Page 25 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

U nder the great, wide sky with streamers of clouds sailing in from the sea, Deathan stood and sweated.

A beautiful scene it should have been, with the young men and the healthy ponies all in motion.

Lining up in a row, all the Caledonian ponies on one side and the Gaels’ newly trotted out on the other.

Rohr and Urfet beside each other.

“Twice around the field?” Urfet proposed with that wicked gleam in his eye. As if, Deathan could not help but think, he still goaded Rohr for his own amusement. As if he knew he would win. And would further humiliate his host’s prideful son.

“Just like the last race,” he added. For an instant, his gaze met Deathan’s.

“Aye!” Rohr called, and vaulted onto his pony. A good beast, but one that had lost to Urfet’s half-wild animal before.

With Darlei on its back.

“Your brother can give the signal.” Urfet waved an arm at Deathan, perhaps prodding him a bit also. “When we pass him twice, the leader will be the winner.”

“I think—” Deathan began, but Rohr overrode him.

“Aye. Deathan, gi’ the signal.”

The ponies danced. Deathan raised his arm and brought it down again.

The animals, barely restrained, thundered by him, their hooves tearing the green turf. Misgiving rose to his head, and in that instant he knew what a bad idea this was.

No mild, orderly race this. More like the footrace that had pitted these very men against each other.

This time the Caledonians did not play fair but jostled their ponies into one another.

Barging, shoving, hoping to knock each other out of the running, they ran the length of the field in a mob that had Deathan’s heart up in his throat.

At the turn, down the bottom of the field, he was sure they would crash in a knot and all go down. It sorted itself somehow and they headed back toward him, Rohr and Urfet neck and neck in the lead.

Only…

He narrowed his eyes. To him it looked like Urfet played with Rohr still, kept pace with him. As if he and his wild pony could outrun Rohr at any time the Caledonian chose.

He preferred this game instead. He would wait till the final moment, let Rohr think he could win.

A final humiliation of the Gael.

King Kenneth could give any order he liked—the animosity in the new Scotland would not die so easily.

They thundered past him, turned again. Did Urfet’s tribe mates hold the other Gaels back? So fierce was the jostling, Deathan could not tell.

He caught a glimpse of his brother’s face, stark white with determination. He did not mean to let Urfet win. Not at any cost.

Down to the bottom of the field once more with Urfet bumping Rohr’s mount again and again. Rohr tried to follow suit but his pony was not used to such contact and balked, losing some ground.

Still, Urfet did not surge ahead.

It happened as they were heading back up the field for the final circuit, Rohr and Urfet still in the lead.

Just as they were to pass Deathan for the final time, still nose to nose, Urfet crashed his mount sideways into Rohr’s in a flurry of motion almost too swift to see.

Rohr’s pony shied and lost its footing, and Rohr flew off.

Both pony and rider crashed to the ground.

Everything came to a halt then. To give Urfet credit, he pulled his pony up immediately. The other riders split and rode around the fallen pair, stopping beyond.

The scene burned itself into Deathan’s mind. The light streaming in, the huge sky. The color of the fallen pony’s pale coat and his brother lying on the green turf.

Hurt?

To be sure, he was. He must be. Deathan had known all the while that this would end badly.

He ran forward. To his immense relief, Rohr was sitting up when he reached him. Urfet, who had got there first, stood over him, an expression of either mock or real concern on his face.

Deathan shot him a glare. “Wha’ were ye about? Did ye want him to break his neck? Or harm the pony?”

Urfet held up both hands in a calming gesture and backed off a step. “Now, Master Deathan, I would ne’er wish harm on that fine pony.”

Deathan dismissed him and focused on his brother. “Are ye hurt?”

Others of their men, as he could see from the corner of his eye, had got Rohr’s pony up and felt him over. Rohr, though, sat in the grass, face streaked with sweat and lips pressed tight. He did not make to rise.

“Rohr?”

“My arm.” It was all Rohr said. He did not want to admit to pain, not here in front of this company, but aye, he felt it.

Deathan stooped and hauled him up, then asked in a low voice for Rohr’s ears alone, “Is it broken?”

