"For a while I could see naught with this eye," he admitted. Her fingers were cool and pleasant, and she stood as close as a lover. He could smell the subtle floral fragrance in her hair. She always seemed clean and freshly scented with lavender or heather, and he found it distracting and enchanting.
"The duke's physician was certain that I would remain half blind," he went on, bringing himself back to his tale. "It healed, but my vision is not as wide out of the left. And so," he added in a lighter tone, "you were able to surprise me, slipping like a sylph out of the mist."
"I am glad you are not blind," she said, lowering her hand.
"As am I." He smiled in rueful agreement. "The duke and duchess rewarded me with property in Brittany. When I recovered, Duke Conan gave me a coveted post in Scotland as an honor guard for King William, who is brother to the duchess of Brittany. And that is my tale, lady." He inclined his head politely before turning to retrieve his sword.
"Not all of your tale, is it," she remarked.
"Not quite all." He sheathed the sword and picked up his fur-lined cloak.
She tilted her head. "You have not found much to challenge you in Scotland, I would think."
"Only hot tempered, fiery-haired clan chiefs," he drawled. Alainna's cheeks turned rosy, and he smiled. "True, there is little excitement. We did chase after a host of rebels last year, and routed them soundly."
"They fled to Ireland," she said. "I know. But a warrior of your caliber must be dissatisfied to stand behind a king most of the time, with little else to occupy his time and his talents." She tilted her head. "Is that why you want to return to Brittany?"
"There are many reasons for that." He lifted a brow. "Did you seek me out for some other purpose this morning other than to startle me out of my wits?"
"I came to tell you that Giric and the knights are readying the horses to ride out with you again. I will ride with you this time, if you do not mind."
"I do not mind at all," he said. "It is a privilege to tour the holding with the chief of the clan."
She slid him a wry glance. "I also came out here to bring an offering to the Stone Maiden." She indicated the bundle that she had placed on the ground.
"Where is your great blue hound? He is usually with you."
"He took a thorn in his paw yesterday. Morag tended to it, but he is limping, and prefers the comfort of the hearth-side."
"On such a bitter day, any sensible creature would prefer the fireside."
"You can go back to the hearth if you like," she said blithely. He chuckled. She picked up her bundle and walked to the pillar stone to lay it at the foot. Sebastien saw her set out a little sack of oats, a round cheese, and a bowl of cream on the grass.
"Offerings for good fortune?" he asked.
"And a show of gratitude to the Maiden for her protection," she answered. She walked around the stone three times, and then paused to trace her fingers along the carvings. She began to murmur in lilting, musical Gaelic.
Woman of the faery realm, guardian of our hearths,
Shield us and keep us safe
This day and this night and forever.
"A lovely charm," he said. "Why do you circle the stone?"
"It brings good fortune to go around deiseil, in the direction of the sun."
He nodded, intrigued. "Do you often come out here to speak chants to your Stone Maiden?"
"It is wise to do that before undertaking journeys, and on special days, and at times of need or change."
"Which is this?"
"Need," she said. "Change."
"Ah." He understood. "I wonder if she will protect you from the Norman invaders who have come to Kinlochan."
"She will do her best," she answered.
He stepped closer to the stone and glanced up the towering height. Reaching out, he touched one of the carvings. "This pillar has been here a very long time."
"Seven hundred years, so they say," she replied. "I remember visiting the stone when I was a small girl. I would hold my father's hand tightly as we walked here, for I was frightened of the great stone. My father never knew that," she said, smiling a little. "He used to boast that his little daughter had inherited his courage as well as his red hair and his stubbornness." She gave a sad shrug. "I miss him."
"He would be proud of you," he murmured. She stood very still. "And I suspect," he added, "that you put your courage and stubbornness into the wielding of mallet and chisel."
She laughed ruefully. "I suppose I do." She approached the stone and touched it like a friend.
"You promised to tell me the story of the Stone Maiden," he reminded her.
