Realizing they’d get nothing to eat, the men began to stand. Macrath grabbed several mint leaves to chew from his sporran attached to his belt. They helped to stave off his hunger, but also to freshen his breath.
“Wait!” the guard called out. “You’re not to leave the tent until the women are ready for you.”
“The women?” Macrath grumbled along with the other men.
“Orders from the council! Anyone to leave the tent before they are summoned will be cut down.” The guard swung his swords at the men as he backed slowly out of the tent.
Once he was gone, the men began speculating on what exactly was going on, but Macrath didn’t give a rat’s ass about all that. He stepped to the side where he had the best view through the opening to the women’s tent, hoping for a glance of Ceana. Her friend Aaron had yet to appear.
His earlier jealousy returned with full-on rage. Had they even gone to the women’s meal tent or had she needed the comfort Aaron was willing to provide—the comfort he’d refused her the night before. Were they within her own lodging, soaking up the pleasure that should have been Macrath’s and hers alone?
Oh, the pain of that thought. If only he’d taken her when he’d had the chance, then he could have laid claim to her, and she would have not gone near that slimy bastard. But, then again, if he’d done that, it would have gone against everything he believed in. Bedding a woman—a lady—simply to ease a fear was not acceptable. Especially one who’d risked her life in coming to him in hopes of repaying him for having saved her life. Hell, he wanted her. That was never in question. But he wouldn’t take advantage of her.
Macrath would never expect to rut a woman simply because he’d saved her life. He was not that kind of man. He had honor. He had a moral code. All the things his stepmother and half-brother swore he didn’t. There would be no bastard sons from him.
And as much as he wanted Ceana—desired her with every damned fiber of his being, grew hard at just the picture of her face in his mind—he was not going to put her at risk.
He swiped a hand through his hair and downed the remainder of his ale. Why was putting her out of his mind so damned hard? He’d never thought of a woman as much as he was ruminating on her. Except for his first. He’d imagined himself in love with that young lass, and she’d let him do all sorts of unimaginable things to her—but she’d also been paid well by his father’s soldiers and promised to take care that no babe was conceived. He’d thought about her long and hard after. Knew that he never wanted to have to pay a woman to be in his bed ever again. Thought that he never wanted to feel the way he did after either—as though he’d thoroughly used a woman simply for the pleasure of her body. Back in those days, he’d not known what it meant for a woman to enjoy bedding. Now he knew better.
And mo chreach, he wanted to share that blissful oblivion with Ceana.
He stalked forward, slammed his cup on a table and was about to leave the tent—orders be damned—so he could go and find the two lovebirds and interrupt their reverie when Aaron skidded inside.
As soon as he saw Macrath he tried to walk the other way, but Macrath grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and yanked him to a stop. “Where are you going? There’s no food today.”
Aaron glanced up at him, his expression half-annoyed, half-terrified.
Macrath let him go and Aaron adjusted his dingy shirt.
“Macrath,” he grumbled.
“Aaron.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared the man down, waiting for him to provide details.
Aaron rolled his eyes. “She’s fine.”
“What the hell happened?” Macrath spoke under his breath hoping that no one else in the tent would pay attention to them.
“She wouldn’t tell me. Whatever it was scared her half to death.”
Macrath scrutinized Aaron’s face, looking for signs he was lying. Why he’d lie, Macrath could only guess. Good gods, what had she been put through inside the castle? The punishment for disruption had to have been harsh. And yet, the way the woman had looked after her kept flashing back in his mind. Was it guilt for having had to be punitive, or had she let Ceana off the hook for reasons he was determined to figure out?
Macrath searched Aaron’s face for any sign of a lie. “Was she hurt? They said she was whipped.”
Aaron’s face was grim. “A single lash on her shoulder, but she says that it doesn’t pain her.”
Macrath had been hit with a whip plenty. Even a single blow could leave a painful mark. “But she was washed.” Seemed that more than a single lash would lead to such.
Aaron nodded, his brow wrinkling. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared toward the empty tables. “Odd isn’t it?”
Macrath nodded. Odd. And he wasn’t supposed to care. But he did. He wanted to make sense out of it. Knew that the situation would likely keep him guessing and unfocused.
The dreaded horn blew before he could ask Aaron about the plaid belt she’d been wearing. Dammit, there were still so many questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to know how the lady on the council had been in possession of a MacRae plaid. But the alarm for the men to come to order was enough to jolt Aaron into action and he scurried away from Macrath and toward the door with the rest of the men before Macrath could grab him back.
Shaking his head, Macrath headed for the flap. They were herded like cattle once more to their lines. The sun had fully risen and though it wasn’t warm, the coldness that typically set in when they were so close to winter had yet to hit. Though he was certain it would at some point.
The women were already in their lines across from the men. Though their ranks were substantially less than a day ago. ’Twas the same for the men. Knowing that all those who’d filled the space before were dead was a sobering thought.
