Page 18 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
Broch nodded. “I thought ye might. William—”
“Ye’ll nae be swaying my mind,” William said vehemently, though he kept his words low.
“Then I’ll nae try,” Broch said, recalling how set he’d been when he’d gone, and how no one could have dissuaded him from his course. “Is that why ye came with me?”
“Aye. I figured mayhap ye would gain me entry.”
“Nay,” Broch said. Then when William scowled, he hastened to add, “Ye must gain it on yer own merit, but I’ve nae a doubt that ye will be successful.” There was a fire in William and honor. Broch suspected he would become renowned in his time. “Let us see what occurs here before ye ride off into the night, aye?”
“Ye may have true need of me?” William asked.
“Aye.”
“I’ll nae fail ye, Broch, I vow it.”
Broch clasped the other man on the shoulder as they neared the courtyard. “I did nae think ye would.” And that was the true mark of honor. William would postpone his heart’s desire, if Broch needed him to.
The men fell silent as they walked, and once inside the gates, Broch quickly surveyed the courtyard. It was a large rectangle with the main keep in the middle and the tall towers connecting to it by the bridges he’d noted outside the gate. The courtyard was also empty, save the warriors who guarded it.
“Are the people gathered for supper?” Broch asked, assuming the answer would be yes.
“Aye,” the guard replied gruffly. “There is also a celebration of Brodee’s day of birth.”
Broch didn’t know the day he was born, let alone the year, and he always felt a twinge of jealousy for those who did and took what they considered such a simple knowledge for granted. “How many summers is Brodee?” he asked in an effort to be polite.
“Twenty-eight this day,” the man said, opening the keep door and motioning them in. Loud cheering came from a long passage, down which the guard started to lead them. When they got to the end of the hall, the guard opened a set of massive oak doors, and Broch, William, and the two Blackswells stepped into what Broch was certain was the great hall. Dinner was most assuredly over, for the tables had all been moved to the side of the hall where large, colorful tapestries hung. The tables had not been moved for dancing as often occurred at Dunvegan after dinner, but for a fight.
Broch frowned as he took in the scene. In the middle of the great hall two warriors were circling each other. They were of equal size, but it was immediately apparent that they were not of equal skill. The men were as tall as Broch and both well muscled, but the one with the red hair moved with an agility that was far greater than his opponent’s. They fought with their fists, nothing more, but when the redheaded man swung his fist out in rapid-fire succession and connected with his opponent’s nose, chin, then gut, Broch suspected the warrior’s hands were deadly enough that he didn’t often need a weapon.
The opponent doubled over, coughing, and the superior redheaded fighter yanked him up by his hair and sent a hard blow into his nose that knocked the man to the ground, unmoving. The clan roared their approval as two men scrambled to retrieve the unconscious fighter and pull him roughly to his feet as they shook him awake.
The guard beside Broch said, “Move back,” and as Broch glanced around, he realized two lines of men were forming from where the warrior stood to the door that Broch had just entered. Broch and William quickly got into one of the lines just as the warrior who was jostled awake was shoved down the path the two lines created. As he staggered along, he was jeered at and men tripped him and hit him as he went until he got to the end and, passing by Broch, made his way out the door.
The great hall door slammed shut behind him, the line dispersed, and suddenly a deep voice roared, “Next!” from the dais.
Broch looked to the dais where a bear of a man stood. He had a full dark beard but a white head of hair. A long, jagged scar ran down the length of the left side of his face making him look angry, though he may well have been irritated anyway. “Is that Blackswell?” Broch asked as another man was walking toward the middle of the room where the redheaded warrior stood drinking a tankard of ale.
“Aye,” the guard replied.
“What occurs here?” Broch asked.
“These men are fighting for a purse of coin that Laird Blackswell offers on Brodee’s birthday every year. ’Tis more coin than most see in a year. To win it, they must defeat Brodee in one-on-one combat. If they lose, which they all do, they must walk the line of defeat. Each year Blackswell adds another purse to the one from the previous year,” the guard said above the racket that surrounded them. “This has been a ritual since Brodee came into his eighteenth summer. Are ye interested in trying to win the purse?” He eyed Broch and William.
“I am,” William said.
“Shut yer mouth,” Broch commanded, doubting William could defeat Brodee. He was on the verge of telling the guard he was not interested either, but it occurred to him that if he won and refused the purse for himself, he could instead give it to the warriors who’d attempted to defeat Brodee and failed. The gesture would likely loosen tongues much faster than Broch attempting to gain their trust in the normal course. “If I defeat Brodee, am I at leisure to do whatever I wish with the coin?”
“Aye,” the man replied. “But ye will nae defeat our captain.” He smirked.
“We shall see. What do I need to do to declare my wish to be a contender?” The crowd in the great hall began to roar again, and two lines once more formed for another defeated warrior to stagger along.
In answer to Broch’s question, the warrior clamped Broch’s wrist and jerked his hand up in the air. When William started to withdraw his weapon and step toward Broch and the man, Broch shook his head. “Stand down. ’Tis fine.”
William frowned but inclined his head and stepped back to where he had been standing.
“Laird Blackswell,” the warrior clutching Broch’s arm shouted above the hum of noise. “We’ve a new challenger for yer son, our captain, Brodee.” The announcement barely got any acknowledgment the noise was so great, but the warrior was not to be waylaid. “’Tis an outsider,” he shouted, his face turning red from his effort.
The noise in the great hall ceased almost immediately, save thethunkof the goblet Laird Blackswell had been holding being slammed upon the table. The man stood and pointed to Broch. “Ye there,” he bellowed. “Name yerself.”
