by Alisa Adams
The crowd burst into an uproar. The sound of protest rolled over the heads of the clansmen like a tempest. Many heads turned in Mary and Alastair’s direction. Mary had never felt more unwelcome in her life. Sensing her discomfort, Alastair slipped his hand into hers. He whispered into her ear, “It’ll be all right, blossom. They’re a judgmental bunch, but their hearts are in the right place. In time, they’ll come to love ye as much as I do.”
Mary somehow doubted that. A woman closest to her was on the verge of spitting at her. Aila was much beloved. She was the daughter of one of the most prominent men in the clan and the head of the second family. The union between Aila and Alastair was the perfect match that would have forever cemented the two kinfolks together. She found herself drawing away from the hissing woman, almost merging with Alastair’s comforting bulk.
“Haud yer wheesht,” shouted the Laird. He drew his sword, brandishing it above his head. “Any man or woman who speaks another word will feel the cold of steel in their gut.” He waited for the people to settle down before continuing. “As Laird of the clan Macleod Wallis, I today declare the betrothal between my son and Aila as annulled.”
His glower was solid, steely like the blade in his hand. He stood like a three-hundred-year-old tree in a forest. No storm, quake or fire would uproot him. He was their ruler, and when he spoke, they had to obey. “In Aila’s stead, the fair maiden, Mary Leighton, will become my son’s new betrothed. As of this day, they are handfasted in the eyes of God and the clan. Ye all will accord her the necessary respect of a lady of this clan. If I hear anything displeasing concerning her, I will personally punish the perpetrator in the harshest manner.”
He nodded at Mungo. The clansman immediately understood his chieftain’s meaning. In moments, he was about his business, shouting at the top of his lungs that the whiskey casks be opened.
The people yelled their acclaim as they coalesced into a writhing mass, heading in the direction of the men opening the casks and dispensing goblets filled to the brim with the fiery liquid. It seemed like ages until everyone was back in place waiting for their leader’s next words. Miraculously, the anger that had hung in the atmosphere because of the annulment had disappeared. The mob was such a fickle entity. Give them refreshment and bold words, and they could be swayed in any which way like April weather.
The Laird lifted his tankard that was of the same simple design as those of his people. “Slàinte. May the new couple have a prosperous and healthy life.”
“I will not drink to that, My Laird. Yer son has tarnished the honor of this clan by bringing that English hoer here.” Hamish stepped forward. He glanced at Aila briefly, nodding when she gave him a wan smile.
The Laird lifted his hand to forestall his son’s outburst. “Then what do ye suggest, Hamish?”
The clansman scoffed. “I suggest yer son fights for his honor. If God stands true to him and his betrothal to a Sassenach, then he will live. If not, yer son will be dead and that woman…” He pointed at Mary. “Will be returned to her kin. There are plenty of candidates who can take yer son’s place as heir to the lairdship.”
Alastair’s father guffawed. “Like ye, I presume?”
“Aye, like me. I have the support of many in the clan. Also, I ken that most of our fine folk will not accept a Sassenach as their lady. The only thing that remains is whether yer son has the courage to stand up and fight me.”
“Aye, Hamish, I do.”
Mary blanched when Alastair stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. She saw her own worried expression appear on his mother’s face. For a few heartbeats, the two men stared at each other, somehow wanting to rob the other of his courage. The crowd was silent. They loved a fight, but at the risk of losing one of their beloved clansmen, many were unsure. Alastair was the first to speak.
“Faither, I cannot let his words slide for he has tarnished my honor, that of my betrothed and yers by questioning yer judgment. The man must face the consequences of his words.”
The Laird nodded. “Aye, Alastair. I agree. It is our way.” For a split-second, he regarded his wife. Mary saw her give her husband a barely noticeable flick of the head. “So, it is to be a fight until death. The victor shall be my successor. Ye may begin.” He waved his hands dramatically.
