Chapter 26
The day dawned perfectly on Merraid’s first tournament.
Fluffy clouds dotted the bright sky. Penants from a host of clans fluttered in a gentle breeze.
The air was filled with sparrow song. The squeak of bowstrings.
The restless stomps of horse hooves. The rustle of chain mail.
The soft chatter of warriors on the field and spectators in the stands.
Merraid took a deep breath. Partly to drink in the familiar smells of the tournament—the dust of the arena, the aroma of hay, the tang of armor, the musk of leather—and partly to calm and center herself.
Her training had prepared her for this moment. She’d be unafraid. Self-assured. Confident, but not overconfident. Like the snake in Feiyan’s story about the birth of taijiquan, she would remain steady and still until the moment came for a sudden strike.
“You will do well, cousin.” Lady Feiyan said, coming up beside her in her black warrior’s garb.
It was hard for Merraid to imagine she was now kin to Feiyan. Even harder to imagine Feiyan intended to compete in the tournament with a bairn in her belly.
As if she’d read Merraid’s thoughts, Feiyan said, “I’ll abide by Dougal’s wishes and stay out of the hand-to-hand combat, but he can’t keep me away from the archery.”
Merraid smiled. “’Tis good news for me then. I didn’t have a hope o’ winnin’, sparrin’ against ye.”
“You may be sparrin’ against my mother,” she warned.
“Lady Miriel herself?” That would be a challenge indeed.
“Aye. And she’s got the wisdom of age.” Feiyan gave her a sly grin. “But you’ve got the advantage of youth. And a few tricks my mother doesn’t know.”
Merraid wondered if that was true.
She also wondered if it was in poor form to defeat one’s new clanfolk.
Before she could ask, Feiyan sidled away.
Moments later, the three sisters, the original warrior maids of Rivenloch, approached. Merraid, lost for words, could only stare in awe.
Laird Deirdre clapped a hand on her right shoulder and gazed at her with ice-blue eyes. “Remember, daughter, a stout heart is better than a sharp sword.”
Lady Miriel slipped around her left side, arching a dark, slender brow. “You do have a sharp sword though, aye?”
Merraid nodded, touching the hilt of the jian Feiyan had given her.
Lady Helena crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at Merraid and giving her a grim smile. “Unleash hell, lass.”
Nodding brief salutes, they left. With their blessing, Merraid felt ready.
There was only one other warrior from whom she wished to hear.
As if she’d summoned him with her thoughts, Gellir murmured from behind her, “Be sure to save your strength.”
“For the melee?”
“Nay,” he said, whispering against her ear. “For the bedchamber.”
His words sent a thrill through her. But she had no intention of holding back in the fighting.
“Not a chance,” she told him. “I’ve waited four years for this. I’m goin’ to leave it all on the tournament field. We have a lifetime o’ lovemakin’ ahead of us. Ye can bed me when ye recover from the arse-kickin’ I’m about to give ye.”
He chuckled at that. “Arse-kicking? You think so?”
“Aye.” She’d defeated him before. She could do it again.
“Shall we make a wager on that?” He lowered half-hooded eyes to her lips.
She gulped. Faith, she hoped he wouldn’t look at her like that when the tournament began. It would completely ruin her concentration.
“What kind o’ wager?”
“We’ll spar,” he murmured. “And whoever wins reigns in the bedchamber tonight.”
His breath sent a shiver through her. But she dared not let him distract her. “Fine.”
“Good luck.”
He departed with a glance meant to fire her blood. And it worked. Far too well.
Thankfully, the king arrived at that moment to take his place on the throne erected in the stands. There was a grand cheer, clapping, and stomping as Malcolm waved to the crowd. And as he announced the beginning of the tournament, Merraid forgot all about her tempting husband.
Merraid didn’t compete in the events on horseback. She’d never ridden a horse. But it was exhilarating to watch the knights joust on their destriers, riding full-tilt at each other. To hear the thunder of hooves. The creak of the tack. The crack of the lances.
Gellir was the best of all of them, of course.
Riding a destrier unfamiliar to him, he still charged along the fence with a bold aggression that intimidated his opponents and took her breath away.
He unseated every man he met, even the unidentified knight who’d broken the lances of all his former challengers.
There was a break for bread and ale. And then the archery began.
Merraid had never fired a bow, so she contented herself with observing as contestants from near and far took aim at the ringed target.
