“Now!” he said, pulling her up.
“Caden!” she said again. But, even so, he turned instinctively, dragging the woman he intended to wed back toward the keep, where she would be safe—where wee Davie should have remained. By God, he would never let Sorcha go. He would never let that blackguard take her. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he would murder Padruig Caimbeul where he stood.
Chapter Fifteen
It was startling to see how quickly the isle filled with outlanders. Within a matter of hours, tents of all colors and shapes speckled the island from end to end.
High up in the tower, Sorcha described the sight to Caden, and Caden listened, all the while clutching her hand like a man afeared to lose a limb. In his demeanor, Sorcha sensed a measure of apprehension—a matter she attributed to the occasion.
Alec had told them what they’d come for—to witness a handfasting, between a son of Conn and a daughter of Cruithne. And now she recalled a prophecy Una had told her about, prevising a union that was meant to herald a time of peace. What irony this was. When MacAilpín murdered the sons of seven Pecht nations to secure his right to the throne, he broke a blood truce. Thereafter, the sacred relic of the Dalriada kings, the Stone of Destiny, was cursed and destined to bring war to any whose blood was not pure enough to rule two nations as one. The Guardians had been charged with safeguarding An Lia Fàil. But, now that the stone was lost, Sorcha and Caden, together, bore the blood of Scots and Pechts in their veins, as well as Viking and Éire. They could be the prophesied union, but, ironically, they no longer had the Destiny Stone.
Nevertheless, the gathering was a sight to behold.
Sorcha was aghast at the number of folks who’d come following her star—far more than she’d ever seen congregate in one place, certainly never in the Vale.
There was but that once, when King David descended upon them, before his travels into the border lands to secure his holdings after the death of King Henry of England. In fact, that was the day she’d first met Keane’s wife, Lianae, and Lìli had worried all day long about what to serve so many guests.
Sorcha had a taste of that now, but thankfully, there was nothing to fret about in terms of food or supplies. The ships had come laden with every manner of gift. Grains. Herbs. (Some Sorcha had never seen or heard about.) Sheep. Aurochs. (Great, temperamental beasts, and, if they were to remain, would there be room?) Horses, goats, pigs. There were even aged vins from France, and cheeses and smoked meats from the present king of Éire. For his part, King David sent silks in so many colors, all procured from Flanders.
“One and all have claimed their gifts are a tribute to the bride of Dunrònaigh,” said Alec, and both Sorcha and Bess looked at one another in bewilderment.
Forsooth, even with Sorcha’s gift of sight, she could never have foreseen what would come of this visit to Rònaigh; so how could these people? How had they known to follow that star as she had? How could they have predicted she would ever wish to wed the laird of Dunrònaigh?
Caden squeezed Sorcha’s hand, as though to reassure her—or perhaps more to reassure himself—and Sorcha held it tight. “I suppose they will be expecting a wedding,” he said, and Alec and Bess both peered at one another again. The tension in the room was palpable, for Caden had not yet agreed to wed Sorcha. Nor had he broached the subject before now. Of course, he’d said he would never release her, but, then, sharing a bed with her and wedding her were two different things. Almost certainly, Alec meant to set him at ease. “Well, for the time being, they are content enough to attend a festival.”
If so many had come following that star, perhaps Aidan too had come searching for her? “I dinna suppose my brother is among them?”
Alec shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” She turned to peer at Alec with a furrowed brow, and saw that he passed a worried glance to Caden, despite that Caden could not see it. Her lover faced the window, perhaps only imagining what the rest of them could see, and he squeezed Sorcha’s hand one more time.
“What he means, lass, is that, judging by the attendance here, ’tis only a matter of time before all your kinsmen come calling.”
Sorcha nodded, appeased by the explanation. She certainly hoped so, but since she hadn’t seen Aidan since their terrible fight, she wasn’t prepared for a meeting, face to face—particularly if Aidan should take offense to all Sorcha had planned.
