‘When I found you today you were riding out unchaperoned and half dressed! You play a dangerous game Ailsa, taunting men as you do. It is not fair and it is not ladylike.’
She looked shocked by his rebuke, it had been too harsh. She was after all quite young and perhaps had no idea as yet of her effect on men, though her behaviour in the hall had certainly given him reason to think she did as she had played the consummate, well-practised flirt. He thought he saw tears well up in her eyes but the cynic in him made him think they could be conjured at will.
‘Let me go back to the hall…please,’ she said quietly.
‘Of course, I’ll not trouble you again,’ he said stiffly. ‘Ailsa I meant you no harm. It was a kiss that is all and it would not have gone further.’
She rushed away from him.
‘Lass, I’m sorry,’ he called out. ‘Forgive me.’ But she did not look back.
Ailsa spent a sleepless night and then woke late, nursing a whisky headache and wounded pride. Recalling her behaviour from the night before, she found it wanting. She had somehow managed to live up to Duncan Campbell’s impression of her as some ale house slut who gave herself away to anyone. She had let a man kiss her and worse still, enjoyed it. Oh, the shame was too much to bear. For all her boldness Ailsa was innocent of such things and growing up, she had never let the castle boys come anywhere near here. But then the castle boys didn’t look and act like Duncan Campbell.
If he hadn’t forced her to share his horse and his annoying company none of this would have happened and she would not have to be wracked with horrible shame and embarrassment. She had lost a battle when she had kissed him back but she resolved never to do so again. She would ignore the arrogant fool. Yes, he would not enjoy being overlooked as he obviously thought so highly of himself.
A few days later her sister had been wedded and bedded. The wedding had been a sumptuous and, Ailsa had to admit, joyful affair. The MacLeod and Strathairn clans were united and happy. Much whisky and ale had been drunk by all and much rowdiness had ensued. Ailsa had for once managed to stay out of trouble and more importantly Duncan Campbell’s way. She had played the dutiful daughter to the hilt, constantly by her mother’s side as she fussed endlessly with the wedding arrangements. Lord knows where the annoying wretch had gone, hunting and drinking along with her brother and the Strathairns no doubt, but she did not see him and that was a relief.
Unfortunately, he was impossible to avoid at the wedding ceremony where she could not help but steal a glance at him, just to convince herself how hateful he was. To her dismay he caught her looking and winked back at her in return, a conciliatory smile playing around his lips. Ailsa turned away in mortification. She hardly heard the rest of the ceremony as Morag and William pledged themselves to each other for all eternity. Instead, she stared balefully at the high windows of the kirk, her mind wandering to being far away from here and the stifling throng of people around her. She was grateful when the day was over and she could take sanctuary in her bed.
The day of her sister’s departure from Cailleach dawned bright and fresh. Encountering Morag after her wedding night Ailsa had been relieved to find her glowing and happy with a shy smile playing constantly on her lips as if she had a precious secret. Ailsa had no chance to find what it was as Morag had eyes only for her husband. They seemed to be lost in each other and soon Morag would be absorbed into the Strathairn clan and become a mere extension of her husband. She already seemed to be elsewhere.
Ailsa was feeling a little bereft at the loss of her sister and confidante and so set off for a walk to clear her head.She lingered in the stables with the horses and the dogs, enjoying the tang of fresh hay, calling out brief greetings to the stable lads as she went and stroking the velvety, questing noses of the horses as they pushed their heads out in search of a treat. As she passed her time in relative solitude she began to relax. All the guests would soon depart and the castle would return to normal. No one to avoid, no mother thrusting her in front of potential husbands and no handsome strangers to embarrass and confuse her.
Muffled curses and groans wafted over on the breeze, getting louder and more excitable. There were men shouting just outside the castle walls. Fearing trouble Ailsa rushed forward to find the source of the commotion. She came across a large circle of men down by the brook, which included her father and brother. At the centre of the circle, two men were thrashing about in the mud. She pushed forward to stand at her father’s side and he smiled when he saw her.
