MID-SUMMER FIRE DAWNED with a pale blue sky promising fine weather for the day ahead. Eithni rose from her furs and padded barefoot out of her tent.
The air smelled of dew-wet grass, and the scent of peat and cooking smells from the night before still lingered. A babe’s wail went up to her left—Muin was announcing his hunger to the world and ensuring his parents were awake to see to his needs.
Eithni smiled as she heard the rumble of Galan’s voice, punctuated by Tea’s feminine lilt. The pair were definitely awake. However, there were no sounds coming from the next tent—Tarl and Lucrezia had retired late and even two tents away Eithni had been able to clearly hear their cries and groans.
Eithni’s smile faded. The others teased Tarl and Lucrezia over it, but the couple’s blatant display of their passion for each other made Eithni uncomfortable. What they experienced was unthinkable for her; she could not understand it.
For Eithni coupling brought only humiliation, fear, and pain.
Leaving the tents behind Eithni walked out to the nearest fire pit where a group of women from all the tribes were preparing breads and cakes for the evening’s festivities.
Eithni joined them and took charge of preparing The Warrior Cake, named after the god who governed over the warm months of the year. This was a moist cake made with oats, ground walnuts, butter, honey, and small tart plums. It was a rich sweet made only on special occasions, and would be drizzled with warm honey before serving.
As she worked Eithni gossiped with the chatty young woman next to her, who like Eithni was caught up in the atmosphere of festivity this morning.
“It feels like the morn of Mid-Winter Fire,” the girl said with a giggle. “Only, without the cold and snow.”
“And days of games to look forward to,” Eithni added, grinning. “At Mid-Winter we do nothing but eat.”
“Have you seen all the handsome warriors here?” the girl asked, her bright gaze roving over the surrounding crowd. “I hope to dance with at least six every night!”
Eithni laughed. “You’ll be exhausted by the time The Gathering ends.”
“Aye.” The young woman gave her a sly look. “But I might have found myself a husband.”
Soon the nutty aromas of baking drifted over the camp, and once the other women had prepared a huge batch of oatcakes on the griddle, Eithni broke her fast.
Excited chatter grew around The Gathering Place as the sun rose high into the sky and burned off the morning dew.
The first games of The Gathering were about to commence. Removing her Warrior Cakes from the stone oven the men had erected the day before, Eithni set the sweets out to cool and covered them with a cloth. Then she followed the tide of excited revelers out to the gentle slope beyond the ring of tents.
Eithni’s gaze slid over the men amassing for the first of the strength contests: Clachneart—the Stone of Strength. This game called for the strongest men from each tribe. Lutrin, whose size and strength far outstripped any of the other Eagle men, even Galan, represented The Eagle. The two chiefs of The Stag and The Boar represented their tribes, and a young warrior built like an ox stepped up on behalf of The Wolf.
Roars went up as each contestant launched a heavy stone from the front of his shoulder using only one hand. The man who could throw it the farthest won—and that warrior was Urcal mac Wrad, chief of The Boar.
“Beast of a man,” Lucrezia muttered from where she perched on the grass next to Eithni. “I bet he wins this contest at every Gathering.”
Eithni agreed with her; there were few men here who could equal Urcal’s size and girth.
The next game was The Warrior’s Hammer. This contest challenged men to whirl a heavy iron hammer in circles before releasing it over their shoulders.
Urcal won this one too—and the shouts and cries of victory from The Boar supporters were deafening.
The last of the strength contests was the Clach cuid fir—The Manhood Stone. For this event the crowd gathered around the base of the rocky escarpment that towered over their Gathering. Here, there were a number of boulders and rocks scattered about, embedded in the soft earth—and the challenge was to see who could pick up the largest.
Fortrenn, chieftain of The Stag, won that contest, but only just. Fortrenn’s son, a self-confident young warrior named Tadhg, took second place; while The Boar chieftain came in third. Urcal it seemed was a poor loser, for he glowered at Fortrenn, his heavy-featured face the color of liver after all his exertion. Not remotely cowed by The Boar’s aggression, Fortrenn gave a great booming laugh and slapped Urcal on the back. “You can’t win them all, old friend.”
After an exciting morning the crowd filtered back into the encampment for the noon meal. The women served thick barley and mutton stew that had been simmering since dawn, fresh bread, and oatcakes. Mead and ale flowed although many of the men held back, for there would be a game of Camanachd in the afternoon, and the warriors wanted to be sharp for it.
