Tournament of Hearts Page 2

  Lady Isobel McLaughlin could never obscure her identity.

  ..oo Chapter Three oo..

  “The coffers run low, even now,” Hodges said cautiously as his nervous eyes rose up to meet Laird McLaughlin’s.

  “How can it be? Have the rents been tallied in?” McLaughlin asked angrily as he glowered at the members of his high council.

  “Aye. I’m afraid that they have, milord.”

  “And I suspect that the proceeds from the harvest have already been entered as well?”

  “Aye. War is an expensive undertaking, milord,” Hodges said with an accusing sigh as he cast his eyes sideways towards Hector Cameron. Privately, Hodges believed that most of the Clan McLaughlin’s ruin could be blamed upon Cameron.

  Hector Cameron was Rudy McLaughlin’s oldest friend and in so being, he had been promoted handsomely when the young Laird McLaughlin came into power. Cameron had spent a number of years in his current position as the clan’s war chief. His hunger for increasing land holdings and challenging neighboring clans had drained the coffers near dry.

  McLaughlin struck his fist against the massive oak table. The blow hit with a reverberating strength that startled Hodges. McLaughlin was dangerously near death now. He could no longer hide the rapid progression of his disease. His skin was ashen and hung slack over his once powerful frame. Hodges knew not where the sudden burst of energy had come from. He knew that his Laird must be very, very angry to muster the strength for such an outburst.

  “And what do you reckon we are to do about this?” McLaughlin asked heatedly as his blue eyes scanned the faces of the members of his high council.

  “We have made tentative peace with our neighboring clans,” Hodges declared as his eyes baited Hector Cameron across the table. “Measures must be taken to ensure that the peace takes hold as we have no further coin available to finance petty wars.”

  Cameron glared at Hodges from across the table and crossed his arms over his chest. He was a massive warrior, his body scarred from a lifetime of battle. And he was not about to let Hodges place the clan’s current state of ruin upon his shoulders.

  “We’ve a fresh lot of horses to be sold at market in Inverness,” Cameron proposed with a shrug. “I’ll have my men take them to sale in a fortnight. They should fetch a good price, money which will help to relieve some of the strain on our coffers.”

  “What else?” McLaughlin insisted. He had slumped back against the high back of the leather chair in which he sat. His weakness secretly terrified him. It was an ever-present reminder that his time on Earth was short. With each passing day it became more obvious that he would soon be beyond managing the affairs of the clan.

  An heir needed to be found quickly or McLaughlin feared that his power would not be handed down to a man of Isobel’s choosing, but it might be stolen by any man strong enough to take it.

  “There is also the matter of the new territory that was acquired in our last raid,” Cameron added arrogantly as he shot a steely glare across the table at Hodges. “Rents have not been collected and we have not yet seen our share of the crops that were harvested this spring.”

  “Will that be enough, Hodges?” McLaughlin said hopefully as he arched an eyebrow at his Master of Coin.

  “We shall still need to cut back, milord. The rents and the sale of the horses will improve the situation, but money must be set aside to purchase necessities for the upcoming winter.”

  “Keep peace with the neighboring clans,” McLaughlin ordered at Cameron who still sat with his arms crossed, sulking like a boy forbidden from an act that he greatly enjoyed. “The survival of our clan depends upon it.”

  “Aye, milord,” Cameron agreed half-heartedly.

  “There is another possibility,” Hodges said suddenly. He knew that the subject would anger his Laird, but at the same time, he knew that his idea could strengthen the precarious situation of the clan.

  “What then?” McLaughlin asked wearily. He made a massive effort to sit upright in the leather chair, the strain of such a movement making the rhythm of his breathing speed up. His eyebrows scrunched together, their movement the only indication of the burgeoning pain that plagued him. McLaughlin blinked rapidly to clear the sudden spinning of his head and forced his eyes to remain focused on Hodges.

