Page 72 of Unforgotten
And then, when she made it through the first round, the grins and smothered mirth stopped.
Ella was aware that Maggie MacNichol had pushed her way up to the front of the crowd and was now looking on. Next to her stood Gordana, her cheeks flushed and gaze gleaming. She’d cheered Ella on at the end of each round, only to earn vicious looks from her mother. Ella was pleased to see that Gordana had ignored her mother’s glares; their conversation the day before had mended things between them, and it appeared that Gordana had thought on the matter further since then.
Blair and his wife were watching too. Both of them wore bemused expressions.
Catching Gavin’s eye, they shared a smile. Then, her husband winked.
Ella turned back to the target, deliberately shutting everyone out as she focused. Around her waist Ella wore a belt with her throwing knives. She had thrown five during each round: twelve-inch blades with slender wooden handles.
Readying herself to throw, Ella positioned herself with one leg before the other, her weight resting on the leg opposite her throwing arm. She then raised the knife, gripping it by the handle, presenting it at the target. She sighted the target and brought the blade back behind her shoulder.
Around her the crowd hushed. Ella kept her eye on the target, swung the knife in an arcing motion, and released it at the arc’s zenith. The knife flew easily from her hand, completing two full spins before it thudded into the target.
A grin spread across Ella’s face.
Bull’s eye.
It had taken her years to master blade throwing. Every afternoon, before Vespers, Mother Shona had taken her through endless drills.
Let the knife slip easily from yer hand. Do not whip yer wrist. Follow through. Transfer yer weight from the front to the back foot during the throw.
Mother Shona’s instructions came back to her as she readied to throw her second blade. She’d been clumsy at first when she’d started with the knives, but the abbess assured her that she had a steady hand and a keen eye.
Forget the other weapons, the abbess had told her.Make blades yer specialty.
And she had. When Ella had finally gotten to the point where she knew where her knife would find its mark, a feeling quite unlike any other had filtered through her. She’d never been as good at anything as she was at this. She knew that if she was ever called upon to defend herself, or the other sisters, she wouldn’t let them down.
Four more blades hit the target, each within the bull’s eye.
Ceard was good, but one of his knives strayed outside the bull’s eye line, making Ella the winner.
A roar went up amongst the crowd; men and women cheered while Gavin walked across to Ella, gathered her up in his arms, and kissed her for all to see. The cheering grew louder till it became nothing but a roar in Ella’s ears.
Her cheeks were warm when Gavin set her down. His arm curled protectively around her waist as he did so, before he turned to the crowd and raised a hand, signaling that he wished to speak.
The applause died away. “For those of ye who have not yet been acquainted with my wife, I present Lady Ella of Scorrybreac to ye all,” he called out, his voice ringing over the hillside. “A woman who stole my heart many years ago, but who has now returned to me … returned to us all.” Gavin paused there, his gaze sweeping over the now silent crowd of onlookers. “I wish ye to all welcome her into yer hearts, for she is a kind and talented woman who will rule MacNichol lands at my side.”
Smiles and applause followed these words, and for the first time since her return to the castle, Ella felt welcome. It warmed her to see friendly gazes upon her. It was a good day to stand before the folk of Scorrybreac. The sun was shining, they had the day off work, and their bellies were full of food and drink. It was easy to accept a newcomer into their midst on a day such as this one; it was easier to like a woman who’d arrived under a cloud of scandal when they could spend the day doing as they pleased.
“What kind of woman throws knives?” A harsh female voice cut through the applause, causing it to die away. All gazes shifted from the clan-chief and his wife, to the tall, statuesque figure of Maggie MacNichol, who still stood at the edge of the crowd. Unlike Gordana and Blair, who’d been smiling along with the rest of the onlookers, Ella’s mother-in-law’s face was pale and taut. Her eyes blazed with fury. “An unnatural woman. Didn’t I tell ye all that my husband has wed a consort of the devil?”
A shocked hush followed these words, and Ella felt the cloak of contentment that had briefly settled over her shoulders slough away. Maggie MacNichol would give her no peace, not even today. She was determined to bring her low, and she would use whatever means.
“Mother,” Gavin growled. “I warn ye now … cease talking or ye shall regret it.”
Maggie ignored her son. Instead, her gaze was riveted upon Ella. She raised up a finger, pointing it at her. “Look upon her … can ye all not see how she has ensnared my son? She has blinded him with her wiles, but no lady knows how to wield a blade like that. She is unnatural, I tell ye. She is a witch!”
“A bold assertion, my Lady.” A loud voice boomed through the crowd before Gavin had the chance to answer. “We shall see if there is any truth in it.”
A heartbeat later a portly figure swathed in black, astride a finely bedecked mule, rode into their midst. An iron crucifix gleamed upon the man’s breast, and a row of tonsured monks in black habits shuffled on foot after him.
Ella stared, her lips parting as shock rippled through her.
Abbot Camron.
She hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade. The abbot had only made one trip to Kilbride in her time there; he and his monks had stayed nearly three months, and all the nuns—including Ella—had been relieved to see him go.
One look at Abbot Camron’s high-colored, pugnacious face, and the last shreds of Ella’s buoyant mood disintegrated.
