by Cathy MacRae
“Who is Ari?” Caelen asked.
“Ari is a brave pony I introduced Bram to this morning,” Arbela replied. “Bram was feeling a bit less than certain and Ari convinced him he has nothing to fear.”
“I like Ari, Da. Can she bring him? I need a pony.”
Arbela sent Bram a cautioning look. “’Tis up to your father, Bram. But Ari is in great need of a boy to look after.”
Caelen’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Arbela and I will discuss this.” He slipped Bram to his feet. “Go with Rory, now. We leave for home as soon as I finish here.”
Bram glanced at Arbela. “Are ye coming with us now?”
She smiled fondly. “Nae. I will come in a few weeks after I have settled things here. There are things for me to do and people to say good-bye to. I expect ye to come back for the wedding wearing your finest clothing and with a small gift for me,” she teased.
“Will ye have a gift for me, as well?” The idea apparently put all thoughts of death aside—as Arbela had intended.
“Mayhap,” she laughed. “Now, mind your father, and I will think of the first bedtime story I shall tell ye when I come to Dunfaileas.”
“Da always tells the story of St. George and the Dragon,” Bram supplied.
“Mayhap I tell it better,” she whispered. Bram giggled and darted off to Rory’s side.
“Have ye chosen a date for the wedding?” Donal leaned past Arbela, inserting himself into their conversation.
The brief shiver of panic was gone almost before it registered, and Arbela lifted her chin against its return. “I see no reason to wait over-long,” she answered. “I have no desire for the rigors of a formal wedding.”
“Shall I tell Father Sachairi four weeks, then? At the next full moon?”
Rather than consider the planning a wedding entailed, Arbela realized a full moon would make for easier travel to her new home.
“’Twill be in time for Beltane,” Caelen noted, obviously pleased with the timing.
“Beltane?” Arbela queried. “What is this?”
Caelen flashed her a look of mild irritation and his face flushed. “It marks the beginning of the growing season,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I will see to things at Dunfaileas and return at the full moon. ’Tis a pleasure to have such a bonny wife.”
“I am sending Alex and Kade with ye to assess yer needs,” Donal said. “They will report back to me so I may know how to best aid my soon-to-be son by marriage.” With a nod, Donal sent the two men to Caelen’s side. Alex clipped Caelen’s shoulder with a jesting clout.
“Must see to my sister’s new home, aye?”
Caelen’s nod of leave-taking warred with Arbela’s sense of incompleteness. She darted to her feet, past her father’s outstretched hand. “Wait!” Caelen came to a reluctant stop, his quarter-turn clearly indicating a desire to avoid further conversation. Arbela ignored it.
“Why does our wedding at the start of your growing season please ye?” she asked. “What does Beltane mean?”
Their halt positioned them next to Donal’s oldest friend and companion throughout the Crusade, and Arbela and Alex’s godfather, Farlan. The knight rose from the table. “Beltane simply means return of the sun, and is one of our ancient festivals, lass. Long before man came to understand such things, it was believed the sun was held hostage during the winter and its return was celebrated with fire and feasting.”
Arbela turned incredulous eyes on her soon-to-be husband. “Ye wish us married during a pagan festival?”
“It does no harm to find good cause to celebrate. Our wedding is an excellent reason, and for the clan to remember it as the mark of a new season cannae be a bad thing. We have seen too much evil of late.”
It seemed much to take in. The man who demanded she raise his son in a Christian manner and who had been misinformed as to her own beliefs, saw benefit in aligning their nuptials with pagan rituals? Arbela sent her father a wild look.
“We will rejoice in the holy joining of our clans, daughter,” he said. “And if the houses are decorated with the yellow flowers of May, we willnae regard it. The church has ignored this celebration of new life and season of hope after a long winter. We will rejoice in the promise of new alliances as well.”
“There will be a Christian priest, Arbela. Not a druid,” Caelen admonished.
He chided her? Arbela’s head slewed around so quickly to face him she thought it would fly off her neck. “Ye will not question my faith,” she informed him. “But ye will give me leave to question yours.”
