Page 50 of The Rogue's Bride
“Finally found a friend have ye, MacDonald?” she sneered.
Alasdair cast Rhona an answering smile. “At least the dog knows its place … milady.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Dancing and Feasting
THE STRAINS OF a lute and a harp echoed through Dunvegan’s Great Hall, rising above the rumble of voices.
Caitrin took a sip of wine, her gaze traveling down the rows of tables that filled the wide space beneath the dais.
She’d rarely seen the Great Hall so crammed. Her father’s retainers and their families packed the long tables, as did his warriors. There were also a number of faces she hadn’t seen in years, clansmen who lived throughout MacLeod lands.
They’d all come to witness Caitrin choose her next husband.
Inhaling deeply, Caitrin shifted her attention to the huge array of food that covered the table before her: platters of roast venison, a rich goat stew, and a selection of breads and braised vegetables. A great roast goose stuffed with apples and nuts dominated the table.
Caitrin helped herself to a morsel of goose. The meat was rich and delicious, although her nervous stomach took the edge off her enjoyment. She doubted she’d be able to eat much of the spread. Despite that she’d vowed to try and enjoy herself, anxiety now bubbled up within her.
So much depended on tonight.
Her three suitors sat opposite her this eve, all of them dressed in their best léines and braies. Each wore a diagonal sash of their clan-plaid across his chest.
To Caitrin’s chagrin, her father had seated Alasdair MacDonald next to her this afternoon, to MacLeod’s right. Apparently, his guest had brought down a huge boar during the hunt. Her father wouldn’t stop talking about it.
“Such a fine pair of tusks shouldn’t go to waste. I shall have the boar’s head preserved and mounted for ye,” MacLeod announced, raising his goblet to Alasdair in yet another toast.
Alasdair smiled, raising his own goblet. “Thank ye, Malcolm.”
MacLeod grinned at him and turned to a passing servant. “Fill my horn with mead and bring it here.” He then turned his attention back to Alasdair, his expression turning sly. “Let’s see if ye can drain it in one go. Few men can.”
Despite her nerves, Caitrin fought the sudden urge to smile. To her knowledge, only her father had ever managed to drain the horn in one go. He loved to challenge men to drinking contests. She doubted Alasdair would manage it.
Alasdair seemed unmoved by the challenge. He merely smiled and waited for the horn. Moments later, it arrived: the great curved ox’s horn, tipped in silver. Years earlier, MacLeod had faced the rampant ox armed only with his dirk and slayed it before cutting off one of its horns as a trophy.
“Ye won’t be able to drain that, MacDonald,” Fergus MacKay called out. “Hand it to me, and I’ll show ye how a real man drinks.”
Alasdair ignored him. Then, raising the horn to his lips, he tipped back his head and began to drink.
The other men at the table called out, some cheering him on while others heckled. Impressively, Alasdair paid none of them any mind. Caitrin watched his throat bob as he swallowed the mead in steady gulps.
“Drink, drink, drink!” Boyd bellowed from the far end of the table. The feasting had barely started, and the warrior was already well into his cups. At the tables below the dais, men had risen to their feet, necks craning to catch a glimpse of the commotion going on above.
Caitrin’s gaze widened as she watched Alasdair continue to drink. The horn was nearly three times the size of a normal tankard. He should have drained most of it by now?
Even her father was starting to look impressed.
Alasdair reared back then, yanking the horn away from his mouth. His gaze had gone glassy, and his face was paling. For a moment Caitrin was sure he would be sick.
Her father grabbed the horn off him and peered inside. “Ye did it!” he said, his voice incredulous. “I don’t believe it.”
A roar thundered down the table as Alasdair’s men shouted their approval. However, their chieftain looked unwell. He gripped the edge of the table, squeezing his eyes shut a moment. His throat bobbed as he forced down the last gulp of mead. Caitrin noted the sheen of sweat on his face.
“He hasn’t won yet,” MacKay boomed, a delighted grin spreading across his face as he eyed Alasdair. “He’s about to puke his guts out … look!” MacKay winked at Caitrin. “I’d move aside, milady. Ye don’t want that pretty gown ruined.”
Alasdair opened his eyes, his jaw tightening. To Caitrin’s surprise, and disappointment, he appeared to recover. Inhaling deeply, he relaxed his grip on the table edge. He then straightened up and cast Fergus MacKay a sickly smile, his gaze glinting. “Yer turn?”
The feasting lasted a long while. After the meat dishes had been enjoyed, servants brought out wheels of aged cheese, platters of fruits, and raspberry tartlets. Mead, ale, and wine flowed—and the noise of conversation gradually grew more raucous.
