Chapter 30
“Wee brother,” Aonghus heard Callum mutter beside him in the bailey the next day, “Keirah has missed with seven arrows.”
“Hell, Callum, she almost perished on a breadcrumb in the great hall this mornin’,” Alec defended her. “Show some sympathy upon her technique this day.”
The MacCade brothers stood near the kitchen entrance where a sour scent from burnt cabbage added to the dour proceedings.
It was the perfect accompaniment. Steps across stood Keirah under the dreary sky on her eighth attempt, with Sir Brayden patiently showing her the string’s give once again to make the mark, which had been set back as planned given her strong progress the last lesson.
Squawk! A wayward chicken protested, fluttering wildly, when another arrow flew the air and the iron point almost took its feathered arse.
“‘Tis not technique but nerves which hamper her mind,” Aonghus illuminated, darting his eyes toward the reason. Three shite Northmen! Over there, leaning up against a cart on the side of the bailey, were Keirah’s Northern hunters.
All that was missing was a bridge over the trolls.
They were casually sipping mead from goblets, but there was nothing casual about how they kept their eyes locked on her.
Sv?rn and Torsten had arrived this morning to the great hall while Keirah broke her fast with Edina by her side.
After spying the two Northern hunters by the entryway, his Cluaran had choked upon a breadcrumb.
Had he been alarmed? Aye. Was he just as alarmed last night when she barely spoke a word to him nor looked at him, then came to bed wearing her surcoat, gown, and chemise, claiming to be cold, after they had promised to continue their loving earlier?
Aye. The answers to all those worries sat right there, leaning on that damn cart. Fuk!
Sir Brayden said something toward her; she nodded, before the jovial knight went to retrieve the round target and move it closer – away from the flapping flock.
Aonghus’s brows furrowed when the one called Sv?rn, with a gapped-tooth grin, roared: “Sir Brayden, move the target ten paces closer for the lady. Lest she almost strike another chicken in her efforts!”
“No!” Torsten howled with laughter while raising his goblet. “We will have fowl for supper!” Lord Kollungr smirked while Keirah slumped her shoulders. Triple fuk!
“Sir Brayden, set the target back another five paces,” Aonghus yelled over the clucking chickens underfoot.
Keirah’s eyes doubled meeting his. When he came closer, she whispered, terrified, “MacCade, nae, I cannot make the distance, ’tis too far!”
“You may and shall,” he promised, meeting her panicked gaze. “You have been prepared for more than even that distance days ago with the bow I had commissioned for you.”
“Scotsman,” Sv?rn hailed him in bawdy tone, “you care to place a wager on your lady matching the distance or…”
Keirah retorted, passionately, “’Tis Sir Aonghus!” Good! There was the spirit that had gone missing since last night in their bedchamber.
He didn’t wait for Sv?rn to finish but bellowed back, “Name your wager, Northman!”
Lord Kollungr whispered something at Sv?rn which caused a devious smirk to cross Sv?rn’s thin lips.
“Your stallion is mine if she misses, and if she does not” – the braggart paused while Lord Kollungr removed a huge gold medallion on a long chain from around his neck to place it upon the cart’s edge – “you claim this gold. So, the necklace is yours if she wins; if she loses, the stallion is mine. Do you care to take the wager?”
Perfect! The chain was thick and strong and long enough to strangle Lord Kollungr once Keirah had revealed his treachery.
His eyes snapped toward Keirah when she gave a sound halfway between a wail and a sob. “MacCade, nae!” She dropped the bow onto the ground then bolted like a frightened doe for the keep’s entry.
Shite!
“Come back, Lady Keirah, I need the stallion for my stables!” Sv?rn hollered, taunting, behind them as Aonghus fetched the bow then charged after the swirl in dark-blue gown. Shite, she is quick.
Catching up to her under the entryway arch, he stole her arm in his grasp before spinning her about into a secluded alcove.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed, trying to wrench her arm free while tapping her fist on his other arm frantically. “Release me! Release me at once!”
He hadn’t seen her this frantic since the cavern. “Cluaran, steady,” he soothed.
“Do not order me to steady my resolve!” she cried, then looked up at him. “You press too much, MacCade! ’Tis too much! Did you not behold the eight efforts which branded me a raging fool? Eight!”
“Aye.” He loosened his grasp slightly to say, “This means the ninth will strike true.”
She ceased her struggling at his words. “MacCade, do not take this wager,” she begged. Looking away from him, she mewled, “I cannot make the distance.”
He met her wide eyes when they raised again; everything and everyone around him vanished at the tears reflecting her gaze. No. No, he…he had made her cry. No! He asked softly, “Why? Why will you not try?”
She raised her hand toward the target where Callum, Alec, and Sir Brayden held silent. “You know why,” she huffed, defeated. “’Tis too far, I do not have the strength to meet…”
“Keirah, my Scottish Cluaran,” he whispered, strongly. “You see the three leaning upon the cart?”
“Aye.”
“Take another gander,” he propositioned.
She paused to regard the Northmen in the distance behind him while he spoke.
A little wayward hair brushing over her temple, having escaped the tight wimple, billowed from his breath while he addressed her passionately.