"I did." She glanced up the height of the pillar. "She was the great-granddaughter of the first Labhrainn. One day she went out to gather nuts and berries for her father's supper. As she returned to the fortress and walked past the loch, she thought of the faeries that live in the hills who were her friends, for she was a kind girl. She left some food for them and went on.
"A man called Nechtan, from a neighboring clan, approached her and greeted her. He offered to carry her basket and she waited for him. But he accosted her instead. She fought desperately, but he had a sharp knife, and wounded her."
Alainna turned toward the loch, and Sebastien turned with her. Brown grasses and reeds edged the stony beach, and waves lapped slowly into shore. Mist drifted on the water like wisps of silk.
"As she lay dying on the bank of the loch," Alainna went on, "with her life's blood pouring out of her, the faeries came out of the hill at the sound of her cries. They chased Nechtan and caused him to fall upon his own knife. Then they surrounded the maiden and tried to help her. Faeries are very good at magic, but they are not much good at healing," she said.
"They could not save her life, but they used their magic to turn her into a stone on the bank of the loch, so that her soul would be preserved near her beloved home. Then the faeries cast the spell that has affected our clan and Clan Nechtan ever since. Two charms they made that day, one for good and one for revenge."
"The spell of protection?" Sebastien asked. Alainna shivered and clutched her plaid at her throat, nodding.
"The girl became a maiden of stone, to remain so for seven hundred years. Another spell was laid upon her murderer's clan." She paused. "If ever again a man of Clan Nechtan harms a woman of Clan Laren, the MacNechtan bloodline will die out in one generation."
Sebastien stared at her. "So that began the feud."
"They have tried, over generations, to wipe out our bloodline. They will not harm our women, but they have always fought our men, and one day they may destroy us."
"Cormac seems intent on bringing this to an end."
"A bitter end. He speaks of peace and plots ill. He bides his time, you see. The seven hundred years," she said, "will end on the first day of spring."
Sebastien exhaled sharply. "What happens then?"
"I want to show you something," she said, and turned to walk toward the stone again. She knelt down and pushed back some of the long grasses that fringed the foot of the pillar.
"What are those marks?" Sebastien dropped to one knee beside her. He ran his fingers along the rows of vertical strokes that wreathed the stone like the embroidered hem of a woman's gown.
"Six hundred and ninety-nine lines are incised there," Alainna said. "Each year, on the first day of spring, the chief of Clan Laren adds another mark. On Saint Brighid's day next, which we regard as the first day of spring, I will make the seven hundredth mark in the stone."
"And so the spell will end," Sebastien said soberly.
"And after that, we do not know what will happen. The curse on Clan Nechtan will be lifted, and the Stone Maiden's soul will be set free. Some say she will come back to life," she said softly. She traced her fingers over the cold granite. "Some say she is gone already, and her protection is no more."
"And the feud?"
"That may end, or it may grow worse. There will be no faery spell to deter our enemies."
&n
bsp; She stood, and he straightened. "There will be knights to deter them. All will be well," he said.
"Will it?" She looked at him.
He frowned in silence. The story of the Stone Maiden echoed in his mind. He had scarcely heard a more haunting tale, he thought. Perhaps he was enthralled with the storyteller as much as with the story.
"What was her name, the Maiden of Kinlochan?" he asked.
"Alainna," she said. "It means 'beautiful one.'"
He held her gaze. "You are well named," he murmured.
She blushed. "She is very special to me. Like a sister, in a way." She smiled and stepped around to the other side of the stone, and he went with her.
"Tell me about these markings," he said, brushing his hand over the carved lines, simple curvilinear renderings of animals and objects. "Some of them are clear to me... a fish here, that one a boar. What are the others?"
"These are very old markings," she said. "There is a salmon for wisdom, and this round shape is a mirror, that one a comb. That triple spiral design is sacred to Saint Brighid. Not even Lome knows what all the designs mean, but some say that they signify that the Maiden is within the stone."
"This is beautiful work. I see similarities to your own carvings."
