MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  To her relief, 'twas Rane who emerged from the fog, a dagger in one hand, a couple of small wooden objects in the other. He looked even more like an invading Viking this morn as he strode toward her, his brow furrowed, breaths of mist curling about him and silvering his hair.

  "Good morn," she managed, trying to convince her racing heart that Rane was neither pillaging Norseman nor seductive enchanter, but simply an ally. Never mind that he was as handsome as Lucifer, as well made as Adonis…

  "Morn? 'Tis past midday." He grinned, his teeth a bright contrast to the dull afternoon. "The Father's already come and gone with bread and cheese."

  Florie didn't care. She wasn't hungry. All she'd thought about upon awakening was seeing Rane again. 'Twas a sickness, she decided, one for which she had no cure. No amount of reason convinced her pulse to keep to its composed pace when Rane was in sight.

  "But never fear," he continued, sheathing his dagger and reaching into his pouch for a linen bundle, "I fought Methuselah for his share and won." He offered her the parcel of food.

  Florie accepted the gift, noting the way his fingers lingered on hers. She glanced at his hand. "Ye seem to have suffered no scars for your battle with the cat," she jested.

  "'Twas more a battle of wits," he replied with a saucy wink.

  "Yet ye won?" she teased, arching a brow.

  He gave her a devilish grin. A friend, Florie reminded herself, he was a friend. A friend with crystal eyes the transparent shade of aquamarine…

  She unwrapped the bundle of hard cheese and bran bread. For one ungracious moment, her spirits sank. She wished she were back in Stirling, where she was accustomed to supping on venison pies and sweet lemon crokain, pickled salmon and roast Warden pears. But since a beggar could not choose his own meals, 'twas what she must content herself with. And if 'twas good enough for Rane, 'twas good enough for her.

  "Thank ye." Hoping her disappointment didn't show on her face, she broke off a piece of the dark bread and nodded toward the wooden pieces he carried. "What do ye have there?"

  He shrugged, then said enigmatically, "A cure for boredom." At her frown he explained. "Ye'll soon tire of chasin' Methuselah, listenin' to Father Conan's sermons, and watchin' me build doors," he said, turning one of the curious carved figures between his fingers to study it.

  Florie thought watching him build a door was anything but boring.

  He handed her one of the pieces. 'Twas carved roughly in the shape of a man.

  "A chess piece?" she guessed.

  "Hnefatafl."

  She arched a brow.

  "Hnefatafl," he repeated. "'Tis an ancient game taught me by my father. This is a toefler, one o' the warriors who guards the king."

  She frowned at the piece, which resembled the knight of a chessboard. The figure had a sword and a rough helm, but it lacked the articulated armor and grim battle features that would bring the warrior to life. She held a hand out for his dagger. "May I?"

  He handed her the knife. 'Twas not as precise as her goldsmith's tools, but 'twas sharp. The wood was less yielding than the soft gold to which she was accustomed, but she managed to gradually carve away little chips until she achieved the effect she desired.

  So engaged was she that she didn't notice how close Rane had drawn until he spoke.

  "By Odin," he breathed, "'tis wondrous."

  She glanced up at him, knowing full well her father would disagree. He'd tell Florie her work was grotesquely coarse. Still, the genuine amazement in Rane's eyes sent a flush of pride through her. "'Tis crude," she argued halfheartedly.

  "Nae." His expression was serious. "'Tis ingenious."

  Flustered by his praise, she set the finished piece upon the church step. "What's the other one?"

  "This is Hnefi, the king."

  She studied that one as well, deciding it needed a more ornate crown and maybe a scepter. This time, she was all too aware of Rane's attention as he watched her sculpt the tiny piece. Her grip faltered, and she slipped with the dagger, pricking her finger.

  "Shite!" she hissed before she thought, dropping the knife.

  He seized her hand to look at it before she could pop her finger into her mouth, as was her habit when she nicked it at her workbench.

  "My dagger's too large for such fine work," he muttered. Then, before she had time to be shocked, he licked the pad of his thumb and pressed it to her bloody finger. At her stunned expression he explained, "To stop the bleedin'."

  It sent her thoughts reeling to think that his spit mingled with her blood. 'Twas distressingly…intimate.

