Sebastien turned. "All this is your work?" he asked.
"It is mine." Alainna walked toward a bench that held a stone propped at an angle. Tools tumbled alongside as if recently laid down. A small table supported an iron bracket holding two flaming candles.
"You never told me that you were a stonemason, even at the abbey when we looked at your cousin's work."
"You did not ask."
He half smiled and shrugged to admit her logic. "I knew you were an imagier, but I never thought you might be a stonecarver. 'Tis not a usual occupation for a woman."
"My cousin traveled to many cities to do stonemasonry. He told me that women are often artisans and artists alongside their husbands and brothers, trained by them and working with them in painting, book crafting, and sculpture as well. Women are not limited by their delicate natures to embroidery, sirrah, as some knights-errant might think."
"I did not think that. And I have seen female artisans and merchants in cities. Did you learn the craft from your cousin?"
She nodded. "Malcolm spent several months each year at Kinlochan with his kinsmen, since masons do little work in the winter. He traveled a great deal, but when he stayed here, he did work for the local parish churches—crosses, corbels and tympana, tombstones. He set up this workshop, and tried to do carvings here as much as possible, except when he had to work in situ." She shrugged. "I had a quick eye and a quick hand, and he needed an assistant. So he taught me the basics of the craft. I am not a highly skilled carver, as he was."
Sebastien glanced at some of the stones. "I think you have skill enough for any stonecarver, male or female," he said. "These show a fine strong hand for design and technique."
"My thanks," she said.
He strolled around the room, looking at the carved and half-carved stones, at iron chisels, wooden mallets, measuring devices, and other tools he did not recognize. He lifted a tool that looked like a small iron poker, and hefted its weight.
"That is a point, or a punch," she said. "It is used to clear chunks of stone away, when driven with the mallet."
He put it down, and shook his head a little in bemusement. "I confess that I am still amazed that a woman does such work."
She came closer. "'Tis not difficult. The tools require a careful hand more than brute strength, and the softer types of stone are no harder to carve than wood."
"I see." He glanced around. "How do you manage to move the stones? Some of these are very large blocks."
"I am not helpless," she said.
He tilted a brow at her. "I do not doubt that."
"A stone of any size can be moved with levers and rollers. If a stone is small enough to lift, I either do it myself, or find someone to help me. I am stronger than I look."
His gaze skimmed her body appreciatively. This time he took note of the straight, square set of her shoulders, the balanced grace of her slim body, her long, nimble hands, the firm shape of her arms beneath her gown. She undoubtedly had some strength, and he was sure she would excel at work requiring dexterity. He knew she had determination enough for any task.
He wandered around the room, looking at the stone carvings. Alainna watched in silence. He paused by the long table. The stones arranged there varied from the size of bread loaves to several much larger. All were carved in raised relief in designs that showed the same firm hand, skilled at fine detail.
"This is excellent work," he said. The smaller stones were shaped like crosses and carved with linear, complex relief designs in the Celtic manner. He touched one of the crosses. "You gave a piece like this to King William. That was your work, then, although you did not claim so at the time."
"It was. Those I am making for our parish church. Father Padruig wants a set to mark the stations of the cross."
He nodded. Nailed to the wall in front of him was the cloth that he recognized from the abbey church, which held a few sketches and the rubbed impression he had made of her cousin's mason's mark. He noticed, too, a small drawing of a standing knight in chain mail. The figure's sword looked very much like his own. He made no comment, nor did she, although he noticed a rising blush in her cheeks while he examined it.
Most of the large rectangular stones laid side by side on the long table were carefully finished. The stones were similar in their soft gray color, which had a delicate silvery sheen, and were alike in design and size, as long as a man's arm and half that across, each a handspan in depth, clearly meant to be a set.
"What kind of stone is this?" he asked, touching one of them. It felt cool beneath his fingers.
"Gray limestone," she answered. "It is quarried a little south of here. My father had these brought here a year ago, cut and dressed with the axe by the quarrymen, after I told him that I wanted to make a series of stone pictures. There are twenty blocks of the same size. I have finished seven. But I do not think twenty blocks will be enough for what I want to do."
"What is it you want to do?" He studied a finished stone, then another as he moved the length of the table.
"I mean to record the history of Clan Laren in pictures."
He glanced at her, stunned by her ambition. Then he looked more carefully at the stones. Each completed slab featured carved border designs of interwoven vines and knots framing various interior images. He had seen similar plaited and interlaced designs in manuscripts, and in the carvings in Scottish churches. The interwoven designs Alainna had made were carefully done, rhythmic and graceful.
The overall style had a simplicity of form and design that suited the gray stone. The images portrayed human figures, animals, birds, boats, and weapons. He saw scenes of men in boats, men hunting, a woman fighting a wolf, several figures on horseback, and a scene of a mermaid on a rock.
"These are beautiful," he commented.
Alainna walked over to stand near him. "Each one tells a story from my clan. This one shows the first Labhrainn who left Ireland with his brothers and came to Scotland. He fell in love with a mermaid who lived in a loch." She pointed to the image of the mermaid seated on a rock, holding a mirror in one hand and a comb in the other.
