Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  He narrowed his eyes, the scarred brow tugging down. His irises were gray and cool, but she saw a hot spark there. "The king made no true offer to me. You fret over naught."

  "I do not fret," she snapped. Her frustrations and fears, stoked by her audience with the king, kept her temper close to the surface. "But I will have much to fret about if he sends you—or any of your comrades—there!"

  "There is no king's writ on this yet. Be calm."

  "I have been calm, and for naught. Now I must wait while the king chooses me a Norman husband. My kinfolk expect a Celtic hero to save our clan! Now I must tell them that I failed!"

  "You tried your best. If the king sends men there, he does it to ensure peace."

  "Peace! There will be more war if he sends Normans!"

  "You did ask for the king's assistance," he reminded her.

  "In what my clan wants, not in what he wants!"

  "He thinks of Scotland. You think of Clan Laren."

  "What else should I think of?" she demanded, glaring at him.

  "You are wondrous full of argument," he commented. "'Tis good we go to church. Prayer might cool that Highland ardor."

  She sent him a fuming look and walked on. He strode beside her. After a while, she glanced sidelong at him. Despite her resentment, she wanted to know more about him, especially if the king thought him suited to her and to Kinlochan.

  "You must be heir to some great lord to earn such favor from a king," she said. "Is your family French or English Norman?"

  A fierce glint flickered in his eyes. "Not all men succeed through birth. Some achieve through merit and prowess. And determination." His tone was curt. "I was raised in Brittany and spent years in England, if you will know. I am Breton, rather than Norman from Normandy, or Norman English." He paused. "And I am no one's heir."

  "A younger son come to Scotland to acquire land and status and wealth, then. I suppose you think the Scots to be simple barbarians."

  "Not all Scots," he drawled, glancing at her.

  Lifting the hem of her gown, she walked faster. The knight strode beside her steadily despite chain mail and broadsword, as easily as if he could climb Highland hills in twice the armor.

  "You have the look of the Norse, tall and fair, as do your comrades," she said. "Are you related, you three? Are your kin descended from Vikings, like some Highland families?"

  "So many questions," he said. "We are not related. The knights of the Breton honor guard are matched for size and fair coloring. And there may be Norse blood in me. I do not know for certain."

  She blinked in surprise. Every Highlander she knew could recount his or her heritage. "I suppose Normans do not keep so careful a memory of their family lineage as do the Gaels."

  "Bretons and Normans are proud of their lines of descent," he said. "And proud of the worth of their surnames."

  She glanced at him, startled. He smiled politely, but a fleeting spark in his eyes belied that coolness.

  He was like a wild cat sunning on a rock, she thought suddenly—calm on the surface, taut power beneath. He would be ferocious if provoked. Yet she saw kindness in his gaze, and in the gentle curve of his upper lip.

  They reached the grassy courtyard that fronted the west entrance of the church. Twin towers soared above oak doors framed by stone arches and slender pillars. Alainna did not see Giric. The abbey grounds were deserted but for a few black-robed Benedictines who walked there.

  She mounted the steps to look at the carvings on the column capitals. The knight joined her. "A beautiful abbey," he said.

  "Yet it must seem humble compared to cathedrals in France and England. I hear they are like miracles of stone and glass."

  "This place has strength and simplicity. I prefer that to showy grandeur."

  "'Tis similar in design to Durham Cathedral in England. Some of the stonecarvers who worked at Durham came here too."

  "You know the abbey history well for one who is not local."

  "My father's cousin made carvings here twenty years ago. He was a stonemason," she explained. "I have long wanted to see his work here." She touched a column. "He told me that Dunfermline has become a pilgrimage shrine because our beloved Queen Margaret is buried here. She was so good a soul that many Scots believe she should be declared a saint."

  "I have said a few prayers to her myself. She has become a patron for the poor and the lost." He reached out to touch the stone too, his hand large and strong, dusted with golden hairs.

  "You are here in Scotland to gain land from Scots." She turned away. "I doubt our Queen Margaret would consider you poor and lost."

