She turned the bottle over in her hands, examining it. “It looks beautiful, so shiny.” Something rattled inside. “What is this?”
He took the lid from the top. “You won’t know unless you look.”
She peered into the darkness then tilted it toward the sunlight. A pale object clattered about then slid from the bottle’s neck into her hand.
“Oh!” She managed to catch it before it fell to the ground. Looking at it closely, she realized it was an ornately carved piece of ivory. The ivory itself was slightly marbled, but the beauty was in the designs. She could make out a longship and a castle, as well as Crow Mountain. And in the middle were a couple—a warrior and a maiden—and the word Spero wreathed around their heads.
“Hope,” she breathed.
“I carved this for you,” he said simply.
“I know,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “There is always hope. This bottle bears that word upon its rim, but the poor Irish monk who owned it probably died in one of our raids.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Yet here we stand—a Viking warrior and an Irish princess—both hoping in the same God the monk believed in. Perhaps he is smiling on us from heaven.”
She swallowed, touching the polished ivory. “How much thought you have put into this!”
“I have thought of little else. I wanted to give you a gift that was a piece of myself—my home—and that is what this walrus ivory is. I do not paint, but I thought you would like a carving of us.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking closer at the grooved pictures. “But what are these figures here behind me? They look as if they are tearing at my skirt! Are they wild dogs?”
He burst into laughter. “No, those are your children, clinging to your skirts.”
“My children?”
“Our children.” His smile faded into a look of earnestness that tore at her already surrendered heart. He touched her cheekbone, letting his fingers trail down to her chin. “I love you, Britta. You must know I built the house for you—for us. Your father knows of my plans, and he has given me his blessing. Will you be my wife?”
Throwing herself into his strong arms, she nodded. “Yes, yes! Please be my husband!”
He whirled her around, even as she clutched the ivory in one hand, the bottle in the other. When he set her down, she nearly toppled into the creek in her dizziness, but he pulled her close and pressed a tender kiss on her lips. She could not wait to kiss him more, anytime she wished.
“We will marry tomorrow,” he said decisively.
She did not think twice. “Of course we will.”
Her father came to her as Florie buttoned her wedding gown, which was nearly the same color as the ivory tusk. It was her mother’s dress, and it fit perfectly.
He sighed. “You will stay nearby, in the longhouse? I would not like to have you far from me.”
“Of course we will stay close. And now Ronan can live in the castle, where he can learn your ways and prepare to rule someday.”
Father frowned. “Why would he want to rule?”
She turned, and a peach rose that Florie had twined in her hair fell to the floor. The nursemaid huffed amiably and searched for another one to replace it.
“Why, because Ronan will inherit the kingdom, of course. If he moved in, it would make things so much easier.”
“Ronan is not to inherit my kingdom, Britta. You are. You are my child, my own blood, so you must take over for me. Unless you do not wish to do so?”
She grasped his hands, her knuckles turning white. All these years, she had been certain the castle and the kingdom would go to Ronan because her father had no male heir. But he had always planned to give it to her. She could stay in the land she loved, help the people she loved, for the rest of her life.
“But what of Ari? He will be my husband.”
“It is your decision. If you want him to rule alongside you, so he shall. If you want to be queen, you may rule by yourself.”
She did not need to ponder. “If I am queen, he must be king and command equal respect, even without the O’Shea name.”
“It will be as you say, my dearest. Now I will go and let Florie arrange your hair, and doubtless weep a little, too.”
She hugged him. “Thank you, Father, for understanding my heart.”
“It is a queen’s heart.” He kissed her forehead before he strode out.
As Father had anticipated, Florie immediately burst into tears. When her sobs slowed, she said, “My little book-loving girl to be queen! Imagine!”
Britta glanced out the window, catching sight of Ari in his white tunic threaded with gold. She smiled. God had answered her prayers in a way she had never imagined—bringing peace and hope to her kingdom on the distant tide.
