by Diane Darcy
Ian glared at Dugald—he’d trusted him to guard Samantha. “He captured Samantha? How could he even know of her?”
Dugald shook his head. “’Twas Lady Marshall what instigated the trick. She invited the gel to her tent, to talk, said she. There was no stopping them and they did seem as fast friends. When Marshall returned, I dinna know he planned to take the girl captive.” He shrugged and lifted the crown. “I couldna very well ditch this to fight ’em, now could I?” All the same, he hung his head in obvious disgust. “Women.”
For Dugald, it was a week’s worth of words, and Ian clapped him on the back as realization sank in. “Ye did good.”
“Did I?” Dugald asked sourly.
Ian nodded, feeling considerably lighter. “Aye. Whether he knows it or no’, Marshall has done me a good turn. The king ordered us to fight in the tournament. But do we fight now, there’ll be no need to enter the competition at all. So long as the king gets his contest, that is.” He looked at the bag, thought a moment. “Don’t let that out of your sight. Hie yourself to the king. Both kings. Tell them of Marshal’s challenge and urge ’em to hurry to the west field to witness the contest for Lady Samantha. I’ll stall Marshall until they arrive.”
Several of his men cheered, others rushed off, no doubt to spread the news to those not present.
Dugald left, and Ian went for his weapons. If Ian won, the king would see it as a score against King Henry and his mood would be jovial. Ian would talk to him, explain about the crown, and get rid of the blasted piece before Laird Campbell did something senseless.
Like tell all and sundry here of the prize in Ian’s possession.
~~~
Ian arrived at the west field wearing his tunic over his chainmail. He’d figured he might as well do it right. His emblem, that of a dragon, seemed apt when going up against Marshal’s bird of prey. Two winged predators, facing off.
Marshall was already on the field, swinging his sword, his form powerful and impressive. When he saw Ian, he smiled, his lips tight with satisfaction.
The whey-faced coxcomb. Still, Ian had to admit the upcoming contest, against a worthy-ish opponent, made his body thrum with familiar excitement. He searched the crowd for the kings, but they’d yet to arrive.
Samantha stood with Lady Marshall, surrounded by Marshall’s men. She waved at Ian and shrugged in a fatalistic way as if to say, what are we to do about this? He grinned, liking her all the more for it.
Lord Marshall approached, an unpleasant smile curving his lips. “What’s this, MacGregor, no smirk for me? No witty words? Not so glib when ’tis your woman that has been taken, are you now?”
Ian couldn’t help it, he smirked. The bovine-witted fool definitely brought out the worst in him and ribbing Marshall would be a pleasant enough occupation while he awaited the king’s presence. “My woman, you say? The ideas you come up wi’.”
Marshall’s jaw jutted forward. “Are ye saying she is not yours?”
“I barely know the lass.”
Marshall’s eyes narrowed, showing disbelief. “Then she’ll stay with us.”
Ian, knowing Marshall tried for a reaction, laughed. “Let’s ask the girl, shall we? Lady Samantha,” he raised his voice so all could hear. “What say you? Lord Marshall has taken a shine to you and wishes you to go live wi’ him. Yea, or nay?”
Marshall’s eyes widened in outrage. “I never said such a thing. Gillian,” his voice rose. “He twists my words. Listen not to his odoriferous mewling.”
Ian laughed.
Marshall appeared murderous, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his sword hilt. “Raise your sword, swine.”
Ian glanced around, but both kings had yet to show themselves. Which only meant more time to tweak Marshall. “First I must ask your advice, for you do have the right of it. ’Tis true the girl has captured my attention...a wee bit.”
Marshall watched his every move as, swords down, they circled each other. “As I thought.” He raised his voice. “Hear you, Gillian? He admits feelings for the girl.”
Ian looked at Samantha who raised her brows, and he threw her a kiss. Smiling, she pretended to catch it, and pressed it to her heart. The gesture made the ever-growing crowd laugh.
Ian backed away and swung his sword in the air. “You are recently married. How do you know when ’tis the right girl? Are you still sure, or, in recent months have you changed your mind and wished for another?”