  When the flow ceased, they agreed that Rane would roughly carve the figures and explain the game to her. Later, when he found a smaller knife, Florie could refine the pieces.

  The carving took most of the day, but when 'twas finished, Rane sat cross-legged before her, placing a plank marked with squares on the step between them.

  He rubbed his hands together eagerly, placing the king in the center square of the board. "Hnefi goes here on his throne. And his warriors," he said, placing the lighter wood pieces in a diamond shape surrounding the king, "guard him. These toeflor," he explained, arranging the dark pieces in a symmetrical pattern along the four edges of the table, "are the opposin' warriors. They're charged with capturin' the Hnefi before he can escape to one o' his castles." He indicated the four corners.

  "But there are twice as many toeflor."

  "Ah, but the king's guard is quite powerful. Ye'll see."

  She did see. Halfway through the first game, even though he obliged by giving her the larger dark army, his guard had surrounded and removed over half of her pieces.

  Frowning, she moved one of her warriors tentatively forward, keeping her finger on the piece.

  "Are ye certain ye wish to move him there?" Rane asked.

  She studied the board. "Fairly certain."

  "Hm."

  She bit the corner of her lip, unsure whether Rane meant to assist or hinder her. "Would ye move him there?"

  He sniffed. "Maybe not. Not yet. Not while the Hnefi advances on that corner, that unprotected corner."

  "Ah." She put her piece back and moved another to block the Hnefi's escape.

  He moved a light piece beside her dark and captured another of her men.

  "Varlet!" she cried, swatting at his arm. "Ye weren't helpin' me. Ye've taken another!"

  "Aye, but if I hadn't warned ye, my Hnefi would be in that far corner now."

  She sighed. He was right. She may have sacrificed a piece, but she hadn't lost the game. Not yet.

  "Aha!" she said, finally hemming in one of his pieces and snatching it triumphantly from the table.

  He slid one of his toeflor across the board and returned the favor.

  "Damn!" she said, clapping her hand across the curse too late.

  He chuckled, taunting her by wiggling her captured piece between his fingers.

  So they continued to play the game, no sooner ending one round than they began another, advancing and attacking and seizing the wooden pieces with all the ferocity of real kings at war. 'Twas little wonder, Florie decided, that the ancient Norsemen sailed so eagerly to battle, if they played this game with half the ruthlessness Rane did. As a victor he was irritatingly arrogant, but 'twas not long before Florie, fueled by revenge, finally managed to outmaneuver his pieces and dominate the board.

  Naturally, after she won a round he sought retribution, and so they continued, like warriors obsessed, hour upon hour. When the Father brought supper, they resumed the game in the sanctuary, scarcely pausing to eat and hardly mindful of the priest's attempts at conversation. Finally, Father Conan abandoned hope and left them to their vice.

  Ere long the cat streaked past for his evening prowl. A distant wolf howled at the materializing stars. The half-moon rose, then peaked, finally starting its descent. And still Rane and Florie waged war by candlelight.

  At last, Rane let out an enormous yawn. "Enough."

  "Just one more game," Florie plea
ded.

  " 'Tis nigh morn, darlin'."

  Florie didn't care. She wasn't sleepy in the least. Indeed, she couldn't recall having so much fun. Even working far into the night over a particularly ornate piece of jewelry didn't please her half as well as poring over these silly wooden pieces with Rane.

  "But I've just conquered ye," she taunted.

  "I care not."

  "Indeed?" She pouted, something she'd never done before in her life. "I thought ye were the son o' fierce Viking warriors."

  His grin was sleepy and unguarded, and it made her heart melt. "Fear not. The battle is far from over, sweet. For tonight, slumber. But take care ye don't oversleep, for I will triumph on the morrow."

  She returned his grin. Curse his weary bones. The morrow seemed an eternity to wait.

  Rane was engaged in the strangest dream. He was a toefler in silver armor, guarding against a vast opposing army. But instead of protecting the Hnefi, he kept vigil over Florie.

  At first 'twas an easy task. Florie remained on the throne, and one by one, he picked off the dark warriors advancing on her. But then their number increased, and Florie refused to stay where she was safe. He battled fiercely, but every time he slew one knight, two more would appear, and Florie was growing farther and farther distant…

  "Hist! Rane!"

