Chapter Four

Inan MacNeill studied the frown on Kallum’s face and shook his head. “You’re frightening the lasses again, cousin. Try not to cause a fracas even afore the competitions have begun.” He tried to keep his face neutral, but the flicker at the edge of his lips gave away his amusement.

Not all the lasses, Kallum thought as he continued to stare at the brazen creature on the western balcony.

Dragging his eyes away from the lass who, by her manner of dress, appeared to be one of the king’s enslaved servants, Kallum returned his gaze straight ahead and ignored the tittering and cowering women gathered along the procession route.

“I care not for the fright of simpleton lasses nor what fracas it might wrought.” This was the last place he wanted to be, and his cousin well knew were it not for his vehement request, Kallum would be back at the keep, putting the soldiers of Clan MacNeill through grueling battle exercises. “And my look would not be so off-putting if the mongers did not stare so.”

’Twas not only the women who stared. Kallum had caught the curious glances of the local male villagers and the gentlemen amongst the spectators, including the one his balcony lass had given a bath. ’Twas demeaning to be considered a spectacle in your own land. From the time he was a child, except amongst Inan’s immediate family, he had never been allowed to forget he was different.

Not quite one of the clan.

Not a true Highlander in the eyes of many.

Never quite good enough.

If not for Inan’s early comradery, he may never have known what it meant to have a mate unerringly in your corner. Even as a lad, Inan had had a strong sense of fair and foul and had stood between him and those who would torment him. With an honorable spirit, Inan could never stand by at the mistreatment of another. Those who crossed the wrong line learned early that a negative word from Inan to his father, the laird, would see them severely punished or, worse, their families put beyond the stone walls around MacNeill keep and its surrounding village.

The fair-skinned Scots of the clan eventually had accepted Kallum’s place in the laird’s extended family—at least, in public—out of personal survival, but Kallum knew he was not considered a true Highlander by many due to his African bloodlines. Though grossly outnumbered, his mother’s people had been in country nigh on a century. Many served in honorable professions like musicians and soldiers and seamstresses, even within Clan MacNeill. Nevertheless, many still treated them as outsiders.

He had resented the sideways looks and different treatment as a child. He resented them still. He glanced around. As he had predicted, he could count the number of non-MacNeill people who looked like him on one hand. And that count included the lass on the balcony.

Unable to stop himself, he glanced back up. She was still there, her gaze steady and strong. What struck him even more than her stare was her manner. She stood tall and proud. Her hair was plaited in a thick, dark braid that hung over her shoulder and fell past her bosom. Though she had since moved farther into the shadows, she had stood forward enough earlier for him to make out her features.

She had a lush, full mouth in a face of breathtaking brown mixed with a dash of bronze that oft signaled a mixed parentage. She had eyes an odd color he couldn’t quite make out and high cheekbones. One cheek looked slightly darker than the other, which made him ponder whether it was a natural defect in her skin or she had suffered injury.

Intent on determining which, Kallum squinted to get a better look. Her head tilted in question at his continued scrutiny, but she didn’t look away. On further thought, she had the willful demeanor more of a royal than a servant, and he considered whether she might be the progeny of one of the king’s mistresses.

Inan sighed beside him, which drew Kallum’s attention back to their conversation.

“You know many are not used to seeing one of your lineage prepared to do battle and in possession of a stallion such as yours. You have a station well above most dubh men of the land. For many, ’tis still an unusual sight to behold.”

Kallum’s hand tightened on the reins of his steed as he led him toward the stalls where they would draw their lots for the contests. “Then mayhap they should stop forcing those of my lineage into servitude without pay or end so they are free to rise to a station such as mine.”

“Do not start this again, cousin. We’ve been over it. Scotland is not yet prepared to take issue with the enterprises of Portugal. Our king is content to accept the ill-gotten gains of pirate raids and put those liberated from the bowels of Portuguese ships into service for his benefit and the benefit of his kind. We are here to compete in his tournament, not to start a war over politics.” Inan glanced over with a stern brow. “I’d appreciate you not putting me in a position to be at odds with the king. We have enough on our hands with the burgeoning divisions in the Highlands. I cannot take on the monarch as well.” Inan stopped, and a tense moment passed between them. “Even for you.”

They had indeed had this conversation afore. Kallum took issue with most captives who were discovered on slave trade ships not actually being liberated. His mother had fled her own enslavement after one such “liberation,” him but a tiny seed within her womb. She’d been alone with no one to champion her and had nearly died trying. She’d firmly instilled in him that every man—or woman—had the right to live free.