  “Lady Isobel must find a suitable husband. If we were to marry her to a lad from one of the neighboring clans it would strengthen our alliance and…”

  “I’ll not hear of it!” Cameron thundered as his giant fist struck the table. The sudden outburst caused his chest to heave with the exertion of his emotion.

  “I agree, Cameron,” McLaughlin said, his voice weary. “Hodges, your idea is well contrived, but I fear that our clansmen would rebel against the idea of a man from a neighboring clan assuming the Lairdship. The man that weds my daughter will rightfully claim the Lairdship of Clan McLaughlin. We need to find a suitable man that is tied more closely to our clan.”

  “What are the parameters of your tournament?” Cameron asked, seizing the opportunity to pin down the rules of the reckless game that would choose the Laird’s successor.

  “Hodges and I drew up a list. Do you have it?” McLaughlin asked as he motioned towards Hodges.

  “Aye, milord.” Hodges responded as he dug in his leather satchel and withdrew the rolled up parchment. “Shall I read it?”

  McLaughlin nodded and relaxed against the high back of his chair. He was thankful of the fact that Hodges seemed to be able to read his mind. His friend must have been able to see how exhausted he had become.

  “The tournament shall commence on Samhain, as the clan shall already be gathered together for the harvest festivals. Clansmen of suitably noble birth shall report prior to the commencement of the tournament and I shall mark their name on the ledger,” Hodges paused and looked up. Hearing no protests from either of the men sitting next to him, he continued. “There shall be games such as swordplay, archery and hunting to test each man’s strength and ability as well as exercises to test his aptitude to function as Laird of Clan McLaughlin.”

  “What sort of exercises do you speak of?” Cameron asked as he tapped his knuckles impatiently atop the wooden table. McLaughlin’s tournament was the most outlandish manner of choosing a successor that Cameron had ever heard of.

  “A Laird must balance the coffers as well as rule over matters of dispute within the clan. We had thought to test the competitors in each of these areas,” Hodges said and then glanced over at his friend the Laird. McLaughlin’s eyes were heavy and he was fading quickly. He needed to rest in order to regain what precious little strength he had left.

  “Very well,” Cameron agreed and motioned impatiently for Hodges to continue. He knew that once McLaughlin contrived an idea, no matter how preposterous, he would stay the course. The tournament would take place no matter how unconventional or outlandish.

  “When the field of suitors is narrowed to only two, his Lairdship wishes that Lady Isobel be given a choice between them. He desires her to choose her husband.”

  Cameron arched an eyebrow at this unconventional addition to the rules of the tournament. Hell, the entire idea of the tournament was unconventional.

  “My daughter will make the final decision,” McLaughlin said weakly from his seat across the table. “And I shall see to it that both of you along with Cardinal Chesley enforce my wishes. The three of you shall be joint Masters of Tournament for I fear that I will not live long enough to see Isobel properly married. Her safety is of the utmost importance to me and I charge the three of you with ensuring that she is properly wed.”

  Hodges and Cameron nodded, sealing a silent pact with their Laird.

  “Have a copy of the rules made and send it to Cardinal Chesley,” McLaughlin ordered at Hodges. “Are there additions that should be made to the rules before I sign the decree?” he asked as his blue eyes flitted between his oldest friends.

  “There is one, Rudy,” Cameron said as his fingers suddenly stopped their impat
ient drumming on the surface of the table.

  “What has been omitted?” McLaughlin asked.

  “The part about eligible clansmen sits wrong with me, for although I have pledged fealty to you and Clan McLaughlin, I am not a member of your clan. And neither is my son.”

  “So you wish for Rogan to be eligible to compete for Isobel’s hand?”

  “Aye, my Laird. He has also pledged fealty to your clan but because of his Cameron blood, he is not a member of clan McLaughlin. I assure you that his blood is indeed noble, a fact which you yourself can attest to because of your knowledge of his parentage.”

  McLaughlin contemplated his war chief’s proposition. He did not care overly much for Rogan Cameron. In fact he had been disappointed more than once by the lad’s arrogance in battle coupled with his hot-blooded nature. But Cameron was right. There were men who had pledged fealty to Clan McLaughlin with noble blood coursing through their veins. Men who would make commendable Lairds if given the opportunity.