"I have learned much from studying this stone, and from looking at other old Celtic carvings."
"The designs look as if they would be quite difficult to cut," he said, looking at a complex band filled with knotwork.
"Not really. They are designed on patterns of squares and circles. Any repeating pattern must be carefully drawn, but the actual cutting is not hard. A slow, steady hand is necessary. A gentle hand is best."
"You have both, I am sure," he murmured. She blushed again and looked away. "I have seen similar decorations in churches in Scotland, and in manuscripts as well."
With a lifted finger, she followed an undulating path along one of the interlaces. "These patterns are more than decoration. They have meaning as well. This one is a series of endless knots, see," she said. "The knots are like the mystical strands of life that bind the soul to the world. They cannot be undone."
"Ah. And here? These spirals?" he asked, touching a circle filled with three fanning spirals.
"Those represent the endless flow of life. And this long braiding, just here, is like the loom of life, the constant weaving of lives and events into one another." She glanced at him. "We have a riddle: Who exists, who has never been born, and never will be?"
Sebastien reached out to sweep his fingers over a section of plaitwork, moving in tandem with her hand, their fingers grazing. "The soul. These designs map the path of the soul."
"They do," she said, and smiled. "Every soul has strands that bind it to God, and bind it to the world. Souls can blossom and soar in their lives, or they can be lost, or broken, or stolen. We believe that wounded souls and wandering souls can be retrieved by the same strands that bind them."
He glanced at her. "Drawn back into the pattern of life?"
"Drawn back into the weave by caring. By love. It is a theme in many of our stories."
He nodded, touching the designs.
"The patterns are meant to remind us how fine our souls are," she went on, "and how we are each on a path in life. They celebrate the endless miracle of the soul and life. They sing the soul, in their way." Her fingers danced along the curves and swirls.
Sebastien stilled his hand. He no longer looked at the carvings. He watched her, and realized in that moment that the torn strands of his soul were not lost. They had simply fallen out of the weave of his life. That knowledge brought him a sense, unexpectedly, of hope.
She looked up at him, her eyes limpid blue. He reached out to touch one of her bronze-colored braids. It felt like cool, glossy silk. "Plaited," he murmured teasingly, "like an ancient design." She smiled, and he tugged gently on the braid, so that she swayed toward him a little.
With his palm flattened on the stone above her head, he leaned toward her, the braid still gently captured. He felt drawn by some subtle, irresistible power. Whether it emanated from her beautiful, haunting eyes, or from the mysterious stone that they both touched, he did not know.
Barely a breath separated them now, and he saw her eyelids drift closed, saw her chin tip upward, a hesitant, shy movement that made his breath catch. Heart thundering, body surging with a hot, sudden flare of desire, he touched his lips to hers.
Her mouth was warm and pliant beneath his, sweeter and softer than he ever could have imagined. He let go of the braid and slipped his fingers along her cheek, tilting her head, deepening the kiss. Her hand lifted to rest upon his shoulder, and with the other she touched his jaw in a butterfly caress that somehow penetrated like fire into his marrow. He groaned low and caught her to him, kissing her again, taking his hand from the stone to cradle the back of her head.
He felt her arms wrap around him, slim and strong, and although he stood on solid ground, embracing her, kissing her, he thought for a moment that he whirled, thought he sailed.
The cold wind slipped between them like a reprimand, and Alainna gasped beneath his mouth, pushing away slightly. He drew back, his arms still around her.
She looked up at him, eyes wide, mouth lush and rosy, and covered her lips with pale, slender, shaking fingers.
He released her completely and stepped back. "Dear God," he said breathlessly. "Dear God." Whether he uttered an apology or his own astonishment, he did not know.
She stretched out trembling fingers to touch the granite surface of the pillar. "The Maiden," she said. "It could have been the Maiden.... Some say a powerful force surrounds her. A good force," she added hastily.