He nodded. "And this?" He pointed to the scene of the woman facing the wolf. She clutched a knife in one hand, and in her other arm carried a swaddled child.
"Mairead the Brave, wife of Niall, son of Conall, who killed a wolf to protect her child."
"Ah. The women of your clan have courage all."
"We do what we must to protect our own."
Sebastien glanced at her. A pink blush stained her creamy cheeks. She stood so close, looking at the stones with him, that her shoulder brushed his arm. He angled toward her.
"I think," he murmured, "that Alainna, daughter of Laren, has inherited the courage of Mairead the Brave, wife of Niall. You defend your clan with all the fierceness of a warrior... or a mother." He reached out on impulse to lift away the shining strands of hair that had fallen over her brow. "God help any who threaten your clan."
She looked directly into his eyes. "Then God help you."
Sebastien sighed. "Tell me about the other stones," he said. She clearly did not want a truce with him. He would have to discover moments of peace with her along the way, or find himself striking head to head with her each time they were together.
She complied, explaining the next picture, and the next. He was entranced by the images and stories, and by the low-pitched murmur of her voice. His hand grazed hers as they touched a stone together, his large and well-knuckled, hers smooth, the fingers long and tapered.
She folded her fingers quickly, but not before he saw calluses and small healing cuts. The gesture revealed a tender vulnerability beneath her outward show of prideful strength.
"The stones tell my clan's history through generations, or they will when I finish them."
"You are fortunate to have such a rich heritage."
"Everyone has a heritage."
"Not everyone," he murmured, brushing his fingers over stone.
She did not ask, nor did he
offer. "I fear our tales will be lost forever." She lifted her chin. "I mean to save our heritage by carving it in these tablets."
He was astonished by the will and determination she possessed. He had seen pride in many guises, but never entwined so exquisitely with honorable intent.
"You are a storyteller, like Lorne."
She shook her head. "I am... a guardian. A preserver. Lorne keeps hundreds of tales that go back a thousand years, into the mists of time. He is a strand in the long rope of storytelling that binds the generations to their Celtic culture, and he can spin that magic over and over. I save the stories of our clan. When they are set in stone, my task will be done."
"Others might record their heritage in a chronicle, or on a tree of genealogy."
"Parchment and ink are easily lost or ruined. And I can neither read nor write."
He leaned a hip against the table and folded his arms over his chest, facing her. "This is a lifetime's work."
"Then so be it. I will set down the tales in stone if it takes my entire life to do it. Someday we of this blood and this name may well be gone. I do not want our heritage lost to memory, and I do not want it put on parchment."
"Stone will last forever."
"It will. When there is no one of our bloodline to tell the tales of Clan Laren, these stones will hold our legacy."
"Alainna," he said, "your clan will not die."
"You have come here to destroy what has existed for generations. I am the last of my name, so my children must carry that name."
He exhaled impatiently, and circled his hand around her arm. "I did not come here to destroy anything. And I will not carry the burden of blame for your anger and sorrow."
She pulled back against his grip. "Whatever your intent, the end of this clan may well be the result."
"Listen to me," he said, keeping his hold firm. "Stay here," he said, drawing her closer with his hands on her arms when she tried to yank away. "I have listened to you. Now allow me the same courtesy." He held her as he might hold a recalcitrant child.
"Speak, then." She stilled in his grip, her brow knotted.
"I am here because you asked for a champion—"
"I did not ask for you! I asked for—"
"I know, a Celtic warrior. But I am here to do what I can to save your clan. You must accept that, for the good of all."
"Save my clan? A Norman knight who cares only for how much land he can acquire, how much wealth, how much fame? Give me none of your Norman salvation. Saving my people satisfies Norman needs—your own needs—not theirs!"
He narrowed his eyes, and drew her close until her breasts, beneath gray wool, crushed against his chest and her thighs warmed his. "If I thought only to satisfy my needs," he growled, "you would be the first to know it."
She stared up at him without flinching, her breaths rapid against his chest, her body supple and warm. His own body pulsed at that sweet pressure, and his blood surged, filled with sudden fire. But he gave no clue to what he felt, keeping gaze and grip constant.
He waited for her to react, waited for her to understand, finally and utterly, that he would not harm her or her clan.
The cadence of her breath calmed, but he could feel the deepening thud of her heart against his chest. She seemed to grow even warmer in his hands.
If she continued to burn like a candle flame before him, he thought suddenly, if her natural fire ignited his passion any further, he would find it immensely difficult to honor his intent to leave her be.
She angled her head toward his, looking up at him with a deep spark in her blue eyes. Her soft, rosy lips were but a breath from his. He lowered his face until her skin radiated warmth near his. She closed her eyes slowly. He fought his urges and struggled against something he had underestimated when he had drawn her toward him.
"You see," he finally murmured, "I can resist your lure, though I hold you as close as a lover. No matter that I feel a strong urge to satisfy my needs... and yours," he added, watching her lids lower and lift in an instant of truth. "So believe that I have enough honor to see that your kin, and your land, remain safe and unharmed."