Marshall stopped dead. “Are you mad?” Using his sword he gestured toward Gillian. “My wife stands right there. If you will not lift your sword, I’ll punch you in the mouth for your impertinence.”
Believing the man, Ian skipped back. He glanced around. No kings, but the crowd grew.
Marshall looked to his wife, his expression worried. When she waved at him, he exhaled and turned his attention back to Ian, his sword at the ready. “Prepare yourself.”
“You’ve yet to answer my questions.”
Marshall waved his sword, his impatience obvious. “What questions? All you do is spout nonsense.”
Again, Ian retreated as Marshall approached. “Weel, then, here’s a question. Shall we make this interesting and fight for swords?”
Marshall’s mouth curved in grim amusement. He lifted his sword for Ian’s inspection and, for the first time, Ian realized it was his sword, a fine one Marshall won off him in a tournament a few years back. A deliberate insult.
Ian tried to keep his expression steady, but Marshall must have seen something in his face because he laughed. “Fine by me. You tend to have excellent taste in weaponry. I will be happy to add another to my collection.”
There was a commotion to Ian’s left. Both kings arrived, and a place of honor was quickly made for them. Ian finally lifted his sword.
Marshall looked at the kings, narrowed his eyes, no doubt realizing Ian had been stalling. His face tightened and he raised his own sword.
Ian swung. The blades clashed hard. The impact jarred, but Ian was happy to see Marshall shake out his arm, faring no better.
They attacked again, striking at each other with considerable force. Marshall was strong, but no more so than Ian. They both took turns slashing, jumping away, attacking, testing the other, both of them in constant motion. Ian grinned. Marshall was as dangerous as he remembered.
Ian closed in, launching a strike, and Marshall was forced to arch his back, narrowly missing a skewering. Marshall swung around and the crowd cheered as Marshall blocked with the edge of his blade, shoved him back, then sought to displace Ian’s next blow with a counter strike.
They both backed off, breathing hard. Much advice was offered from the crowd as more people gathered, choosing favorites, placing bets. Ian’s lips curled into a grin. It was gratifying to pit himself against such a worthy opponent.
Face grim, Marshall attacked with considerable force, Ian intercepted and bound the other man’s weapon, metal scrapping metal, using his body as leverage, but Marshall broke free to cheers and groans.
Ian dove in fast and forced Marshall back with a series of hard strikes, slashing and jabbing as Marshall spun away and thrust, compelling Ian to dodge and retreat. His arm grew tired and as Marshall drew his dagger, Ian gladly did the same. Grappling, both spending their strength, Ian strained, used the hilt of his dagger to slam Marshall’s arm downward, and swung around to elbow Marshall in the eye.
Ian chuckled. “Sorry, old man. I hope I didna hurt you. No shame in being past your prime.”
Marshall staggered back and Ian was on him but Marshall knocked his sword aside and surprised him with a hard punch that split his lip and threw his head back.
Marshall smirked. “My pardon. I’d not realized how enfeebled you’d become, else I’d have practiced restraint.”
Breathing heavily, they both circled for a moment, and Ian smiled at Marshall as blood dripped from his mouth. He ignored the pain and ran his tongue over his teeth, relieved to feel them still in place. “You’ve decent reflexes.”
Ian laughed and tested the man’s left side, driving his dirk upward, but found no weakness as Marshall deflected. Marshall feinted left with his sword, but met Ian’s own with a clang of steel. It was truly a pleasure to fight a man at his own level. Marshall slashed with his dagger and Ian jumped back, his own balanced as he awaited a chance to strike.
“Remember when I beat you at that tournament in France?” Marshall asked.
“Remember you did so only because my horse stumbled?”
They both laughed and Ian tasted the dirt misting the air. “’Tis strange to be fighting for a woman, rather than a purse,” Ian said. “Think you Gillian might have consented to be my wife if I’d pressed harder? Fought you for her?” Ian ribbed the man, hoping to madden him.
Marshall’s face clenched and he roared as he attacked, striking with sword and dagger.