And yet, this was to be her life, and from the instant Sorcha had left the Vale, she’d understood very well that nothing would be the same again. Aidan must also come to terms with this truth, as there was nothing remaining for Sorcha in the Vale. She took a turn squeezing Caden’s hand.
“I suppose,” Caden said, pausing for an instant. “If they have come for a handfasting, ’tis a handfasting we should give them … Aye?” He turned to pull Sorcha into his arms, and she could hear Alec and Bessie give a little gasp. Sorcha held her breath. “What say you, my lady, Sorcha? Would you have me as your mon, even blind, and ill-tempered though I may be?”
The breath left Sorcha all at once. She lifted her hand to touch Caden’s cheek, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “Yes, my laird. I will. Come what may, I will be at your side.”
“Her skirt was grass green silk,
Her mantle, velvet fine
At every lock of her horse’s mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.”
The mood was gay. Song and dance ruled the day. Lutes thrummed. Reeds hummed.
Inspired by the coming ceremony, men and women leapt over broomsticks, a ritual wherein, before the eyes of men, couples passed over a makeshift threshold, to symbolize a journey from old lives to new, thereby wedding themselves together. It was a gesture more for those who had no threshold of their own to carry a bride through. Alas, the ceremony would not be so easy for Sorcha and Caden. As much as she wished to wed the man, she would have preferred jumping over the broomstick. Very soon, all eyes would be upon them, and Sorcha had never enjoyed too much attention. How many festivals had she attended and never felt a part of?
Too many to count.
Aside from the youthful antics of her brother Keane and her sister Cailin, Sorcha had never witnessed such tomfoolery. Auld Moira grabbed a stranger’s hand, but he shied away, shaking his head. Undaunted, Moira moved on to another, lifting her skirts to prove she still had a nest to lay in.
All the while, Sorcha laughed, recounting the day’s events into Caden’s ear, so he could laugh along with her. Whatever dark, pensive mood he had harbored in the tower, it was gone now, for it was quite impossible not to enjoy oneself while everyone else was having so much fun.
In truth, the happenings in the Vale now seemed long years fled. It was difficult to believe so little time had passed. But, of course, it had been quite some time since there had been aught worth celebrating in Dubhtolargg. Even Kellen’s marriage to Constance had been met with disapproval, and then the accident happened, and, well, Una …
Today, however, there was no pall over the day. She only wished Caden could see every smile and see all the revelry. But she tucked it all away so she could tell him about it in the wee hours.
Taking advantage of the occasion, Bess and Alec were taken by the spirit. They too joined hands, jumping over the broomstick, and then, laughing together, off they went to share a wedded kiss in some secluded corner.
Awaiting the hour, Sorcha held Caden by the hand, reassuring him that she was close, and, despite the flutters in her belly, she took great joy in the magic of the day.
Dressed in a bride’s gown belonging to Caden’s mother, one that was far too short, Sorcha clapped her hands and sang all the songs, laughing with chagrin whenever she didn’t know all the words.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Caden asked.
In his left hand, he clutched the ash wood staff Afric had made for him. Looking quite distinguished, he had donned a crimson tunic, with gold trim and black trews. Tall and handsome, and very, very blond, his
hair shone like silver threads beneath a waning sun.
Caden relished the unreserved joy in Sorcha’s voice.
For a moment, he allowed himself to forget all the things Alec had revealed, and despite that he’d assigned a man to sharpen his axe, he tapped his foot and bounced his head in time with the reverie.
It was incredible to note how keen his senses had become. He could hear every child’s squeal. Every note of the lute. Every whisk of every skirt that passed by. He smelled every sweet tart in every pair of hands… and he could smell the lavender-infused water that lingered in Sorcha’s hair.
A sense of pride overwhelmed him, and he wished with all his heart that he could see her—not simply with his hands, but with his God-given eyes. He wanted to see the twinkle in her eyes when she smiled, and the way her nose twitched ever so slightly when he nuzzled his face against her cheek. He knew these things in a place deep in his heart, but that was not enough.