Heather Day Gilbert, a Grace Award winner and bestselling author, writes novels that capture life in all its messy, bittersweet, hope-filled glory. Born and raised in the West Virginia mountains, generational storytelling runs in her blood. Heather is a graduate of Bob Jones University and is married to her college sweetheart. Having recently returned to her roots, she and her husband are raising their three children in the same home in which Heather grew up.
A Song in the Night
By Amanda Dykes
Dedication
In cherished memory of Grandma Jean, a MacNaughton who knew how to fly.
And to Grandma Diana, whose love shines strong and true, and who shared with me the heritage of my own family’s bottle messages buried in the California desert.
As those notes said:
All is well. God is good.
Chapter One
Argyllshire, Scotland
1715
Are ye ready, miss?”
Meg’s stomach twisted at Mother Aila’s question. She gave what she hoped was a smile and swallowed back a wave of fear. If she could but stay here in the elderly woman’s croft, with the comforting spice of soil and peat fire warm about her…But that wasn’t what a bride did on her wedding day.
The single candle in the room sputtered into smoke. Ah, blessed diversion.
“Shall I fetch another candle?” Meg made to rise, her pale blue dress with its delicate silver filigree swishing as she did. But Mother Aila placed her hands on Meg’s shoulders with a strength befitting her eighty years of hard work. Meg sat again in the timeworn chair.
“Don’t move,” the older woman commanded. “Ye haven’t answered my question. And we’ve work to finish here.” She wove a ribbon of the clan tartan—pale enough to be properly modest—into the coils of Meg’s braid. The eldest woman in the village, it fell to her to conduct the rite of preparing any bride before the ceremonies began—even, as in Meg’s case, the laird’s daughter. She reached for the table to retrieve the simple crown of clover blossoms and trailing ribbons, placing the adornment upon Meg’s head.
“Fit for a queen,” she said. “Now tell me. Are ye ready?”
Two answers rivaled on Meg’s tongue. Was she ready? To secure the clan’s land once and for all and put a stop to the feuding with the Clan Campbell? To see her father’s burdens eased because of this union? Yes. But ready to tie her tartan in an unchangeable ceremony knot to the blue and green she’d lived her life fearing, until now? To marry the nephew of the Campbell laird, whom she’d seen only from a distance in her twenty-two years—so old was the strife between the clans? She shivered.
“I am ready.” Perhaps speaking the words would convince her heart.
Mother Aila began to kneel, and Meg could see it pained her. “Please, let me—”
Up came a wiry finger, halting Meg and pointing back to her seat. Meg obeyed, sensing an air of reverence over what was happening. The woman lowered herself slowly to her knees and placed her hands around Meg’s arms, the lines of her face suddenly solemn. “Be strong, lass. Hold fast the clan words.”
Words Meg knew as well as her own name: I hope in God. ’Twas easier to say than to do, today. The destiny
of an entire clan, resting on her shoulders.
“Now, off with your boots.” Her smile was kind, and Meg rallied herself. She might not be able to fight alongside the war chiefs, or lead the people alongside her father, or make all the troubles of the people disappear, but this one thing…she could do. Put one foot in front of another and keep on till it was done. Meg tugged off her boots, the heavily draping skirt falling back over her bare feet. ’Twas the clan’s way—for the bride to tread their land with nary a stocking between her and it upon her wedding day. A promise that come what may, she would be true to them, even in her new role as wife.
A knock sounded upon the door, and through the curtains stood the silhouettes of a gathering crowd.
“‘Tis time,” Meg breathed. She stood, slipping into the delicately knit gray earasaid Mother Aila held out for her. She let the shawl’s billowy hood fall free down her back, and with one last squeeze of the hand from Mother Aila, she stepped from the rustic white walls and into the dirt pathway teeming with people. The road split the rolling green hills, wending like a river to carry her to a new life.
A cheer arose about Meg as two boys hoisted an evergreen bough above her. The joy of the people beat like the bodhrán drum that drove their song, until it thrummed right into her heart. How privileged she was to be one of this clan. To act on their behalf.