“’Tis about blending our past with our present—and our future,” Caelen replied. “For many ’tis a way to mark the new season, to rejoice that all dark things are past and the brightness of the future is before them. Dinnae deny them the chance to embrace a new season of life.”
Arbela fought her outrage to a manageable level and gave a strained nod. “As ye wish. I will not cause strife in my new home.”
Caelen’s brow crumpled with suspicion. “Until the full moon, M’lady.” His brief pause could hardly be construed as a mark of respect, but he offered nothing further. His footsteps faded as he followed Rory and Bram from the room.
Arbela accepted the congratulations from those around her, forcing a brittle smile to her face. Two unmarried girls she’d developed a passing friendship with dragged her to a vacant spot at a nearby table and collapsed onto the benches, twittering excitedly.
“Ye must have a new gown made,” Caitriona said, eyeing Arbela’s tunic.
“I think her clothes are lovely,” Agnes demurred. “And they look so nice on her,” she added with a wistful slide of her hand over her own thin contours. She shoved a hank of shockingly red hair from her face. “I have never seen such colors or embroidery in my life.”
“But she is a Scottish bride, now,” Caitriona insisted. “Why wouldnae she wish to please her new Scottish husband?”
“I do not have to please my new husband,” Arbela replied absently, not particularly engaged in the girls’ conversation, but unable to let Caitriona’s remark pass unchallenged. “I am as much my own person as he is, and I will not change my clothing—or anything else—simply to appease a man.”
Agnes nodded encouragingly. Caitriona drew back, apparently scandalized.
“I understand ye wish to show off yer jewels,” the plump daughter of the castle seneschal drawled. “But, could ye not do it in a less….” An airy flurry of fingers indicated either a lack of proper wording or condescension toward Arbela’s accoutrement.
Affronted to find the girl who had befriended her apparently hid a low opinion of her appearance, Arbela leaned forward, laying her forearms on the scarred table top.
“When I decide ’tis time for me to wear a formless, itching dress such as ye have determined ’tis proper to wear, I will do so. Until such a time, ye will find kind, helpful suggestions are appreciated. Shrewish, baiting tactics are not.”
With a huff, Caitriona rose from the bench. She sent a pointed stare to Agnes, who gave a small shrug and refused to follow.
“It scarcely matters what she thinks of me, as I am the laird’s daughter and will be leaving in less than a month’s time,” Arbela said, offering Agnes a chance to reconsider her choice to remain.
“’Twill do no harm to tweak her nose,” Agnes replied. “Her rank is often all she has to cling to. I will be in her good graces soon, never fear. Too many others refuse her friendship.”
“She should not struggle so.”
“She can be thoughtful when she wishes, but I fear there is usually a hook hidden within the proffered kindness.”
“What is your opinion of my clothing, Agnes?”
Agnes laughed. “I have no belief ye will heed my comments should they differ from yer own. Why do ye ask?”
“Do ye merely pretend to admire my attire?” Arbela insisted, ignoring the request.
“If only other people would be as direct as ye,” Agnes sighed. “I dinnae pretend. Nor do I merely shiel
d ye from the worst of Caitriona’s barbs. I admit I am fascinated by yer clothing, but they suit ye.”
“How do they suit me?” Arbela questioned.
“They are made of fabrics I have either never heard of or only imagined. The auld laird’s family was wealthy.” Agnes swept her leveled hand around the hall which was spacious and boasted carved beams and pillars. “And some of the ladies have worn silk undergarments and veils. But brocade is something I havenae seen, nor the lining of yer cloak which ye call mohair. Not to mention the casual way ye wear jewels and gold and silver sewn into the embroidery.”
She shrugged. “Such things are fascinating, and so are ye, a lass born of two worlds.”
Arbela blinked. “I am as unlike ye as possible. The women here favor striking red hair, porcelain skin and slender bodies. I am short, with ample curves. My skin is dusky, and my hair is as black as soot. Hardly your Scottish ideal for beauty.”
“Hmm. Should I find myself in your homeland, I daresay I would be an item of interest. But I would feel as though I stuck out like a sore thumb. Being an object of curiosity and gossip can hardly be a comfortable feeling.”
