Page 71 of Unforgotten
The festivities took place upon a grassy area behind the village, a space that had not been used for growing food. An old oak grew in one corner, its boughs stretching out like embracing arms. Children played under it, their laughter mingling with the trilling sound of a bone whistle—a merry jig that a few young couples now danced to.
Ella moved through the crowd, her arm looped around Gavin’s.
It felt good to be outdoors, away from the whispers and pointed looks inside the keep. The villagers were a merrier lot, too full of high-spirits and excitement to bother with staring at the clan-chief and his new wife.
The savory aroma of food wafted across the pasture. A number of village women were dishing out breads and pies. Soon the games would begin in earnest, but before they did, the folk of Scorrybreac wished to fill their bellies.
Ella didn’t blame them. The rich smell of venison was making her mouth water.
“Do ye want a pie, love?” Gavin asked, casting Ella a smile.
“Aye, please,” she answered quickly. They had eaten simply but well at Kilbride, yet meat pie was not something the nuns got to enjoy, even on feast days.
Gavin’s smile widened, and he left her to go and fetch the food.
On her own, Ella tensed a little. She preferred to be at Gavin’s side these days, for the hissing and muttered comments ceased when he was about. She’d not told him about the servants spitting at her, for she knew the women would be punished if she did. Even so, the incident had made her wary of folk here. She had kept most of her fears to herself, as she knew Gavin worried for her—all the same, she was happier when her husband was present.
A few yards away, she spotted her father. Stewart Fraser held an untouched mutton pie and was deep in conversation with Gordana MacNichol. Seeing the two of them talking together, the warmth in her father’s eyes as he spoke, Ella grew still.
Of course, little more than a decade separated the pair of them in age. Gordana’s cheeks were slightly flushed, her gaze bright. Stewart and Gordana had lived under the same roof for years now, but with Cait Fraser’s death, something had changed between them—Ella could sense it.
She was considering this change when she spied Maggie MacNichol making her way through the crowd. The sight of her mother-in-law made Ella grow tenser still. Unfortunately, she had to endure the woman at each mealtime in the Great Hall, but she did manage to avoid her at other times.
Yet not today.
Lady MacNichol wore an austere expression. She was dressed in a fine sky-blue kirtle that brought out the golden tones of her hair. Ella could see that Maggie had been a beauty in her youth, and would have still been a handsome woman, if she hadn’t allowed bitterness in. The harsh lines, creased brow, and compressed lips aged her.
Seeing Ella, Maggie straightened her already stiff posture further. She barked out a command to Gordana, breaking off her conversation with Stewart Fraser. With a murmured apology, Gordana dipped her head and moved to her mother’s side. Maggie muttered something to her daughter, her expression severe. She then hauled Gordana right, so that they would avoid walking past her daughter-in-law.
Relief washed over Ella. She didn’t mind being avoided. It was infinitely preferable to insults and barbed comments.
Gavin returned then with their pies. His boyish smile made Ella’s chest constrict. Sometimes she loved Gavin MacNichol with such fierceness that the emotion scared her. Yet it occurred to her that she was shy when it came to voicing her feelings toward him. She wasn’t sure why.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, taking the pie he handed her.
“Be careful,” he warned. “It’s hot.”
Moving through the crowd, side-by-side, and gingerly beginning their pies, they took in the surrounding merriment. To one side of where the food and drink was being served, men were setting up a ring for the strength contests, as well as targets for archery and knife-throwing.
Ella finished her pie and brushed crumbs off her fingers, her gaze settling upon the targets.
“Fancy yer chances in the knife-throwing contest?” Gavin asked. There was a teasing note to his voice, for he’d seen the direction of her gaze.
Ella inclined her head. “Ye don’t think I’d compete?”
His gaze widened. “Ye would?”
Ella considered it. Doing so would shock everyone, village folk and retainers alike—but what did it matter? She was already unpopular here; why not give folk something real to gossip over? A slow smile spread over her face then. “I would.”
Ella drew in a deep breath, her gaze fixing upon the bull’s eye target in the distance. She’d made it through the first four rounds, and with each round the targets had been moved back—starting at seven feet and now at sixteen feet.
Only three contestants had reached the final round: Ella, Ceard, and a wiry young warrior named Iver.
A huge crowd had gathered around them now, heads straining forward, while bairns peeked out from between their father’s legs and mother’s skirts.
By now, all had heard that Lady Ella was competing at knife throwing.
Initially, Ella had weathered some jeering. A few of the warriors had laughed, before Gavin stopped them with a glare.