If Inan knew what Kallum did on occasion to make that happen, the risks currently facing the clan would get worse. Inan had grave responsibilities to manage. Kallum did not want to increase his cousin’s burden or endanger his position with the king. For that reason, he would behave as he must for his kinsmen and future laird while on the king’s land, but the constraint sat heavy with him.

“Don’t look so stern. It’s just a few days. I vow we will stay no longer than necessary upon end of the tournament.” Inan glanced his way, then frowned at his non-changing expression. “Forsooth! You have been grumpier than usual this past fortnight. Mayhap you have need for that maiden of your own after all. You seem to have been without female comfort of late.”

“You need not worry yourself about my needs. My comforts have been just fine and quite plenty of late.”

Inan gave a short laugh. “Yeah, which is why you were ogling that bonnie lass on the balcony.”

Leave it to the wretch to notice him noticing her. “I wasn’t ogling.”

Inan chuckled. “Ah, but no denial that she be bonnie. So, you were indeed drawn to her beauty.”

Kallum’s lips tightened. He had not initially been drawn to the lass’s looks, though there was no denying she was strikingly beautiful.

She had spoken.

He’d been surprised to distinctly hear her feminine voice over the noise of the crowd. It had floated to him like a soft siren call. When he caught her staring at him with a look of inquisitive surprise rather than the expected animus, his curiosity had peaked. His interest had not taken a lustful turn. Leastways, not immediately and not more than a teeny, tiny smidgen. He had not been lying about his physical needs. He hadn’t visited the outer village recently, but he had no pressing need of a lass to give him ease.

Even as he tried to convince himself of that untruth, his mind returned to the mystery woman, and, thanks to Inan, his thoughts now fully pursued a less-than-gentlemanly path. The thought of her bold stare made him wonder if she brought that brazenness to everything she did and caused a stirring beneath his kilt.

Bloody hell. This was a distraction he did not need.

He looked up again. Her attention was focused on a royal guard who frowned at her from across the courtyard. From the markings on his uniform, he was the king’s captain. When Kallum looked back to the balcony, the lass was gone.

Given his commitment to mind his manners while at the castle, mayhap that was for the best. The less he knew about the lass the better. The shadow on her cheek suggested her life at Stirling Castle held dark moments. He should not think on who she was or what she was being forced to be. Such thoughts would only tempt him to do things he’d promised Inan not to do.

He walked on in silence. Mysterious eyes, thick hair, and bronze-brown skin remained foremost on his mind. He pondered whether he would cross paths again with the lass of the defiant stare afore the competitions ended.

And if he did… He gave a side glance at Inan’s profile. Would he be able to keep his promise to his cousin?

…

A loud cheer went up from the crowd. It was the final day of the tournament, and Ailsa watched the arrogant, brown-skinned warrior duck under the arms of the Donnelly clan’s giant. As big as the warrior was, the Donnelly man was bigger. She winced when, afore the warrior could clear the Donnelly, the giant grabbed the warrior’s right wrist, yanked him around at the shoulder like a child’s doll made of old rags, then tossed him to the ground.

Undaunted, the warrior grabbed for his shoulder and stumbled to his feet. Expecting a look of anger, Ailsa was amazed to find amusement in the warrior’s eyes. He acted as if he had enjoyed his short sojourn in the dirt.

He probably did, Ailsa thought.

After all, she’d surmised the other day that he, like every other warrior she’d known, would likely thrill in the barbaric games set up for them to show their manliness. He’d had the look of a beast of war, so she had not been surprised to see him step out for this final match of the competitions. The winner of this contest would be tournament champion and take home a fat purse of coins and precious food staples like salt. Both men were taking seriously their duty to win for their clan.

The giant swiftly attacked, and the warrior, his right arm pressed close to his side, ducked under the big man’s arms afore they swung shut in an attempt to grab him. The clansmen dressed in his matching plaid of green and blue—of the Clan MacNeill, she’d learned at the opening ceremonies—sent up a loud cheer. The giant came round for another pass. Again, the warrior managed to avoid the grasp. If he ended up in those arms a second time, the man would surely crush him.

