“You shall learn, Challon, the Scots tend to accept. They accept life as it is, how ’tis meant to be. Why they are accepting of you, eh? In many ways, Christianity still be new to us. The Auld Ways are a part of us since the dawn of time. Change be best served when it comes slowly.”
Julian recognized that his willingness to keep their beliefs would provide mortar to strengthen his position here as their new lord. His people would respect him for honoring their customs. Glancing out the stained glass window, he sighed. “The moon has risen. Let us get this over with.”
“Take heart, my lord. This shall no’ be the ordeal you are imagining.” Malcolm patted him on the shoulder and gave him a sly smile.
Julian stared into the man’s amber eyes, so like Tamlyn’s, feeling as if his life no longer was in his control.
♦◊♦
Still dressed in his wedding garb and wearing the golden torque and circlet, Julian felt a jittery tension facing the pagan ceremony, though unsure why. Malcolm had explained it all, and the priest was right, ’twas not so different. In truth, he could not imagine anything worse than having Edward witness his bedding of Tamlyn.
Julian had not visited the huge stone ring that sat high upon Lochshane Tòrr. Oh, he had seen it in the distance. The ring was hard to miss, visible from nearly all points within the glen. As he followed on foot behind Malcolm, up the spiraling path of the hill, he was amazed to see just how large the stones were. A vibration changed the air as he neared them, an almost tangible hum that resonated from the ancient grey stones.
There were two entrances to the oval: one to the south, where Tamlyn would come from, another from the north where Julian now passed. He had seen the magnificent complex of Stonehenge, but this ring seemed older, more primeval―more powerful. The sense he drew from these ancient giants humbled him. Their mocking whispers said they had been here forever and would be here long after he was dust.
Julian trailed seven steps behind Malcolm, who was garbed in a green woolen robe. Seven paces behind him came Guillaume, then Destain, Damian and finally three of his squires―Vincent, Michael and Gervase. In single file, they made an inside circle of the stones, the men taking a position before a sarsen.
The chanting and singing of the merrymakers outside of the ring died down as a great horn was blown. A single bodhrán thumped out a slow, repetitive beat announcing Tamlyn’s approach. Her entourage entered from the south. First came, the braw Highlander―the stag-man at the Beltaine rites―carrying a torch. Next came Auld Bessa, then the angelic Evelynour, dress in pale grey and her colorless hair flowing down her back and nearly touching the ground.
His eyes hungrily awaited his lady.
Shimmering in the torchlight, Tamlyn’s hair flowed down her back. His circlet upon her brow. She was gowned in a simple white kirtle; Malcom pointed out it was the one Raven had worn for her own marriage within this stone ring only two years before. His bride’s gift―the gold girdle― circled her waist. Heavy, the chain swung from side-to-side with each step. Her ornate Pictish torque adorned her graceful neck, and in her hands was a small bouquet of blue violets―a handful of wishes for the future, she had told him. Each part bespoke a thing old and new, something borrowed, and the final touch—the blue flowers. The old was to remind her of the past, her heritage. The new, a promise of life to come. The gown was borrowed from her sister, someone she loved to give her luck. And blue was the color of the Auld Gods. All summoned to give a blessing on their union.
Never was Tamlyn more beautiful. She robbed him of breath and set his heart to thundering. As he looked at her all else faded to grey. He had married the woman once already today, yet despite his Christian rearing, he experienced a hot surge in his blood, eager to make Tamlyn his bride by her ways.
Dressed in gowns of saffron linen, Rowanne and Raven came behind their younger sister. At the interval of seven paces trailed the seven men from Tamlyn’s guard. They each stopped before the remaining sarsens, and then were joined by the Scotsman who had danced with Tamlyn at the balefire.
Where the Christian ceremony had been conducted by Malcolm, the pale Evelynour clearly would reign over these rites. She took a position before the small fire lit in a pit close to the south entrance. Bessa took a spot just behind her and to the left, whilst Malcolm moved to her right. Before the ghostly pale woman was a plaide, spread on the ground at her feet.
“We bid good cheer and well-come to all who join us to celebrate the sacred joining of our Tamlyn to Challon, the new lord of Glenrogha,” Evelynour intoned in a clear voice.