Dressed in their plaids wrapped around their bodies, the two antagonists approached one another. An eerie silence hung in the air. It appeared that everyone in the crowd held his or her breaths. The opponents held double-handed broadswords in their right hands. After both of them had bowed to the Laird and his wife, they circled each other like crouching tigers, raising the dust on the ground with their feet.
“So, Sassenach lover, let’s see what you can do when facing a real adversary and not some English weed,” said Hamish, appraising Alastair carefully.
They circled each other for a while, neither one of them wanting to make the first move. Then Hamish came at Alastair with lightning speed. Alastair skipped back, his riposte perfect. However, the force of Hamish’s first strike had jarred his arm, sending tingles all the way up to his shoulder. The strength of the other clansman was what he had expected – powerful. He attacked three more times before taking a few steps back.
Hamish smiled evilly, his green eyes piercing. “You didn’t expect that, did ye? Thought ye were the best fighter in the clan, save for yer father maybe. I have been practicing as of late, preparing for this day when I would fight for Aila’s honor. Forsaking her was inexcusable, and I will make ye pay.”
Alastair arched his eyebrows and sneered. “Ye talk too much.” Taking advantage of the other man’s soliloquizing, he attacked with lightning dexterity. However, Hamish defended himself with great skill. He fought for the love of a woman. They both did. There was no greater incentive in the world.
A loud concerted intake of air and a few shouts amongst the spectators made Alastair look down. In his battle fever, he had not noticed Hamish’s sword slice a superficial gash across his chest. It gave off a slight sting. It was nothing compared to the mauling he had received when he had dueled with his father.
“A nice little something to remember me by,” said Hamish, smiling evilly.
“It is but a scratch. I doubt there will be any scarring.” Alastair winked.
In a flash, it happened. Hamish threw all he had at Alastair as the searing anger erupted from him. Alastair could barely see his blade as it clashed with his opponent’s. He faced a wall of cloth, flesh, and steel. He reacted instinctively; time seemed to slow down and suddenly, as if in slow motion, he saw an opening. He slammed the hilt of his sword into his face.
In agony, Hamish cried out, tottering backward. Alastair gave him no time to recover. He moved forward with speed and youthful agility. Stunned, and with blood pouring out of his broken nose, all Hamish could do was defend himself. His sword arm had a mind of its own. It lifted, turned and held fast, each movement saving his life by a thread. The Laird’s son was an intrepid force. There was no mercy in his eyes, only the will to defend his honor, be that for the woman he loved or ultimately to protect his birthright.
The crowd was silent. Mary held her hands together on her lap in prayer. In the meantime, Hamish, in his uncoordinated defense, had surprisingly inflicted another wound on Alastair’s person. This time to his leg. Blood seeped down it. Alastair briefly looked down to ascertain the damage.
Using this brief distraction, Hamish altered the tide of the attack. He came in a blur of steel and flesh, hammering onto Alastair’s sword as if it were an anvil. Hamish sneered when he felt that he was gaining the upper hand. “Not long now, and I will have you spit to this sword like a pig ready for the roasting.”
“Not likely.” Despite the light throbbing on his torso and arm, and the exhaustion of having fought all this time, he knew from experience that the other man suffered as much, if not more.
Forced back to the wall of the keep, Alastair had nowhere else to go. Hamish moved to press his sword to his neck. He looked to
the crowd for support. He gloated that he had bested the Laird’s son. It was all Alastair needed. With lithe quickness, he hit Hamish’s blade from his face. A second later, he kneed the man in the groin. He felt his leg press against the softness of his sex, crushing it.
Hamish screamed in pain, automatically placing his hand to cover the damaged area. Alastair gave him no reprieve. He came at him with whirlwind ferocity, forcing the other clansman across the courtyard. The spectators opened up, allowing them to pass. Mothers dragged their children away lest an angry blade nicked them. Dimly aware of the hush that had befallen the crowd, Alastair moved on like a destrier at full charge.
“Go for it, Alastair. Ye have him now,” yelled Murtagh.
