We fight for hearth and home.
“This hangs in the MacWilliams’ castle,” Reilly remembered, running a finger over the intricacies. “In the laird’s solar.”
“Well, that’s a high honor, indeed!”
“How did it get in a MacWilliam castle, though?”
Mary smiled with satisfaction. “Sorcha.”
“How would my sister have anything to do with a tapestry that hangs in another clan’s castle next century?”
“Sorcha married a MacWilliam. I believe she’s very in love with him. He’s a good lad.”
Reilly frowned, certain he heard his mother wrong. “I thought she was to marry an O’Rourke?”
Mary frowned. “Sir Lochlan O’Rourke perished last year in battle. She didn’t grieve overmuch, as she’d never actually met her betrothed. But our laird never sought to renew the agreement with any other of that clan.”
“The MacWilliams, though?” Reilly shook his head, disappointed. “They are a weak clan right now. They will be for years to come. And the strife they must endure…O’Rourkes would be a better choice.”
“Aye, ’tis the truth. But love had other ideas. She’s safe enough, Reilly. I’ve no concerns.”
He frowned, unconvinced. “If there’s a way out of the betrothal, Laird O’Malley should rethink it.” Not that it would matter, he thought to himself. He knew his sister wouldn’t marry. He visited her once, as an old maid, a respected elder of the O’Malley clan. She had no children, but was happy. “When are they to marry?”
Mary’s voice went soft. “’Twas all so unexpected. They met at a tournament a few months back. Cormac approached the laird within days, and they wed shortly thereafter.”
“What? They’ve already married?” Reilly laughed. “Mam, no, she couldn’t have.”
Mary raised a brow. “I can assure you they have.”
“I know you’re wrong, Mam.”
Her eyes flicked up to him, a touch of sadness in them. “Oh, the things you must know, my dear. But for this, she did marry him. And she seems quite content.”
“No, Mam, you don’t understand. Sorcha doesn’t marry. I know this. I’ve visited her, later in her life. She never married.”
“Well, methinks the Fates have changed things up on you.”
Reilly shook his head, an unfamiliar sense of dread rising. “Mam…no. They’ve never done that before; they’ve never changed the past.”
She canted her head. “And how would you be knowin’ that for certain? You've always claimed you’d never try to understand women, especially those particular ones. Why wouldn’t they change things to suit their purposes?”
“But Sorcha…”
Mary stood resolutely. “Perhaps you ought to take it up with those Fates, Reilly. For me, I was at that wedding, saw it with me own two eyes. Vows were spoken, bedding happened, and a tasty brunch was had by all. Sorcha is happy, her new husband is proud, and both clans have exchanged dowries and goods. This tapestry is the final part of my wedding present to her; it’s late because it took so long to get the red thread, you see. She’s a MacWilliam now, and may she have a long and healthy life as one.”
Reilly’s eyes flicked to the folded cloth, confusion fogging his brain. That tapestry hung in Nioclas MacWilliam’s solar.
If it hadn’t been handed down, as Nioclas himself had told Reilly it was, then how else would the MacWilliams have gotten it?
His mother, bless her, quietly left him to his troubled thoughts.
Chapter Eleven
Gwen carefully stretched and took stock of her surroundings. Beautifully stitched canopy, soft bedding, and the smell of something roasting mixed with peat moss; she knew immediately where she was. She rarely had any issue remembering where she was when she awoke in a new place; perhaps it was due to all her travels, or maybe it was just part of her DNA. But, after many sleepovers with Ellie—who forgot where she was when she woke up in her own flat, much less if she woke up in a strange location—Gwen was grateful for the small blessing.
She briefly wondered if her friend still had that problem when she was with Colin. For the past couple of months, Ellie had seemed calmer and more even-keeled than ever, though she couldn’t quite overcome her clumsy tendencies. Ellie had always been a quiet, steadfast, sweet person, but with Colin by her side, she was a brighter, more vibrant version of herself.
Gwen thought that might be what love looked like.