Ailsa watched the MacNeill warrior’s face and could almost see the moment a plan formed in his mind. He was faster and more agile than the bigger man, and the man’s frustration with every missed pass was evident. The warrior increased his evasive dance. This time he intentionally taunted the huge soldier by weaving close enough to entice the man to go for him but bobbed out of reach afore he could be caught. With each successful pass by the MacNeill, his clan sent up another loud cheer.

The giant began to tire. He leaned to one side as he walked. The more he slowed, the louder the MacNeill clan became. Shouts of “Kallum! Kallum! Kallum!” rent the air.

The name suited the warrior. It spoke of vigor and toughness and will, and that will showed in undeniable force. The amount of pain he must feel from his injured shoulder had to be severe, but he gave no indication that he suffered any discomfort. With each chant, the energy of his kin visibly shored him up, and he displayed an impressive reserve of strength. He fought with determination, each move designed to wear down his opponent until he could get the upper hand in the wrestling match.

Ailsa couldn’t help but admire his fortitude, and silently, she, too, began to cheer him on. Since none of the Connery warriors she’d watched over the last few days had prevailed to fight this day, she wanted the MacNeill warrior to win.

The giant had cut down each of his prior opponents in archery and swordplay. He had been vicious and ruthless in his competitions, more so than she thought necessary. She understood that, in true battles of war, a soldier must do everything he could to survive and win. But in these competitions, a certain amount of courtesy and soldier’s honor should be expected.

Whereas every other sword contest had ended with the bested soldier yielding to his combatant, the giant had unnecessarily fatally wounded his last opponent. Amidst a merciless flurry of parries and thrusts, the giant had severed his opponent’s arm. The wounded man had spilt his life’s blood on the arena floor afore the royal healer could cauterize the gaping wound. It had been a grisly sight. She had no doubt, with this being the championship bout, the giant intended to inflict as much pain as possible on the MacNeill afore he closed out the match.

Ailsa never took sides in these contests. If her presence wasn’t required as attendant to the princess, she wouldn’t even watch. Today, uncharacteristically, she found herself hoping the dark side to Kallum MacNeill she had sensed the other day included a strong sense of self-preservation.

The distinctive sound of rhythmic stomping began to blend seamlessly with the chants of Kallum’s kin. The MacClaren clan, whose warrior had been sent to his death by the giant, were sounding their support. So surprised by this was the MacNeill warrior that he was nearly captured into the vise-like grip he’d been avoiding so studiously. When the giant breezed past him, Kallum gave him an elbow shove to the back. The big man went stumbling and had to grasp the wall of the lower seating area to maintain his feet.

The evasive maneuver, coupled with the supportive chants of the MacClaren clan, apparently snapped the last bit of patience the giant had. He let out a frustrated growl, grabbed the closest man in the stands by his neck, and nearly yanked him from his perch into the arena. With the unsuspecting man dangling upside down over the wall, the giant reached to the man’s side and snatched his sword from its sheath. He tossed the gent back into the stands and faced the MacNeill with a smirk. The wrestling competition was over. He planned to end this battle with the meet of steel, but only one opponent had a sword.

In sync with the rest of the crowd, Ailsa let out a gasp of alarm.

Kallum looked at the king to see if the monarch would call foul, but the king merely gestured for the contest to continue.

The men of Kallum’s clan roared in outrage and jumped to their feet. The soldier who had ridden in next to Kallum reached for his sword, but Kallum dissuaded him with a subtle shake of his head. Without thought, Ailsa took an unplanned step forward.

What was he thinking?

Without a sword, he was no match for the giant, especially with his shoulder disadvantage. Did all that brawn come with a dearth of brains? He needed to take his comrade’s sword.

Her movement caught his eye. He glanced in her direction. His hands tightened into fists at his side, and a look of sheer fury overtook his face. He straightened to his full height, then slid his gaze from her to the monarch. The king raised a brow but otherwise made no indication of what he expected from the end of this match.

A MacClaren warrior slowly stood. Careful to keep a side-eye on his now-armed opponent, Kallum watched the MacClaren unsheathe his sword with exaggerated intensity. The man turned to his chief. In silent petition, he raised his sword in a vertical line, the hilt grasped close to the center of his chest with the flat sides facing outward and against the tip of his nose. The chief, without taking his eyes off Kallum, gave a drawn-out, dignified nod.

Not quite sure what had just happened, Ailsa watched a slow grin spread across Kallum MacNeill’s face. The grin held no joy but rather a diabolical resolve that sent a cold wave of apprehension scurrying along Ailsa’s spine.