A warrior from Cathay shot with a jeweled bow.
Two Moorish brothers used arrows with exotic feathers.
A mystery archer in a green hood and a mask inspired murmurs of speculation, firing arrow after arrow in quick succession.
And a German knight bested nearly all of them, shooting with smooth precision.
But none of them, not even Gellir, could beat Jenefer of Rivenloch. Her bow seemed like a natural extension of her arm. Needing no preparation, she simply lifted her weapon and fired with ease and accuracy.
Another respite followed with food and drink. But Merraid ate little. She fought better with an empty belly. And the swordfighting was next.
To accommodate dozens of warriors, six bouts occurred simultaneously, weeding out the weakest fighters.
Merraid’s first two opponents were rather easy to defeat.
They had never faced a woman in battle, so they were distracted by the novelty of it.
They not only had to fight her. They had to fight their instinct not to harm ladies.
She introduced them gently to the notion of defeat at the hands of a woman.
Meanwhile, Gellir battled against some of the foreign swordsmen. Even when one of the fighters from the Orient hacked at him with a wide, curved blade, he was able to knock it aside and swoop in with a shuddering blow from his trusty steel.
He jabbed the German after the man had tried to lop off his head, serving up a punishing poke to his arse that made him yelp in pain.
And while the French swordsman had a graceful and deadly style, he was no match for Gellir’s succinct efficiency.
Logan and his sister Jenefer went head to head, but their familial ties were their downfall. Their bout erupted in a shouting match, which ultimately led to casting aside their swords and wrestling in the dust. They were banned from any more matches.
Merraid next had to face her new Rivenloch brother, Brand, who had no qualms about sparring with a lass.
Indeed, some said he secretly disliked the whole notion of women warriors and was always eager to disabuse them of the notion that maids should wield blades.
It was no easy task standing up to his relentless blows.
He was cut from the same mold as Gellir, and he was just as devoted to swordsmanship.
But Feiyan had been right. Merraid knew a few maneuvers Brand could not anticipate. By the end of their bout, though she was covered in dust and gasping with effort, she finally managed to use his strength against him, flipping him to the ground and holding the point of her jian at his throat.
Gellir next fought against the great Morgan Mor mac Giric, Jenefer’s husband.
As broad-shouldered as Gellir was, the enormous Highlander was two hands wider.
But in the end, Gellir proved the bigger they were, the harder they fell.
When Morgan stumbled backward and hit the ground with a thud, Gellir moved in to force the surrender.
In the other matches, Deirdre and Pagan warred against each of the Moorish brothers. Colban fought an Italian knight. Dougal was matched with a grizzled old Highlander. And Colin and Rand crossed blades. Merraid didn’t see who won.
Her last bout was with Tian, Miriel’s son and Feiyan’s brother, who had also trained under the great master, Sung Li. There was no fooling him. And yet she found a certain satisfaction in sparring with someone who knew the movements so well. Their match was graceful. Lithe. Quick.
In the end, however, his reach won the day. She was forced to draw near to make contact, which left her vulnerable. When she strayed too close, he popped her sword from her grip in the blink of an eye, caught it in his free hand, and crossed the blades at her neck in victory.
It was hard to be upset. He was an amazing fighter. And their match had been fun. She yielded with a smile.
Retiring from the field, she watched as Gellir faced three more opponents.
One was his own father. Merraid noticed that a few times, he let Pagan have an advantage he hadn’t earned, just to keep the match going. It was a kind and diplomatic gesture.
The second was his sister Hallie’s husband, Colban. Raised in the Highlands, he had a rough fighting style, but Gellir was accustomed to defending against it. The match was short. Gellir emerged victorious.
His final bout was with the unknown lance-breaker from the joust. The man was equally as talented with a blade. His was a curious style all his own—a mixture of bold attacks and sly defenses. He was at once as strong as a bull and nimble as an acrobat.
Gellir had difficulty countering his ever-changing tactics, but eventually he wore the man down. When he staggered onto one knee, Gellir rushed in to flatten him.
With that final decisive blow, the king arose.
“We are pleased to announce the grand champion of the tournament is Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch.”
A huge cheer arose, and garlands of flowers were tossed onto the field by spectators. Gellir waved once, acknowledging the praise. But then, with perfect chivalry, he helped the unknown knight to his feet, and Merraid’s heart swelled with pride.
This was the man she’d married.