“Tamlyn, Chosen Daughter of Clan Ogilvie, will you have this man as your lord and husband, by the ancient ways?”
Tamlyn smiled at Julian. This time there was no hesitation in her reply. “Aye, I shall.” She took a step forward and handed Evelynour a strip of tartan, the black and green of Glen Shane.
Evelynour then turned to him. “Julian, Earl Challon, will you take our Tamlyn as lady wife in the ways of the stone, with your men standing and wearing iron?”
“Aye, I shall.” He leaned to hand her a swatch of fabric cut from one of his black shirts.
The pale woman took the two pieces of cloth and tied them into a loveknot. Raising her hands over her head, she held it up for all to see. “So be it. Let none raise voice against this sacred union.”
The people outside of the circle joined hands and began slowly circling the stones. They hummed a slow haunting melody, as Raven and Rowanne moved to Julian. Already prepared for this part of the ceremony, he knew the two women would undress him as a squire would. Used to servants coming and going, and accustomed to having high born women help him bathe, this part should not have bothered him. Notwithstanding, as they removed his clothing, he felt an unease crawl up his spine―his naked spine.
He presumed this fragment of the ceremony was similar to the bedding rites of the Christian counterpart. The groom and bride were disrobed by the wedding party, and then inspected to see if they were without flaws. Forming his face to show no emotion, he permitted Raven and Rowanne’s hand to unlace and untie his clothing until he wore nothing. Evelynour brought forth a folded garment. Tamlyn’s sisters slid the black, sleeveless robe over his arms, then up to his shoulders.
He had kept his gaze on Tamlyn the whole time, flashing silent words of retribution for this. As he looked at her amber eyes, drank in her beauty, he found everything about him receded to mute, and he was only vaguely aware of all goings on around them.
Evelynour stepped close to him. She pressed her oily thumb to his forehead, then to his heart. The scent of apples rose up around him, filling his mind.
Malcolm came forward carrying a large green velvet cushion. Upon the pillow were his golden ring and an ornate claymore―the Sword of Glenrogha. “The Lord of the Glen has always by tradition offered the bride a choice. The sword or the ring. Do you come to this place of your choice and of free will?”
“Aye, I so choose.” Facing him, the priest passed the pillow to Julian, and then laid the massive claymore across his outstretched arms. Walking the few steps to Tamlyn, Julian held the cushion out to her, the long claymore balanced across his lower arms. “My lady, my bride.” Julian swallowed to moisten his throat so he did not crack on the words. “I offer you your heart’s desire. I be the willing Lord of the Glen. Do you accept me? Do you reject me?”
Julian stared at her, knowing she would choose the ring. The rite of the Sword and Ring went back to dark times, when a woman could choose the sword. If that were her will, she would ritually kill him, sacrificing the willing king-god to ensure the survival of the clan. He understood the ceremony, even so, it still troubled him that such things had once actually took place, that Tamlyn’s roots sprung from such a bloody ground.
Tamlyn watched as Challon knelt before her. She cupped her hand to the curve of his cheek, then leaned forward and kissed his mouth gently. When she pulled back, she held his ring in her palm.
Evelynour stepped to take the gold rin
g from Tamlyn. Holding it high, she turned in a circle for all to see. She called out, “Our lady has chosen the ring! She takes this man to be hers by the laws and rites of our clan.”
Rowanne lifted the sword from his arms, and held it tip down whilst Raven tied a long sash of the Glen Shane tartan around the hilt at the crossguard.
Setting the cushion on the ground beside him, he waited as Evelynour passed his ring through the smoke of the small fire. “The ring be your bond to our lady. Blessings be upon this union with the element of the winds of the North, bestowing gifts of sustenance, fertility and security.”
Accepting it, Julian then reached for Tamlyn’s hand. “Heart to heart and hand to hand, I plight my troth to you Tamlyn MacShane.” He slid the ring onto the first finger of her left hand.”
“Bless this union with the element of fire from the South, bestowing passion, love and a happy home. The fire you summon with your bonding, a bond of blood and spirit, will light your way even in the darkest times.” Evelynour carried another ring through the smoke again. This time she gave it to Tamlyn.