The Donnelly giant stood on the opposite side of the arena and brandished his stolen sword with a flurry of showy flourishes. He finished with one last swing above his head, then charged Kallum with the sword raised high, his intent clearly to slash the MacNeill in two from the head down.

Kallum took off running toward the big man. When he was a few steps away, he slid toward the giant’s feet. Realizing what was about to happen, the giant raised a foot and tried to leap over the MacNeill, but Kallum grabbed the ankle of the raised foot and sent the giant reeling.

With a battle cry loud enough to disturb the ancestors sleeping permanently below the ocean waters they had chosen over captivity, the MacNeill sprang to his feet and continued his sprint toward the MacClaren soldier. The soldier tossed his sword into the air. Without breaking stride, Kallum plucked the weapon from the sky. He pivoted toward the recovering giant, twirled the sword twice with a double flick of his wrist, then took a battle stance.

A collective clamor of surprise arose from the spectators, and the king vaulted to his feet. Ailsa gripped the back of the princess’s chair with one hand and fisted the fabric of her dress with the other. Why the MacNeill accepted the sword of the MacClaren and not that of his kin was a mystery to her, but his stance made clear he was prepared to face the giant thrust for thrust and parry for parry. Based upon the look in his eyes, he was quite content to make this a battle to the death…if need be.

Sensing the momentousness of the unexpected turnabout, the remaining crowd leapt to their feet. Cheers, chants, and calls for violence became deafening. The bloodthirsty lust of the people made Ailsa’s stomach churn. She did not relish the thought of watching another man die. The knots in her stomach tightened as the duel raged on. The din of metal on metal, the roars of excitement when someone’s champion took an advantage, the vicious looks on the faces of the two battling men, all combined to fray her normally staunch nerves.

Then the tide of the battle turned.

The MacNeill got a foot behind the giant’s ankle and toppled him to the ground. Giving the man no time to recover, Kallum dropped his full weight onto the giant’s chest and pressed the man’s shoulder to the ground with one hand. He used the other to lay the blade of his sword against the big man’s throat. “Do you yield?”

“Nay.” The giant bucked in an attempt to unseat Kallum.

Kallum’s arm muscles bulged as he added more pressure to the sword. A line of blood formed on the giant’s throat, and rivulets of red trickled down into the dirt.

“Do. You. Yield?” The angry words were more demand than question.

The giant refused to yield nonetheless. “Nay!” He struggled harder beneath Kallum and pushed against the hilt of the slicing blade with all his might but to no avail.

When the giant’s struggles finally weakened, the MacNeill lifted the sword and slammed the giant in the face with the pommel. The big man fell unconscious.

The MacNeill warrior sat on his conquest for several moments, heaving breaths in and out. When he finally rose to face the monarch, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Unmoved by the adulation, Kallum advanced toward the monarch’s perch, looking every bit as if he’d like to run the king through with the borrowed sword he still held. The king simply engaged in a slow, regal clap while Kallum approached.

Everyone was so intent on watching what was to transpire between the king and the MacNeill warrior, only Ailsa seemed to notice the Donnelly giant had begun to move. The big man struggled slowly to his feet. He swayed unsteadily back and forth, then silently reached for his sword on the ground. He missed and nearly tumbled back into the dirt. With his disrupted equilibrium, it took him two more tries afore he successfully grasped the hilt of the stolen weapon. On unsteady but stealthy legs, he approached Kallum from behind and lifted his sword.

“Nay!” Ailsa rushed forward. Her throat burned from the piercing shout carried away by the roar of the crowd. She stared in horror at the sword the Donnelly aimed at Kallum’s back.

Kallum spun, feinted to the left to avoid the giant’s wobbling sword, and thrust his own sword through the man’s chest. The big man dropped his weapon and grasped at the blade upon which he was impaled. Kallum grabbed the back of the man’s neck for leverage and shoved the blade deeper. The MacNeill did not release the man until he slumped to his death with Kallum’s borrowed blade protruding from his chest.

A hush fell over the crowd. Kallum MacNeill stood with hands fisted at his sides and stared at his kill. Slowly, he turned to face the monarch again and await his judgment.

Ailsa, hands trembling, returned to her place behind the princess’s chair. She twisted her hands into the folds of her skirt to subdue their tremors and stood outwardly calm but inwardly unsettled. She, too, along with the crowd and the angry Donnellys, silently waited for the king to speak.