  "You share your temper with me easily enough. Will you not share your saintly queen as well?"

  "I meant—"

  "I know what you meant. You think little of Normans."

  "'Tis not that," she said, "exactly."

  "Ah," he said. "And what exactly is it?" He rested his hand on the stone, his gaze winter cool, the small scar pale where it slashed through his left eyebrow.

  A blush heated her cheeks, and she looked away. "I know that the Normans have helped Scotland and our kings in the past, and the Scottish crown values Normans for their military strength. But they bring too much change to Scotland."

  "And you do not want to wed with one."

  "I do not," she agreed.

  "Your clan might benefit from such a union."

  "Never."

  "You are a stubborn girl, I think," he mused.

  "I am. I have to be so, for the sake of my people. I cannot watch my clan be disbanded and destroyed."

  "And you fear that a Norman husband would do that. Why?"

  "I know he would." She drew her fingers over the grainy texture of the sandstone. "Normans would destroy our legacy, our history, our very name, and make it their own."

  "This Highland enemy of yours is more likely to do that than a Norman."

  "And I will not wed either one."

  A wry smile played at his mouth. "You make that clear enough," he said. "Lady, I am not a Scottish subject. I am not obligated to accept a grant from King William if he offers one to me."

  She blinked. "You would refuse Kinlochan?"

  "I have other plans," he said quietly.

  She felt relief, but also a surprising disappointment. Of course she wanted him to refuse, she told herself. Yet she felt curious about him, drawn to his strength, to his wit, and his keen, kind gaze.

  She caught her breath as she realized that he resembled the faery warrior in her dream. How ironic that a Norman would match that perfect warrior—ironic, disturbing, and unthinkable.

  Handsome blond warriors were common, she told herself.

  "The king will offer you Kinlochan," she said sharply. "No Norman would refuse such a gift. You are an ambitious sort, eager to foster your fortunes on Scottish soil."

  He leaned toward her. "My ambitions do not include marrying a hot-tempered Highland girl and settling on some remote mountain to fight her war. I will leave that to your Celtic paragon, wherever he may be."

  She blinked, stunned. He stared at her, nearly nose to nose, his arm buttressing the stone jamb, his hand just above hers. She would not tilt back, refusing to yield even that much. They breathed in tandem and watched one another.

  She had rarely seen eyes of so clear a gray, or sparking so with anger. Her eyes surely matched his for flash and fire just then. She lowered her brows in a scowl to make certain of it.

  "You must not accept the grant if it is offered you."

  "Is that a warning?" he asked softly.

  "It is." Her heart thudded. She could not take her gaze from his. She sensed his powerful will, as strong—even stronger—than her own. The feeling was odd and exciting.

  "I do not do well with warnings," he said in a low voice. "I have a habit of going against them."

  "Celtic clans do not want Normans among them," she said. "The barbarians of the Highlands attack anyone who attempts to take their land. It is why the Highlands have so few Norman
settlers, while the Lowlands are filling with them. Rein in your greed and your ambition."

  "Are you a leader of rebels, to speak so hot?"

  "We would certainly rebel if someone tried to take our land," she replied. "But we do not rebel against our king."

  "I rode beside your king while he defeated a host of Celtic rebels last year. After what I saw there, be sure that my ambitions do not include sharing land with savages."

  "Good," she snapped. "Tell the king that Kinlochan goes only to a Celtic warrior."

  "God help that Celt." He turned to pull open the great arched door. "My lady, you wanted to see the abbey."

  Heart pounding, Alainna hesitated. Then she remembered that the entrance porch of a church, where she stood with the knight, was the traditional site for marriage ceremonies. The thought was so distressing that she stepped past him quickly.

  "I did want to see the stonework," she admitted.

  "Here is your chance." He held the door open.

  Alainna stepped into the heart of peace and silence. The light was lucent and golden, and incense lingered in the air. She walked to the altar and knelt to pray. Sebastien knelt too, then rose with her. Their glances touched, slid free. She looked up.