Arbela stared at Agnes. “Come with me to Dunfaileas,” she blurted. Warmth heated her cheeks. “Forgive me. Ye have ties here. I should not have said that.”
Agnes laughed merrily. “I am flattered ye did. But ye speak truth—I am needed here by my family.” She blushed prettily. “I have a suitor,” she confessed quietly. “He is braw.”
“Braw?” Arbela latched on to the word, hoping to turn the conversation away from her unprecedented plea for companionship. “How so?”
“Do ye know this word?” Agnes asked.
“Aye. I spoke Armenian with my mother’s people. Court Persian with others of high-rank. Latin with many of the Antioch court. But my father spoke Scots when we were in private, as did Farlan and Kade. Gaelic, also, from time to time, though I only know a bit of it.”
“There is, then, one thing I know better than ye do.” Agnes smiled. “I was born speaking Gaelic, and Scots—or, as some term it, Inglis.” She leaned toward Arbela, her smile reaching her eyes. “My man, Dubh, is a bonny man,” she confided.
“Dubh?”
“His nickname because he is black-haired—like ye, though ’tis not a lassie’s name.”
“Tell me about him,” Arbela invited, a bit out of her depth, for she’d never entertained such thoughts about a man before, nor felt the lack. But Agnes piqued her curiosity.
“He is verra strong.” Agnes suppressed a giggle—mostly. “He can lift me in his arms—not that I’d allow him that much familiarity.” Her giggle broke through. “Once or twice,” she admitted, her face flaming almost the color of her hair. She glanced about, but no one appeared to pay them any attention.
“He trains as one of yer da’s soldiers, and he is nimble-footed. But when his eyes light on me….” With a sigh, Agnes melted on the bench. “Have ye never known what a man’s eyes tell ye when he finds ye bonny?”
Startled, Arbela shook her head. “Nae. I have seen what a man’s eyes tell me when I have bested him. Before he meets God.”
Agnes placed a palm lightly over Arbela’s left hand. “I know lairds’ daughters dinnae always marry for the pleasure of a union,” she began delicately. “But I saw Laird MacKern stare at ye—as if he finds ye intriguing.”
“More likely as if he doesnae know what to do with me,” Arbela corrected. “I have no reason to believe he finds me of interest beyond my dowry and my ability to put his household in order and care for his son.”
Agnes gave a slow shake of her head. “Nae. Ye have his attention. But I dinnae believe he knows what to do about it.”
Arbela considered Agnes’ words. If he found her attractive—as a man to a woman—would it break the contract made in private between them? If he wanted her for a wife in more than name only, would he then expect her to become like the other women of his clan? It did not bear considering.
“’Tis my belief we will have a contented marriage,” she said softly. “He has promised he will not strive to change my manner of dress nor thwart my routine weaponry practices. He will not change my life, and I will not change his overmuch.”
Tiny frown lines marked Agnes’ brow. “If ’tis any consolation, Laird MacKern is known as a fair man. If he has said he willnae challenge yer clothing, he willnae. Some call him the Bull of the Highlands. ’Tis true he is headstrong, but ’tis also rumored he is a favorite among the women of his clan.” A sly smile smoothed away the wrinkles. “I would imagine ye will soon discover what about him causes the lasses to blush.”
Heat rushed through Arbela’s veins, settling in her cheeks and breast. “I do not believe Laird MacKern wishes other children. He has an heir.”
“Och! All men want children. And they will lie on both sides of the blanket to get them. Children are not guaranteed to live to adulthood, and a laird especially needs others to ensure his lineage. Yer hips should bear up nicely in childbirth, so dinnae fash. ’Twill likely come easily to ye.”
Something foreign pooled low in Arbela’s belly and she struggled for words.
“I’ve made ye blush!” Agnes crowed. “Has yer auntie not told ye of men and women?”
Arbela’s eyes widened. “I know enough. Ye could help me with another matter,” she said, diverting Agnes’ interest. “My wedding is to be at the next full moon.”
“Beltane?”
“Aye. I know nothing of the festival. I would very much appreciate your knowledge.” Arbela settled a coaxing smile on her friend. “Tell me what ye know of Beltane.”
