Chapter 15
15
The next morning, right after dawn had graced the sky, the remaining participants gathered in the morning mist as their host laird stood upon his dais.
“Welcome tae the last day of the gathering games!” he replied, spreading his arms wide. “For this remaining game, ’tis only fitting that we draw blood!”
James rolled his shoulders as the rest of the Scots cheered, a sour feeling in his stomach. He had slept poorly when he finally fell onto his cot, his dreams full of the lass that didn’t wish to be with him.
Repeatedly in his mind, he played their last conversation, seeing the tears on her face as she told him she would not allow him to give up on the game. Well, she didn’t have any hand over what he was willing to do if it came down to them, especially now that he knew they would be drawing blood.
“A sparring ring is a warrior’s home,” the laird was saying, looking around the crowd that was gathered before him. “And it will be too for our participants. Two will go into the ring, one will come out victorious when he draws the blood of his opponent.” He narrowed his gaze. “Not final blood; only a cut will do. Any Scot that does more than that will be made an example of.”
James sagged under the laird’s words. At least they weren’t fighting to the death. That he would not be able to stomach.
“Come forward,” the laird finished as his advisor stepped before the dais, carrying a basket. “And draw yer color for yer opponent.”
James followed Matteau to the basket, drawing a green scrap. His heart in his throat, he looked around for Iris, seeing that she had drawn a red one. It hurt to look at her in the morning light, the rawness of his heart still bleeding for her. She was dressed in her customary clothing, her hair wound back off her face and a sword strapped to her back. She didn’t even look in his direction as she stepped back and James swallowed, torn between calling out to her and walking away. She had made it clear she didn’t want to go away with him.
Perhaps it was for the best.
“Go now!” the laird called out once everyone had a scrap of fabric. “Prepare yerself for battle! I wilnae allow any armor and only swords will be the weapon of choice. We will commence with the games in an hour.”
James moved away only to find his father waiting on him.
“Are ye going tae do this, Son?” he asked. “Are ye really going tae follow through with this farce of a game?”
“Aye,” James replied, straightening his shoulders. “’Tis wot I came here tae do, Da, and I intend on seeing it through.”
His father stared at him for a moment before sighing.
“Alright then. Keep yer shoulder up when ye fight. Ye are always dropping it.”
James stared at his father in surprise, to which his father laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Aye, I’ve seen ye wield a sword a time or two. Dinnae think ye have been getting away with yer training, James.”
James swallowed, emotion building deep in his throat. “Da, I?—”
His father waved his free hand at him. “I know wot ye are going tae say, and there’s no need tae say it. I was harsh on ye afterward.”
“We both were.”
Irvine came to stand by James’s father, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I shouldnae have reacted the way I did.” He looked at his oldest friend. “We both would have done the same at yer age.”
“Wot we are trying tae say,” his father finished, giving him a sheepish smile, “is that we support ye in this fighting taeday. I want ye tae represent yer clan proudly, and when we get back home, we will have a talk aboot yer future.”
James wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. His father was allowing him to make his own decisions?
That was too good to be true!
Irvine stepped forward, giving James a true smile.
“I would be proud tae have ye as one of mah warriors, James.”
The two Scots exchanged a look before Irvine walked away, leaving father and son together.
“Go out there,” his father said, unstrapping his own sword before presenting it to James. “And come out victorious.”
“Aye,” James replied, his voice full of emotion as he took the sword. “I will.”
His father nodded, and James drew in a breath as he watched him walk off, the sword suddenly heavy in his hands. A Scot’s sword was a part of his body, like another arm or leg, and yet his father had entrusted James with his own.
It meant something that he couldn’t explain.
When James finally made it to the ring nearly an hour later, he was more ready than he ever thought he could be. His competition was a burly Scot with a tartan that James didn’t recognize, his sneer growing as James unsheathed his sword. While the other man was larger, James was likely quicker on his feet and knew that his ability to move about would fare him well in this battle. All he had to do was draw the first line of blood and he would be named the victor.
True to the laird’s instructions, neither Scot wore their battle armor or leathers, instead dressed in tunics and breeks that would provide very little protection from the prick of the sword’s blade.
Next to them was another sparring ring, with two opponents already inside, the clang of their swords barely heard over the roar of the crowd. It didn’t take long for James to realize that Iris was one of the opponents, going against a Scot twice her size.
Still, he was amazed by the way she wielded her sword, remaining light on her feet as she dodged the blows. It was a sight to behold.