  Massive columns soared toward whitewashed walls. Above them was a clerestory pierced with windows of milky glass, the whole crowned by a curving ribbed vault. Alainna walked into a shadowed side aisle, her steps a soft echo.

  She saw the knight standing in the nave, silent and patient, her own honor guard. Light glossed his hair to gold and flashed in his steel mesh hauberk. In chain mail, he seemed fiercely beautiful, hard and perfect.

  She looked away, striving to focus her attention on the stone carvings. Familiar with her cousin's artistic hand, she saw its quiet assurance in several of the carved capitals, and she immersed herself in that pleasure, like finding a lost friend. Wandering the church, she searched for his mason's mark, a cut signature.

  As she strolled through the church, she thought of her own carved reliefs in her small workshop at Kinlochan, and sighed. Even if she used more finesse with her chisels, she would never achieve the mastery of what she saw here.

  Standing beneath a wreath of carved acanthus leaves on a capital, she took out a piece of linen and a stick of burnt willow from the leather pouch that hung suspended from her belt. Carefully she began to draw the leaf pattern on the cloth. Cousin Malcolm had always insisted that good carving depended upon good drawing, and she often made sketches to record ideas or to copy images and learn from them.

  She looked at the knight, who glanced away as her gaze touched his. In the church setting, he reminded her of a warrior saint. Dynamic in his static pose, he fascinated her. Despite his fiery words, he made her feel safe. Closing her eyes, she felt her constant burden of worry and fear lift a little. Too soon, she would return to a world of uncertainty. For now, she wanted to savor the serenity and the reassurance she felt in this place, and in the knight's presence.

  After a moment, she strolled onward. As she looked up, she gasped. High overhead, Malcolm's carved signature mark gleamed in the stone of one column. She hurried forward.

  * * *

  He scanned the shadows out of habit, though he knew no danger existed here. The abbey seemed to glow, he thought, glancing around its familiar interior. Perhaps its luminosity came from the afternoon light—or perhaps the girl created it, like a flame inside a lantern.

  She was indeed a flame, for she had stirred him to fire when he preferred coolness and control. In scarcely an hour's time, she had ignited in him fascination, lust, envy, anger, and frustration. Now she roused something else in him, an urge to keep the world away from her and allow her peace. He wanted to give her that.

  When she disappeared among the columns for a long while, he crossed the nave out of curiosity. Rounding a wide column, he stopped in astonishment.

  Alainna stood on the narrow edge of a column base, toes balanced, chest and torso pressed against the pillar. One arm hugged the column, and the other hand stretched toward the groove of a carved chevron as if to seek a hold.

  "Do you mean to climb all the way up, my lady?" he asked.

  She gasped and shifted. Her foot caught in the train of her gown, and she tilted, arms flailing. He lunged forward so that she tipped neatly into the cradle of his arms.

  "Ach," she said breathlessly, looping an arm around his neck. She was long-limbed but not heavy, her body firm through layered fabrics. She was strong, too, for she squirmed so that he nearly dropped her.

  "Let me go, sirrah!" she insisted.

  "I will," he promised. "First tell me what happened. Did you turn your ankle? Were you startled by a mouse?" He turned, holding her. "Shall I vanquish the creature for you?"

  "Spare me your chivalry," she said, "and your poor jest. You surprised me, and I fell. Set me down!"

  "So be it." He lowered her gently. "Tell me, why did you try to scale that column like a squirrel in a tree?"

  She was not amused, he saw, although he could barely hide his own smile. A blush spread beneath her translucent skin, her sapphire eyes darkened, her brows lowered. Sebastien felt as if he watched a gathering storm. He rather liked storms.

  "If you wish," he drawled, "I could fetch a ladder."

  She opened her mouth to reply, then laughed reluctantly. The sound echoed like small bells. He chuckled, though it felt strangely dry and rusty. He did not laugh often, he realized.

  "I wanted to see my cousin's mark, up there." She pointed.

  He looked up. "His mark?"

  "His mason's mark," she said. "A symbol engraved in the stone. When a mason dresses a block or makes a carving, he cuts his mark. They are paid according to the work they sign. That one is my cousin's mark."