Mary found herself rooting for her man in equal measure with Mungo and Murtagh. Alastair was beautiful and perfect like a gladiator. By now, the muscles in his arms and legs glistened with sweat and blood. He had a feral grimace etched onto his features. He was like the Murmillo in the Flavian Amphitheatre in Rome, albeit without the rectangular shield. With little jerks of her body, Mary imitated some of Alastair’s moves. Next to her Mungo did the same.
Still standing on the cart, the Laird’s face was impassive. He did not cheer. He knew one of the men would die that day. To him, it was not a happy event. He could either lose a son or a very skilled warrior. Neither outcome was appealing to him. However, in his heart, he, of course, wanted his boy to triumph – what father would not wish his son the victor. His wife’s face was as white as the clouds in the sky. She could not lose another boy.
Alastair jerked back, aside. The blow meant for his jaw whizzed by in a blur of knuckles and steel. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hamish’s other arm begin to move in an upward trajectory. He ducked in time. He felt his hair flutter as his opponent’s fist shot over him. He ducked a second time when Hamish’s sword made another attempt at severing his head from his body.
Drop to the floor, screamed his mind, fueled by the adrenaline. Don’t let him connect. Draw it out a little longer. He is tiring and cannot hold out for much longer. The thoughts raced through his mind like a sandstorm in the desert.
“Ye think ye can couple with a Sassenach hoer and live,” hissed out Hamish. His face was red, betraying his exhaustion.
Alastair charged with a bovine bellow. Hamish sidestepped, whirling, using his momentum to add force to his parry. The hilt of his claymore glanced off Alastair’s ribcage, eliciting a sharp stab of pain. Hamish grinned and jabbed again at his midsection. Blocked – shoved away – Alastair backed off.
Avoiding Hamish’s blows tired the other man. It was what Doogle had taught him: “Draw him out, make him use up all of his energy and when ye are ready, kill him.”
The crowd yelled and rooted for their favorites. They wanted action – some of them blood. Mary knew the spectacle could not last forever. The men circled each other. Their movements were strained. Her gaze kept flitting between the two fighters. She tried to ascertain which one of them was the most drained.
Alastair was the first to go on the offensive again. He lashed out, aiming for Hamish’s gut. The other man proved equally effective at defense as he did in attack. Alastair went at him again, this time with a forward motion, using his body mass to increase the strike. He felt his blade connect. It felt like punching into warm butter. There was hardly any resistance, only a gradual slide into the other man’s body until he could go no further – a sticky, warm, crimson liquid dripped onto his right hand.
When he looked up, there was an expression of surprise on Hamish’s face. His mouth formed an ‘O’, his eyes were open wide, and a light gurgle escaped his lips. Alastair twisted his sword, pulling it up to inflict maximum damage to the other man’s gut. Not once did his gaze leave Hamish’s. That was when he saw a final flicker in his eyes. It was not what he expected. Instead of the gradual extinguishing of life force, as eyes glazed over and became sightless, there was a deep fire of will.
He added to the pressure on his sword arm, ripping and slicing. Killing a man was tough work. The human body was far more resilient than many believed. A man needed brute strength and a sharp blade to bring on the demise of another. There was none of the romanticism from the tales told by wandering troubadours, just blood and gore and the melancholy of victory. A burbling voice stopped his busy mind.
“Ye will never be the Laird of the Clan Macleod Wallis with a Sassenach hoer as yer wife.” Hamish’s final words were accompanied by bloody spittle and something else.
“Alastair look out,” screamed Mary, but it was too late.
Two weeks had passed since the day of that fateful duel in the courtyard of Diabaig Castle. Mary had not once left Alastair’s side. The Laird had tried to get her to share a meal with him in the Great Hall more than once, but she had vehemently refused. Alastair’s life hung on a thread. Looking down at him, he looked almost ready to depart the world.
Hamish was dead, taken by a mortal stab to his midriff. However, as his last breaths had drawn, he had been able to deliver a blow to Alastair’s flank. His blade had cut deep into his abdomen, causing both men to slump to the ground.