Macrath searched the crowd of women for Ceana, finding her easy enough in the back. Her head was bowed, eyes cast to the ground. He stared at her, willing her to look at him. Willing her to make eye contact, but knowing all the same that he’d not get his answers from a shared glance. Ceana made no move to lift her head. She didn’t seem browbeaten; rather that she was avoiding him.
Slightly to her left was Rhona, he was surprised and relieved to see her. She was covered in bruises. She smiled in his direction and Macrath nodded. The woman was tougher than he thought. While he’d searched for Ceana in the woods, he’d also kept his eyes out for Rhona feeling it his duty to protect her, but she’d been nowhere, perhaps having found a good hiding spot and sticking to it.
The ground trembled slightly as the council members rode into the center of their ranks. The crowd quieted without the need for horns to be blown, everyone’s gaze riveted on them. Even Ceana’s. The class divide was never more evident than now between the council members and the entrants. The lot of female and male warriors were grimy, their clothes dingy, while the council members were well groomed. Ceana stuck out in her cleanliness, and the way she refused to look at anyone.
Bloody hell, what had happened to her behind closed doors?
This time, the female council member did not take the front. The eldest of the male council members raised his hand until everyone’s eyes were on him. After harshly regarding them, he began to speak. “Today, the tables are turned. The women will take to the list fields while the male warriors act as their squires.”
That bit of news sent a ripple of shock through the men. But it made Macrath snicker. They would starve them and then make them serve the women. For many, this would be a true test of their mental capacity. Many men did not want to serve women, thought the fairer sex inferior. For himself, well, he’d grown up starving and as his stepmother often banished him to work with the servants, he could handle serving a woman. Besides, this was a team exercise. In a few days’ time, when he won the final game, he’d have to be a part of a team for five years with one of the female entrants and then the rest of his life if they had a child.
“The women have been randomly given an order in which to choose which
squire they would like to work with.”
Macrath sent a silent prayer to the gods that Ceana picked him and not Aaron.
But as it turned out, Ceana must have been given a later position, because as the first few were called, she was not named. The guard shouted for Rhona and she chose Macrath. His name sounded loudly over the crowd. Before he stepped forward he chanced a glance at Ceana. Her eyes were still cast down, but he swore her shoulders were slumped a little further. Disappointment.
Bloody hell. She would have chosen him.
Macrath stepped forward and Rhona rushed over to him, her smile tight around lips that were cracked and bleeding. Bruises marred the flesh of her neck and her gown was torn. She may have survived the first round, but it had not been without pain.
“Macrath. Thank the gods no one chose you before I did.”
He nodded. “How do you fare?” he asked.
“I am weakened and sore, but with you by my side, I can weather this next round.”
“ ’Tis the lists, Rhona.” He hated to be the bearer of bad news but she needed to know what she was getting into. “I will help you with weapons. Lift you when you fall, but I cannot fight this battle for you. You must be prepared.”
She nodded, tears rushing to her eyes. “I won’t make it. I know I won’t.”
Macrath awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. “Aye, you will. Just be brave as you were in the woods.”
“I wasn’t brave. Not at all. I was horrible. A bloodthirsty rage took hold of me so I would survive.”
“Then that is what you must be, bloodthirsty.”
But he didn’t want her to be, because eventually she would come up against Ceana and if Rhona, gods save him, tried to harm her, he’d have a hard time not running out onto that field and cutting his clanswoman down himself.
It was then Macrath heard Ceana’s voice—and she was choosing Aaron.
He gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t it have been the men against each other? He was ready to beat the bloody MacRae guard down to the ground. He may have been protecting Ceana because he’d served with her brother, but Macrath knew in his bones that Aaron desired her. And if Macrath couldn’t have her, no one could.
So much for distance, he was ready to claim her as his own.
Chapter Eight
Ceana discreetly observed Macrath and the woman who’d chosen him. A pang of unexpected, and unwelcomed, jealousy clung to her center.
She spoke with him in a familiar fashion, and their mannerisms leant to the fact that they knew each other. Was she the reason that he’d pushed her aside the day before? Did they have an understanding?
Ceana’s face grew hot. What a fool she’d been.
“Females! To the list field. Instructions will follow!”
Ceana allowed herself to be shoved along the path and through the gate toward the field where two days past they’d fought for weapons. A shudder rushed through her as she passed under the imposing gate. The arching stones and threatening iron portcullis jutting toward her skull resembled so much more than a simple entrance and exit. It represented a line being crossed—life or death.
Shoulder to shoulder they marched, no one shoving today. No one eager to begin the next round of games, for it only meant risking their lives. There would be men and women who did not cross back through this gate when the game ended. A sobering fact. One that gave instinct the push to stall the inevitable.
And yet, if they did not begin, no one would succeed.
Ceana had come to the games with one goal in mind—win.
If she was going to save her clan from starvation, from losing their land to the surrounding clans, then she had to win. There was no other way out of it for her. The coin, the land, the power, all of it would bring her clan out of obscurity and poverty. Literally save their lives.
Flashes of home squeezed her chest. Images of happier times. She’d not even had time to properly mourn the death of her brother. But now was not the time to think about it. She had to thrust such heavy remembrances from her mind.
