“Nay, and I’m off for bed. I need my rest before tomorrow’s race,” Maggie said.
Iver Leslie grinned. “He’s fast, m’lady,” he told her.
“God’s toenail, I hope so,” Maggie answered him. “My last suitor ran like a lass.” And then she left the two men who were guffawing loudly at her remark. She had told Grizel no bath this evening, but she would surely need one after tomorrow’s race. She had sent Grizel to her own bed; Maggie had no need of her, being perfectly able to wash and undress herself.
Tomorrow, she thought as she finally lay abed. Fingal Stewart was the first man she had ever considered having the ability to beat her in fair combat. She had been running the hills about Brae Aisir for so long, she couldn’t remember when she had first begun. Her grandsire said she was just past two when she had disappeared over the drawbridge one day, giving them all a terrible fright until she came running back up the path from the village. It was quickly observed that Maggie Kerr could run very fast. By the time she was four, the village lads were running with her, and by the time she was six, it was acknowledged that no one could run as fast as she could run.
Tomorrow, however, her reign as the fastest person in the Borders could easily come to an end. And if it did, then she would have to accept Fingal Stewart as her husband. She had to admit to herself that he had been very patient with her waiting to consummate the marriage. She had put all thoughts of consummation from her mind these past weeks ever since the marriage contracts had been signed, making her legally his wife. She felt a bit guilty about that day, for she had not dressed herself in a beautiful gown for the signing. She had the Aisir nam Breug to show him, and signing the documents that would make them man and wife was but a bit of legal business to be swiftly concluded. She had dressed as she usually did, but then so had he.
And on the morrow they would both be dressed for their combat. But afterwards, she promised herself, she would dress herself properly for the blessing of their union, and the feast to come. Mad Maggie Kerr might be considered a hoyden by most who knew her, but she did know how to dress like a lady. There was that wonderful burgundy velvet gown trimmed in marten in her wardrobe she might wear, or perhaps the dark green velvet with the gold trim. To her surprise, she fell asleep considering her gowns, but she had awakened before dawn, her head clear. Climbing from her bed, she ran to the window to see what kind of a day it would be. It was gray, but on the horizon a weak sun was just struggling to rise. To her relief there seemed to be no wind as the bare trees stood black in stark relief against the light sky. The water in the moat was liquid, not ice. It hadn’t frozen the past night, which meant it was warmer despite the month.
Without waiting for Grizel, Maggie opened the trunk at the foot of her bed and pulled out a pair of breeks. They were soft with age, and she always wore them when she ran. Yanking off her night shift, she dressed herself quickly. First came a cotton chemise that just reached her midthighs. Then came her shirt and breeks with a leather belt to hold them up. She ran a brush through her hair, then tied her rich brown locks back with a scarlet ribbon. “I’m ready!” she said aloud as Grizel entered her bedchamber.
“Yer eager then,” her tiring woman said. “Well, so is everyone else. The laird is in the hall with Father David and the Netherdale Kerrs. I passed yer husband on the staircase coming down as I was coming up for ye.”
“Then ’tis time,” Maggie agreed.
“I’ll bring yer boots and stockings for the riding,” Grizel said, picking up the items as she spoke. Then she quickly followed her mistress downstairs.
“Good morrow, all,” Maggie greeted them, bounding into the hall.
“Good morrow,” they greeted her back.
“Are ye ready, Granddaughter?” Dugald Kerr asked her solemnly.
“I am, my lord.”
“And ye, Fingal Stewart, are ye ready?”
“I am, my lord.”
“Then let us go out to the courtyard where the race will begin and end,” the laird said as he led the way. Once outside, he spoke to them both. “This will be a harder challenge. A footrace across the drawbridge, down the path into the village, through the village, around the kirk at the end of the village, and back the same way. The second part of the challenge is a horse race that follows the same path as the footrace but for one exception. Before ye may recross the drawbridge, ye must ride about the keep once. The final part of the challenge is a combat with claymores to be held here in the courtyard.
“When first blood is drawn, the match is over. If either of you cannot finish any part of the challenge, your opponent is declared the winner. Do ye both understand the rules of this competition?”