  “I shall grant your request,” McLaughlin said with authority. “But not just for Rogan. Any man of suitably noble birth that has pledged fealty to Clan McLaughlin may compete in the tournament,” McLaughlin said with finality as he pushed away from the table. “And may the best man win.”

  The legs of his chair squeaked loudly against the flagstone floor. A cold sweat broke out on McLaughlin’s forehead as he stood. The room took flight around him and he grasped the arms of his chair in desperation. McLaughlin took a moment to catch his balance and garner his strength. His knuckles were white as they gripped the chair. He closed his eyes, bathing in the shame of the weakness that had befallen him. When the room stopped spinning, McLaughlin straightened his spine cautiously before moving slowly out of the room. He had refused to look at the men that surrounded him, ashamed of what he had become.

  “May the best man win,” Cameron said with an air of challenge as he stood and walked briskly from the Laird’s chamber, leaving Hodges alone at the massive wooden table with the draft of the tournament degree heavy with its implications.

  ..oo Chapter Four oo..

  “And so you come,” Tristan said with a lop-sided smile. He had looked up momentarily from his work after feeling the heat of Isobel’s sky blue eyes upon him. She stood in the doorway of his shop, her golden curls again obscured beneath her cloak. She was so slight of stature and yet her blue eyes twinkled with a bravery that Tristan had not seen before in the eyes of a woman. He could tell from the way that she was wringing her hands together that she was uneasy and yet her conviction was steadfast.

  Tristan wondered again why the lass was in need of a weapon.

  His heart beat sped up as he looked upon Isobel.

  Mo sonuachar.

  He remembered the wise woman’s words.

  Could it be true?

  “And so I come,” Isobel said with mock confidence. She stepped forward towards the heat of Tristan’s fire. There was a chill in the autumn air and her body was trembling, either from the brisk air or her precarious situation. Isobel knew that she was taking a great risk in meeting secretly with the blacksmith. Her father would be livid if he discovered her missing, let alone if he found out that she was meeting with a man without a chaperone.

  “If it is too much trouble or you do not have time today…I could return later,” Isobel stammered, suddenly feeling quite brash from arriving unannounced.

  “Nay, lass. Your timing is impeccable. I was almost finished here,” he lied handily, eyes hooded as he watched Isobel. “Give me a moment to stow my tools and we shall begin your lesson.”

  Isobel watched intently as Tristan banked his fire and methodically put away his tools. His muscles rippled beneath the linen of his homespun shirt. He was a powerful warrior and Isobel knew that she should not be alone with him. It was most improper for a young un-wed lass to be alone in the company of such a man. Her father would not approve of this secretive meeting, but what choice had he left her with? Isobel refused to be a victim and thus, she needed a weapon. And above all, she needed to learn how to use it.

  Tristan Finnegan was her only hope.

  “How did you arrive here?” Tristan asked as he buckled the belt that secured his sword around his waist.

  “I rode my horse,” Isobel responded, thinking his question daft. How else would she have arrived here?

  Tristan rolled his eyes. He sheathed two daggers in his belt and stuffed a few items hastily into his saddlebag.

  “Did you wish for the entire village to ken that you are here?”

  “Of course not!” Isobel exclaimed as her face flushed crimson. “I had not thought…” she stammered as she realized the error of her blunder.

  “You’ll need to be more careful in the future so as not to attract attention. You shall walk or we can arrange to meet in the forest, but do not risk riding your horse here again.” Tristan looked out in front of the shop and shook his head slightly.

  Isobel’s grand white mare was mightily out of place tethered to the wood beam at the entrance of his small shop. McLaughlin’s guards were not as foolish as Isobel perceived them to be. She was lucky to have arrived here unnoticed and Tristan vowed to instruct the lass in the importance of secrecy.

  “Walk her around back to the stable. You shall ride with me.”