“Where is Alec?” he asked, wanting him nearby.
“Off with Bess,” she said, and then she began to clap again, and sing.
“Her skirt was grass green silk,
Her mantle, velvet fine
At every lock of her horse’s mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.”
In anticipation of the lighting of the Tein-Éigin—the Need Fire—all flames on the isle were extinguished, every spark in every oven, every flame in every hearth. A new flame would be lit and dispersed, from the sacred bonfire, once it was blessed. And, then, at the end of the celebration, all the villagers would put their torches to the flame and take a piece of the Tein-Éigin home and begin again a new year.
As twilight approached, the island began to fall silent, as wee ones napped in the fields wherever their little legs dropped them. Mothers lounged about on the hillside in anticipation of the night’s continuing festivities, drinking mead and ale.
Men lifted their brows as maidens passed, offering them a wink and a blush. It was the one time of the year women had the right to choose, and on more than one occasion, a shy, sweet lass made away with a husband who’d somehow failed to see her all year long.
Offshore, the ships’ lights, one by one, snuffed out, honoring the traditions of Beltane. The twilight of the year was knocking upon the door—the time between times, when darkness ebbed, and summer light returned. After a time, only the twinkle of the destiny star remained, along with the soft glow of a fertile moon. In the final moments, when day yielded to night, it was as though the breath of the world paused. And then, all at once, mothers ruffled their younglings’ heads, waking them to see the bonfire lit.
“Huzzah!” shouted the villagers all at once.
“Huzzah!” screamed the children.
Symbolizing all four corners of the earth, young maidens, not yet in their first blush, carried new torches, and each to their own sphere, put a light to the embers. It took a long, suspenseful moment, with everyone bathed in moon shadow, before, all at once, the flame leapt up and climbed into the tower of wood, setting a beacon unto the night. Its light cast orange tints upon the surrounding faces.
Children ran about, rubbing faerie dust from their eyes. Visitors and villagers alike raised toasts to the Goddess of Light. And thereafter, beneath the changing light of sun, moon and stars, little girls chased little boys. Men and women strolled through the Tein-Éigin smoke to purify themselves and invite fertility. One by one, all the livestock, old and new, were driven through, also to encourage fertility. It was a sight to behold.
Who would have thought but a short time past Sorcha would have found herself in such a glorious moment, with a new home to call her own?
What might Una say if she saw me now? What would Aidan do? Would they be happy for me? Would they clap and sing and make merry?
Certainly, all these people were overjoyed, and—
Sorcha gasped, suddenly spying a familiar face in the crowd. But nay … it couldn’t be … She stared across the dancing flames, just to be certain her eyes did not deceive her.
That man looked like Lìli. In fact, it was a bit like peering at herself in a glass, but a man.
He was surrounded by people Sorcha did not recognize, along with a strange beautiful woman who also seemed a tad familiar. A very, very bad feeling settled in Sorcha’s gut, for this, she understood, must be Padruig Caimbeul … her sire.
If you stay, you may face the devil you flee.
Alec had known. Somehow, he had known. Did Caden know as well? Surely not. She swallowed hard, praying she must be wrong. Excusing herself, her limbs weak with fear, she left Caden standing with Afric, for but a moment, and went in search of Alec and Bess. She found them and pulled them aside, and asked first about the woman standing beside Padruig. “Who is that?”
“Brighde,” Bess said, smiling. “The dear lady has presided over this festival for nearly every year since I have memory.”
Sorcha lifted her chin. “Brighde,” she said, repeating the name. She furrowed her brow, for there was something else about the woman she couldn’t place. She was tall and graceful, with golden-red hair. Indeed, she was as radiant as the bonfire’s flame, and though it seemed inconceivable, she had a beauty far more brilliant than even Lìli’s. But of course, in that case, far, far lovelier than Sorcha could ever hope to be.