Ian countered, barely avoiding a slash to his cheek, returned the strike and barely missed Marshall’s throat as the man jumped back. Ian chuckled. The man definitely had a weakness, and she had a pretty face. Ian struck again, gaining a few feet and the crowd cheered wildly as Marshall skipped back.
They circled each other, panting hard, wiping at sweat. “Mayhap,” breathed Marshall, “I will tell the Lady Samantha of your affection for my wife.”
Ian laughed as they clashed again, Marshall’s sword deflecting Ian’s long enough for the other man to drill a fist into Ian’s stomach.
In turn, Ian jabbed a fist into Marshall’s cheek, knocking the man sideways.
King Alexander yelled out in triumph as the English king urged Marshall to strike harder.
Ian readied his sword, neatly dodged Marshall’s slash, and swords clashed as Ian swung around and slipped on a patch of powdery dirt, throwing his balance.
Marshall, quick as a cat, had his dagger to Ian’s throat. Breathing hard, amused and triumphant, he said, “It looks as if you and your horse have much in common, MacGregor. Though ’tis the best fight I’ve had in a long while, once again, I best you. Now kneel and ask forgiveness for past sins, and of course, beg for the return of your lady.”
There were cheers and groans of disappointment from the crowd.
Ian wasn’t quite ready to accept defeat. “There is aught you should know. Lady Samantha is not truly my lady. She claims to have come from another time. A future place. Gillian’s speech is much the same as hers and methinks they come from the same location.”
Marshall’s mouth dropped and his eyes darted to his wife and Ian was more than surprised that his words rattled the man. He thought back on some of the claims Samantha had made. “Samantha plans to return. I wonder what they discuss? I wonder if Samantha has asked Gillian to accompany her?”
Marshall, knife to Ian’s throat, swallowed hard. “She has a ring?”
Ian wasn’t sure what he meant, but said, “Aye,” as the knife pressed harder to his skin.
Marshall, visibly agitated, said, “My wife could have another way home?”
“Aye.” Ian tried to remember Samantha’s claims. “To a future point where her grandfather resides.”
Marshall lowered his dagger and ran for Gillian.
Ian, barreling after him, grabbed the man and swung him around.
The crowd erupted!
Marshall spun and fought in earnest, but his attention was now split. “Gillian. Get you away from that woman.”
The crowd was so loud Ian doubted Gillian heard a word he said.
Marshall, on the defensive now, tried to get closer to his wife, but Ian systematically blocked him, and pushed him further away. Ian had never believed a word Samantha said about being from another time, but Marshall obviously did.
Which in turn made Ian wonder.
The man didn’t seem the type to be easily duped. “Yield and you may go to her.”
Marshall, face tight with rage, redoubled his efforts. Swords and daggers flew, slashed, and collided—as lightning and thunder. Marshall seemed to have tapped into more strength, desperation tight on his face.
Ian, fighting hard to control the man, yelled, “Take her wi’ you Samantha! Take Gillian home!”
Marshall’s eyes turned feral, wild. He threw the tips of both sword and dagger into the air and skipped backward. “I yield! I yield.” This said while looking at Ian with murder in his eyes.
The crowd fell into stunned silence.
Marshall, expression promising retribution, looking as if he’d like naught more than to kill Ian on the spot, grated, “This is not over yet.”
“As you said once before.” Ian brought his sword to Marshall’s chest. “Now, yield!” he yelled loudly for the benefit of the crowd.
“I already stated such.”
“I like hearing it. Samantha!”
“I yield!” Marshall roared.
Ian stepped back, and, with a vicious glare, Marshall threw his sword to the dirt.
“I’ll take the dagger, as well.”
Murder in his eyes, Marshall threw the dagger to the dirt between Ian’s feet where it stuck in the ground, a scarce sliver from his toe. Marshall turned, and ran to his wife. “Gillian, to me! Back away from Lady Samantha.”
Gillian, wearing an expression of resignation, hugged Samantha.
“Stop touching her! Ye’ve got to stop touching her. Come to me, now.”
Then he was on her, scooping her up, giving Samantha his back, and striding away while he chided his wife.
Gillian called out. “Good luck, Samantha. I hope you make it!” she waved over her husband’s shoulder, her blonde curls blowing slightly in the breeze.