He nodded, and shoved his fingers through his hair. "It is a natural urge, this," he said gruffly, not certain if she had even been aware, up until this moment, that such a force existed between men and women. He had much experience, but he had never felt that sort of power in a kiss before, like a blend of lust and prayer. His heart still slammed in his chest.
"A natural urge," he repeated. "We are to be married, after all."
"I know," she said, picking up the hem of her gown and turning away. "I know." She half ran from him, skirting the edge of the loch to return to the fortress, her braids lifting out behind her.
He watched her go, then glanced up at the Stone Maiden and its knotted, entwined carvings. Suddenly he felt as if a few precious threads had found their way back into the design of his own life.
"Aye, 'twas the maiden," he muttered to himself, as he walked away. "But not the stone one."
* * *
"At the south end of the loch," Alainna said, pointing from where she sat on horseback, "Kinlochan has broad, rolling hills, with fine grazing pastures, and some arable land. Toward the north"—she swiveled in her saddle to point again—"the land is wilder, harsher, with high, rugged mountain slopes and crags. There is grazing land there, but little land for raising crops."
Sebastien nodded, mounted beside her on his creamy Arabian, whose mane shimmered like silk in the cold, clear air.
"Kinlochan sits on the edge of the Highlands like a gateway," he observed. "The loch itself is just on the border of the alteration in the land. That mountain face above the loch looks like it was torn from sheer rock by the hand of God."
"A dramatic and beautiful place," Robert said. Sebastien turned to glance at him. "I can see why it is a desirable holding."
Giric steadied his garron beside Alainna. "Clan Laren has fought for generations to defend this land."
"And so easily given away, out of their care," Robert said. Sebastien saw the concern on his friend's face, and realized that Robert, too, did not approve of taking land from those who had held it for generations.
"How many tenant farms are on the holding altogether?" Sebastien asked. "We saw but a few."
"Fifteen," Alainna answered. "Most of those are no longer inhabited."
"The farmers have either died, or they and their families have deserted Clan Laren and gone
elsewhere to seek a safer life," Giric explained. "Herding cattle with the MacNechtans stealing so much of our livestock is not so rewarding."
"I can imagine," Sebastien said grimly. They rode northeast toward a broad meadow fringed with trees. A thin layer of snow had turned the meadow to an expanse of white, and the bare trees created dark, elaborate patterns against the gray sky.
"We are out later than I expected," Alainna said. "It is nearly dusk, and well past time to return to Kinlochan."
"Una and the women will have supper ready," Giric agreed.
"And many of the knights have become accustomed to the bard's stories of a night," Robert commented. "Some of the others rode out on patrol while we were gone, but they are very likely back by now, and waiting for us."
Sebastien nodded and urged his horse to a quicker pace. He had ridden the Arabian out that day, but found that he had to select carefully which routes to take along the rugged hills. While Araby had a faster, longer stride than the shorter, heavy-framed garrons that Alainna and Giric rode, their mounts were far more suited to the terrain than his own. Robert, too, had borrowed a garron and seemed pleased with his choice, although his long legs sometimes caused his feet to drag over the taller grasses; Robert's easy manner had made this a subject of mirth rather than an indignity, as it might be for many Norman knights.
Sebastien slowed enough for Alainna to catch up to him. Her behavior seemed slightly cool, more formal than before, but he could hardly blame her after that astonishing kiss.
He pointed toward the loch in the distance. "There are several islands in the loch. Are there structures on any of them?"
"Only on the largest one, there in the middle," she said. "An ancient tower ruin is there. Giric and I, and my brothers, used to go there when we were children. The fishing is good there. Sometimes I go there to gather stones for carving. The ones that are smoothed by the water take incising well, so I sometimes cut patterned crosses in them."
"You gave one to the king," he said. She nodded. "Does your loch have a name?" he asked then.
"Loch Eiteag," she said. "It means 'smooth white pebble,' though the word can also mean 'fair maiden.'" She smiled. "It is called so for the Stone Maiden, but we just call it the loch."
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] Page 13