Her stomach clenched. If Reilly did have real feelings for her, and not just a passing fancy, what would that mean? Aside from the fact that she didn’t understand why he would want to make a life with her, after all he told her the other night. He all but admitted he had already found his soul mate, for crying out loud. And Gwen thought soul mates were a one-and-done deal. And because he found his soul mate, could he even love another person? She didn’t really know. Maybe that’s why he held everyone at arm’s length.
But not her. Never her, except for in those early days when she foolishly threw herself at him over and over. When she did so, he’d shut down swiftly, but not absolutely. He easily could’ve written her off as a silly young woman with too many romantic notions in her head, but instead, he fostered their closeness. He made it a point to talk with her often. He spoke with her about everything, and by his own admission, he didn’t often speak so openly with any of his cousins, with whom he was as close as brothers. The ins and outs of his days, his frustration with a family member, the thousand small victories when he was woodworking—he came to her with all of it.
Why her?
Perhaps Reilly had lost his chance with his soul mate. Perhaps she hadn’t claimed him back. If that was the case, Gwen wondered, would she be willing to live a life with Reilly anyway, knowing that he loved another woman more fully than Gwen loved him?
Her questions weren’t going to answer themselves, and though she wasn’t quite ready to confront Reilly with them, she could feel her courage building. She’d get there, eventually.
It just wasn’t going to be today.
She was also keenly aware that while Reilly readily showed her one side of himself, there was another, more uncivilized side. The last time they’d been in the Middle Ages, she remained at the castle while Colin, Reilly, and a slew of others headed off on a rescue mission. He’d come back covered in large, damp, dark, reddish-brown spots. His sword was caked with dirt and grime, and his forehead was smeared with dried blood. He’d assured her that none of the spots on his clothing were his blood, and he’d redirected her attention to her friend, who had needed her very badly at the time.
Gwen never let herself think of what Reilly actually did whilst he was about the business of saving Ellie. But now, she’d seen for herself what he was capable of; he’d slain a man. One minute, the guy was having a chat, and the next, he was lifeless on the ground.
She felt the bile rise up again, but she forced it to stay down and swiftly tucked the memory into a box in the deepest recesses of her mind. She locked it in the same area labeled Venezuela, then decided she needed some fortification.
Swinging her legs over the side of the surprisingly comfortable mattress, Gwen’s feet found the lamb’s wool floor covering. She dug her toes in, relishing the softness, and glanced around her. Mary’s bed was empty and fully made. All of the walls were chalk-white, and the ceiling above her canopied bed was the thatch of the roof. She’d read once that the bed hangings were originally to catch any vermin that would fall from the thatch, preventing a nasty wakeup in the middle of the night.
She strongly hoped that her bed hangings were for decorative purposes only.
The room itself wasn’t quite cold, but a draft from the thatch drifted down to her. She hurried toward the clothing at the other end of the house and saw with relief that a gown of forest green had already been laid out. She quickly changed, grateful the laces were in the front, and realized with a start that the dress had been tailored to fit her.
Baffled, she slipped her shoes on and ca
utiously made her way down the staircase and into the kitchen, where a delicious warmth and smell emitted from the large hearth. Mary stood, stirring something in a large kettle, and greeted her with a sunny smile.
“Gwendolyn, good morning! Reilly will be back in a moment. He’s gathering my eggs, the good lad. He always insists on doing the chores when he’s home.”
“He’s a good man,” Gwen replied, accepting a steaming cup from her. She looked into it. Oatmeal? Maybe. She didn’t care; she was hungry. But first…“Um, where’s the gardrobe?”
“Oh, we don’t have one. We’ve chamber pots in the rooms and Finn—that’s Reilly’s da, God rest his soul—built a little house a ways away. Reilly calls it an outhouse. That lad and his future words.” She chuckled, and her dark eyes twinkled. “Anyway, it’s out the back, to the right. You’ll see it. I’ll keep your porridge warm.”
