Judging by all the private smiles, perhaps they’d heard a bit too much. Although, mercifully, no one uttered a word—particularly not her brothers, although Bessie did remark that Sorcha would soon find herself with a whale of a belly. She could have been referring to the quality and quantity of their bounty, once all their gifts were disembarked, but Sorcha doubted it, judging by the knowing gleam in her eyes.
The evenings feast was a far-more sober occasion, despite that the revelry was still going on outside. The distant sound of the lute, and the roar of voices was reduced to a whimper inside Rònaigh’s great hall. It wasn’t meet to continue dancing and singing when a man lay dead—not to mention that he was Sorcha’s own father, no matter his sins. During the discourse that followed, Sorcha learned that, because of a misunderstanding, Aidan and Keane came late to their festival. Instead, they’d traveled with David to an island known as South Rònaigh, somewhat closer to Skye. It was the MacLeod himself who’d escorted them back into the North Sea. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as the case might be—they’d arrived after the confrontation with Padruig.
As for her sire, they handed his body—his head as well as his torso—to David mac Mhaoil Chaluim, to be returned to Padruig’s widow. Though, where Padruig’s lands and holdings were concerned, these were forfeited by Saundra Caimbeul. Padruig himself had decreed it with his bold words before the battle. In total, they were presented to Caden on the final night of the King’s visit to Rònaigh, in return for Caden’s fealty to the crown of Scotia. That night, much to the joy of Rònaigh’s people, the hall was restored to its former glory. The tapestries were clean. Fresh rushes were strewn about the floors, infused with bright yellow blossoms—and anyone from the isle could have said what these were.
The seat of honor—the storied chair that was once occupied by the great Conn himself—was offered to David mac Mhaoil Chaluim. And, whereas the Mac Sweins had not yet bound themselves to any sovereign, they did so now, bending the knee to David mac Mhaoil Chaluim in a formal ceremony witnessed by many.
In return, David offered Caden leave to raise the lion standard on Padruig’s seven stone towers. Clearing his throat, David stood before one and all and offered a toast to the Mac Swein and his bride.
“To clan Chattan,” he said. The clan of the cat. “May your sons and daughters lift you to greatness as your forefathers once did.” And to prove he had pure Scots blood running through his veins, he added, “Móran làithean dhuit is sìth.” May you be blessed with long life and peace.
“Alba gu brath!” said the congregation altogether, which was to say, without uncertainty, “Scotia forever!”
Epilogue
Caisteal Inbhir Nis, June 5, 1139
Made of red sandstone, and reputed to be constructed of the same stone from which An Lia Fàil had been carved, Inbhir Nis was a metaphor for the demise of a people, with its seven magnificent stone towers—one for each of the seven conquered Pecht nations.
And yet, it hadn’t begun as a monument to destruction. There, at the mouth of the River Ness, the first three towers had been raised by King David’s own sire, Malcom mac Dhonnchaidh, soon after burning Macbeth’s caisteal to the ground. Later, Padruig Caimbeul raised it from three to seven, and began construction of an eighth tower, which was never completed. Sorcha suspected this eighth tower was meant to represent the fall of Dubhtolargg. And now, since Padruig had never succeeded in quashing the last remaining Pecht tribe, the tower lay in ruins, an unsightly symbol of hubris that she and Caden had yet to clean up. But, how ironic it was that the youngest of the Guardians was now the chatelaine of a caisteal meant to celebrate of the end of her tribe? Padruig had been so obsessed with their demise, and, in his outrage over their perseverance, he’d become possessed by demons.
And yet, it was all for naught.
Sorcha might have told him that his monument was flawed. The true Stone of Destiny was not made of the red sandstone, but more that dark rock, like the cliffs of Rònaigh. The impostor stone at Scone was a replica carved from the red stone found in the Northern Highlands, from Loch Ness to the north coast of Caithness. But, now, the stone was returned to the earth from whence it was cut, like a grain of black sand beneath the Am Monadh Ruadh.
