All Things Merry and Bright

by Kathryn Le Veque et al.

  Elspeth already knew what she would say, and whilst she practiced in her head, one after another, Malcom’s kinsmen were quick to come over and introduce themselves. Eventually, she met every MacKinnon, save Alex, and after a time, Malcom and his father came over, and Iain MacKinnon offered Elspeth yet another hug, squeezing her as vigorously as he dared.

  “Malcom tells me ye’re considering staying to birth your bairn.” He pressed a hand to his heart, and continued. “Daughter mine, it would be the most humbling gift of all, and I would cherish the memory. I remember when this bloke was born, like it were yesterday.”

  Elspeth eyed her husband, smiling, though she wondered if Malcom intended to make her a scapegoat for their eventual departure. So far as she knew, he didn’t mean to linger any longer than the Yuletide. She would have to speak to him later, because, in truth, she would not mind staying to give birth to their child. Page had already assured her that Glenna was an experienced midwife, and how amazing would it be to have the woman who brought both Malcom and his sire into the world, also bring their babe. And speaking of Glenna: She hurried by, saying, “It’s nearly time for thanks giving! Where is that boy?”

  Elspeth spun to face the old woman. “Alex?”

  “Aye, lass.” She frowned. “He’s been hiding away, but he knows we’re soon to gather ’bout the Yule fire. I ha’e some words to speak to him afore we do, and I need him to help me carry the loaves.”

  “I saw him,” said Liana, with the unreserved glee of one sibling tattling on another. “He’s running aboot here, somewhere, making himself a nuisance… as usual.”

  “He’s a wee broody boy,” said Glenna, and then muttered some unintelligible oath.

  He’ll grow out of it soon enough,” said his Da. “And sooner yet when he sees the gift Malcom brought him.”

  But Glenna hurried away, vowing, “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll be giving his rotten little bottom a guid reason to blush!”

  “Tis aboot time!” said Liana.

  “Patience,” said her father. “He’ll grow up in due time.”

  “Well, I say we begin withoot him,” Liana suggested, and then, “Come on, Elspeth, let’s go get the Yule bread. We’ll carry it together.”

  Elspeth gave the MacKinnon her pardon, and followed after Malcom’s sister, listening to the girl chatter endlessly all the way back up the hill. “I’ll ne’er wed,” she said, giving Elspeth a saucy glance. “Not till I find myself a mon like my Da. Tell me, true, Elspeth Pendragon, does Malcom ne’er vex ye?”

  “Not often,” she said. And then, realizing it wasn’t true, remembering the day they’d met near Llanthony—how very cross he’d made her—she said, “Well, not so much as before.”

  Liana linked her arm about Elspeth’s, demanding, “You must tell me everything! Everything! I want to know how you met! And dinna forget a wee detail.”

  A mournful reed played somewhere beyond the light of the cruach-theine. This year’s bonfire was bigger than the year before, and it only figured, because, naturally, everything should be bigger and better for Malcom.

  Alex kept to himself, brooding, although it wouldn’t have mattered much where he sat, because nobody seemed to care where he was. It was all about Malcom tonight. Proof of that was plain to see. For quite some time, he sat, alone, on one of the logs that hadn’t yet made it into the Yule fire, whittling furiously at a small stick with the knife he’d retrieved from his mother. But, of course, she hadn’t had a clue why he’d put it there beneath the threshold to begin with, and she’d scolded him for leaving his “toys” about—as though his blade were a wee plaything. That galled him, but it galled him far more that his father still wouldn’t allow him spar with aught but a wooden sword. He’d warrant that Malcom had had his own sword by the time he was Alex’s age, and Alex could well imagine father and son sparring like men—much the same as they’d caroused over the lighting of the cruach-theine. That used to be Alex’s job—to put the first torch to the kindling, and he’d watched, full of resentment, as Malcom had accepted the task.

