Page 51 of Highland Spy

“Aye, but I want to prove myself to the king. I am hopin’ to one day be his personal chronicler.”

“Caleb MacKeefe will now take his second shot,” called out the announcer.

Caleb started to turn around, but something caught his eyes. It was the back of a man, pulling his hood over his head, moving to the back of the crowd.

“Shoot now or ye’ll have to forfeit,” the announcer informed him.

Catching Bridget’s eyes, she smiled and waggled her fingers. Caleb had to make this shot count since his first one earned him no points at all. He was starting to covet the title of Leader of the Lairds, because he wanted the crown, the land, and also the money. Without it, he’d never be able to give Bridget all he wanted to give her.

This time when he cocked his arrow and pulled back the bowstring, all he thought about was making Bridget his wife. The idea excited him and gave him the strength he needed. When his arrow shot through the air, it landed dead center in the middle of the target.

The crowd cheered and he heard Bridget calling out from behind him. “I kent ye could do it, Caleb.”

“Yer turn,” Caleb told Ollie. “Let’s see if ye can beat that.”

Ollie moved up to take his turn. “I’m sure I could do it with my eyes closed now that I’ve got my bow back,” he bragged to Caleb. His first shot was just outside the center of the middle ring, making Caleb’s shot better.

“Only one more chance,” said Caleb, goading him, wanting him to miss the target. If that happened, Caleb will have won this round, too. But that would be a miracle, since Ollie never missed the target, even on a bad day.

Ollie pulled back the bowstring, and Caleb heard a twanging sound. His eyes opened wide when he saw the bowstring unraveling right before his eyes. He started to warn the man, but it was too late. The string snapped, shooting up, hitting Ollie in the face, making him cry out. The arrow went off course, and embedded itself in a tree just above the target, missing it altogether.

“God’s bones, what just happened?” asked Ollie, rubbing his cheek.

“That was a miss, resultin’ in no points at all,” shouted the announcer. “That makes Caleb MacKeefe the winner of the archery round.”

Caleb would have shouted out with glee, but seeing what just happened to Ollie, he realized the saboteur was at it again. Caleb had won the round, but only because of foul play. His eyes scanned the area and, suddenly, everyone looked suspicious to him. He needed to find out more, but he couldn’t spy if he didn’t have the time to do it.

“Let me see your wound,” said Wren, pushing through the crowd with Caleb’s sisters, Trea and Finnea, with her.

“Caleb, what happened?” Bridget ran up to him with her father. Sorley stood there writing everything down, so Caleb couldn’t say anything in front of him.

“It was just a bad bowstring,” said Caleb. “Excuse me.” He walked over to the wooden dais where the king sat watching the event. Storm was next to him with his foot wrapped up and propped up on a stool in front of him.

“Caleb,” said King Robert. “Approach the dais.” The king waved his hand and his guards backed away as Caleb climbed the stairs.

“Did ye see who did it?” asked the king in a low voice.

“I canna be sure,” said Caleb. “I have some suspicions but I need time to gather evidence. I canna do that unless I have time in between rounds. Competin’ in the competition is provin’ to be distractin’.”

“Ye did fine out there,” said the king proudly. “Ye are livin’ up to the stories I read about ye in the Highland Chronicles.”

“Thank ye, Yer Majesty,” said Caleb with a bow.

“Mayhap we should halt all further rounds until the morrow,” suggested Storm.

“Aye, I think that would be in order.” The king stood up and held his hand in the air. “The hammer throw will take place first thing in the mornin’ instead of tonight,” announced the king, getting mixed emotions from the crowd. “In the meantime, ye are all invited to stay and feast on fine food and drink plenty of the famous Mountain Magic, compliments of the MacKeefes,” he said with an outstretched arm to Storm.

“What?” asked Storm in surprise, his body snapping around so fast that his foot fell off the stool and he winced and cried out. “Sire, there are a lot of people here, and to feed them all will be an expense I’m no’ sure I can afford.”

“Och, MacKeefe, quit yer complainin’,” mumbled the king. “I’ve seen the food ye serve and the way yer castle screams that yer clan has money.”

“But that was for yer benefit,” Storm tried to explain.

“Who are ye jestin’?” chuckled the king, making a tsking sound with his tongue. “I’ve heard the stories of how tight ye are with the strings on yer coin pouch. Now, get up, MacKeefe, and escort me to the great hall where I will sample some of yer grandfaither’s Mountain Magic before I retire to my chamber for the night.”

“Of course, Yer Majesty,” mumbled Storm, struggling to stand on his hurt foot as the king started down the wooden stairs. “Caleb, get over here and help me get to the great hall,” he said. “My foot hurts like the devil and my toe is swollen and bluer than the sea.”

“Aye, Storm,” said Caleb, putting his arm around him to help him walk.