Someday, she and Caden would clear the yard of its rubble, and build a fountain, like that fount that once graced the courtyard of Lilidbrugh. Until that city’s doom, Lilidbrugh had been the ancient seat of Fidach, the heart of Sorcha’s people, way back when their lands all bore the names of Cruithne’s sons—Cat, Fidach, Ce, Fotla, Circinn, Fortriu and Fib. Her own kinsmen were Fidach, until the day they stole the stone and fled into the Mounth, where they shed their affiliations. But, for all this, all Padruig could have truly known was that the dún Scoti were Pecht by blood. Everything else was a secret that would die with Sorcha’s people.
As for Sorcha, she had a life to live. She and Caden now had two daughters.
Barely one year after they were wed, she gave birth to a little girl. The following year—their first Yule together at Caisteal Inbhir Nis—she bore him another. And, now, she was pregnant yet again, and although she prayed for a son, she had an inkling it would be another daughter.
Nearly two months had passed since Caden had been summoned to Carlisle Castle.
As a show of unity, David’s barons and all his earls had accompanied him to Durham, where he’d met with Stephen's wife Matilda of Boulogne. Even Aidan deigned to join them in a grand show of confidence in Scotia’s king, and for the effort, David had won himself every point of concession he’d required to end the anarchy with England. As for Sorcha, all these petty wars had no meaning. She understood things even the king of Scotia would never ken. She knew, for example, where the true Stone of Destiny lay buried. Not in Scone.
Sadly, neither David, nor any other king would ever again sit upon that slab to be crowned. It was lost to Scotia forever, as Una seemed to be. But Sorcha cherished all the little memories she had of the only mother she’d ever known, tucking them safely away in her heart.
As for Scotia … unity would be a fleeting joy without that blessed stone, but she was glad that, for a while, they would know peace. Alas, the fates were not for men to decide.
Tonight, as Sorcha awaited her laird husband’s return, she made her rounds about the caisteal, making certain everything was in order, before climbing the stairwell to the nursery.
It was a far larger caisteal than Dunrònaigh was, including a household with more than twice the number of folks as the entire isle of Rònaigh, but she had Afric to help her, while Bessie and Alec remained to care for Rònaigh. And best of all, Sorcha was only a two-days’ ride from Dubhtolargg. If she ever missed her sweet sister, she need only gather herself and her children and be away. But, of course, Caden didn’t approve of unescorted journeys, and Sorcha no longer took chances on her own—not with two wee lassies to care for, and another on the way. These days, not even her sister Lael was quite so daring.
The candles in the nursery were already put out. A small brazier burned in the center of the room, lending the stone its warm, copper light. Both girls were huddled together in the crib.
At two, Brigit was a blond child with bright blue eyes—like her Da. She had no will to resist sweets, though she certainly had every will to resist the voice of authority. Someday, she would give Sorcha hair as white as Una’s.
Ria, on the other hand, was quiet, and even-tempered, with raven locks and stark green eyes. She looked more like Sorcha’s mother. And, so, she bore her mother’s name … Ria … like her niece … for Riannag … and for that star that had led her west … to a faraway land, where she’d met herself and wed a prince …
This was the story she told her wee maidens … it was the tale she told everyone, because it was true. A bit of faith, a little foresight, and a great deal of fury had paved her way through the woodlands of Inbhir Nis, up through the northern shires, all the way to Lochinver, where her destiny awaited her with open arms.
Sighing contentedly, Sorcha peered down at her sweet tots, sleeping peacefully in their bed. Once they awoke, they would be little terrors.
Thankfully, Caden was due to arrive on the morrow, just in time to break the fast. He couldn’t come sooner to please his wife. She missed him desperately. But, as Sorcha stood there, thinking about her sweet sisters, and wondering how they fared, she realized it was a woman’s lot to wait. And nevertheless, there was a bit of serenity to be had in knowing that she had touchstones all over Scotia: Lianae in Ailginshire. Lael at Keppenach. Catrìona in Chreagach Mhor. Lìli in Dubhtolargg. And finally, at long last, Cailin at Carlisle, where Cameron served the king as his personal guard. Now and again, Sorcha saw her at David’s court, but not in some time.