Marshall called to Ian, “May you have learned your lesson about stealing other men’s women!”
The crowd laughed, well-pleased by the spectacle.
Samantha hurried to Ian’s side. “You should have seen the look he just gave me. Like I was diseased or something. Sheesh. Poor Gillian. The man is unhinged.”
He picked up Marshall’s sword, wiped at the blood still oozing from his mouth, then, clasping Samantha to him, raised the sword into the air.
Everyone cheered, and, demonstration over, Ian picked up the dagger, and gave both weapons over to Dugald. With Samantha in tow, he hurried to seek audience with King Alexander.
~~~
The King, surrounded by his subjects, held a goblet of wine in the air, a wore a pleased expression upon his face. “To Laird MacGregor!”
“To Laird MacGregor!” Lords and Ladies cheered, those with goblets lifting them in the air.
King Henry, his back as stiff as his countenance, turned and left, his men trailing him. He obviously did not wish to congratulate the winner, which was fine by Ian. He waded through repeated slaps on the back and smiles of congratulations until he reached his king and bowed low to Alexander. The young king raised his glass again. “Our Scottish champion! Well done!”
More cheers.
The king placed a hand on Ian’s arm. “Come with us. We are off to see the jousting.”
“Your Majesty. I must needs speak wi’ you.”
The king was already moving away. “Come, come. We’ll talk.” The king’s arm captured a giggling brunette. He murmured in her ear as he walked away, Ian, Samantha, and many others following behind. Said giggling brunette looked over her shoulder, flashed Ian a come-hither smile, and he recognized the Lady Audra, troublemaker extraordinaire.
Samantha glanced up, having seen the exchange. “Hmm. A friend of yours?”
Ian’s lips curved at the hint of jealousy in her voice. “A nuisance, rather. One I hope to avoid.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Ian’s smile widened at the sour note. They followed Alexander and his entourage to the jousting field, where the king took a seat on the dais among the gentry, both English and Scottish. He and Samantha stood beside the stand. Alexander, well aware of his pr
esence, made him wait for an invitation, playing his games as ever.
Samantha tilted her head. “The king seems so young. Sort of bratty too,” she whispered the last.
“Shh.” He glanced around. “Everyone knows ’tis true, but no one speaks truth too loudly in the presence of a king.”
“Ian, or rather, Laird MacGregor,” the king finally called him over, reminding him again from whence his good fortune sprang. “You will like this. The next combatants are English knights. One fights before his monarch to clear his good name and to reclaim his lands.” He nodded his head in a gesture toward King Henry. “The other, to prove once and for all that he is innocent of the accusations of slander levied against him. Based on their visages alone, ’tis easy enough to see who the villain is in truth.”
Ian, uninterested in the gossip, dutifully turned his attention to the field. A fair knight with golden hair threw a kiss toward his opponent, then placed a helmet upon his head, while a large, dark knight shot the slighter man radiated pure rage. He saw why Alexander was so interested. ’Twas as if an angel and demon took to the field at the same time. He found himself unwillingly intrigued.
Within minutes the men lined up, the signal was given, and mounts and men charged one another. Out of nowhere, a girl appeared in the arena directly in the path of the dark knight. The stunningly beautiful brunette wore a king’s ransom around her neck, and was about to be very dead.
Shocked gasps from the crowd turned to shouts of fear as the girl stood in very grave danger of being trampled. Ian tensed, aware nothing could be done.
At the last second, the dark knight dropped his pole, and in an astounding move, reined in his destrier, pulling the war horse onto hind legs, holding it in place as the girl backed away, tripping, falling, pulling herself erect, the slashing hooves barely missing her face.
Ian drew in a breath, amazement and respect for the man’s skill startling him.
“Oh, ho!” King Alexander, mouth agape, was visibly impressed. “Where did she come from? A fine trick, indeed.”
His voice seemed to release the spell the crowd was under. A loud cheer rose from the stands, and King Alexander, a huge grin on his face, turned to look at everyone, his gaze landing on Ian. “Did you see? Did you see the girl appear? Did you see his strength in controlling his mount?”