Page 8 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
As well as that, there were one hundred and twenty extremely well-trained guards who defended the castle day and night, each one armed to the teeth. There was a keep in the most secure part of the building that was full of an arsenal of weapons, enough to arm every inhabitant of the castle five-fold. The Laird of Balmuir always remarked that if anyone ever managed to conquer his castle he deserved to have it.
* * *
Ramsay never gave up; it was the first thing anyone would tell you about him. What he started, he finished, or he would almost die trying. Now he was doing something he excelled at; sword fighting, a sport which he loved. Today he was pitted against his half-brother, John, in the courtyard in front of Balmuir Castle, and although he was one of the Ormond family by blood, he was not treated as such, since he was illegitimate. Although Laird Ormond was his father, his mother had been one of his kitchen maids, and for this reason, Ramsay had always been looked down on by everyone except John.
They were alike in so many ways; both had the tall, muscular physique of their father, and John had his dark colouring, but Ramsay had no idea what his mother had looked like, so he was unable to compare himself with her.
He was also tall, with light brown hair and deep grey eyes that were overshadowed by thick dark eyebrows, and when he frowned, he often looked quite ferocious. However, his smile was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
Because they were so evenly matched, any contest between the two brothers was exciting in the extreme, and their bouts always garnered an appreciative audience.
Today was no exception. Many of the servants and guards were standing around shouting encouragement to them, but nearly all were cheering for John. Of course, quite a few of the maidservants had absolutely no interest in boxing, but there was nothing wrong with feasting their eyes on two young, muscular, handsome men. Moreover, there was something about the sight of combat that was quintessentially masculine, and it called out to the feminine instincts of every woman watching, old and young. Indeed, they were elbowing each other out of the way to get a better view!
The bout had been going on for half an hour, with the advantage swinging from one to the other in quick succession. There was a great deal of yelling and grunting from both contestants, with some extremely rude and ribald comments from the manservants and fellow guards, most of them directed at Ramsay.
“Lie doon an’ die, ya bastard!” one of the biggest, fattest guards, Brian Colquhoun called out. He and Ramsay had had a confrontational and aggressive relationship for many years, which had sometimes become physical, but on those occasions, Ramsay had always won the fight. He had always been amazed that the other man still tried to beat him, and often wondered what he had done to deserve such treatment. However, when he asked, he never got an answer, so he gave it up as a bad job. Some things were just meant to be, he reasoned, but most of the venom directed at him on a daily basis was because he was a bastard son.
Now John came towards him, thrusting his sword straight at his brother’s chest, but Ramsay twisted it away effortlessly, then followed through with a thrust of his own, which John parried easily.
“You fight like a wee lassie,” John called out to his brother, laughing. “A kitchen maid could do better than you.”
“Well, maybe I should challenge one of them to a match,” Ramsay answered. “They would fight better than you.”
John gave him a mock ferocious snarl, and they continued the fight, tossing light-hearted insults at each other as they did so.
Ramsay was being forced backward as John advanced on him. Both combatants were now extremely tired, and Ramsay was determined to end the bout as soon as he could.
“Gaun’ yerself, Master John!” one of the youngest maidservants called, and a group of others joined her in a rousing chorus of encouragement.
It was now or never. Ramsay feinted to the left and John, in trying to follow him, left the whole front of his body exposed. Ramsay was about to follow through when his feet were ripped from underneath him and he was flung forward onto the stone flags of the courtyard. He landed with a jarring thud that reverberated painfully through his entire body and lay stunned for a moment before he realised what had happened.
Someone had tripped him, and he knew instantly who it was. He managed to lever himself onto all fours, then looked up to see the ugly, leering face of Brian Colquhoun smiling down at him.
Everyone had seen what happened, but no one spoke up on Ramsay’s behalf, since Colquhoun’s action was one most of them would have performed had they been brave enough. As well as that, nearly everyone but a few of the strongest guards were scared of him.
John had been unbalanced and had staggered to the back of the crowd, but now he came forward to see what had happened, and he summed it up in an instant. “You!” He pointed to Colquhoun and raced towards him, his face thunderous. “Did you just trip my brother up?”
“It was an accident, M’Laird,” Colquhoun answered, dropping his gaze to the ground. Suddenly he did not look so smug.
John looked at him for one more second, then raised his bent knee in a movement so fast it was barely visible, and drove it into Colquhoun’s groin. The man doubled over and fell down, grunting with pain from both his balls and his knees, which had contacted the rock-hard ground first.
John gestured to two of the other guards to pick the big man up, then he smiled and patted Colquhoun’s hairy cheek. “So sorry to hurt you,” he said with a touch of dark glee, “it was an accident.”
There were tears of pain and humiliation streaming from the big man’s eyes now, but he could say nothing.
“Let it be, John.” Ramsay had approached from behind and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I am not hurt, and it is not worth fighting over. It’s a prank that went too far. Let’s call the match a tie.”
“No!” John was still furious. “If we had been fighting with sharp swords and not blunt ones you could have been seriously hurt, Ramsay. I will not have cheating in my garrison.” He stepped forward and poked a finger in Colquhoun’s chest. “You can spend a cosy night in the dungeon, and tonight you can dine on bread and small beer. You need to lose some weight anyway! Take him away,” he instructed. He turned to Ramsay. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
Ramsay attempted to smile at his brother. “Of course I am, John,” he answered. “Stop making a fuss.”
“That big lump has had it in for you for far too long,” John said grimly. “I am going to have him demoted to guarding the dungeons and leave him there, or I can kick him out altogether.” He looked as if he relished the prospect.
“I think that is a bit drastic,” Ramsay observed. “He may have a family to feed. Anyway, he has come off worse in every one of our encounters.”
They meandered inside to the dining room and flopped down in their chairs. Both of them were ravenous after their strenuous activity, but they knew that after they had been adequately fed they would both be full of energy again. Neither felt like doing any more wrestling, sword fighting, boxing, or archery, but both were too restless to sit and read all day.
“What are you thinking about?” John asked Ramsay abruptly, noticing that his brother was staring into space as he chewed his food absently. “You are miles away.”