Two wee girls with the same russet curls tumbled through the crowd and nearly toppled Meg. “For you, miss,” the taller of the two said, and held up a bouquet of white heather wrapped about the stems with a piece of long grass, crisscrossed and knotted.
“Wherever did you find this?” Meg hadn’t thought it possible to find heather this early, and in this white hue, so near Loch Fyne.
“‘Tis a secret,” the smaller girl said, her grin contagious. “The man said a lady such as ye must have white heather on her day of union. And…and…” She scrunched up her nose, reaching for a memory.
Her sister piped up. “And the green grass of the hills of yer home to adorn ye.”
Meg fingered the soft blossoms. “The man”—her groom, Ian Campbell? Perhaps he was not as severe as he was rumored to be.
“Well,” Meg said. “Bonny lasses such as ye must have something, too,” She removed her crown of clover blossoms. Curious looks crossed their faces as she untied two scarlet ribbons from the crown, tying one about each of their wrists with a tidy bow. “There, now,” she said. “No one tells you how heavy those weddin’ crowns can be. You’ll help me ever so by taking away these ribbons.” She winked at them and prayed today would make a brighter future for them. One void of the ongoing clan wars with the Campbells.
The sisters clasped hands with one another and dashed back into the crowd. Villagers rallied about her, leading her in procession up the hill toward the castle to meet the piper. From the corner of her eye, she caught a snatch of joyful motion: a band of Ceàrdannan—summer walkers, who roamed from river to river chasing the pearl fishing. They ran from the road and their carts now to catch up and join in. Meg’s spirits lifted at the notion of these Tinkers, perfect strangers, ushering her with such joy to the ceremony.
Such a flurry it was, with the young girls from the village twirling scraps of long, colored cloth, and the rolling beat of the bodhrán driving them on, and her heart right along with it—such a flurry indeed, it wasn’t until she was nearly to the piper himself that she sensed it.
Something amiss. A heaviness in the air.
It was on the piper’s face, too. He stood on the crest of the hill, watching her approach with a hollow, almost mournful look beneath a solemn smile. The curves around his mouth strong but gentle. She hadn’t known which of the pipers it would be—for Father had summoned three more for the festivities, in additional to their own Duncan Blair. But it was Duncan’s familiar form standing stalwart there. She felt a wash of peace at that knowledge, so like a brother was he. Still, there was a deep anguish in his eyes she had never seen before.
All was still of a sudden. The drumbeat hushed, and the voices of the people ceased their song. It was to be a moment of peace before her last journey alone, that small stretch between her and the piper. But the silence felt like glass, ready to shatter.
Mother Aila gave her a gentle nudge from behind. “Now’s your time, lass. I canna go farther, but listen for the sound of the wedding bells, for we’ll set them a-rollin’ over the hills. Away with ye, and be wed!”
Such a foreign notion. The bell was rung only for the laird’s family, but she’d not had cause for it to ring for her since the day she was born.
She breathed in the salt air of the sea lake. Something odd tinged it. Smoke, such as should hover after autumn harvests and into the winter. Not on a spring day like this. But perhaps she imagined it.
She took her first step forward and just as she did, a gust tumbled down the hill. Her skirts whipped about her ankles, and she stumbled back against the blow.
Duncan started toward her. But she caught her balance, shook her head to stop him. She would make this journey alone. Then the path would lead her to the castle, just her and him and the bolstering anthem of the pipes.
This one thing, I can do.
She gathered her skirts so her unshod feet could step wild and free through the tall grasses. And slowly, as she reached the top, the drumbeat started again behind her. Steady, strong. A herald for the pipes.
Duncan’s eyes met hers. Something inside of her gave way at the sight of his soul-deep pain, whatever it was. She wished she could lift a hand, smooth away this nameless despair—for he was family. Not MacNaughton, but through ties forged in battle and celebration alike, he was loyal. True.