Turning his attention back to his own opponent, James palmed the worn handle loosely. On one hand he wanted Iris to win, but coupled with the very fact that he might end up facing her at the end of the day, and what he was likely going to do with his own matches, he wasn’t so certain he could get through this.
His opponent charged suddenly, his sword raised over his head. James forced the thoughts out of his mind for now, sidestepping the slice of the sword before it could cut through him. The crowd cheered as James’s boots slid in the dirt, but he remained upright, looking for the weak points like Matteau had taught him.
His breathing became shallow, conserving his strength as he danced around the ring on the balls of his feet, keeping the sword clenched tightly in his grasp. He didn’t know if Irvine or his father was watching, but it mattered not.
He would use the skills that Matteau had taught him and defeat this Scot.
His arms vibrated as their swords clashed together, sending sparks into the air and to the delight of the crowd. While his father’s sword felt unfamiliar in his hands, James quickly learned where the strong points were in the nicked steel and how to hold it without having his grip slide. He still couldn’t believe that his father had seen him spar, had watched him enough to pick up on James’s weak points in his own fighting.
One day soon they would discuss how his father knew all along.
He was able to push the larger Scot back a few feet, ducking under a full swing that would have done more than just nick his skin and got behind him, his sword readied. When his opponent turned around, James was there, slicing the blade across the Scot’s chest, deep enough for a welt of blood to bloom on his tunic a moment later. It wasn’t deep enough to maim him, but it had served its purpose.
“Victor!”
Breathing heavily, James rested his sword pointed to the ground, watching as his opponent stared at the blood on his tunic. James had done it. He had won!
The Scot cursed but begrudgingly reached out his arm, and James clasped it.
“Well done,” the Scot said, a hint of a grin on his weathered face. “Well done.”
James inclined his head, his chest nearly bursting with pride at what he had been able to do.
“Look at ye!” Matteau remarked as James walked out of the ring so that others could step in. “Ye did it!”
“Aye, I did.”
Matteau laughed, unstrapping his scabbard and removing his sword, taking a few swings to loosen his muscles.
“I can only hope that ye are left standing after this. It will be far too easy tae draw yer blood, ye bastard.”
James smirked and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck tae ye.”
Matteau winked. “I dinnae need luck.”
Shaking his head, James’s eyes strayed toward the other sparring ring, where he had last seen Iris. The match was complete, and he saw her being congratulated by her brothers, a smile on her face. She had done it. She had won as well.
Their eyes collided with each other’s, and her smile faded before she looked away, stalking off into the crowd and out of James’s line of sight.
What in bloody hell was he going to do if it was the two of them left? Last night he had been prepared to lay down his sword, but things had changed. His father and his clan were expecting him to do well and to lay down his sword would mean he would be bowing to his enemy all in the name of his feelings for Iris.
Was it enough? Would she accept him in the end if he did something that drastic?
Or would he be embarrassed by her when she drew his blood and sent him home a traitor to his own kind?
James drew in a breath and walked away, only to be intercepted by a fuming Ian.
“Wot?” he barked out, not in the mood to deal with her bullheaded brother right now. “Wot do ye want?”
“’Tis going tae be between ye and Iris,” Ian replied, his voice laced with bitterness. “In the end, ye are both the best swordsmen here, and ye are going tae be forced tae spar with her.”
James barked out a laugh. “Why do ye care, Scot? Havenae ye done enough tae ruin mah life and hers?”
Ian gripped James’s tunic in his hand, only mere inches between their faces.
“I dinnae know wot is going on between ye and mah sister, but she’s not going tae back down, Lennox. She is a Wallace. We dinnae lose tae anyone.”
“Are ye asking me tae do it instead?” James challenged, arching a brow. “Tae prove that I care aboot her?” He had already been considering it, but the discussion with his da and Irvine had him rethinking his decision.
Ian’s jaw clenched as he released James, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Ye would do it. Ye care aboot her.”
James swallowed every retort he could throw at the Scot, straightening his tunic instead to keep from throttling the man.
“Aye.” He didn’t have to say anything else. Ian could read it on his face if he looked hard enough. “But I dinnae think she feels the same aboot me any longer.”
The man looked at him for a moment before shaking his head. “I wouldnae say the same, Lennox.”
Before James could ask what he meant by the words, Ian stalked off, disappearing into the crowd. Did something happen last night after Iris had fled him?
Did she say something to her brother?
“Bloody hell,” James muttered, slicing his hand through his hair.
When had his life become so difficult?