"Let me go," she whispered.
He opened his hands slowly. She stepped back. As soon as their bodies parted, Sebastien felt something intangible within him tug and protest. He folded his arms over his chest.
Alainna stared at him, her chest heaving deep and slow. He reached out and supported her chin with his fingers. "I was sent here to be the champion you requested. But you must trust me."
She closed her eyes briefly. "I cannot," she whispered.
He stroked his thumb over the clean line of her jaw. "We both have temper and pride, and those are not easily forsaken for peace. But I must do what the king bids me to do. I will leave you in peace as soon as I can. You will find life more secure for your clan when all is said and done."
"You mean to leave?" she asked.
"I must return to Brittany," he said. "Though I am baron of Kinlochan, though I will soon be wed to you, I have matters to attend to there, other properties, other... other ties. It is not unusual for knights to travel a great deal and leave their homes and wives for long periods of time."
"I see." She closed her eyes, this time over a glistening of tears. Sebastien felt that odd tug in his chest and gut again. He slipped his fingers along her cheek, surprised as much as compelled by feelings far deeper than lust but somehow inexplicable.
A tear slid free from her closed lids. She tipped her head out of the cup of his hand and turned away. "If I see that you bring some benefit to my people," she said in a husky voice, "I will make some peace with you. Not until then. It is all I can offer you."
She walked toward the long, low bench that held a partially carved slab of gray limestone. She pushed her long braids behind her shoulders, then picked up an iron chisel and a wooden mallet, and bent to her task.
She angled the chisel blade against the roughened surface of the stone. With the rounded, battered mallet, she beat a rhythm of strokes against the tip of the chisel's wooden handle.
Sebastien knew that the resuming of her work was meant as a dismissal. He decided to be obtuse about the hint, for there was much he wanted to learn about this intriguing girl and her curious work. He came closer and looked over her shoulder.
"Which story is this one?" he asked. The surface was still flat and smooth in places, covered with light sketches. Alainna maneuvered a toothed chisel blade over areas where her tools had already bitten into stone. The cleared stone cast the flat, original level of the surface into raised relief that would be enhanced by detail and finishing touches as the work continued.
"This," she said after a few moments, "is the story of the Stone Maiden, who died beside the loch."
"I am eager to learn that particular story."
"I will tell you," she answered, "someday." Her mallet thumped and the chisel faintly clinked against the stone.
Sebastien watched her edge the blade around a sketched border of interlacing vines, similar to those he had seen on the other stones. The center scene showed two figures beside what must be the loch. The design was rough and unclear as yet.
She was silent while she focused on her work, After a few moments Sebastien straightened. "My lady, I thank you for showing me your work. 'Tis remarkable. I will leave you in peace for now. I want to seek out my men and some of your kinsmen to ride the boundaries of Kinlochan's lands."
"Please tell them I will come to the hall soon myself," she said without looking up from her work. "I want to speak to my kinfolk about the contents of the king's writ, and I must tell them about the... marriage we are ordered to make between us."
"Would you like me to be there?" he asked quietly.
She did not answer for a moment as she tapped the chisel over a small area of stone, and bent to blow the dust away.
"I would rather talk to them alone," she said finally.
He murmured assent and farewell. She did not reply and did not look up.
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As he walked across the bailey, the steady pounding of her mallet sounded like a fast, passionate heartbeat.
Chapter 10
"We must talk to Father Padruig soon," Una said. Beside her, Morag and Beitris nodded earnestly.
"We will all go see the priest on the Sabbath in a few days," Lome announced, looking at his kinfolk from his seat beside Alainna. "No doubt the knights will want to see our parish church of Saint Brighid, where Alainna and Malcolm did so many fine stonecarvings."
Niall and several others nodded agreement. "We will ask Father Padruig to arrange the marriage," he said.
Alainna sighed. To her dismay, none of her kin had protested the king's decision. They had listened and had asked careful questions, but no one had shown the anger and fear she felt herself, and half expected from them. Even Niall and Lulach had nodded in somber agreement.
"But the knight is not the Highland warrior that you wanted me to wed," she protested. "He is Norman."
"Ach," Lulach said. "We need warriors to fight for us, and with us. These are strong young men with fine weapons, sent by the king on our behalf."
"This knight and his men are willing to defeat the MacNechtans. We are fools to refuse that," Donal added.
"No one said they were going to defeat the MacNechtans—" Alainna began, but Niall leaned forward eagerly.
"We will live in peace once the Normans slay the MacNechtans," he said. "With our help, of course. Normans cannot defeat Highlanders alone."
"Their weapons and armor, and their horses, will hinder them," Lulach said. "They will need us with them." He looked pleased. "We will have a strong warband once again with these Normans to march behind us. I wonder how many the Breton knight can summon from the king's forces."
"He brought twenty men," Donal said. "We should ask for two hundred more."
"Two hundred!" Alainna burst out. "And just how are we to feed two hundred knights and their horses?"
"You say he will build a castle here and establish a garrison in it," Lulach said. "Clan Laren will be strong again."
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] Page 10