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‘He said he would compete, not you.’
‘Aye, but there’s the rub. My father can’t win, and I can. So I will compete unless your word means nothing, old man.’
At his insult, a roar of protest rose from the other riders and the onlookers of Clan Gordon, but the young man was impervious to it. His gaze did not waver from her father’s, and he paid no heed to the disgruntled crowd at his back.
‘My word stands, you ruffian, and blast your arrogance,’ shouted Dunbar. ‘You may compete if you like, but you will not win. Instead, you are likely to come to grief on that monstrous beast, and serve you right if you do.’
‘I thank you, Laird. ‘Tis a great honour to race against the finest riders in Inverness. And as to this monstrous beast, he can run from one end of Scotland to the other and not tire. So we shall see who will be victorious.’
‘Aye, we shall see,’ spat her father. ‘Now enough of this blather. Let us settle this.’ He lifted his arm, and though it was subtle, Orla noticed her father nod in Robbie’s direction, and he nodded back. So now there was even more reason for her to win and avoid marriage to all these wretches. Not only was the arrogant Robbie expecting to win her hand, but that dark ruffian up ahead looked dangerous. His horse might be a brute, like its rider, but it looked strong and eager to be off and running. And they both had a rough grace about them.
Orla took a deep breath and braced herself, and then they were off in a heaving, barging mass of horseflesh, funnelling through the gates. She had to duck to avoid a punch flying at her face, and then she was out in the open, her mount gathering speed downhill towards the gleaming, grey loch.
Robbie Dunn’s white horse was already out in front, tail streaming silver in the sunlight. All around her were horses, the thunder of their hooves deafening. One veered into her, the rider’s leg touching, and then tumbled as she spurred Midnight onwards. She scarcely had time to look back and see the rider spring to his feet before they reached the shingle of the loch’s edge. Mud and icy water splashed up, soaking her, but Orla held her place. Sticking close to the water was the easiest route around the edge of the loch, so her strategy was to stay with the pack for a while. Further around, the going would get more challenging, and that was her chance to pull away.
As they streamed further around the loch, the ground grew rockier and the hillside steeper. Soon, Orla had to negotiate boulders at the water’s edge and underfoot, slimy rocks which could cause Midnight to stumble. Going inland was safer, and many riders did so, but it cost precious time. Orla stuck with Robbie and several others going uphill, among them the vicious dun horse. By the time they reached the steepest part of the hillside, they had lost several riders, and others were far behind.
Now was the hardest part, where the woods crept down to the loch’s edge, dense and dark with pine trees. Orla veered upwards, picking her way along a path slippery with mud and grass. Midnight panted stoically onwards, and soon, she found herself in semi-darkness, with only a little light filtering down from the close-packed trees. The other riders fell away or took different paths through the forest. Hopefully, some of those fools would get lost. Faint shouts and curses sounded up ahead and behind her, and it was eerie in the stillness, so she pressed on, longing for light and open ground.
The woods were treacherous, for the land fell away to gullies, here and there, and they had to be circumvented, with no way across. It was easy to become disorientated in the back and forth. How far ahead would the leaders be? Even knowing the woods as she did, Orla had lost precious minutes, as it was such heavy going.
A thunder of hooves to her right had her turning in alarm, and she had to pull Midnight up hard to avoid hitting the dun horse, who ran straight across her path. Its rider halted and turned his horse, and they locked eyes.
Her stomach seemed to heave up into her throat, and Orla was confronted with the Devil himself. Those pitch-black eyes and that smug grin were unmistakable. It was the vile lecher from the market.
Wolfric Munro narrowed his eyes and shouted, somewhat unbelievably, ‘Which way out of the woods?’
Why, the absolute cheek of the man. Orla was about to retort, ‘As if I would tell you,’ when a flash of silver through the trees gave away the presence of Robbie Dunn to their left. In an instant, Wolfric Munro was off after him, and she followed.