Sorcha had the tiniest instant of envy, and she was grateful Caden couldn’t see the woman, for she couldn’t imagine why any man would choose her over that long-limbed beauty. But then, that man at the woman’s side turned to face Sorcha again and prickles of fear flew down her spine.
He knew her.
Padruig knew her.
Her heart beat painfully as she hurried back to Caden’s side, taking him by the hand and squeezing. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t. Because, even if she did, what could he do? Caden was blind. The song and dance continued, but Sorcha was no longer singing along.
“Her skirt was grass green silk,
Her mantle, velvet fine
At every lock of her horse’s mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.”
Across the bonfire, Padruig Caimbeul stood with his mail-gloved hands behind his back. Fully vested in his armor, the metal of his mail reflected the orange glow of firelight. He was biding his time. There were too many people in attendance to simply make off with his daughter, so he waited for a better opportunity, amusing himself at the expense of others.
Crass and dull. These people were little more than superstitious peasants, and, for all that, they’d somehow drawn so many pilgrims to their isle—for what? The lighting of a ceremonial fire?
They were rude and dimwitted.
The very notion of linking his blood to theirs was an anathema to his being. If, by chance, he had the opportunity to take Sorcha before she said those vows, he would surely do so. And once he had the girl in his possession, no one would dare presume to tell him what he could, or could not do, with his own flesh and blood.
And nevertheless, there was one person who could still ruin everything. According to David’s law, he would be the one man with the right to decide Sorcha’s future. Aidan dún Scoti.
Fortunately, Padruig had not yet spied him, and neither did he recognize anyone else at this cock-shriveling festival. He watched an old woman go by, raising her skirts, and showing him her wrinkled hairy mons. By God, her lips hung lower than his balls! King David would certainly revile these people, for they were Godless and stupid.
Not for the first time, he stole a glance at his daughter, and wondered if anyone else had noticed the uncanny resemblance between them. It was clear to him that Sorcha was his blood, for she was the spitting image of his faithless daughter Lìli, even down to the color of her hair. But she was lovelier than Lìli, even if she did have something of her whore of a mother.
And nevertheless, for all Riannag dún Scoti’s beauty—or Sorcha’s for that matter—neither could hold a candle to the woman standing beside him. If he was distracted from his task, i
t was because of her. With all the kissing and hugging and humping going on, he had half a mind to grab the bitch by her shining golden mane and drag her down to the beach to put his cock into her mouth—which, by the by, wouldn’t stop yapping, even for a God-given moment. “She hails from Dubhtolargg,” the woman was saying, conversationally.
Padruig rolled his eyes. “Aye, so, I’m told,” he said, readjusting his scrotum, revolted by the thought of the old woman.
“Such a pity. As I hear tell there are none remaining to enherite.”
Padruig turned to look at the woman. “No one?”
The woman shook her head. “Nay, for Caden Mac Swein has no heirs.”
Padruig blinked. “Not even a sister?”
The woman shook her head, smiling ruefully. “Sadly, no’ a one. I suppose once he’s wed, if he should die without an heir, King David will award his lands and his bride to her sire.”
Padruig lifted his chin with a sudden revelation. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, realizing that if he should challenge the man publicly to a contest, Caden Mac Swein would have no choice but to fight for Sorcha … or release her. He did not have the look of a man who would simply allow his woman to go free. So, then, if he simply waited until they spoke their vows, and if he slew Mac Swein, he would then profit twofold, for then he could have his daughter, as well as all these lands, meager though they might be. God’s truth, he was no fool. Why should he turn away a single copper? And those supplies that had been brought here … those alone were worth a fortune. Padruig’s cock hardened as he listened to the woman go on about Dunrònaigh’s laird. Nay, not because of her beauty. Not anymore. Greed was a far more powerful aphrodisiac. So, now, he would bide his time… and once the moment presented itself, he would swoop down like the raven he was, and feast upon the carcass of the laird of Dunrònaigh.
Maiden from the Mist (Guardians of the Stone Book 4) Page 14