Chapter 13
The differences between the horses he raised and the ones the MacLean had brought with him struck Caelen anew. From Lusitania? The region was as little known to him as the horses it produced. Alex’s mount, a high-stepping dark gray, arched his neck against the bit, his full mane rippling across Alex’s hands. Despite his antics, the stallion’s gait appeared smooth and flowing, his rider moving easily in the saddle.
Though Alex’s horse stood nearly two hands taller than his own, Caelen did not have to tilt his head much to look the young man squarely in the eye. A good thing, for he felt somewhat compelled to question the tale Alex spun. From the intent way Bram listened to the story, he feared the lad already had an enormous case of hero-worship. Only Caelen wasn’t sure if Bram was more fascinated by Alex’s tale, or of the part Arbela played in it.
“I appreciate ye entertaining the lad,” he said, giving Addis a wee nudge to move him closer to Alex’s horse. “But ye dinnae expect us to believe yer sister—Lady Arbela—was much help when the Turks attacked, do ye?”
Alex and Kade exchanged looks. “Aye,” Alex said. “Ye have seen her—”
“Och, with a bow,” Caelen interrupted. “Likely carefully out of harm’s way on the battlements. Not at the gate, knocking back siege towers.”
“’Twas one of her arrows which struck a Saracen beneath his arm, felling him before he could attain the top of the wall, knocking his companions down as he went.” Alex added a fluttering movement with his hand, delighting Bram.
“Bela is verra brave, isn’t she, Alex?” the lad asked—insisted.
Alex gave a solemn nod. “Aye. Very brave. I’ve seen her stand her ground even whilst an enemy Saracen raced toward her, a javelin in his hands and death in his eyes.”
“And he obliged by keeping his horse in a steady canter so she could knock him off with one of her wee arrows?” Caelen hadn’t meant for his words to sound so mocking, and he met Alex’s stare with a carefully blank look.
“Nae. He crouched low over his horse’s neck, spear at the ready.” Alex leaned across his horse’s neck, mimicking the rider in his tale. “’Twould have been impossible for any to accurately aim an arrow, such a poor target did he present. At the last possible second, Arbela stepped before the horse and to the other side, spoiling his aim. As the rider wrenched his horse to a halt, Arbela drew one of the knives at
her belt and sent it straight into the base of the infidel’s neck. A second blade followed the first, severing the great vessel in his neck, killing him within moments.” He slipped to his horse’s side, hanging dangerously low, much to Bram’s amusement.
“Where, might I ask, were ye, Lord Alex?” Caelen couched his words politely.
Alex resumed his seat. “I was fighting off an unhorsed Saracen. Arbela and I were en route to visit our mother’s people in Armenia, some days’ travel from our home at Batroun. We traveled by caravan, with several of Da’s knights and men-at-arms for protection.” He winked at Bram and returned to his singsong story-telling cadence.
“But the Turks had heard of a beautiful half-Armenian princess who traveled to Sis, the Armenian capital, and they greatly desired to capture her.”
“Bela?” Bram asked breathlessly.
“Aye. Known as Sirun Aghjik, The Beautiful Girl, she would have made a fine addition to any sheik’s household.”
“Nae!” Bram shouted, a clenched fist in the air.
Alex nodded. “They would have hidden her away like a treasure too wonderful to be seen by others, and she would have spent the rest of her days pining for the life she could have lived in Scotland.”
Caelen fought the urge to laugh.
“She would have gutted them first!” Bram crowed.
Caelen glanced at his son, startled. “Why would ye say such a thing?”
“Bela isnae afraid of anything,” the lad assured him.
“Er, ’tis truth,” Alex muttered, clearly just as surprised by Bram’s observation. Caelen sent him a mildly questioning look. Alex took a deep breath.
“Would ye like to hear about animals ye dinnae have here?” Alex asked, obviously hoping to lure Bram from his bloodthirsty thoughts.
“Aye!” the lad agreed. “Are they ferocious?”
“Some are,” Alex replied. “We have lions, and—”
“I know about lions!” Bram interrupted. “They’re big cats with a mane like Addis’s all around their neck. They are king of all the animals!”