“I do, my lord,” Fingal Stewart said.
Maggie nodded. Then she looked at Lord Stewart and said in an almost defiant tone, “I run in bare feet, my lord.”
Fingal smiled at her. “I don’t,” he said in a pleasant voice.
“Do ye not think that gives ye an advantage?” she demanded of him.
“Nay, I think ’tis ye who has the advantage, madam, but ’tis a cold morning. I prefer to keep my boots on,” he answered. “But I’ll be happy to wait to begin this contest between us if ye decide ye will wear yers.”
“She’s clever,” Rafe Kerr said softly to his father.
“How so?” Lord Edmund wanted to know.
“She’s used to the track she’ll travel in her bare feet. In boots the road would not be familiar. She could stumble, and lose time. But her bare feet know the path very well.” Rafe said. He shook his head admiringly. “She’s a braw lass, Da.”
“Are ye ready then?” the laird asked the two combatants, and when they nodded in the affirmative he said, “Then we begin. On yer marks. Get set. Go!”
Maggie leaped forward. The wood of the drawbridge felt firm and sure beneath her bare soles. Her feet knew the way well, and with each pump of her legs her speed increased. She breathed rhythmically, and knew she would not begin to feel even slightly winded until she was crossing the drawbridge again. Head high she ran, and before long she felt the ribbon holding her hair begin to loosen, and then it flew away. As her long hair blossomed about her, she heard the triumphant cry of the lass who had caught the ribbon. It was an unspoken rule that when Mad Maggie Kerr’s ribbon blew off during a race, only a woman might have it. The single street of the village was lined with Kerr clansmen and women watching the lady meet her latest challenge.
She was about to turn her head to see how far behind her he was when a movement by her side caught her eye. Maggie swiveled her head slightly and to her astonishment found herself looking into the face of Fingal Stewart. And she realized he was running as easily as she was. He grinned wickedly at her. As they raced around the kirk at the end of the street, Maggie increased her speed; however, to her surprise, he kept up with her. As they raced back down the village street, she began to feel a burning in her lungs. She was racing, she realized, faster than she had ever raced before.
They were both breathing hard as they struggled up the path to the keep. Maggie forced a final burst of speed as she reached the drawbridge and pounded across it. But Fingal Stewart would not be beaten, meeting her speed with his own. Together they raced into the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder and gasping for air as they did.
“ ’Tis a tie!” Dugald Kerr shouted. “Well done, Maggie and Fin! Well done!”
But Maggie wasn’t listening to her grandsire’s praise. In a final sprint, she dashed across the courtyard barefoot, and leaped upon her stallion’s back, urging the beast from the keep’s enclosure. At first surprised that she would not take a moment to accept the congratulations of those assembled, Fingal Stewart followed her lead, exhorting his stallion to follow and catch up with her.
Maggie flattened herself as she leaned forward on the stallion’s neck, goading him onward. No man had ever beaten her in a footrace. None had ever come close. Yet Fingal Stewart had tied her, and done it fairly. Worse, she suspected he could have even done it in
his bare feet, though he chose to wear his boots. Had he worn them to give her the advantage? God’s foot! Now she would always wonder, and she could hardly ask him because had he tried to give her the advantage, it would seem a paltry thing to do.
Then her ears caught the sound of hoofbeats as his stallion caught up with hers. The two beasts screamed at one another rearing up, teeth bared, their hooves striking out as their riders sought to get them under control and racing again. It had been madness to pit two ungelded males against one another, but neither Maggie nor Fin was willing to ride another horse.
“I told ye this would happen,” he shouted at her as the villagers scattered away from the half-battling stallions.
“Do ye want to admit defeat?” she taunted him as she yanked her horse’s head around, and kicked it into a gallop again.