The first tournament was to be between The Eagle and The Stag.
Once the noon meal had settled in their bellies, the crowds amassed on the slope once more. Eithni stood at one end, watching as twelve Eagle warriors—Galan, Tarl, and Donnel among them—strode out to meet their Stag opponents. Each man carried a curved stick.
Eithni watched, fascinated. She had seen men play Camanachd many times in Dun Ardtreck. It was a brutal if hugely entertaining game to watch; indeed, Eithni had seen matches that had gotten bloody.
She watched now as Galan barreled into Tadhg mac Fortrenn before slamming the smooth round stone into their opponent’s goal.
A roar went up around Eithni, the loudest shouts coming from Tea and Lucrezia. Her sister looked as if she wanted to be out there herself, and would have been, if she had not borne a babe on her hip. Tea’s expression was fierce, her blue eyes alight.
The game quickly turned vicious. There were few rules—besides not being able to touch the stone with your hands or feet—and none of them prevented brawling. Yet the warriors seemed to love every moment of it. Tarl went down under a heap of Stag warriors who tackled him as he hit the stone to Lutrin.
Donnel lunged forward and beat the struggling men off Tarl with his stick before hauling his brother to his feet. Tarl’s nose was bleeding, but he was grinning. Both men then set off after the stone again.
Eithni watched them with a shake of her head. She would never understand why men loved thrashing each other.
“Are you enjoying the game?” A man’s voice drew Eithni’s attention. She turned to find Loxa standing next to her. The thrill she had been enjoying, for The Eagles looked close to winning now, drained from her.
Eithni stared at him but did not answer.
“I am Loxa,” he rumbled, staring down at her. He was a huge man although not the beast his elder brother was. “What is your name?”
Eithni swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry. “Eithni,” she finally replied. Around them the roaring and cheering continued as the game reached its climax.
“Run, Galan—run!” Tea screamed.
“Smash it, Tarl!” Lucrezia bellowed.
The two women were oblivious to the fact that Loxa had drawn close and towered over Eithni.
Heart pounding Eithni glanced around her. She wanted to flee, but she knew she was safest here, in the midst of a crowd.
“I saw you last summer in Dun Ringill,” Loxa continued, his gaze devouring. “Your beauty bewitched me then … as it does now.” He stepped closer still. “Are you promised to a man?”
Eithni shook her head. “I’ve no wish for a husband.” Her voice came out in a croak.
He grinned. “What of a lover?”
A chill settled over Eithni, turning the warm summer’s day to winter. Yet her reticence did not put Loxa off; if anything his expression turned even more wolfish.
“I like a coy woman,” he growled. “Makes my blood run hot.”
Panic bubbled up within her. She stepped away from Loxa, hands clenched by her sides. And at that moment a roar went up on the slope below.
Eithni tore her gaze away from Loxa to see that Donnel had just scored the victory goal. For once his handsome face was creased in a grin. He laughed as his brothers lifted him high into the air. This game belonged to The Eagles.
Donnel let his brothers carry him up the slope, before they dumped him unceremoniously on the ground in front of the crowd of Eagle men, women, and children who had watched the game.
Lucrezia launched herself forward and pulled Tarl into a passionate kiss, not seeming to care that the warrior’s face was covered in blood. Likewise Tea’s eyes were shining as she embraced Galan.
Donnel picked himself up off the ground and allowed himself to be slapped on the back from all angles.
He loved a good game of Camanachd. It was a bit like battle but without the risk of death. Joy had been rare of late, but the game had lightened his mood.
Stepping out of the crush of excited people, Donnel’s gaze roamed over the rest of the crowd—and alighted upon Eithni. She was standing off to one side, pale and tense, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. A huge man with wild dark hair towered over her. He was whispering things to her, standing far too close. The girl looked as if she was either about to faint or flee.
Loxa mac Wrad … what’s he up to?
He remembered this warrior well, remembered the way he had strutted into their broch, and the arrogance with which he had addressed all of them.
Eithni did not welcome the man’s attentions—that much was clear. She looked like a cornered fawn. Donnel was debating whether to intervene when Urcal roared Loxa’s name from a few yards away. With one last quiet word in Eithni’s ear, Loxa strode away.
Eithni stood there, staring down at the ground for a few moments as if she was trying to pull herself together. Then she looked up and straight at Donnel, catching him observing her.