  Somehow, Malcom’s witchy wife must be at fault. He wished he could run away—at least until she was gone. None of his strategies were working. Elspeth had but stabbed her foot against his knife, and then stood in the middle of their hall, admiring Alex’s handiwork, all the while bleeding over his mother’s fresh rushes. The iron hadn’t fazed her at all, the holly and the ivy didn’t make her wince, and he was coming to believe that, if she was any sort of witch at all, it was only in the sense that she had bewitched his family, enchanting them one by one. He’d watched while his Da fussed over her, and his minny as well. His sister Liana seemed to have found herself a long-lost friend. And, clearly, his brother was so besotted over the lady, he’d barely noticed Alex’s rancor—and so it was that he was startled when Malcom appeared from nowhere and sat beside him on the overturned log.

  “Hello,” said his brother, the tenor of his voice as low and confident as his Da’s.

  For a long, awkward moment, Alex sat, tongue-tied. Up close, he could see that Malcom’s face had a long, thin scar. “Hello,” he replied, but he had a difficult time of it, swallowing past the knot that rose in his throat.

  Truly, seated beside Malcom Ceann Ràs—hot head as so many of his kinsmen called him—Alex could easily imagine his giant of a brother felling twenty or more men. Mayhap even Fifty. Or a hundred. By the looks of the sword he carried at his side, he must be strong as an ox.

  “What are you doing?” Malcom asked.

  Alex said, trying to sound fierce, “Making an arrow sharp enough to kill a boar.”

  “Aye?”

  “Aye,” said Alex, nodding. “I mean to kill one next year.”

  Malcom nodded at the wooden shaft in his hand. “With that?”

  Alex nodded, though his eyes shifted again to the sword, wondering: Was it the sword he’d used to stab FitzSimon in the back? The story must be true; everyone said so.

  Only by chance, when Malcom was seventeen, he’d come across a man in the woods, with an arrow pointed—or so Malcom had thought—at their mother’s head. Naturally, he did the only thing any man could do: he slew the man. It was only afterward that Malcom realized it was Page’s own Da he killed, and the arrow FitzSimon had nocked was intended to slay another man who was holding their mother captive. But that alone shouldn’t be enough to recommend Malcom as any sort of champion, and Alex couldn’t imagine that a brother who was worth his salt could go on so many years, ignoring his kin, and never acknowledging his only brother.

  Malcom, so it seemed, had followed his gaze to the sword. He drew it out of its scabbard, turning the tip skyward, so that his large hands gripped the shining silver hilt. “Perchance wouldn’t you rather slay a boar with this?”

  Alex’s eyes widened, and then Malcom went on to say, “It belonged to Robert de Bellême.”

  Alex’s eyes widened even more. His jaw dropped. “The Devil Bellême?” Even so far north, and so many years later, they’d heard tales of him.

  “Aye,” Malcom said. “He offered King Henry this sword as a token of his fealty, but later betrayed Henry, and Henry was forced to imprison him. Thereafter, Henry gave the sword to Stephen, and when he became King, Stephen presented it to me.” He lifted up the sword, his gaze climbing the length of it. “Alas, tis no longer a symbol of Stephen’s affection for me, but it can still wrest the head clean off a boar. I’d warrant you’d need a bit more muscle to try it, but if you practice oft enough, you’ll be sure to do it.”

  Mouth still agape, Alex’s eyes lifted to his brother’s face. “For me?”

  Malcom nodded and handed over the sword, offering it to Alex, and Alex took it, but Malcom must have anticipated its weight in Alex’s hands, because he very gently guided the sword down so that it’s tip embedded into the soft ground.

  A real steel sword!

  “I’ll show you how to use it,” Malcom offered, and all Alex’s fury dissipated as he stood, admiring the etchings
on the hilt—intricate markings unlike any he’d ever seen.

  The blade itself gleamed by the light of the moon, shining with a halo of blue. It must have been carved by a master blacksmith, because the metal was smooth, with nary a mark—as though it remained untried, despite how many battled it had seen.

  Very, very carefully, feeling quite important to have been gifted such a venerable gift, Alex carefully slid his fingers across the blade’s edge, feeling its sharpness.

  “Truly? All mine?” he asked again, hardly believing it could be true. And then, a soberer thought occurred to him, and he made sure to ask, “An’ ye asked my Da if I can have it, aye?”

  Malcom nodded. “I did. Though you’re fortunate, because I didna get my own sword till I was three and ten. You know how father can be.”

  “Aye, but I’m only eleven,” Alex said soberly, and Malcom reassured him.

