Chapter 6
Chapter Six
A rustling in the bed woke her. William had risen earlier than she again, and Ailith wondered how that was possible after the exhausting night they had just shared. Her whole body felt raw and exposed.
He kissed her forehead and brushed her hair off her face.
“Dinna wake, mo ruaidh. Sleep a bit more. Ye need it after our wedding night, wife.”
From under half-closed, bleary eyes, she could see his side grin.
“Where are ye off to this early?” she asked in a thick, groggy voice.
“Eoghan requested hunting to continue the celebration. He and I, Ailbert, your brother, and a few others shall replenish the stores. After the midday meal, we have planned some competition, swordplay, and the like.” His grin widened over his lips.
“Mayhap ye might give us a show with your mean skills with a staff.”
She shoved him off the bed as he laughed. “Dinna say it,” she told him as she rolled over and hid her face. “I already get the odd side-eye from my brother over it. The last thing I must do is bring more attention to myself.”
William adjusted the covers over her. “Aye, better to keep that hidden. If what ye told me about your past and mission here are true, and ye vow they are, then ‘tis better if we dinna show that off. It raises enough eyebrows as ‘tis.”
Ailith peeked her face out from the pillow. “I know of the rumors. Do I need to worry about those?”
William dressed in semi-darkness as he spoke.
“Ye are wed to a son of the MacDougals, nephew to the chieftain.
Ye are the sister of the Gordon chieftain himself.
I believe ‘tis little ye must worry about.” Once fully dressed, he leaned over her and wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“Unless ‘tis worrying about making your way to our bed each night.”
He chuckled at his own joke, smacked her backside over the covers, and made his way to the door. “I shall miss ye, wife, and will count every minute until ye are back in my arms.”
She picked up the pillow and threw it at him. It struck the door as William ducked out and closed it behind him.
When she rose later that morning, she donned her plain léine and kirtle, a more comfortable dress than what she had worn the previous few days, and entered the main hall in search of food.
Ailith had eaten little over the past days, excitement and nerves overtaking any hunger pangs, and the bowls and platters of fruit, meat, and bread called to her in welcome. Her stomach growled.
She filled a platter with goat cheese, cut pieces of apple, and a slice of bread drizzled in honey. In one bowl, a collection of edible berries sat, washed, fleshy, and smelling sweet and earthy.
They reminded her of her task that had been pushed to the side as of late, and she made another mental note to ask William about some parchment so she might take notes on where she planted her precious mushrooms. It had occurred to her that if she could track them, that might help ensure their continued existence.
And perchance some extra parchment and ink for her journaling. That might not go over well even with William, as women generally weren’t writers, nor could many read in 900 CE, so for now, she’d tuck the extra parchment away and keep that writing to herself.
Once she had her selection of food, she grabbed a squat horn cup of honeyed mead and scanned the hall for a place to sit.
Mairi caught her eye, and Ailith thought she might sit with her until her eyes landed on the woman sitting with her.
Betris.
Ailith groaned inwardly and froze as she noted Betris’s hard gaze studying her. Not hawkish as Mairi’s often was, but iron-hard, full of anger and spite–for a reason Ailith did not understand. It might be simple jealousy, yet this rage seemed to go deeper, seething under the woman’s skin.
Mairi didn’t look her way, but their heads leaned in close, and with the way Betris’s eyes shot arrows at her, Ailith could easily presume what they were talking about. Or rather, who.
Why did Mairi always seem so perturbed by her presence, even now that she was married? Clenching her jaw, she turned around, pretending she hadn’t seen them at all.
If they were gossiping about her, so what?
She wasn’t living with her sister-in-law anymore, and Betris would be leaving soon. Then all the gossiping and stony, jealous looks would be gone.
Instead, Ailith passed the day in the company of her new sisters-in-law, and they gave her an earful of every guest and the gossip about them, which mostly consisted of which lass was in love with which lad. Ailith relaxed and enjoyed being on the listening end of rumors for once.
It was nearly midafternoon before William returned with Eoghan and the rest of the men who’d spent the morning hunting and brought with their spoils of rabbit, pheasant, and red deer.
The men slaked their thirst and hunger, then moved as a raucous group outside.
