Well, gods’ wounds. Coinneach didn’t want to fight his chief da. What if he hurt him badly?
“After the chief, then,” Aodhan said, good-naturedly.
“But first, remove your shirt,” Hamish said. “This is how we know Coinneach is my son.”
Coinneach pulled off his shirt and winked at Aisling and her mother. Her mother’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment.
“The mark of the wolf. Only my offspring or my brother’s will have this symbol at birth.”
Several gasped. Hamish pulled off his shirt and showed his wolf on his chest, partly obscured by his chest hair. He motioned to Collum to show off his wolf, and Collum, who had already removed his shirt to fight with the other men, pulled his kilt down low on his hip to show off his mark.
All were different, but they all belonged to the same family line.
“Rupert had no wolf’s mark,” Hamish said. “I thought it meant our line would no longer share that special mark, but it turned out that Rupert wasna my son. So let the battle begin.”
Hamish drew his sword, and Coinneach hurried to draw his. Then they began to fight, but no one else did. Of all the combinations of fighters, this was the most important.
Thankfully, Coinneach managed to use his footing to keep an edge in the fight. But he could see that his da had a lot more years of fighting in him.
After fighting for what seemed like forever and neither man outplaying the other, Hamish called it a draw, which seemed to please him mightily. Then Coinneach fought Drustan, not Aodhan, like Coinneach thought he might. Before Aodhan could challenge Coinneach, Collum approached him. “See if you can best your uncle.”
Neither man had been in the previous fights, so like with Hamish, Coinneach had no idea how Collum would fare. But like his brother, he was powerful and used his footwork to the maximum to fight his foe. Still, like Hamish, Collum finally called it a draw.
Coinneach wondered if they didn’t want to show off to the others how much they could defeat him. He had to quit thinking thoughts like that. He was as good a fighter now as they were.
Then Aodhan challenged him. Wasn’t anyone going to fight anyone else other than those who had battled him and Hamish, who fought against Drustan? And to fight the monster of a warrior again.
Coinneach was already getting tired, and when he readied his sword, Aodhan swept his sword away, but he didn’t use his sword on a vulnerable spot; instead, he used the same maneuver on him as Coinneach had used on Aodhan. Before he knew it, Aodhan swept his leg behind Coinneach and grabbed his arms, pushing him back until Coinneach landed on his back.
Then Aodhan laughed. “I’ve been privately practicing the maneuver ever since you did that to me.”
Coinneach laughed. “Well done.” He grabbed Aodhan’s proffered arm and pulled himself to his feet.
Then everyone else paired up with partners and began to practice fight.
The guards on top were watching the inner bailey, not the surrounding land, as they were supposed to.
Swords were clanging in the inner bailey, shouts of camaraderie, taunting jabs in good humor, while Aisling took the moment to cuddle next to Coinneach. If anyone asked him to fight now, he would say he had more important matters to attend to.
Suddenly, one of the men on top of the wall walk shouted, “Fire! Coinneach! Your family’s croft is on fire.”
Coinneach and Aisling headed for the gates, but Hamish said, “Nay, we take the horses.”
They broke into a dead sprint for the stables, feet pounding the earth, shouting over one another in a frantic litany of orders, each intent to be the first to mount. Inside, the tang of sweat and hay and horseflesh was sharp as vinegar.
Coinneach’s hands shook as he fumbled for the bridle, his fingers failing him once, twice, before he managed to cinch the buckle. Someone else was already leading his mare out, and he vaulted onto her back, pulling Aisling onto his lap. The rest of the men mounted in similar haste. There were only the beat of hooves and the hot, desperate animal breath of the pursuit as they tore across the field.
The croft was half a mile off, across the hollow and up the rise, and as they neared, the orange glow intensified, seething at the edge of the afternoon sky. Coinneach felt the dread like a stone in his throat. Every stride closer confirmed what he’d feared: the roof was fully ablaze, the thatch curling back in tongues, hurling sparks.
He could not hear his own screams. He could only hear the hissing collapse of the roof timbers, the shrill keening of his mother, and above it all, the thunder of the fire itself.
When he reached the yard, he flung himself from the horse, landing hard enough to jar his bones, and dashed for thenearest window. The shutters over the windows were blocked, but he could see shadows, bodies pressing up to the other side, shrieking for release. He grabbed a rock and smashed it through the shutters.
Smoke billowed out. He tried to climb in, but the opening was too small, and he could do nothing but shove his arm inside, shouting for them to back away, to cover their faces, to make themselves as small as possible and crawl toward his voice.
From somewhere behind, Aisling’s voice, hoarse and trembling, “They’ve blocked the door from the outside—look!”
The men, overcome by horror, turned their attention to the thick, spiked beam hammered across the front of the house, the heads of the nails glinting in the firelight. Someone had done this knowing full well it would kill everyone inside. Coinneach understood then that this was not an accident, but calculated, and the taste of bile filled his mouth.