  The whisper shredded his dream like silk, but Rane, still caught in its threads, awoke and spun toward the sudden sound, whipping out his dagger.

  His movement knocked the board from crouching Florie's hands, scattering wooden pieces to the floor with a clatter. Startled, she gasped and scurried backward.

  "What the devil?" he demanded, his dagger aimed at her breast.

  "God's eyes!" she hissed. "'Tis me—Florie."

  Disoriented, he shook free the dregs of the dream and lowered his blade, grumbling, "'Tisn't wise to startle a sleepin' toefler."

  "A what?"

  "Huntsman," he corrected irritably, rubbing at his eye. Thor's hammer, he'd never had so vivid a dream. But then, he rarely went to bed at so late an hour. He peered at Florie through one blurry eye. "Didn't ye sleep at all?"

  "Oh, aye." She picked up the board and, recovering quickly from her fright, began to hum a merry tune as she replaced the pieces. Apparently, even the threat of his dagger couldn't chase the cheer from her this morn. "The sun's been up for nigh three hours now."

  "Ye went to bed an hour before it rose," he accused.

  Her face blossomed into a wicked smile. "Who can sleep when there's war to be waged?"

  Rane was exhausted. After all, he'd been fighting all night in the land of dreams, a far direr battle than any waged on a hnefatafl board. Still, the sight of her eager face—her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparking like steel on a whetstone, her lips curving into that enticing, mischievous grin—seduced him like tender young clover seduced a doe.

  He supposed 'twas his own fault. He'd introduced her to the cursed game, knowing full well how addictive it could be.

  He sighed, sheathing his dagger, then sat up. He scrubbed at his gritty eyes. "'Tis your strategy, I'd wager," he groused, "challengin' me to battle when my wits are only half engaged."

  She flashed a coy smile. "Maybe."

  He helped her pick up the toefler pieces, stopping to examine one of the dark-colored men. Apparently, while he slept, Florie had been toiling away. The warrior he held was carved with intricate designs, scale armor, and a buckler shield, and its face bore a braided beard. Another warrior carried an ax over one shoulder, and his face was obscured by a nose-plate helm.

  Rane picked up a light piece. A cloak, carved with ripples and folds, covered the man's back, the eyes were blank hollows, and he carried a cat in one arm. "Is this…"

  "Father Conan."

  He shook his head at the expert handiwork. It did look like the priest. How had she done it? How had she managed to capture Father Conan's essence in a tiny piece of wood?

  "I found a knife in the storage room," she explained.

  He glanced up at her. 'Twas obvious in the way she bit at her lower lip that she waited for his comments, but he hardly knew what to say. Never had he seen such craftsmanship. "How did ye… What… When did ye have…"

  "I've been awake for a while now," she admitted.

  "These are…" he said, snatching up the pieces, one by one, from the board, at a loss for words. "These are…magnificent. How did ye learn to…"

  She shrugged but, beneath her seeming nonchalance, beamed at his words. "I'm accustomed to workin' in gold, but carvin' wood isn't so different."

  He examined the priest again. "This looks exactly like Father Conan."

  Encouraged by his praise, she placed a dark piece in his palm. He turned it over. A stern bearded figure in a figured doublet scowled up at him. In one hand was a broadsword. The other made a fist. And hanging about his neck was a large medallion with a crest he recognized.

  "Lord Gilbert!" he shouted, laughing. She'd captured the marrow of the handsome man, from his neatly trimmed beard to the furrow that seemed to have taken up residence upon his brow since his recent marriage.

  The depth of Florie's talent overwhelmed Rane. With her skill, he realized, she could create priceless pieces of art. He imagined her carving magnificent flagons for Lord Gilbert's table, making new reliquaries for the reconstructed churches of Edinburgh, fashioning chessmen for the amusement of the Scots royals themselves! With such a gift, Florie would one day be a successful artisan…

  If only she weren't a fugitive bound for the gallows.

  His smile faded. He didn't want to think about it. Not yet.