  “He said ye were braw enough to wield it.” And then he winked at Alex in a conspiratorial manner. “At any rate, what else could he say when we come bearing gifts?”

  Alex laughed happily. He wanted to leap up and down.

  Across the field, two burly men were hauling over a large coffer to present to his mother. “Would you like to go see what else we brought?”

  Alex nodded, and Malcom, rather than reach down to retrieve the sword, simply asked. “Would you like to leave it here, or d’ ye mind if I wield it one last time? I promise to carry it straight to your bower thereafter, and mount it where’er ye please.”

  Alex sorely wished he could carry the sword himself, and just to be certain, he gave it a hefty tug. It wouldn’t budge. Still, he smiled as he released the sword, and said, puffing his chest, “Since it’ll be your last time, you can carry it awhile.” He crossed his arms, nodding magnanimously, and said, “I’ll show you were to put it later.”

  Malcom chuckled. “Aye, then brother. Let’s go watch our mother ooh and awe. Shall we?”

  Alex nodded as his elder brother hoisted up his brand-new sword so easily and put it back into his scabbard, saying. “I been wanting to know ye so long, and I thank ye kindly for such a hearty welcome.”

  Alex’s face flushed hotly, thinking that, the very instant his mother finished opening all her presents, he must hie himself quickly to the manor and undo all his ill-conceived efforts. Side by said, the brothers walked along, Alex swaggering with pride.

  “Oh!” exclaimed his mother as they neared. And suddenly, Alex could see why. The coffer was filled to the brim with girly gowns and golden trinkets—all fine gifts, but none so fine as the sword his brother brought him. And he found himself feeling proud to have such a brawny sibling, who could carry the sword of the Devil Bellême on his hip.

  Someday, when he was strong enough to wield it himself, he vowed to wield it with honor. He would use it only for good, and in so doing, he would wipe all trace of that Devil Bellême from the memory of the steel. After all, this was turning out to be a fine Yuletide—a very fine Yuletide, indeed.

  Chapter Six

  Meanwhile, further up the hillside, inside the house, Elspeth followed Liana through the festooned hall and into the attached kitchen, where Glenna stood, angrily stacking wreaths of freshly cooled bread—three per pile, each loaf separated by cloth, for a total of nine—eight after Liana attempted to lift one of the piles and the topmost wreath tumbled to the ground.

  “Oh, no!” she said, with dismay.

  “There’s plenty extra,” said Glenna, and she proceeded to grab the broom from behind the kitchen door to clean up the mess. “Ach, now! What’s this?”

  She bent to lift up a rusty old horseshoe, turning it in her hand with a look of dumb surprise. Only then, her eyes narrowed, and it occurred to Elspeth: Separately, none of these occurrences had any true implication, but altogether, they certainly did—the iron knife placed beneath the threshold, horseshoes hidden behind the doors, the holly and ivy strewn about the hall, and the overabundance of salt in the Yule bread. Someone had been warding the house and family against witchery, and she had a good mind who that someone must be: a certain little boy who should remain nameless, but who had been casting rude glances at her since she and Malcom arrived.

  As though verifying her suspicions, Glenna said, “Alex, y’ wee demon,” and she shook her head. “I’ll be having a wee jaw with that lad, an’ he’ll be thankful if his Da dinna take a strap to his arse.” The old woman met Elspeth’s gaze, and Elspeth realized that she, too, had come to the same conclusion. There was an apology in her gaze, but Liana seemed none the wiser.

  So, it seemed, whatever sentiments Alex had, none of the others shared it, and therefore, Elspeth resolved to banish her worries, giving Glenna a grateful smile and nod.

  Moving forward to lift up one of the remaining two piles, she laughed. “I wonder if I should carry yours, Liana, now that you’ve disposed of one.”

  “You could hardly be less graceful,” the girl said jovially. “But I will trade you. Already, you’re carrying more than I!” She cast a glance down at Elspeth’s rounded belly and smiled brilliantly.

  “Nay, I can manage,” said Elspeth. And she did. But, upon arriving back at the bonfire, she was surprised to find Alex side by side with Malcom, his aura changed. In fact, it appeared now to be much the same as Malcom’s, and he was grinning broadly as he watched Page empty the coffer they’d brought her. “What are they looking at?” asked Liana, curiously.