“Aye.” Rohr stared into Deathan’s face, his eyes wide, not with pain but rage. “He cheated. Ye saw.”

“Aye.” Deathan had seen. But how to prove it? Would Urfet not just argue—again—that the Caledonians played harder at their games?

Others of their men came running. The Caledonians stepped back, leading their ponies away.

“We need to get him to the healer’s,” Deathan told the nearest of his men, Dermot.

“Aye. The rest o’ ye, tend our ponies.”

“My mount,” Rohr muttered.

“He is fine,” Dermot assured him.

They led Rohr away between them. As they passed Urfet, Deathan could not help but see that the Caledonian was smiling.

*

He cursed to himself as he waited outside the healer’s hut, hearing far more vociferous language from inside. He’d wanted a chance to talk with Rohr about Caragh and the threat to Darlei—that opportunity now had flown. How would this affect relations with the Caledonians? Affect the wedding?

It did not take long for Da to come hurrying up with King Caerdoc at his side. Da focused on Deathan and asked in a tone that implied it was all his fault, “What’s happened?”

“Rohr took a fall from his pony. They were playing—racing.” Deathan looked at King Caerdoc. “Urfet took him out o’ it.”

King Caerdoc said nothing, though he looked thoughtful. Father added to the curses filling the air and ducked inside.

“An accident,” King Caerdoc said mildly. “You saw, young Master Deathan?”

“I saw, and ’twas no accident.”

King Caerdoc’s dark eyes met his. Something hovered there, as wild and dangerous as the streak in Darlei’s heart. “I am sure you are mistaken. Our young men play hard. Urfet especially. He is used to being at the head of our men. He would never endanger—”

“A pony?” Deathan interrupted, angry enough to lose his hold on courtesy. Angry and still with a ball of dread in his gut. “I think Rohr has broken his arm. Wha’ if it had been his neck?”

King Caerdoc shrugged. He did not have to say. Then they would all have gone home, any obligation to Kenneth MacAlpin flown.

“A strong young man like your brother will soon recover from a broken arm. In future, if he does not like to play rough, he should perhaps not accept dares from Caledonians.”

How had King Caerdoc known it was a dare? Had he and Urfet somehow planned this between them? Or did he merely know his man?

“I must see to my brother,” Deathan said, to avoid offending, and followed his father inside.

Two healers worked over Rohr, who sat, rather than lay, on a bench. He had gone white, his face still streaked with sweat. Da stood at a distance looking on critically.

He grunted when Deathan took the place at his side. “Tell me wha’ happened.”

“Urfet dared him to race. Rohr, the fool, accepted.”

Another grunt. “Yer brother may be a fool at times, but he has a rightful pride. Did the bastard cheat?”

“They were jostling. Like the other races.” Deathan did not add that Urfet had been playing with Rohr, though he believed it. How would that improve relations?

Da said nothing, though the expression in his eyes told that he bristled.

“He is no’ hurt otherwise?” Deathan asked. “Just the arm?”

“’Tis enough. He will no’ be able to draw a bow, to ride, to practice at arms.”

“Still, it could ha’ been much worse.”

“That is wha’ galls me. This has gone too far, and the Caledonians ha’ been here too long. The wedding should ha’ taken place already.”

“Aye, but circumstance—”

“I no longer care for all that.”

“Father, about the wedding. We ha’ to talk.”

His father turned and glared at him. “Wha’ d’ye know o’ it?”

Should Deathan say that Mistress Caragh had engaged in wild and dangerous talk? It would be better coming from Rohr, but that did not now seem likely to happen.

Before he could part his lips to speak, the head healer stepped over to them.

“Chief MacMurtray—’tis a bad break, this. The bone did no’ snap clean. ’Twill take time to heal.”

“But he will heal?” Father asked. “He will regain use o’ that arm?”

“If he is careful and keeps fro’ using it for the time.”

“I shall see that he does. Any other injuries?”

“Och, there will be bruises, and he bumped his head when he went down. ’Twill be sore for a while.”

If anything, Father looked even more unhappy. He stepped forward to begin berating his older son.

Deathan left the hut.