“You are stronger than the whole lot of them, this I know in my soul. Years you were under their thumbs; you are a survivor, and a very powerful one at that. You truly believe Lord Karlson Kollungr or the two pieces of northern shite flanking him could endure all you have? Taken captive as a wee lass, thrust into a strange land, and broken free of the bastards the first chance you could grab hold. You are stronger than any who stand in this bailey, even me.” Her eyes snapped at him, shocked.
“Aye, Cluaran.” Weight from truth hung his words.
“The fate-seer in you. All the grizzled portraits you have born witness to, yet you stay your course to keep those from harm. You are strong. ’Tis your focus, my lass, which has strayed.
You must place them from your mind. Kick them to the fukin’ moat in your thoughts.
Harness the power I see in you at every shadow or night-glance, and you can make the shot at over twenty paces. I believe in you, always.”
He observed her narrow shoulders straighten – good.
A long pause; she searched his face. Her fingers reached forward, snatching the bow from his grasp.
Aye! There she was, his fierce Scotswoman!
Chin held high, she strode back over toward the target area.
Her eyes remained on Aonghus the entire walk.
“Sir Brayden,” she called over her shoulder, “I will need a fresh arrow, and walk the target back five more paces!”
Aonghus’s eyes stayed locked on hers. “Lord Kollungr,” he bellowed over his shoulder, “you have a wager!”
An excitement began building within the keep at the loud exchange, with possible promise of games betting coin.
Keirah took the arrow from Sir Brayden, who claimed his post beside Callum and Alec near the curtain wall where Aonghus spotted the guards on the watchtower’s top.
They were all staring before, some whispering.
No doubt other bets were being exchanged.
Those sprinkled about the bailey took a heavy curiosity, leaning closer, trying to catch every moment, as did the kitchen servants crowding the entry in ever-increasing numbers.
“I wager two eggs the lady is flawless against your…” he heard a kitchen lass murmur on the wind before the gust changed direction.
Even Sir James, beside the Lord Constable, beside the Lord Chancellor, all of whom had emerged from under the great hall’s entry archway, were watching.
Let them look – she is stronger than any present.
He spied her fingers tugging again nervously at the wimple pulling at her chin. “First, Cluaran, we set you free from this shite,” he explained, meeting her gaze. “To hell with propriety.”
Lifting his fingers, he unbound the choking linen layers from her scalp and neck.
For the entirety, his eyes held on hers alone, with almost a magical whisper from a breeze which swirled about them – huh – almost like it was binding them.
He tucked the wimple into his scabbard with her glorious waves cascading about her shoulders and back like a war banner billowing in the wind. Ready, Northmen?
“Magnificent,” he approved, then declared, “Claim your stance, Cluaran.”
She nodded before turning away from him. She set her sights onto the target, ground her heels into the gritted stones, and he stepped up behind her.
“You cannot lay your hands upon the lady or the wager is nullified,” Torsten barked.
“’Tis too late for that!” Sv?rn lined his words with a grotesque chuckle.
Keirah was fully focused on the target. Shut them up. He looked over his shoulder at the pair. The glare given after years of warfare must have served him well; the comments ceased like he was the devil searching to claim fresh souls.
Leaning forward, he brushed her brilliantly shown tresses from her neck to lay them gently over one shoulder.
She gave a shudder. Worry still plagues her; her breath is shallow.
He couldn’t touch her – not with his hands, anyway.
One more step back; he leaned closer, then more forward.
Lower…there. His lips almost touched her lobe and neck.
He said, huskily. “You feel my breath with my words upon your flesh?” Mmmm, she smelled good enough to feast upon.
“Aye,” she whimpered.
“Excellent.” He grinned, then came a little closer to murmur, “You focus only there. Ready your stance, my lass.”
The linen string gave a keen stretch with a hiss.
The bailey felt the same as the silence before a battle charge was called; all eyes had to be upon them.
The challenge was more than only a stallion and medallion but Scots versus Norse.
Who would be victor? Look at the set of those delicate shoulders which now seemed carved from granite in power. A grin crossed his lips. She.
“You know the steps; you hold the strength in your soul, Cluaran,” he began, the words causing the few stray hairs brushing her lobe to sway at his breath.
“Listen only to me, my voice, and dig deep in you to harness your dominance. I believe in you, my fierce Scotswoman; show what I see in you every time I gaze into those haunting eyes. Eyes that steal a lad’s soul, as they have mine.
Do not hold back; take your shot, claim your spirit… ”
A great piercing roar of Gaelic battle cry rattled the stone walls from her, sounding the same as a war goddess calling the final charge, as the arrow sailed the air. Sure and straight and true it landed.
Right. Dead. Center.
The kitchen lassies began to shriek like a flock of excited geese. “Aye! Aye!” The watchtower guards gave a rousing cheer; the chickens flew the sky, not sure what way to venture from the roar of chaos covering the bailey.
She turned, meeting his expression; tears appeared in her eyes with pride. “Thank you,” she said, emotionally. “I could not have done this without you by my side.”
“You do not need to thank me, my lady, and nae, ’twas your own hand which showed the result, not mine,” he replied, earnestly. “You are fierce; only a few layers needed to be set ablaze for it to shine.” He brushed her cheek. “Look at your fire now, my Scottish lass, blazing bright for all to see.”
She raised up, wrapping her arms about his neck. “Take me to our chambers, my Highland knight.” She sprung higher onto her tiptoes and captured his lips.
Directly!