  Elspeth smiled. “I didn’t realize he meant to bring it out yet,” she said. “You should go see for yourself. There are gifts for you, as well.”

  “For me?” Liana said, aghast, and nearly tripped, once again nearly dropping her stack of bread. She yelped, and Elspeth gave her a bit of help, with no one the wiser, righting the bread stack before it could topple. Only Glenna seemed to notice her intervention, but the old woman smiled knowingly and gave Elspeth a conspiratorial wink—so unexpected that Elspeth nearly lost her stack as well.

  “Here now,” Glenna said. “Let me take them from you, and you run along, too. I’ll manage on my own.”

  “Art certain?”

  “Quite,” the old woman said, grinning. “The Goddess abides.” And she took the stack of Yule bread so easily, shifting Elspeth’s loaves onto her own so agilely that she could have been a court juggler, and she very well should have been, because she was a sight, carrying Yule wreaths, eight high. “Ach, lass, who d’ ye think’s been carrying the lot till now. “Go be with your family, dear.”

  Elspeth blinked, looking closer at the woman’s aura. It was threaded with pink, and pink, of course, was the color shared by dewines. In days of yore, that’s how they’d recognized one another. Only how had she not realized sooner? She’d been so busy feeling like an outsider, and worrying that Malcom’s family might not accept her. It had never occurred to her that she might encounter one of her own so far north.

  Glenna was a dewine, as her people were known. Translated more precisely, they were enchantresses, bards, prophets and seers. Dewines held the earth in great esteem and believed all beings were connected—living and otherwise. Magik was but another word for transformation, conjuration and creation, and, ultimately, life was filled with such things—a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, a child born of a woman, a seedling emerging after a long winter, life born from a drop of water. “Thank you,” Elspeth said.

  A bit later, after all the gifts were dispersed, and the bread loaves, as well, the clan split into smaller groups. It used to be they would all gather about the one big bonfire, but as the clan grew—and the bonfire as well—it was impossible to maintain the intimacy necessary to share.

  Tonight, the immediate family numbered ten in total. They gathered near the bonfire, their faces tinged amber by the firelight.

  Before beginning, the MacKinnon took a moment to remember those who were no longer present: Broc Ceannfhionn, who’d left them for Dunloppe, and was now master of his own demesne; may he always be blessed. Cameron, who’d wed his sweetheart Cailin
after ten-long years, and far soberer and more responsible, was now committed to his service to the Scot’s king; may he rise to his greatest potential. As for his sister Constance—sweet Constance, who never liked to be dressed; may she learn to live with her blindness and God-be-willing, someday find herself cured. Finally, to the alliance of seven—the dún Scoti, the MacLeans, Montgomeries, Brodies, McNaughts, MacEanraig and MacKinnon clans—may the coming strife spare their loved-one’s doorsteps of grief, and may David mac Maíl Chaluim choose wisely in his support of his Empress niece. At long last, Iain MacKinnon, laird of his clan, held up the Yule wreath, and said the Yuletide blessing:

  Hail to you, O sun of the seasons,

  As you travel the skies aloft;

  Your steps are strong on heaven’s wings,

  You are the glorious mother of stars.

  You lie down in the injurious ocean

  Without impairment and without fear;

  You rise up on the peaceful wave-crest

  Like a youthful queen in bloom.

  “Blessings,” said everyone in turn. And Iain continued, with his own thanks, “Tonight, I am thankful for…” his eyes scanned the circle, alighting first on his wife, and then flitting from Liana, to Alex, then to Elspeth and finally to Malcom. “The return of my son.” He ripped the first bite from the Yule loaf, chewing as best he could around a broad grin.

  Next came Page. She took the bread from her husband and held the wreath aloft, saying, “I am thankful for…” Her gaze slid to Cora. “My reunion with a dear old friend. Thank you so much for aught you ever did for me, Cora. Because of you, my childhood bears me sweet memories.” She, too, took a bite of the bread, smiling, before she passed it along.

  Next came Liana. She said exuberantly, and with great flourish, “I—” Her gaze moved to Elspeth. “I am eternally grateful for my sweet new sister. How very dreary this family has been till your arrival.”