  Several times in the last few days, dread had reared its dragon's head, threatening to incinerate the thin fabric of hope that shielded Florie. Thus far Rane had managed to relegate the nasty creature to the dimmest corners of his mind. He must eventually war with the beast, he knew, and his heart trembled at the thought. But while time was still his ally, he wouldn't dwell on the battle ahead. 'Twould serve no purpose.

  Exactly when his heart had shifted, he didn't know. Maybe at the very beginning, when she'd trusted him to pull the arrow out.

  Or when she'd nestled against him in her sleep.

  Or sobbed upon his shoulder.

  Or pressed thirsting lips to his.

  Or sighed gratefully when he brought her the basin of warm water.

  Or cheered when she beat him at hnefatafl.

  Whenever it had happened, the wee thief had stealthily stolen his heart. And now he could hardly bear to consider what might befall her, because he'd…grown fond of her.

  'Twas a curious thing, he decided, to be fond of a lass. He often desired lasses. They kept him amused and aroused with their soft curves and seductive glances. But never had he felt so profound a tenderness as he did for Florie.

  'Twas completely contrary to reason. After all, how much affection could she bear for a man who'd shot her, scalded her, humiliated her?

  Likewise, he shouldn't be attracted to her in the least. He'd seen her at her worst—bloody, sweaty, filthy, fevered. That she was a known outlaw only added to the absurdity of his feelings.

  But rational or not, he admired Florie, truly cared for her, and his soul quivered with a terrible rage when he thought of the travesty of executing such a lass.

  Rane glanced up at Florie just in time to see her sneaking a light-colored piece from the board. He thought he glimpsed the top of a longbow before she enclosed it in her hand.

  "What's that?" he asked, nodding at her fist.

  "Nothin'."

  He knew instantly by her deep blush who the figure was. "Let me see."

  "'Tisn't…'tisn't finished," she lied.

  He seized her hand in his own, trapping her. "Let me see."

  "'Twas… a mistake."

  He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile. "We all make mistakes."

  She frowned. "Let go o' my hand, then, and I'll show ye."

  He knew her too well to fall for her wiles. She'd likel
y stuff the piece down the bosom of her kirtle as soon as he released her. "Show me. Then I'll let ye go."

  "'Tis nothin'. Indeed," she hedged, "I intended to throw it away and make another."

  He grinned, still holding fast to her fist. "All right, then. I refuse to play hnefatafl with ye until ye show me that piece."

  Her brow furrowed so deeply that one would have thought he'd told her he was going to drown her favorite kitten. "Nae."

  "Aye."

  He watched her mull over his demand, but he knew she would eventually surrender. After all, once the hnefatafl flea bit, there was no soothing the itch but with another game.

  With an uneasy sigh, she loosened her fingers, and he pried open her hand. There on her palm was the most detailed figure of all. A bow was slung across the archer's shoulder, and a quiver of arrows rested upon his back. His shirt was belted about his hips, and his hose were even wrinkled at the knees, above the fold of his boots. His long hair spilled over his shoulders, a stray lock falling across his brow, and the mouth had a subtle upward curve to it, as if the figure kept an amusing secret.

  'Twas perfect. Indeed, 'twas so perfect that looking at it sent a strange chill through him, as if he looked upon his own soul.

  He nodded, mirroring the enigmatic expression on the figure. Then, feigning perplexity, he teased, "Who is this? Your foster father? Wat, maybe?"

  Her artistic hackles rose instantly to the bait. "Wat?" Suddenly she realized he jested with her. Not to be outdone, she lifted her chin and countered with a jape of her own. "Aye, 'tis Wat," she told him, her eyes calculating. "Can ye not see the ignorance in his face? The willfulness? The empty gaze that those o' lesser wit—"

  His laughter drowned her words. He clapped his hand to his heart. "Ye've cut me to the quick, lass." Then he took the piece between his finger and thumb and studied it more closely, sobering. "Is this truly how ye see me?"

  "I told ye," she said, lowering her eyes. "'Tis flawed."

  "Nae, 'tis not flawed," he argued. "Indeed, the piece is not so flawed as the man, I fear."

  Her gaze snapped back up to his. "Flawed? Ye're not…" She blushed. "That is, on so small a piece…one cannot capture all the…the intricate aspects of a person's…character."