  Isobel nodded. Heading his instructions, she hastily untied Apple’s reins and walked her to the stables behind Tristan’s shop. All the while she cursed her lack of forethought. Being devious was not in her nature, but suddenly it was a trait that she found need to foster.

  There was much that Isobel McLaughlin needed to learn.

  ..ooOoo..

  “The element of surprise is your best weapon,” Tristan instructed. The late October sun warmed his back as he stood across from Isobel in the grassy meadow. The sun glimmered off of Isobel’s hair and Tristan had to work hard at not allowing his mind to wander. She looked lovely, completely determined and breathtakingly beautiful as she held Tristan’s dagger in her lightly boned hand.

  Isobel stood, still as a statue, the dagger gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were white as they grasped its hilt.

  “Ease up on the hilt a bit, lass,” he told her as he demonstrated the correct manner of holding a dagger by showing her his own grip. “Firm but yet not so rigid that you cannot move your fingers.”

  Isobel loosened her grip and dared a quick glance up at his hazel eyes. She wanted his approval. She wanted to learn to wield this dagger properly as her life might someday depend upon it.

  Tristan nodded briskly and reached up to tuck his sandy blonde hair behind his ear before continuing his instruction. The day had grown incredibly warm for so late in the autumn and Tristan yearned to remove his linen shirt. The fabric scratched at his skin and he shrugged his shoulders in an effort to get comfortable. He settled with loosening the lacings at his neck. Removing his shirt in front of Isobel would certainly not be proper.

  “As I said, you should keep your weapon concealed until the last possible moment. Do not let your opponent know that you have a weapon unless you must, and then the element of surprise shall be in your favor.”

  Isobel nodded her head, acknowledging that she understood her teacher’s instructions. Her eyes wandered to Tristan’s chest. He had loosened the lacings at the neck of his shirt, exposing the smooth, muscled contour of his upper chest. Isobel felt color flushing her face when she wondered what it would feel like to touch Tristan. She imagined that his skin would feel very smooth and would be warmed from the sun.

  He was a very handsome man.

  “If you intend to kill, which I suppose that you do?” Tristan asked with his eyebrows arched in question. He waited patiently for Isobel’s response.

  “I suppose that I do,” she said, nodding her head in affirmation. Isobel was immediately embarrassed for appraising Tristan’s attributes so openly and sent a quick prayer heavenward, hoping that he had not noticed her wandering eyes.

  Tristan smile
d ever so slightly. Lady Isobel McLaughlin was a rare woman indeed. She was so slight of bone and her eyes blazed with mesmerizing innocence yet she had just admitted that she intended to kill someone. Or at least she supposed that she might.

  “Well, in the case that you do have the need to kill someone, go for the neck if you can manage, but a quick stab to the liver or the stomach can be just as deadly.”

  Stashing his dagger in his belt so that his hands were free, he began to demonstrate.

  “The liver is just here,” Tristan said as he patted his torso. “On your right side. Mind you that if you’re facing someone, their liver will be on your left.”

  Isobel nodded. She reached up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. Never had she dreamed that she would be in need of such information. She had been protected by her father’s guards her whole life and suddenly she cursed not having the forethought to learn to protect herself.

  “The stomach is opposite the liver, on your opponent’s left side. Just here,” Tristan demonstrated as he trailed his fingers over his upper abdomen. “Mind you to run like hell if you go for the liver or the stomach because such a wound will be fatal, but not immediately. It takes some time for a man to die from a wound to the liver.”

  Isobel lowered the dagger. It suddenly felt very heavy in her hand. Could she really kill a man? Is this what her life had come to?

  “Are you well, lass?” Tristan asked with obvious concern. He watched as uncertainly washed over Isobel’s beautiful features. The color had drained from her face.

  “Quite,” she retorted. She shook her head and cast doubt from her mind. She was a strong woman, quite capable of learning to defend herself. This was her only hope. “Continue,” she prodded as she lifted her chin with determination and gritted her teeth together.

  “Take a stab at me, will you?” Tristan invited as he crouched into an athletic stance.