  The vision in his left eye was not as sharp as it once had been, but he saw a distinct symbol cut into the stone. He nodded.

  "I just wanted to see it. Touch it," Alainna said.

  Sebastien frowned, thinking. He picked up the cloth and charcoal she had set down on the floor. Reaching the mason's mark presented no challenge when he boosted a foot onto the plinth and stretched his arm up. He smoothed the cloth over the carving, and rubbed it with the charcoal to obtain an impression. Then he stepped down and handed her the cloth.

  "A remembrance of your cousin," he said.

  Her gaze was wide and earnest. "My thanks. You must be devoted to your own kin to know why this means so much to me."

  "I... value family," he said vaguely. He glanced at the cloth. "I see that you are an imagier."

  "I had some training from my cousin. Come, I will show you his work." She strolled with him, pointing out acanthus carvings and panels of interlaced vines. "See those flowers there? Malcolm always curled and fluted his leaves like that, to make the edges thin and delicate."

  He nodded, listening, admiring the fine work she showed him, although he glanced at her more often than at the carvings. Her voice was low and soothing, and the sight of her was like a balm. As they neared the arched doors, she turned to him.

  "My foster brother will be waiting, I think."

  Sebastien felt an odd dismay, but nodded and held the door open for her.

  Outside he saw Giric MacGregor riding toward them, leading a second horse by the reins. Both mounts were the sturdy garrons common to the Highlands, smaller and shaggier than Norman horses.

  Sebastien turned. "Farewell, Alainne an Ceann Lochan. We will not meet again. I plan to leave Scotland soon."

  Her cheeks colored pink. "Oh... oh. A thousand blessings on you, then, and may God make smooth the path before you," she said in Gaelic. "May the faeries protect you."

  He smiled, having heard similar Gaelic greetings, and farewells. "May you be safe from every harm," he murmured. "May the angels bless you."

  She nodded, then whirled and ran toward her foster brother, who assisted her into the saddle. She took the reins and glanced back.

  Sebastien raised his hand in salute. When they left t
he abbey grounds, he took the path leading to the king's tower. But he could not resist the powerful urge to look back.

  Alainna swiveled to look toward him just as he glanced toward her. Both turned quickly away. He walked down the sloped path, surrounded by trees and birdsong, and found himself straining to hear distant hoofbeats, like a thread linking him to her for a while longer.

  Sebastien approached the stone tower lost in thought. He felt as if something remarkable had happened, but he could not define it. The Highland girl had entered his day like sunlight falling over shadows. In her absence, the world seemed somehow duller, colder.

  A twinge of jealousy at the thought of her marrying some warrior, Celtic or Norman, rippled through him. Frowning, unsure why he should care at all, he walked on.

  Chapter 4

  "There will be snow tonight," Una said. "Lome's aching bones tell me so." She peered out of the window of Alainna's workshop. The dim light silvered her hair, covered in part by a white linen kerchief, folded and tucked over her head. She was a small woman, and she rose on her toes, balancing a thin hand on the window frame as she looked out.

  "My bones do not ache, woman," Lome said. He picked up a small carved stone in the shape of a cross and turned it gently in his long-fingered hands.

  "Ach, they do so—you asked me to put a dose of willow into your ale today," Una said impatiently. "Snow for certain, between what your long bones and those gray clouds out there tell me. The sky is the same color as some of your stones, Alainna."

  "I see," Alainna answered without looking up. Her great-aunt and great-uncle had entered her workshop a few moments earlier, but she had scarcely glanced at them. "Let me clear a little more of this section, Una, and I will look."

  Alainna circled the bench, critically studying the partially carved slab of gray limestone propped there. Then she angled her claw-toothed chisel blade against the stone and tapped the handle with the wooden mallet held in her right hand.

  "This is a good piece," Lome said, setting the little cross on the table. "Finer even than the one you brought to the king. I have not seen it before."

  "I carved it this week," Alainna said, blowing away the stone dust she had created. "I promised one of those to Esa."