Mary could still hear the screams of anguish coming from Alastair’s mother. They had sounded so horrible and earsplitting. She had listened to them as if they were the last thing she would ever hear. It was then that she realized that it was her who had cried just as forcefully as his mother. Had it not been for Murtagh’s timely intervention, she would have collapsed on the ground. Seeing the blood and the deep gash on her beloved’s person had caused her to faint on the spot.
She had woken shortly after with the Laird and Lady, Murtagh and Mungo peering down at her. The words the clan chieftain had spoken remained incised onto her brain like the chiseling on one of the many ancient Roman temples that still bedecked the island. He had said that Alastair lived, but he hung on the cusp of death. The borough’s physician, who was also the town butcher, had said that it was in the hands of God and there was nothing more he could do.
Mary had not accepted that. She had pushed her fatigue and worry aside and tended to her man with unfaltering zeal ever since. Currently, he hung in the balance. Sepsis had fouled his blood. The doctor, or butcher as Mary preferred to call him, had not washed the wound properly with vinegar before sewing him up. Fortunately, Alastair had been so out of it that he had not witnessed any part of the operation. After that, the fever had come fast, robbing him of his strength in only a few days.
Mary was quick to action the moment his temperature had started to rise. Without any medical instruction, she had known something needed to be done. Fortunately, among the borough’s inhabitants, there was a woman who lived alone in a cottage a few leagues from the town. According to the Laird, she had knowledge of medicine that had often helped him when he suffered from stomachaches or anything else. The brews she concocted tasted vile, but they invariably worked. Mary had departed that very moment.
She had procured all she needed from the wispy woman living in the glade in the forest nearby. After having received the necessary instruction, she returned to Alastair’s side. Mary had promptly forced him to drink a mixture of coriander and Yarrow boiled in water to counteract the fever. After, she had allowed him to drink a few tots of whiskey for what she had planned afterward would cause a great deal of pain notwithstanding his delirious stare.
When she had decided that he was sufficiently out of it, she had explained to Murtagh and Mungo what needed to be done. Alastair’s mother had also been present. Mary always asked herself why men, even though they could call up great strength and bravery in battle, were always so susceptible to the pain and the suffering of others? While the two clansmen questioned her judgment with pale faces, the Lady had swatted their protests aside with womanly courage. She had nodded and smiled at Mary after that, indicating that she should proceed with the operation. At that moment, the two women’s bond had been forged – an association made of steel between mother and daughter-to-be. A very rare occurr
ence, but unbreakable when established once the mother of a son sees the love for her offspring reflected in another.
With Murtagh and Mungo holding Alastair down, Mary had cut open the stitching. Just like the shrew in the forest had explained to her, she had doused the cloth in honey and placed it on the wound, wiping the sides of the gash. Honey was antibacterial, anti-inflammatory and a natural antibiotic. It would convert into a sort of gel when combined with the wound fluid, consequently keeping it clean.
After the cleaning came the hard part. Mary had cut away the inflamed flesh with a sharp knife she had disinfected in alcohol and honey. The two burly clansmen had restrained Alastair until he passed out. Mary could still see the worry on their faces. It was as if they had felt every cut of the blade with their friend. Once Mary had cleared away the putrid flesh, she applied more honey and had begun the procedure of sewing him back up again. She finished off by wrapping his midriff in bandages quenched in honey.
In the following days, the flesh on Alastair’s body had seemed to melt off his frame before her very eyes. The transformation could not have been crueler. The sickness had shown no signs of shifting, no hint of lifting to a milder form. The bouts of shivering had been the worst. Sometimes, Mary thought he would break because of them.
With the clansmen and the Lady as her constant companions, they applied fresh bandages twice daily and forced the soothing tea down his throat. Long moments of silence hung in the room. Just like now. Mungo had just stepped out to fetch some more cold water; Murtagh sat in a chair facing the bed where Mary and Alastair’s mother sat with Alastair.
