking swiftly.

Again, Spalding’s sword clattered to the floor, and now he glistened with sweat.

“Two points, Glennoe,” said Sir Lachlan.

Alastair bit his tongue to prevent commands spilling from his lips; orders for Callum to finish his opponent, to remove a limb or maybe an ear. All they needed was one point, just one, and his laird would face Red for Isla’s hand. Callum had come so far. He’d always had skill, but had lacked in confidence. Travelling to Stirling, meeting bold, unconventional Isla and exploring lust as a trio had been the key to turn that. They both needed her. And she needed them in return.

Callum lunged, and his blade tore a little of Spalding’s linen shirt. The older man attempted to fight back, but his right shoulder hung loosely and his cuts were becoming weaker, his sword trembling as it met Callum’s.

“Take him,” Alastair snarled. “Take him.”

Spalding hopped from one foot to another, before bringing both arms around in a strong horizontal slash. Alastair gasped as the blade missed Callum’s side by less than an inch, but now his laird had an advantage, for the other man’s arms were close to his body, his wrists angled downward. Using his shorter height, Callum crouched a little, then struck upward with a strong cut, lifting Spalding’s sword out of his hands and spinning it away onto the floor.

“Three points,” announced Sir Lachlan. “Glennoe wins!”

A brief, eerie silence filled the Hall as the guests and envoys realized the renowned courtier expected to win had been defeated. How could a short, slender Western Highlander have conquered the great Lord Spalding?

Others weren’t befuddled, though. The king and Isla were applauding, as were Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, both seated down on the wooden benches, and sporting huge grins. Eventually more and more people joined in, a few even stomped their feet in appreciation of the unexpected win.

“How splendid,” said James, his eyes gleaming. “The battle for Lady Isla’s hand shall be cousin against cousin; the MacDonald of Carnoch, and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. We will halt now for a light repast and music from my minstrels, to allow the two men time to catch their breath. But mark me, friends, there shall be a victor and a wedding this day.”

The Great Hall erupted in cheers, but Alastair remained silent. Yes, there would be a victor. Then, saints willing, he, his laird, and his lady could return to Glennoe and start their new family.

It was long past time for Red MacDonald to receive his comeuppance.