Steeling her emotions—and the softer side of herself that respected humanity—she marched along with every other survivor. But pushing away all contemplations of cherishing life in others was harder than she thought. Ceana wasn’t a murderer. And that’s what these games were all about—killing.
How did one take life when they didn’t want to?
Even in self-defense, it was a hard line to cross. Just like this bridge.
But everyone’s path that she walked with led to the same place.
Ceana squared her shoulders. Imagined that if her mother had entered the games, she would have walked this same footpath. Her mother had been strong. She would have survived. And so would Ceana.
Their feet sunk into the grasses of the field and they followed the guards on horseback past where they’d fought for weapons, and then around to the right of the castle wall. A large arena had been set up. The field—grass cut low—was surrounded by a thick-railed wooden fence. At the head of the field was a large opened tent set upon a dais with chairs for the council members. The opposite end possessed a wide gate for the contestants to enter and exit. The sides were lined with thick wooden logs, and guards shouted out that seating for spectators was on one side and the squires would be on the other. Seated on the spectator side looked to be the servants of the entrants and possibly family members. She spotted Boarg who stared at her intently before nodding and searching out the males, most likely seeking signs of Aaron.
Zounds, but he must have been filled with terror for them both, unsure if either of them would arrive here today. Jostled by several women surrounding her, she pulled her gaze away from Boarg.
The females were lined up two by two in the opposite direction of the positions they’ve been assigned—those who’d chosen squires first were at the end of the lines. Ceana was close to the front—only three women in front of her. Damn. If she were made to fight all of those behind her, she’d tire faster than those who’d been lucky enough to be placed at the end. Mayhap that was the point. Taking a deep breath, she tried for courage, but found that it waned in an out of her.
The squires were ushered to the logs where they took their seats. She searched for Aaron, finding him on her far left. And without her permission, her gaze sought out Macrath who was on the far right. It’d taken a force of sheer will not to look at him this morning when they’d been lined up within the walls. She’d felt his eyes on her. Had desperately wanted to look up. But reminded herself that she’d not only put him in danger by encouraging any sort of relationship, but the uncertain future of her clan as well. Besides, he had his woman with him. That ought to be enough of a deterrent for her.
But then she saw him. And he was looking at her.
She quickly glanced away, not wanting to read into the sentiment she saw in his face, but once more her gaze was drawn. Thank the fates, several guards filed in front of the men, speaking to them with voices not loud enough to carry, but she could see them pointing inside the ring. Weapons were already distributed in great heaping piles on both sides of the field. Wooden staffs that were longer than clubs, but shorter than pikes, and lacked the pointed iron tips.
“Those cudgels were designed specifically for these games, I heard,” a woman behind murmured to another.
“Will hurt like the devil,” another whispered.
“Aye. Likely to break bones.”
Ceana shuddered. ’Twas a hideous thought and she could almost hear the sound of breaking bones. Best to tune everything and everyone out and center on just herself. Recall all the training she’d acquired from her brother over the years. She could do this. She would do this.
The horn was blown and the first two women entered the arena. Their squires leapt over the fence and stood, arms behind their backs, neither handing out weapons.
Panic quickened in Ceana’s chest. Why weren’t the men helping? Had they colluded against the women they were to serve?
The elder council
member stepped forward from his place beneath the tent, his arm raised in the air, calling everyone’s attention. “The first round will be hand to hand combat. The first opponent to fall to the ground without rising for the count of fifteen will lose the round. Discontents will be removed from the ring their fates to be determined at the end of this first round. Let the game begin!”
There was no mention of the cudgels, and Ceana did not have time to reflect on it. When his arm went down, a horn was blown, and the two women began circling each other. The first fight was brutal as the women swung their fists, grabbed clumps of hair, bit and kicked. Ceana gaped at the blood pouring from their bloody lips, split eyebrows and broken noses. Her stomach churned, and she found herself swallowing again and again. One woman’s nose was bent in the wrong direction, and still they fought.
Ceana found herself unable to watch. She rubbed at her forearms, and she was certain her face had gone pale. In the chill, her fingers were numb, but it could also have been her dread. The women grunted, cried out. The sounds of their smacks, kicks and feet scrambling in the dirt echoed in the silence of the spectators. It was odd. Normally at a tournament between warriors, those watching cheered on the combatants they wanted to win.
The silence was a telling cry as to how everyone felt. No one wanted to cheer on the beating of one versus the other. Nor root for a single person to win. For they all knew they’d be in the same place soon. Fighting for their lives. Fighting for the chance to win and rule. Fighting for so much more than that.
At long last, a dull thud sounded and Ceana raised her eyes to see one of the bloodied women lying on the ground, her eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky. Ceana sucked in a breath, eyes wide as she stared at her prone body. Was the woman… dead?
The woman, who still stood, staggered backward, her hands clutching at her neck, bloody from both her hands and the cuts streaming from her face. She looked as horrified as Ceana felt. There was a quiet murmur among the spectators, but not within the female lines.
Lords of the Isles Page 103