Presently, there was a knock at the nursery door. “Come in,” she said.
A servant entered, looking sheepish. “My lady, there’s an auld woman below who claims she has something in keeping for ye.”
“An auld woman?” Sorcha’s heart lifted—as it did every time she had hopes of seeing Una. Since that day, three years past, when she’d given Caden her hand, she’d never again set eyes upon the woman called Brighde. The destiny star came and went, never to return, and with it, so too did all trace of Brighde—and, for that matter, Una as well. Sorcha had had such hope to see her again, and after all, she was well and truly gone …
Seeing the expression on Sorcha’s face, the servant girl said, “I’m so sorry for the intrusion, my lady. Shall I send her away?”
“Nay,” Sorcha replied. She put a finger to her lips, hoping not to wake the girls. And then she tugged up their covers, and took one more glance at their sleeping forms. She blew them a kiss, and hurried toward the door. Closing it first, she asked the girl out in the hall, “Did the woman say aught more?”
“Nay, my lady. She only said she wishes tae speak wi’ ye.”
“Verra well. Please escort her into the hall. I will attend her anon.”
“Aye, my lady,” the girl replied, and she bowed and hurried away.
Can it be Una? At last!
Inhaling a breath, Sorcha tried not to be excited, but she was. Who else might call upon her at such an odd hour? Unless there was news of Caden? But the dealings in Durham were done, and the entire household knew her sisters; if it had been one of them, the girl would have said so.
Who can it be?
She stopped short as she entered the hall, where a strange woman stood by the dais. But the lady was not Una. She was also not Brighde.
Swallowing her disappointment, Sorcha nevertheless ventured into the hall, straightening her spine and lifting her head. “Welcome,” she said kindly. “I am the Mistress of Inbhir Nis.” Maiden no more, but it aggrieved her not at all. “What can I do for you?”
The woman turned to Sorcha and smiled. “Hello Sorcha,” she said. “You do not know me, but I know you. I am Uhtreda.”
“Uhtreda?”
It was impossible to say how old the woman could be. Depending on what angle Sorcha inspected her face, she seemed younger or older by years. But, for an auld lass, she was quite lovely, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She wore her hair in plaits, like a maid, laced with golden ribbons. Her dress, as well, was finely sewn, woven with tiny gold threads.
“I am a friend to Lianae.”
Keane’s wife. Sorcha lifted her chin, wondering who the woman could be. Lianae’s mother and her sisters were long dead. She had an aunt she didn’t particularly like. And all she had remaining, in truth, were two brothers, Graeme and Lulach, one whom she loved and the other she loathed.
“My son is the Earl of Moray,” the woman explained, and she had a small blue pouch in one hand, of a material that matched her sapphire gown. The Earl of Moray was a powerful man, right hand to the King, in fact. And nevertheless, Sorcha had an inkling the woman had not come on behalf of her son. “Aye,” Sorcha said. “I know you, lady Uhtreda. Please, do come in!”
“How gracious you are,” the woman said. And Sorcha led her straight up to her solar, where they could chat a bit more intimately.
“What a lovely solar,” Uhtreda said. And, of course, it was.
There were colorful Saracen pillows strewn all about and the chairs were all covered with velvet from Paris—all purchased by Padruig, and yet, as lovely as it could be, Sorcha had somewhat more modest tastes. However, she no longer felt inclined to explain that these extravagances were not her own. Little by little she had grown more accustomed to the servants, to the elaborate tapestries and all the golden chalices.
“Thank you,” she said. “As I understand, the previous mistress spent some time here, with her only daughter, while she was young.” Of course, she was speaking of Lìli and her mother, though it was easier not to mention that. It was such a tragedy that the two never reconciled, but there must have been good times spent here, because Sorcha could still sense echoes of Lìli’s joy.