Several tents had been erected to house other men, or those who did not feel the need to reside in the keep, but a cleaning near the main gate was more than enough space for the men to ply their swords and shields in mock battle.
Muire rolled her eyes to Sine and followed the crowd outside, dragging Ailith with her to watch the events of the battle-play unfold.
William walked past Eoghan, giving the slightly shorter man a push as he went by. Eoghan stumbled into the ass end of a horse tethered in the yard. Then he pushed off the beast, facing William, who snickered.
“Oh, sorry, milord,” Eoghan said in a taunting tone. “Was I in your way?”
“Aye,” William answered with a laugh. He was more than familiar with Eoghan’s bantering. “’Tis about time ye saw me as your better. I am married now, after all.”
William strode past him. With his back to Eoghan, he knew the man wouldn’t miss the chance to push him from behind. Instead of a shove, Eoghan kicked out his foot as he stepped, tripping William, who stumbled to the ground. William rolled and popped back up, facing off with Eoghan.
‘Twas how all their mock fights started.
“Careful, cousin,” William said with a grin. “The crowd may think ye’re challenging me, and we both know ye dinna want me to embarrass ye in front of them.”
Eoghan glanced around. Men, women, and children had clustered around the inner bailey, ready to watch and cheer on their favorites.
“Aye, William,” Eoghan quipped. “A challenge then.”
“Picks?” William asked with a raised eyebrow, referring to a fighting game the two men had invented when they were boys.
“Aye, picks,” Eoghan agreed.
As boys, they had practiced against each other before they were able to carry real swords. They had continued the game years after they grasped their first steel blades.
The rules were simple. The challenger picked his first weapon – something that might be readily found close at hand, and then the other had the advantage of picking second, selecting also from nearby objects.
Anything other than swords, knives, or real weapons.
They could use a sword or knife they had on their person, but only once with a proper weapon.
After three attacks, they had to pick a new weapon, and only had to the count of twenty to find it.
The first to score three strikes won. In most games, they didn’t pick their knife or sword until the other did as a form of strategy.
Since William was the challenger, he had to pick first.
“You tricked me into challenging you,” William commented as his eyes searched the bailey.
Eoghan grinned, his teeth glinting from under his scruffy, day-old beard. “Aye, ye were always easy to provoke into a challenge.”
Ignoring his sword and knife, William grabbed a wood pitchfork from a haystack near the barns.
Eoghan, conversely, slid his sword out of its leather scabbard and stood at the ready, waiting for William to advance.
An odd choice, William thought.
“You’re using your sword so early in the game?” he asked Eoghan.
“Aye. I wish to score the first point quickly and give the lads something to talk about.”
He’s cocky as ever.
Eoghan stepped in close and swung his sword high.
William stabbed the air with the pitchfork, letting Eoghan’s blade sink in deep between two of the three tines.
William twisted the pitchfork, attempting to rip the blade from Eoghan’s hand, but Eoghan held tight to the blade and pulled back, managing to keep his sword.
William thrusted the pitchfork at Eoghan, who knocked it away easily enough with a downward swing. William drove at him again, but this time Eoghan jumped to the side and chopped down at the wooden pitchfork, his blade cutting through the wood and leaving William with a four-foot stick.
Ailith might know what to do with such a staff, but William wasn’t going to take the time.
“Looks as if I need a new weapon,” William said as he looked around him.
“Nay, cousin,” Eoghan replied. “By my count, ‘twas only two attacks on your part. Use what ye have and hope I dinna score a point on ye.”
A staff ‘tis.
William swung his stick like a sword, aiming low for Eoghan's right leg. Eoghan jumped over the stick and swung his own sword in a backhand at William's left shoulder, hitting William with the flat of his blade.
“Point!” Eoghan yelled, his arms raised triumphantly as the crowd cheered.
“Aye,” William said as he wiped at his sweaty brow. He noticed that Eoghan’s hairline was damp as well, and not from the fine Highland mist. “The point is yours. ‘Twas my third attack. I’ll choose a new weapon now.”
William withdrew his own finely crafted Pictish sword from its scabbard. The weight was familiar and comfortable in his hand, like an extension of his arm.
“Let’s see ye do that again,” William said with a step forward.