Highland Magic (37 page)

Bao and Daniel stood a bit away, acting as
his attendants.

The Norman had attendants as well; strangers,
no doubt acquired with Norman coin for this trial.

The marshal moved to the
center of the field, taking the place of the herald, who’d called
out
“Do your duty”
three times a few moments ago to solicit the two combatants
out onto the field from their pavilions. Facing the bishop, the
marshal lifted his arm, his hand fisted about a white glove. With a
swift downward arc, he threw the glove through the air, shouting
the first of the triumvirate command,
“Let
them go!”

Before the glove had settled lightly upon the
remaining hoarfrost, Callum and his nemesis were on their steeds;
their attendants shoving their lances and shields into their
hands.

Once the lances rested upright in their
feuters, the two combatants’ attendants leapt back, and then each
man spurred his horse forward.

Callum directed his gaze only on his
opponent; all sound from the spectators became some vague part of
the background as his mind focused solely on the man ahead of him
and the task before him.

He spurred his destrier and charged forward,
advancing down the field toward the Norman.

Gaiallard lowered his lance and did the same,
running directly at him.

With no tilt-fence running down the center to
guide the horses, Callum propelled himself forward in as straight a
line as he was able so that his steed would not collide into his
opponents; for, ‘twas paramount that he retain his seat as long as
possible.

The distance between them was closed in mere
seconds, their lances glancing off the other’s wooden shield.

Thrice more they charged at each other with
fresh lances given them by their attendants, and thrice more their
wooden shafts met some portion of the other man’s armor with a
tremendous clangor.

* * *

Branwenn sat perfectly still, every muscle in
her being, tensed. Her mien blank of all emotion, she watched the
horror before her. She sat inside the family’s spectator’s box, at
one end of the same bench occupied by the other ladies and
Chalmers.

Alyson had declined watching the trial, so
was not present.

Chalmers sat at the other end of the bench
with his wife, her hand clasped in his and resting on his
thigh.

With every crashing blow of the lances
against helmet or shield, Branwenn fought her body’s reaction to
cringe or jump, her throat’s desire to gasp or cry out, as she
worried that she somehow might distract Callum with any overt
reaction on her part.

She’d remained awake
praying all night, much as her love had done, and her eyes were
gritty and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. But the loss of sleep was
naught compared to the loss she might have later, if all did not go
in their favor.
Please, Lord, let it go in
our favor. Do not forsake us, Lord!

She’d had no contact with Callum since the
dawn prior, knowing that he needed some time with Laire and David,
as well as time to mentally prepare for this trial.

When she’d first seen him this morn as he’d
come out on the field, her heart had skipped a beat. For never in
her life had she seen a man look so purposeful, so set on his path,
as Callum was at that moment.

And ‘twas all for
her
. He was risking his
life for her. And there was still a place inside her that felt
undeserving of such devotion from such a one as he.

But mostly, she just felt fortunate.
Fortunate to have been his love, even if it turned out that their
lives together would be cut short. For, ‘twas a blessing, she
continued to remind herself, that she’d known that kind of love at
all.

With numb fingers she stroked the smooth
stones in the filet on her head. She’d worn it for him—and her
lavender wedding gown as well. Just a small token—a loving
message—of support.

Callum had only scanned the spectator’s box
once upon arriving on the field, but she knew he’d seen, and
understood, her message, for he’d given a brief nod in her
direction before turning to face his opponent.

* * *

Both Callum and Gaiallard took a moment to
rest at his own end of the field.

Then, bracing their shields, they spurred
their mounts, and once again advanced on their opponent.

After two more tries, one in which they each
struck the other’s helmet so hard that sparks flew off the shiny
metal, Callum at last succeeded in giving Gaiallard an almost
killing blow.

The sharp end of his lance broke through the
other man’s shield and tore into Gaiallard’s left shoulder, rending
both flesh and cartilage.

The sound of the clash echoed off the stone
walls surrounding the lists and the force of the blow unseated both
combatants.