Gwen thanked her and gratefully handed her back the cup. She went in search of the outhouse, and, after taking care of her needs, she headed back toward the house, only to almost run fully into Reilly’s chest.
“Good morning, Gwendolyn. Sleep alright?”
She immediately noticed the lines around his eyes were tight; a sure sign that his guard was up. While Gwen could usually read him like an open book, when he shuttered himself, even she couldn’t penetrate his self-made fortress.
“I did, thanks. Any ideas where the dress came from?”
He smiled. “Aye. My mother altered it last night for you.”
Gwen sighed with jealousy. “I wish I could sew like that. She got my size almost exactly right!”
“She’s a master seamstress. She’s one of the tapestry weavers for the laird, and she sells some of her work. It’s what supports her out here. The nearest house is almost two kilometers away.” He handed her a basket with some eggs, then picked up two buckets filled with milk.
“So just her and your sister live out here?”
“Well, it turns out my sister married a few weeks ago.”
“You sound a little put out by that,” Gwen noted. “Did you want to attend her wedding?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I’m not upset by that. But the Fates have changed things. I’ve visited my sister in her future, and in that visit, she…” He looked heavenward. “She never married.”
“Whoa,” Gwen breathed. “They can change the past?”
“I didn’t think so. But it seems they can.”
“Can they change the future, too?”
Reilly frowned. “I’ve no idea.” He shook himself a little and looked ahead to the house. “But now it’s just my mam. I’m going to have speech with her about moving closer to the castle for protection. It was dangerous for the two of them to be out here, but it’s even more dangerous for a woman living alone.”
They reentered the kitchen together, and Reilly put the milk on the floor by the hearth while Gwen placed the basket on the center island. They brought the bowls of porridge to the table and sat down to eat together.
“What do you want to do today, lass?”
The question from Reilly had Gwen raising her eyebrow. “This is your show, Ry. I’ve no idea what’s available.”
“The final harvest finished just this past moon,” Mary offered. “The village games start today.”
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Village games? What does that mean?”
Reilly answered. “They’re a celebration. In your time, it’s called Mabon. It’s the autumnal equinox, and here, it’s an important point in the year when we have one more night by the light of a full moon to finish the harvest. Once that happens, a week of celebration and games are held by the clan in the village center.”
“Aye, the games are a sight. It’s a time when the men show their strength, and the laird chooses new guardsmen to bring to his castle,” Mary added.
“What kind of games do they play?”
Reilly pushed his empty trencher away from him and sat back slowly. “Games of strength and warrior skill, mostly.”
“Like the Highland Games?” she asked excitedly. “I saw those one year in New York. It was crazy, these guys were lobbing telephone poles!”
Mary look intrigued. “Pray tell, what are telephone poles?”
“Never you mind,” Reilly muttered. To Gwen, he replied, “’Tis much different than those games. There are sword fighting competitions, wrestling, archery, and strength tests. Arm wrestling, if you can believe it. Endurance challenges, too. But the highlights are the songs and poetry.”
“Really?” Gwen asked skeptically.
“Aye,” Mary confirmed. “The celebration reconnects us to our ancestors, and we do that through our storytellers.”
“While the prize for the strength contestants is to become part of the garrison, the prize for storytellers is the equivalent of one year’s salary and an invitation to the castle to entertain important visitors,” Reilly informed her. “’Tis a great honor, bestowed to only one.”
“Oh, let’s definitely go to this.” She rubbed her hands together. “Can women enter any of the contests?”
“Aye, though we’re not allowed to join the castle garrison if we win,” Mary replied, gathering their trenchers. “Do you care to try your hand at something, lass?”
Gwen shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no if there was something that interested me.”
Mary beamed at her, then carried the dishes to the hearth. At Reilly’s pointed look, Gwen shrugged, bemused. “What? I wouldn’t.”
“You would say nay if I said not to, aye?” he prompted.
She grimaced. “Right. Or if you said not to.”
“Good answer,” he murmured, so only she could hear. “The rules, Gwen. ’Tis for your safety.”