His laughter was her answer. They raced down the village street, around the kirk, and back towards the keep. He kept his animal just a pace behind her to avoid another battle between the two stallions. He fully intended pushing his horse ahead of hers as they reentered the courtyard. They reached the top of the path again, and dashed about the stone keep. Maggie was certain the victory would be hers, and when it was, it wouldn’t matter who won the combat by sword. There would be no clear-cut winner, for to win this challenge, one combatant had to win all three contests. Her stallion clambered onto the drawbridge again, his hooves pounding against the wood of the bridge. But to Maggie’s surprise, Fingal Stewart’s stallion was suddenly once again head to head with hers as they galloped into the yard and came to a screeching halt.
“ ’Tis a dead heat once more!” the old laird declared delightedly.
The two sweating stallions stood with wild eyes, foam about their mouths, and heaving sides as their riders slid from their backs. They were too tired to renew the fight between them as the stable lads led them away to separate ends of the stables to recover.
“Will ye be battling me with yer claymore in yer bare feet?” Fingal Stewart asked her, grinning.
“Will ye take off yer boots too, or are yer dainty feet still too cold?” Maggie mocked him, returning the grin.
“Put yer socks and boots on, lassie,” the laird told his granddaughter. “Ye should have done so before ye mounted that big beast of yers to race.”
“It didn’t affect my riding,” Maggie said, seating herself upon the stone steps into the house. She pulled on the warm knit stockings Grizel handed her, and then her boots. Upon standing she said, “I’m ready now.”
Clennon Kerr, the keep’s dour captain, handed Maggie her claymore. It was a fine weapon, fifty-five inches in length with a cross handle. It was a plain sword with no fancy or decorative embellishments about it. The captain handed Fingal Stewart an identical weapon. “They’re the same blade, my lord,” he said.
“So I see,” Lord Stewart answered. He had quickly come to trust Clennon Kerr, for Iver liked him, which he would not have had the captain been duplicitous. And an almost imperceptible nod from Iver told him all was well.
A chair, brought from the hall, was set upon the top step leading to the hall. The laird settled himself into the chair, his English kinsmen standing by his side. He would be able to clearly see everything from his position. Below them the keep’s men-at-arms formed a circle, and the two combatants stepped into it. They were garbed as they had come from the hall that morning, and wore no mail to protect them.
“Remember,” Dugald Kerr said in a stern voice, “this contest between ye both ends when first blood is drawn. Try not to injure each other seriously. It is a battle of skill between ye. Naught else. I will stop it if either of ye displays undue roughness. Ye may now begin.”
Their weapons required that they fight with two hands. Grasping the hilts of their claymores, they raised them in a salute to each other, and then metal met metal with a horrific clanging. Fingal Stewart was not surprised by Maggie’s skill with her claymore. With any other woman he might have been, but he had found her to be a woman not given to bragging. If she said she was proficient in something, he accepted that she was, and she had said she could wield a claymore as well as any. She could. It took all his skill to keep from being blooded by her.
He didn’t know why he cared other than the fact that a man, especially one who would one day control an important ingress into Scotland, should not be vanquished by a woman; yet he was uncomfortable with the reality that to win this contest between them he must blood her. If he could wear her down eventually perhaps she would yield to him without the necessity of it. But Maggie was a stubborn woman. Unless he won all three challenges, Fingal Stewart knew she would not respect him. Of course, the first two contests between them had ended in a tie, so if he had not beaten her, he had at least equaled her, which should gain him a modicum of her respect. But he knew that this last battle between them must yield a clear winner, and he had to be that winner.
He had spent the past few minutes keeping her at bay. Now he began to fight her in earnest, raising his claymore with two hands, the blade striking hers fiercely as she blocked his attack. The clash of the two blades reverberated through her entire body, and Maggie staggered, surprised. She suddenly found herself on the defensive against him, and she realized he meant to win here unequivocally where he had not won before. She stiffened her spine, and fought hard driving him back, back, back, step by step by step.
“Jesu, she fights like a man,” Lord Edmund said, not realizing until his son laughed that he had spoken aloud.
“Still want her for a wife, kinsman?” the laird of Brae Aisir asked mockingly of his Netherdale cousin. “She’s more woman than any ye have ever known.”
“She’s magnificent,” Rafe said. “I hope we never meet in battle.”
“Yer a wise man, laddie, unlike yer sire,” Dugald Kerr told him.
