The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(12)

Christina had to admit that despite the fearsome appearance of the men, there was nothing crude or barbaric about Finlaggan. The castle and its outer buildings were as fine as anything she might find in the Lowlands. The Great Hall with its lime-mortared stone walls, arched windows, and beautifully beamed ceilings could rival the recently renovated Great Hall at Stirling Castle. Indeed, the massive fireplace was the largest she’d ever seen, and the faces on the stone corbels were so lifelike they could only have been carved by a master craftsman.

The food was also a surprise. Half fearing that they would be eating nothing but herring and oatcakes, she was impressed by both the variety and the skilled preparation of the meal they’d enjoyed upon arrival the previous night. In addition to fish, they’d found a selection of game, stewed lampreys, root vegetables, dried fruits—including her favorite (and very expensive) figs—warm brown bread with slabs of cool butter, exotic spiced sauces, marzipan, and sweetened almond milk, all eaten off pewter trenchers. Even her father had been much impressed by the French wine that flowed abundantly from large pottery jugs, enquiring from their host the name of the merchant who’d sold it to him.

If that was all for a “light” supper, the feast at the midday meal today should be lavish indeed. Her stomach made a sharp sound of anticipation.

She frowned, remembering another incongruity. For a culture so obviously consumed by war, the Islanders also had a deep appreciation for music. When the enormous gray-haired warrior sat down to play the clarsach, Christina had been shocked by the sweet sounds that poured from his big, battle-scarred fingers along the harp strings. Indeed, the prestige accorded the poet who composed the verse—the Islanders called him the filidh—along with the seanachaidh bard who performed it, the piper, and the harpist among the clan was clear from their position at the table near the chief. Only the chief’s henchman took precedence. It made her wonder whether there was something more to these people.

But the thought barely had time to form before it was quickly disproved.

As they approached the Great Hall, she noticed a group of warriors gathered near the entrance. Her pulse spiked. If possible, they appeared even more formidable than those she’d encountered previously.

Two men stood at the center. She couldn’t see their faces, but both were tall and extremely muscular. That, however, was where the similarities ended. Though one had golden hair and the other’s was so dark as to be almost black, it wasn’t the hair color that separated them so sharply, but the way they carried themselves. The golden-haired man stood as proud as a king, with a predatory stillness in his rigid stance. In contrast, the dark-haired man’s stance was lazy—almost taunting—but equally threatening.

Something about the situation set warning bells clamoring, making the hair on Christina’s arms stand on edge. The instinct to fade into the background that she’d learned since her father’s return took hold.

She wrapped her arm around Beatrix’s shoulders, tucking her against her. “Keep your head down and walk faster.” The urgency in her voice must have alerted her sister to the danger.

Beatrix looked at her with wide eyes. “What is it?”

“Something is going on over there and I don’t like the look of it.”

Unfortunately, they had to go past the Great Hall to reach the second causeway that would take them to the castle, but she hoped they could slide by without being noticed.

As they drew closer, the charge in the air intensified. With each step, her heartbeat raced faster. Her sister felt it, too. The quickening of Beatrix’s breath matched her own.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the men not ten paces from her. She fought the urge to shudder, realizing how much larger and more daunting they were up close.

We have to get out of here.

The causeway wasn’t far now. Twenty paces or so and they’d be safe.

All of a sudden, she heard a man let out a vile oath, followed by the bloodcurdling crash of steel on steel. Before she could react, the crowd had tightened around them, cutting off their path.

They were trapped.

At first Christina feared that they would be caught up in the melee, but then she realized only two men were fighting—the same two warriors she’d noticed before.

A sword fight in the middle of the courtyard? Goodness, did these barbarians fight everywhere?

She and Beatrix watched in horror as they attacked each other with a viciousness that could mean only one thing—a fight to the death. It was horrible. Violent. Their wild, brutal fighting style was nothing like the “civilized” practicing she was used to on the lists or the tournaments she’d seen as a child.

Neither man wore mail, only the leine and padded leather cotun studded with metal—woefully inadequate protection against the penetrating steel blades of their swords. They both wore soft leather boots to just below the knees, leaving a gap of bare leg to the lower thigh.

The golden-haired warrior had his back to her, but she could see the muscles in his back flare as he swung the enormous two-handed longsword in a high arch over his head and brought it down with crushing force. The sword seemed a part of him, as if he’d been born with it in his hand.

The dark-haired warrior blocked it with one of his two short arming swords, resulting in a piercing clatter that shattered the peace of the day, making her ears ring and teeth rattle. He allowed his blade to drop to the ground, pinned beneath the other, but then he spun and whirled the other over his head to return the strike.