Julian waited as Tamlyn took his hand and slid the gold band upon his left first finger. Crafted like the smaller Beltaine ring he wore, it fit as if it had been forged just for him. Tamlyn raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Heart to heart and hand to hand, I plight my troth to you, Julian Challon.”
Julian rocked back on his haunches, then leaned to place a kiss to the tops of both of her feet. As he stared at her, he saw how sheer the simple kirtle was. He could see the dark shadow of her woman’s mound, the two dark orbs of her areola straining against the fabric. She trembled as he placed both hands on her hips and kissed the dark triangle at the apex of her legs. Next, he kissed her belly, where she would carry his sons. Continuing upward, he pressed his lips in turn to each breast, where she would suckle them. Lastly, he kissed her mouth, not gently, for this ceremony was raw and pagan as these wild Highlands, and that knowledge provoked a pounding response in his blood. He wanted this woman with a force that was terrifying. He suddenly craved to take her, bind her in this primitive manner.
He barely had enough reason left to break the kiss. Rising, he took up the sword and stood with it, tip down, as Rowanne and Raven undressed Tamlyn. They slipped on a robe of the same sleeveless style as his, but hers was in red. The music of the tin pipers and bagpipes rose, but underneath that, Julian heard the tinkling of wind chimes or bells—just as he had in the orchard.
Magic, true magic, rising on the night breeze.
Tamlyn came and took his hand. Turning to face Evelynour, they knelt before her. Behind the witch, Malcolm chanted in words of the dark tongue. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed dried herbs into the fire. An odd green smoke slowly rose filtering around the stones as Evelynour held a golden plate before her. On it were slices of dried apple and two small oatcakes. Julian took the one cake and fed it to Tamlyn. In return for the symbolic offering of succor, she fed him the other one. Next, she fed him the slice of the apple, then received the second slice from his hand.
Evelynour returned with a golden goblet etched with Pictish symbols. She held the cup for Julian to take a sip. Ensuring Tamlyn put her mouth precisely where he had, she offered Tamlyn a drink. “Shall the Lord of the Glen take our Lady of May?” Evelynour intoned.
Julian’s head spun. Either the cake or the drink was drugged—possibly both—laced with some love philter. His groin throbbed painfully and he wanted Tamlyn. Now!
“Oh, aye, I shall take her as my bride.” His words came out slowly and slurred.
The greenish smoke strengthened as Raven and Rowanne began to sing. Nothing mattered. All he could see was Tamlyn. Only through force of mind did he recall what he was to do next.
He offered Tamlyn his hand and they rose together. Picking up the sword, he intoned for all to hear, “Let no man touch what is mine!”
His eyes locked with Tamlyn’s as he plunged the claymore into the earth next to the plaide. Screams of exaltation split the night as voices rose outside the circle. The thirteen men took a step, spun on the heels to face away from the fire. Each man in armor moved into the space between the upright stones and put their swords tip down, standing guard, thus blocking out the throng of people beyond.
Tamlyn’s sisters, the crones, and Malcolm stepped backward until the strange greenish smoke seemed to swallow them.
Oddly, it felt as though Tamlyn and he were alone. He breathed deeply, smelling peat, apple, wild rose, lavender and heather, taking in the aromas so they filled every drop of his blood.
Tamlyn stepped against him, arching her body to his. He lowered his head to meet the kiss, as her hand wrapped around his shaft, already riding high against his stomach.
He muttered against her lips. “You and those cold hands.”
“Take me, Challon, fill me with your fire. Make me burn.”
He followed her down to the plaide, feeling everything about them die away. There was only Tamlyn and him in the greenish fog. All the trepidations over the ceremony were gone. He felt blessed that Tamlyn had wanted to share this special bonding with him.
The black robe flowed around him with a sentience, cloaking them. Julian kissed her lightly. “Tamlyn…I...” Words failed. He could not begin to express the passion, the emotion flooding him, so he just said, “My wife.”
She kissed his throat, then arched against him, receiving his body as he plunged into her, just as he had plunged the sword into the earth.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cha robh dithis riamh a’ fadadh teine nach do las eatarra.