“A lass belongs in the hall directing her servants,” Edmund Kerr said, finally speaking. “Not in the yard in breeks fighting with a man. Ye’ve let her run wild, Dugald. I don’t envy her husband. I hope he can successfully bed that wildcat of yours. He’ll have to if yer to get a male heir.”
“Tonight,” the laird told him. “Look closely, Edmund. My Maggie is beginning to tire. Fingal Stewart is a strong opponent. And his patience is coming to an end.”
“Aye,” Rafe noted softly, “she’s tiring. I’m sorry to see it, for she’s a brave lass.”
She was his wife, damn it! Fingal Stewart thought as he realized that Maggie was not going to give up. And he wanted her, not because a king had matched them to serve his own needs or even because it was his right, but because he was coming to love the stubborn wench. She was everything a man could want in a wife—noble, brave beyond measure, and loyal. She was honest to a fault, firm but kind to her servants, and the villagers would not have been so devoted to her had she not had all of these virtues. And with a modicum of total honesty he had to admit she was a beauty. Aye, Mad Maggie Kerr was everything a wife should be. His wife.
There she stood. Her capable hands gripped the hilt of her claymore as she fought him. Her shirt was wet beneath the arms, sticking to her back and breasts. She was gasping for breath, and near to falling on her face with her exhaustion, but she would not give up. The marriage was fact. The contest before the consummation had been to satisfy any discontent among the Kerrs’ neighbors that the king’s kinsman had had his bride dishonestly. His forbearance at an end, Fingal Stewart raised his claymore even as Maggie raised hers against him. With a mighty blow, he knocked the sword from her hand, over the heads of the men-at-arms encircling them, and across the courtyard.
Maggie fell to her knees, the force of the two weapons meeting having gone right through her. She knelt there in the dust, unable for a moment to arise, for her legs seemed unable to function at all. Everything ached—her shoulders and her arms, her neck, the palms of her hands. Her fingers were suddenly weak. She heard Grizel’s cry of distress.
As she raised her head, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She looked to
her grandfather, ashamed to have failed, and Maggie knew she had indeed failed.
“My lord?” Fingal Stewart’s calm voice queried. Then he said, “I know the rules ye have set for this contest, but I will not, cannot blood a woman in combat. We have both fought fairly, and the only blood I will take from Maggie Kerr is that which belongs to her maidenhead and is rightfully mine. If there is a winner to this swordplay, then ye must declare such, my lord.” Then he bent, reaching out to draw Maggie to her feet, his strong arm going about her waist to hold her against his side. “Yer a braw lass,” he said low so that only she could hear him, “but I’m not as young as ye are, and ye’ve fair worn me out, madam. Give over now, and let there be peace between us, Maggie mine.”
Unable to help herself, Maggie nodded, giving him a weak, cheeky grin in reply.
“Enough!” Dugald Kerr responded in a surprisingly loud and strong voice. “I declare this challenge over. Both contestants have won in the footrace and the riding, but ’tis Fingal Stewart who has won the battle of the claymores. I name him the winner, and let none say otherwise.” He looked straight at his granddaughter as he spoke. “Margaret Jean Kerr, will ye accept this man, Fingal Stewart, as yer true husband in every way a man is husband to his wife?”
“I will!” Maggie declared loudly so that all heard her. “He has even before this day gained my admiration, but today he has gained my respect. I will be his wife proudly and gladly in every way in which a woman is wife to her husband.”
Fingal Stewart turned Maggie so she faced him, bending down to give her mouth a long and hot kiss as cheers erupted about them. He would have carried her off this moment had he not known more was expected of them that day than just a coupling. Jesu! Her mouth was the sweetest he had ever known, and he couldn’t stop kissing her.
Her head spun riotously with the kiss. She had known a stolen kiss on her cheek here and there to which she had always responded by smacking the bold lads, yet never but once before had she known a kiss like this one. Their lips locked together seemed to engender a ferocious heat. She slid her arms up about his neck, pressing herself against him with a need she didn’t quite understand at all. Was it lust? Was it love?
The Border Vixen Page 11