“Then we shall go,” Mary declared, bustling back over to them. “Your dress is too fine for the games. You’ll need something else.”
Gwen waited as Mary pondered, then reflexively smiled when Mary’s face brightened. “Ah, yes! The cobalt dress.”
“Blue?” Gwen replied dubiously. She fingered a lock of her hair. “I think it’ll clash with my hair.”
Mary frowned. “Clash? Do you mean mismatch?” At Gwen’s nod, Mary tsked. “Think of a fire. The hottest part of the flames is blue, and the cooler parts tend to be a blend of colors, including the exact shade of your hair. They all work together in nature; why wouldn’t they work on you?”
“Listen to her,” Reilly advised. “She’s not a master seamstress without merit.”
“I’ll wear whatever you want me to wear,” Gwen replied, unsure. “It’ll just be new for me, that’s all.”
A few moments later, Mary had the dress downstairs and was holding it against Gwen, as Gwen studied herself in the smooth mirror on the wall.
“I had no idea I could wear this color,” she breathed. “I always thought it’d make my hair look more orange.”
“Nay, not at all.” Mary smoothed her hand over Gwen’s long tresses and placed them over her shoulder against the material. “’Tisn’t it a wondrous thing when we give a second chance to something we thought was a lost cause?”
It took everything Gwen had not to scan the room for Reilly; instead, she merely inclined her head. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “It certainly is.”
• • •
Gwen watched in wide-eyed wonder as ten men grunted, sweated, and fought to tug a massive rope. A small ribbon marked the center, and it flapped in the wind as each team tried to move it over their line, which was drawn in the grass using the tip of someone’s sword. The rope was thicker than both Reilly’s wrists, and all Gwen could think was how those warriors must be getting the worst kind of rope burn.
“What do they get if they win, again?”
Reilly winced as one of the men slipped and fell. The contestant recovered quickly, though, and his team was able to hold steady. “Bragging rights, for certain. And a silver coin each.”
“Who pays the winners? The laird?” Gwen wondered.
“Aye. He is generous,�
� Mary replied, with obvious delight at the game playing out. Another man on the same team slipped, and this time, the other team was able to yank the ribbon over their line. Cheers, swears, and a fistfight broke out almost immediately.
“Let’s see what we’ve got over here,” Reilly said, herding the women away from the spectacle. “Today’s events happen all day long; each team or competitor continue until there is but a single winner. From what others are saying, today we have the rope tug, the anvil throw, swordplay, and trick sword fighting.”
“Ooh, trick sword fighting! What’s that?” she asked, intrigued.
Reilly looked above the crowd, his eyes searching. “It’s where a magician comes in and waves his magic wand over the swords. Then they up and fight themselves.”
“Oh, listen not to him,” Mary chided. “He jests. Trick sword fighting is for the children; it’s done with wooden swords instead of steel. Because the balance is different, it makes sword play a bit less…”
“Exciting?” Reilly chimed in.
“Dangerous,” Mary finished. “I’ll remind you it’s for the younger lads to try their hand at swordplay.”
“Oh, that sounds cute!” Gwen exclaimed. “I think it’ll be fun. Let’s check it out!”
Reilly capitulated easily, probably because his mother and Gwen were insistent. Gwen noticed the way the other members of the clan greeted Reilly and were slightly deferential to Mary. She seemed to have a deep respect from the clan; Gwen wondered how much of that was due to her tapestry work, and how much was due to her son.
Reilly stayed close to them both, shielding them from the press of the crowd when it became too intense. Everywhere she looked, Gwen saw villagers, dressed in their daily garb, cheering on their loved ones.
They watched the boys, who seemed to be around seven or eight years old, parry with the wooden swords. The winner of the day, it was promised, would have his very own sword made of steel; with such reward, the boys fought hard. Reilly, Gwen, and Mary didn’t stay to see whom the final winner was, but there were a few definitive front runners.
Falling Through Time: Mists of Fate - Book Four Page 20