(Two never kindled a fire but it lit betwixt them.)
— Auld Scots Adage
Tamlyn wiggled in excitement, standing atop of the lord’s tower. A rider had come telling Challon would soon arrive.
Three days ago, Julian had led his men off, escorting Ravenhawke to see him officially installed as baron of Lyonglen. The first time they had been separated in the three sennights since they were wed. Since Julian was earl, and Damian already a sworn knight of Challon, Julian was to be Damian’s overlord. He was pleased to have his cousin as baron there. It would only see Glen Shane more secure.
She had wanted to accompany him, but Challon stubbornly insisted that she remain at Glenrogha. He was still concerned about stragglers from the Battle of Dunbar, lurking in the hills outside Glen Shane.
’Twas strange. Julian’s time in her life was measured by sennights. Yet, already his presence only served to tell her how empty it would be without him.
She spied the long column of riders approach, crossing the dead angle. As they neared, she saw they traveled with a woman. The vivid red hair was hard to miss even from this distance. “I might just kick you, Julian Challon. ’Tis not safe for me to accompany you, but all right for another woman to ride in your cadre?”
Gathering her skirts, she dashed inside the tower and down the steps, rushing out to greet the riders as they filed into the bailey. A quick sweep of her eyes deemed all fared well and seemed unharmed, and the woman was—as she assumed—her cousin Aithinne.
Her eyes went to Challon as he dismounted. He looked tired and needed to shave. This was the first time she had seen him with any amount of a beard, as he followed the Norman way of keeping a clean face. Heat flooded her as she wondered how it would feel to kiss him. Would it tickle her nose? She wanted to run to him and jump into his arms, but she was still edgy enough to fear he might not like that sort of well-come before all.
He passed off the reins to Moffet, then looked up to see her standing, waiting for his notice. Typical Challon, he hid his emotions behind that shutter within his mind. She could not tell if he was happy to see her, or displeased because his lady wife bounded down the stairs like a common scullery maid. Well, if he could play games, then so would she.
Tamlyn composed her face into the lady proper and greeted him. “Well-come, Lord Challon. I hope your dealings were settled to your liking and the ride was not too tiring.”
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For several breaths Julian stared at her, before he then burst out laughing. “The mantle of proper lady does not rest well on my faidhaich.”
“Oh, Challon, hush.” Tamlyn practically jumped into his arms.
His laughter continued as he hugged her. “I take it my wife missed me?”
Tamlyn bit his neck lightly. “Had you taken me with you, then you would not have missed me.”
“Tamlyn, I explained why I did not want you to accompany me.”
Putting her arms around his neck, she pulled up to his mouth. “Challon, hush and kiss me.”
His fingers rubbed the three days growth of beard. “Mayhap I should bathe and shave first.”
“Challon…” she growled a warning.
He leaned back so he could study her face, the laughter in his eyes turning serious. “I missed you, wife.”
Then, he kissed her. Oh, did he kiss her!
Tamlyn smiled at the brush of his new beard and mustache tickling her, but that did not stop her from enjoying the taste of his lips. His hunger flared to life, pushing him to deepen the kiss, devouring her with a passion that sent her heart slamming against her ribs. Tamlyn forgot they stood in the middle of the bailey, surrounded by his men. He bowed her body to his, holding her tightly.
Pagan nickered as if laughing at them, and pushed Challon’s shoulder. Julian broke the embrace and looked around at the midnight steed. “I think he wants his feed and is tired of waiting.”
Tamlyn blushed, then looked to her cousin, as Ravenhawke helped her dismount. “Aithinne, well-come. How fareth you?”
As Damian set Aithinne on her feet, she jerked her elbow from his grasp, and flashed him a glare that should have seen St. Giles drop on all fours and croak ribbit. Aithinne marched over to Tamlyn, embraced her, then once more shot Damian a look of disdain.
“Well wishes on your marriage, Tamlyn. I apologize for not being there.” She smiled at Challon, then lifted her brow. “So, he went through the rites of the Sword and The Ring? Mayhap this Norman has value. Am I to stay in the same room? I tire from the ride and need to lie down.”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 29