“You whoreson, I’ll kill you for that!”
Gaiallard bellowed.

“You shall try!” Callum replied with as much
force.

Then, both rising to their feet, they faced
off before the bishop’s box, circling each other, their swords
raised.

“Worry not,
boy
,” Gaiallard said,
“for I shall take good care of your land after I wed your widow.
And I shall use the coin from your bride price to build a fortress
upon it, as there shall be no need to give it to the Welsh prince
now.”

“Norman dog!” Callum growled and propelled
himself forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc towards his
opponent’s neck. “You shall never wed her, nor have any portion of
my property!”

Gaiallard brought his shield up to block the
blow, swinging his own sword at the same time. It hit and glanced
off of Callum’s shield.

For the next tense moments, the two men
swung, thrust, and parried.

The winter sun glinted off one of the
amethysts in Branwenn’s filet, making a purple-hued spectrum trip
and glide over Callum’s visor.

He glanced up.

Gaiallard lunged forward. “Ha-ha!” he cried,
driving his sword into Callum’s thigh. Blood shot from the wound
and ran down his leg.

“Aargh!” Callum struggled to remain standing,
and conscious, as his mind fogged from the dizzying effect of the
instant massive loss of blood.

“‘Tis my coup de grâce, this,” Gaiallard told
him, “my leaving a mark just here—a reminder before you die of the
patch that the lovely Branwenn sports so prettily in much the same
place.”

Knowing he’d given his opponent a killing
blow—that he’d lose blood too quickly now to fight for long, to
live for long, Gaiallard withdrew his sword and stood, swaying to
and fro as he faced his nemesis, with the intent to taunt him a bit
more before thrusting his sword through his heart.

Callum struggled to focus. With every
heartbeat, a font of blood spurted from the wound in a scarlet arc
into the air. The Norman was telling him something, but he could
not concentrate on the words. His only thought was to overcome this
lethargy as quickly as he could and pounce once more on his
nemesis.

“Did you know she met me in the wood this day
past? That she sucked my cock dry? That I gave her such a tongue
lashing her cunt actually spurted?” Gaiallard’s upper torso tilted
forward a bit as a high-pitched ringing began in his ears. He shook
free the dizzying effect and laughed. “And then I fucked her.
Twice. What a tight little cunt she has—and that freckle!” He
spread his feet wider apart in an attempt to gain his balance. “She
did it for you, she swore. She wanted me to leave the two of you
be; to release her from her betrothal contract.” He laughed again.
“I, being no fool, took what she offered before reversing my
promise.”

Callum’s vision began to blur as a black mist
rose along the periphery of his sight, and tho’ he saw the Norman’s
lips moving, the roaring in his ears and his determination to
finish this thing, prevented his comprehension of the words. But
he’d needed the reprieve his opponent had given him to rest and
regain some strength. He blinked away the black mist and took a
step forward, but his leg wouldn’t hold him. “Christ’s Bones!” He
fell to his knees.

Gaiallard staggered forward and stood swaying
above him as, with both hands on the hilt, he lifted his sword high
in the air.

* * *

“
Godamercy.
” Chalmer’s shoulders
slumped. “That’s it then,” he said, his voice bleak. “The battle is
all but won by the Norman fiend.”

Maggie gripped tight to her husband’s hand,
leaning forward to see her son more clearly. “Nay, it cannot be! He
will rally!”

With a trembling hand, Lady Maclean swiped at
her tear-streaked face using the small square of linen she kept
tucked in her sleeve. “Aye, he shall—”

Branwenn jumped to her feet and fled.

“Branwenn!”

She ignored the older woman’s exclamation of
her name, blind to all as she flew down the steps of the box. She
could not watch him die. She could not. In a matter of seconds she
was outside the walls surrounding the field.

The sound of a collective gasp from the
spectators filled the air and she bit back a groan of despair as
she hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the keep.