‘Come and see Ailsa - a foolish wager! The Sinclairs were in their cups last night and bet they could best any other clan in a wrestling match. The best warriors of each one are facing up to each other and by the looks of it the Sinclairs may be victorious,’ he said as a large mud-caked man threw another onto his back as if he were a rag doll. Much cheering ensued from the onlookers and further bets were exchanged.
There were several women in the crowd somehow out of place standing in the mud in their colourful dresses. They were egging the men on with hungry looks on their faces. The winded man limped off and Laird Alex Sinclair entered the circle. A beady-eyed, heavily-built man his untrustworthy exterior perfectly matched his backstabbing personality. He was relatively young for a clan chief and had been elevated to his position by the ruthless subjugation of his rivals, his inexhaustible propensity for violence and his complete lack of a conscience. In short, an extremely dangerous man to cross.
‘Can none of you put up a contender worthy enough to fight the Sinclairs?’ he shouted gesturing to his men. ‘Does your honour mean so little to you that you send these runts to fight us?’ he shouted, pointing contemptuously to the other clans. A hush fell over the crowd at this insult but none stepped forward to challenge him.
Ailsa looked enquiringly at her father. ‘The Sinclairs are too powerful,’ he replied, ‘few will dare to challenge as many of them are either in league with them or beholden to them for their wealth and position.’
‘Surely our clan can challenge for we owe them nothing.’
‘Aye, but who will we put forward - your brother?’ he replied in a hard voice. Ailsa glanced over at Robert, white-faced, bloated and hung over. He did not meet her father’s eye. ‘Sinclair is one of the best fighters in the Highlands and one of the dirtiest. We have no one to best him Ailsa.’
‘I’ll fight.’ A tall figure pushed through to the centre, eliciting gasps of admiration from the women present. It was Duncan Campbell.
‘Hah, think you’re up to it whelp?’ sneered Alex Sinclair.
‘I’ll fight for the honour of the Campbells and for Laird MacLeod,’ he said, bowing in the direction of Gordon MacLeod but locking his black devil eyes with Ailsa. Then he turned to Sinclair and shouted, ‘And I’ll knock you on your arse Sinclair.’ Loud cheering ensued at this last comment and Sinclair immediately and without warning launched himself at Duncan.
The fighting and wagering seemed good humoured at the start with the crowd cheering noisily for their champions and egging them on. But as the fight progressed, the two men being fairly evenly matched in terms of size and strength, it seemed to get more personal. Ailsa, who was as good at reading people as her father, began to sense that this fight represented something more deadly than clan pride.
The two men rolled in the mud, each getting the upper hand only to lose it again. Both were soon caked in mud and then Sinclair threw a punch which connected with a sickening crack at the side of Duncan’s head.
‘That is not fair,’ protested Ailsa, ‘they are supposed to be wrestling.’
‘That is not what this is and hush, we cannot be seen to take sides daughter,’ commanded her father.
Rules of fair play were abandoned, blood started to pour as the two men pounded each other mercilessly. The onlookers fell silent as the contest deepened, the women in the crowd gasping at the worst of it. Duncan fought grimly, his shirt torn and hanging from him, his eye swelling badly and pouring blood from a vicious blow. Rather than slow him down it seemed to galvanise him and he fought on, ducking and weaving while his fists managed to connect time and again with his opponent. Eventually, having weakened Sinclair, Duncan managed to wrest him to the ground, twisting nimbly to get a stranglehold on him. Sinclair’s feet thrashed wildly against the wet grass, weakening as his air supply was cut off.
‘Yield,’ growled Duncan. With no reply, he tightened his forearms around Sinclair’s throat and Ailsa held her breath.
‘I yield,’ croaked the other man. A great cheer went up from the crowd and Duncan got unsteadily to his feet, obviously in pain. He had taken a great deal of punishment, but he extended his hand to the other man. Sinclair brushed it aside, glowering murderously.
‘So you’re a bad loser as well as a bad fighter,’ said Duncan shrugging his shoulders and turning away.