Together in the solar, the two ladies sat well into the wee hours, and Uhtreda regaled Sorcha with tales of her father, Gospatric, and their infamous ancestor, Uhtred the Bold, both kings of Northumbria. But, of course, what she failed to mention was that she was also wed to the slain Duncan, who was also king of the Scots. She was a noble woman, with impeccable manners, and though she had a sweet manner about her, Sorcha sensed something darker at her core. At some point, Uhtreda reached out to touch Sorcha’s hand and Sorcha experienced a bit of a jolt—something like lightning passing from hand to hand. She gave a startled gasp, but Uhtreda turned Sorcha’s hand over and dropped a small jewel into Sorcha’s palm—one that was familiar … and yet, Sorcha had not seen this jewel in so long…
It was the crystal from the hilt of Una’s staff—a small, winking prize that betimes appeared to change colors. It was, Una claimed, the way she always knew when Sorcha and her siblings spoke true, for the gem was like a spirit stone, changing colors according to the mood.
Sorcha opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.
Uhtreda’s voice was gentle and soothing, like a mountain stream. “No matter what be her name—Biera, or Brighde or Merlin or Una or Cailleach—she will e’er be with you, Sorcha. Ye must ken what they say … a rose by any other name will smell as sweet, eh? So, tell me, dearling, did you keep the book?”
How is it possible she knows about the book? Sorcha kept it hidden deep in her trunk in her private chamber, along with her keek stane, neither forgotten, but neither did she use them.
The keek stane had been silent since that day it revealed her relation to Padruig. And the grimoire … well, by now, Sorcha had all the potions memorized, and now and again, she referenced it, just to be sure. But otherwise, they remained wrapped in Caden’s mother’s gown, the one she wore the night she wed. Sorcha nodded, but words escaped her.
“Good,” Uhtreda said. “Verra good.” And she closed Sorcha’s hand about the precious gem. “Keep it close, dear one. ’Twill be your precious daughters and your granddaughters who will heal this land. Find good men, worthy of the name, who will value strong women. Teach them to be as you are. And then some day …” Her voice trailed away, as though she wished to say more. “Someday, everything will come again full circle. And the next time, perhaps, everything will be different.”
“Different?” Sorcha asked, blinking. “Different, how?”
The woman sighed deeply, with a knowing in her eyes that seemingly made her lids heavy. “My dear, time is like a ball of thread,” she explained. “Betimes, you pull a string and it unravels … in a different way … d’ ye ken?”
Accustomed her entire life to the vagueness of Una’s prophecies, Sorcha nodded. Missing her mentor so much, she peered into Uhtreda’s faded blue eyes, feeling a kinship with the old woman—and then suddenly, their visit was over, for there was a blare of a horn, and the entire caisteal flew into an uproar.
Uhtreda smiled. “Your lord has returned,” she said. “Ye must go and greet him, and I must return to Moray to await my son. These men,” she said, lam
enting. “What would they do without a strong woman to guide them?”
Sorcha knew what they would do. She remembered how her husband and Alec had kept Dunrònaigh—which was to say, not at all. She returned the woman’s smile, and put a hand to her belly, then made to rise. “’Twill be a girl,” Uhtreda affirmed.
“I know,” Sorcha said with a smile. And she bade the woman good night, offering her a room for the night, and then went to greet her laird husband. Caden was already in the courtyard when Sorcha arrived, and she flew into his arms. “At last!” she exclaimed.
Her husband folded her into his arms, kissing her swiftly. He smelled of rain, and horse and sweat, and days and days of travel, but it was the unique scent of her husband that made her nostrils flare with desire. “I take it ye missed me, wife?”
“A-chaoidh,” she whispered, which was to say, always and forever. And she teased him, “You seem to unerringly make your way back to my bed,” she said, repeating the first words Caden had said to her upon waking after her father’s treachery. “And for this, I am only grateful.”
He lifted both his brows. “How grateful?”
Sorcha took him by the hand. “Well, now, my laird. Why dinna ye allow me tae show you?”
And she did. And she did. And she did again, and again … for as long as they both lived.
Also by Tanya Anne Crosby
Daughters of Avalon
The King’s Favorite
The Holly & the Ivy
A Winter’s Rose
Fire Song
Lord of Shadows
The Prince & the Impostor
Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 28