He was dead, or as good as. Her love was
dead. And her brothers would battle the Norman knight in the same
manner if she didn’t leave forthwith. ‘Twas time to follow through
with her plan.

It didn’t take long for her
to reach her chamber. Closing the door behind her, she leaned
against it. “
Callum,
” she whispered at last, her pain deeper than
tears.

Dry-eyed and determined,
she pushed herself away from the door and walked over to stand
before her clothing chest. Slowly, she opened the lid and began to
pack. She’d take only the few garments she came with; she couldn’t
bear to be reminded of any of her time here. The filet and
rings—both hers and her mother’s—she’d wrap up and take with her,
however, for the babe she now carried beneath her broken heart. His
babe. The one he’d tried so hard not to place inside her. Her head
flew up.
The babe!
He knew naught of the babe. She must tell him now, before he
takes his last breath.

She turned and flew out the door and down the
passageway. With tripping tread, she rushed down the stairs. At the
second landing, she stopped short.

Nay, she shouldn’t tell him. For she could
not give him the last painful blow that he left a babe behind as
well.

But, aye, she should. She started her flight
once more. Then Callum’s last thoughts would be of the sweet
consequence of their undying love for one another. Their beautiful,
wonderful babe.

She would do this thing, tell him of his
babe, be with him as his soul left this world. She was his wife.
‘Twas her duty. She could do this.

Then, then she would leave. Afterward.
Somehow.

* * *

Some inner reserve of strength and resolve
revived Callum in time to parry the blow the Norman would have
given him. Gaiallard stumbled backward, giving him time to rise to
his feet once more.

Callum forced his leg to hold him, staggering
forward, toward his opponent. And then, with every ounce of might
he still retained, he swung his sword with so much force at
Gaiallard’s head that it broke the lock and hinge on his helmet.
The thing went flying.

Callum lunged and Gaiallard fell backward,
bringing Callum with him to the ground. The iron-ore stench of
blood filled Callum’s nostrils, so strong he tasted it, reviving
him even further. This was a fight to the death, and neither he,
nor his opponent, was dead. Yet.

They began to wrestle, rolling about on the
hard, cold ground, each looking for an opportunity to skewer or
slice the other through.

* * *

Alyson watched the action from the parapet of
the stone wall that she hid behind. It overlooked the lists.
Dressed in the drab brown woolen boy’s clothing she’d been wearing
to hunt in these past sennights, with her hair tucked under a cap,
and her face smudged with the ash from the hearthfire, she brought
the bow up, nocked her arrow, and set her sights on her enemy. She
only prayed she’d not waited too long to send him to the fiery
eternity he deserved; that Callum would survive the injury her
brother had given him before she’d been able to sneak into position
here.

* * *

Gaiallard rolled on top of his opponent and
arced his sword arm back. With a driving force, he brought the
weapon down onto Callum’s helmeted head.

The clash of steel on steel resounded inside
Callum’s helmet, and all around them. His strength waning, ‘twas
only his desire to save his bride from this fiend that drove him
forward. His fingers numb, but his resolve firm, he wrested his
dirk from its sheath as the other man continued his pummeling blows
to his head. As Gaiallard swung his arm back for the last time,
Callum pressed his advantage, swinging his arm forward, the blade
in precise line to his opponent’s jugular.

In the same instant that Callum’s dagger slid
into Gaiallard’s throat, an arrow went with perfect accuracy,
directly into the man’s right eye.

The Norman died instantly, his heavy weight
falling forward onto Callum. He only had time to roll the Norman
off of him before darkness descended.

* * *

‘Twas as if he was rising up through the
fluid, silent depths of a deep, Cimmerian abyss. Words echoed
eerily inside his mind, but he knew not whose voices the words
belonged to.

“
Will he
live?”
was repeated more than once.
And,
“Aye, if our Lord wills it,”
as well.

Callum tried to open his eyes, but his lids
would not cooperate. After a time, his energy exhausted, he drifted
once more into the benighted void of dreamless sleep.