She rested her hand on his offered arm, wishing away the brief tremble that came over her. He turned with her toward Castle Cumberave, and side by side, they stood facing the long stretch of green ahead of them.
He lifted his mouthpiece, and just as he made to blow, the far-off sound of pipes came.
Not his. And not the nuptial music.
It was a battle song. Meg searched the landscape, trying to place its source. Her eyes landed on the gray cobbles of Cumberave. Her home. All appeared still beneath its corner turrets. No movement came from the tree-covered mountain behind it, nor the loch before it. But the music grew louder. There, from the low walls of the courtyard, a spiral of smoke began to snake its way into the blue sky.
Meg’s feet sprang forward, a force she’d never known propelling her toward the castle. For within those walls stood all she had in the world. Mother. Father. Her twin brother, Graeme.
Someone took hold of her arm with such urgency she whipped back in pain. But she would not stop. An arm wrapped about her waist, pulling her close to the rough wool of a jacket. A familiar voice broke through the pounding in her head.
“Meg.” She fought against it. Sounds of attack grew louder. Mother. Father. Graeme. If she could but climb the last rise—
“Meg.” Duncan. He would help her. He must—“Ye must go, lass.” His voice was low, fervent. “As far as ye can get. ’Tis the Campbells.”
And as sure as he spoke, the Campbell battle cry seemed to shake the earth. “Cruachan!” Moments later, a flag bearing the boar head of their crest unrolled from the tower window.
Her legs were crippled beneath her, and Duncan draped her arm about his neck and guided her stumbling feet away from the scene. The villagers had scattered—some running toward the castle, others retreating for the woodlands.
Only the traveling folk remained near their wagons. All their voices knotted together as they surrounded Meg, creating a wall between her and the castle, until she reached the nearest cart. Duncan helped her up to sit among rough sacks of burlap.
He released her, turning to go. He stopped only long enough to speak to an older man, glancing back at Meg with protection in his eyes. “Meet us at the Tinker’s Heart,” she heard this new, gruff voice say to Duncan. “When all’s safe, we’ll bring her there.”
Duncan nodded, turne
d toward Meg. She saw him take her hands again but could hardly feel a thing. “Go, lass. I’ll see to them.” He pointed at the castle. “Ye’ll be with yer family once more.”
“Duncan.” Meg clasped his hand.
His eyes searched hers.
“Haste ye back, Duncan.”
He did not speak—only gave the briefest bow and charged over the hill. Within moments, the air filled with his music. A song to instill courage in the hearts of the brave. She knew he made himself an easy target in doing so, but she also knew he believed this was the reason he was alive. For such a moment as this.
The Tinkers carried Meg to safety several miles away, deep within the shade of the forest. ’Twas a good many hours before all was quiet and the patriarch of these travelers, a man they called Thistle Jimmy, escorted Meg back to Tinker’s Heart. In truth, the rustic landmark was their own site, this outline of rocks in the shape of a large heart in the ground. Yet for as long as Meg could remember, they’d shared it with the MacNaughtons on days like today—for the final knot-tying ceremony of the tartans after the bride and groom had been wed. But gone were the wedding banners that had flapped in the wind here scarce hours before. Burned to ashes. A mockery of the peace this day was to begin.
Meg knelt, brushing away the debris. “Hold fast the clan words,” she whispered and grasped for them. I hope in God.
But covered in ashes like Job himself, she found no hope. For Duncan did not come. Not a single soul came. In the dark of the night, the only sound was a hollow ringing. A death bell, tolling slow and solemn into the night for three different souls: Mother. Father. Graeme.
Meg knew not how long she waited there. But the moon was high and bright when she finally stood, pulled gently to her feet by the man who’d brought her. Behind him came a young woman with large, kind eyes, who draped a heavy woolen blanket around her, and Meg realized she’d been shivering. Her numb, bare feet stumbled over the ashes and up into the wagon. It lurched into motion and took them again into the cover of the woods.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 11