Wolfric soon gained ground, for his horse was fast. He drew level with Robbie, and they thundered onwards, legs almost touching. But they were going too fast. There was a gully up ahead. Orla spurred Midnight on until she was but a few lengths behind them. Wolfric’s horse was close to the edge of a drop. Orla could see the loch shining in through the thinning trees down below. Had he even noticed the danger?
She was about to shout out a warning when Robbie pulled hard on his reins and veered his horse into Wolfric’s. There was a rattle of stones and a crash as rocks tumbled down the gaping wound in the mountainside. For one agonising moment, Wolfric’s horse teetered on the edge, then they both disappeared over the side.
By the time Orla got to the gully’s edge and had brought Midnight under control, Robbie had ridden off into the distance. She peered over at the point where Wolfric and his horse had disappeared, dreading the sight of two broken and bloodied bodies. But there was nothing.
There was a ledge of sorts running just below. A faint neigh came from further along it, and there he was, on foot, dragging on his horse’s reins to get it back under control. Damn his eyes. Was his mount a goat to be able to cling to that slope? Wolfric Munro was unhurt, as was that infernal beast, and now she had lost precious seconds coming to his aid.
‘Damnation!’ she said, kicking Midnight hard and setting off. She soon left the woods behind and rode recklessly through the fields down to the loch and the lonely spire of Nairn Kirk in the distance. Robbie was well ahead and almost upon it. She reached it just as he rode away and quickly grabbed a red ribbon nailed to the door. When she glanced back, she could see Wolfric in pursuit. Goodness, his horse was fast to have gained so much ground.
The race continued at a relentless pace. Midnight’s flanks were white with sweat, and Orla’s arms were tiring. Robbie was not too far ahead, and the going was flat and easy - sodden grass and a gentle slope up to Machrief at the end. It was between the three of them, and she was sure Wolfric could not catch up.
‘Let us put an end to this folly of men,’ she shouted, kicking Midnight hard, and he responded, eating up the ground between her and Robbie. The castle crept closer, and Robbie swerved towards it. He went full pelt at a high stone wall sweeping across the low ground and soared over it.
Suddenly, there was a squeal, and his horse went head over heels, throwing him off. Orla was close behind and couldn’t pull up. She was committed to the jump, and there was no swerving now. Midnight took off, neck stretching, muscles bunching, and by some miracle, they cleared it with an inch to spare and landed well. Orla glanced over and saw Robbie jumping to his feet, rubbing his arse and covered in mud. His horse rolled up and shook itself.
Orla was enjoying her triumph so much that she almost forgot about Wolfric Munro, who came thundering down the field towards her. She had time to kick Midnight forward as he sailed over the wall as if his horse had sprouted wings. Now it was a hard gallop uphill to decide the winner, and there was no way she was letting that lout best her.
But Midnight was tiring. His strides were shortening, and behind her, the pound of hooves was getting louder. Orla glanced back. Wolfric was gaining, and Robbie had re-mounted but was too far behind to catch them. Machrief’s gates came closer, the watchers on the wall jumping up and down with excitement.
Out of the corner of her eye, Orla saw the devil horse gain Midnight’s right flank. ‘No, no,’ she shouted. Wolfric’s horse seemed to summon a second and third wind, for on it came, relentless and savage, ears pinned, nostrils flaring, inching level with her.
The two horses thundered through the gates at full pelt, and, with gritted teeth, Orla swung Midnight towards Wolfric’s horse, making it swerve sideways and allowing her to get ahead into the yard. A vicious curse sounded, and Orla pulled Midnight up hard, narrowly avoiding crashing into Machrief’s walls as she flung the marker at her father’s feet.
The euphoria of winning overcame her, and she could scarcely breathe or think straight with the roar of cheering and clapping all around her. She leaned over and patted Midnight’s neck, slick with sweat. ‘Good, brave boy. We did it, Midnight. We actually did it.’
Joy swelled in her chest, and relief too. Now that she had crushed the pride of all her suitors, she need not wed. She had proved herself more capable, with far more grit and courage, and now her father’s wager had been snuffed out.
Then an angry voice bellowed across the yard. ‘I claim victory, Laird Gordon, and the hand of your daughter.’
