by Cathy MacRae
“Look beneath this side,” Arbela coaxed him, pointing to the indention along one edge, carefully hiding all but the tip of her forefinger within the sleeve of her coat. Zora had spent the majority of the previous day drawing the delicate hennaed designs on her hands, and they were to be viewed by her groom at the wedding—not by those gathered around her hours before the vows.
Bram slid his forefinger along the smooth surface to the small depression and pulled the section up. A velvet-lined cavity held a cloth bag, a water stain faintly marking the satin. She knew if he turned the case over, he’d find a similar blemish on the leather, a reminder of long ago when she’d spilled a cup of watered wine on the table where she’d left the box.
Bram lifted the bag from its place, tilting his head at the clink of objects inside. Tugging at the drawstring, he opened the bag and peered inside.
“What is it?”
“This is a game I played a lot as a young girl, no older than ye. It originated in Egypt more than two thousand years ago. It was called Alquerque. But a hundred years ago, a Frenchman changed the game somewhat, and it is now known as Fierges.”
Arbela motioned to the satin bag. “The markers for the game are in there. Twelve for each player. One person will use the obsidian, the other the ivory. I cannot wait to teach ye to play!”
Bram’s quizzical look broadened the smile on Arbela’s face. It was clear he’d never played the board game before. “Go ahead and look at the pieces if ye like. Create your own game until I have a chance to show ye the rules of Fierges.”
He plunged a hand inside and drew out three markers. The ivory glowed palest yellow, the obsidian’s black shine enhanced by years of wear.
Bram grinned. “I like them!” He ran his hand around inside the bag, clinking the markers against each other.
“’Tis your game, now, Bram-jan,” Arbela said. “But be aware rough handling can chip the markers and mar their beauty. And the leather and wood playing case must be occasionally cared for as well. I will show ye. I am happy ye now have something I have always cherished.”
She tilted her head to Caelen. “Such a game will teach him many skills such as strategy, competitiveness—without bloodshed—confidence and respect. And, ’tis fun when weather dictates we remain indoors.”
“This is a tremendous gift, Arbela. I thank ye,” Caelen intoned, a look of interest crossing his face.
Bram slowed his hand, merely flicking his fingers through the markers. “I thank ye, Bela,” Bram echoed, his father’s response reminding him of his manners. “I will take care of it. When can we play?”
“I believe ’twill be a few days. We have a wedding today, and travel on the morrow. Mayhap a day or two after I arrive at Dunfaileas?”
At Bram’s nod, Caelen touched the boy’s shoulder. “Ilene is ready to help ye dress. Go with her.”
An older woman who must have arrived in the wagon with others from Dunfaileas, held her hand out to Bram.
“Come, lad,” she said. “Ye mustnae bother yer da or his bride this day. I will see to ye.”
Arbela bit back an arch reply. This was a more difficult day than she’d anticipated, and having Bram at her heels as she finished preparations would prove most distracting. And it would not do to alienate Bram’s nurse, even if Arbela would soon see to the majority of Bram’s care. But she did not like the woman’s assumption Bram was a bother.
She turned to Ilene, a slight smile on her lips. “Thank ye for yer help. I know he will make ye and his da proud with his manners at the ceremony. I expect him to be with us as we enter the chapel.”
Ilene gave her a startled look. “A bairn at yer wedding? ’Tis not proper.”
“He will be my son. It is my wish he attends.” Arbela’s voice remained sweetly modulated, but none could deny the thread of steel that brooked no interference from the boy’s nurse and whatever idea of proper she had.
Ilene sent a look to Caelen, but he refused her silent plea. “He will be there, M’lady,” the nurse said, her eyes downcast. Taking Bram’s hand, she followed a servant from the room.
“I must finish preparing,” Arbela said. With a graceful nod to Caelen and her father, she left the hall, Zora and Agnes in her wake. Behind her, the men took up welcoming shouts, and though the hour was before noon, Arbela expected ale and wine to flow freely.
Toros and Garen met her as she opened her bedroom door, whining eagerly after her absence.
“Agnes, find someone to take the dogs to the stable,” Zora instructed. At Arbela’s startled look, she replied. “This is now your bridal chamber. Your pets are not needed here and will only get in the way.”
Arbela swallowed hard to remember this night would mark the first of her married life with Laird MacKern, but gave a nod to Agnes who hurried from the room, dogs leashed beside her.
Zora approached the tub beside the hearth and dropped handfuls of dried rose petals on the steaming surface. “We will let those linger whilst we prepare ye for your bath,” she said.
Arbela removed her clothes and pulled on a heavy robe. Seating herself on a stool, she opened a small jar on the low table at her side.
“The cream and honey will give your skin a lovely glow,” Zora approved as she took the jar from Arbela and dipped her slender fingers into the blended substance. She applied the thick mask carefully to Arbela’s face then reached for the cask of costly castor oil. Arbela’s eyes closed as her aunt massaged the oil into her scalp.
Agnes returned, closing the door softly behind her. “They werenae exactly happy to go to the stable, but went with yer brother willingly enough.”
Arbela released a sigh of relief to hear Alex had dealt with the dogs. Sending her two companions from her side was almost like sending children away. There were other things she needed to occupy her mind with this day, however.
“If ye wouldst be so kind as to brew the tea I have set out,” Zora requested. Agnes busied herself with the chore, measuring the tea and steaming water as Zora had instructed her previously.
“The bath is ready, daughter,” Zora murmured, assisting Arbela from her seat.
Used to servants in the room, though she preferred to attend her own needs, Arbela slipped out of the robe and into the tub without remarking the others’ presence. She sank into the warmth then placed her hennaed feet upon the far lip of the tub as the heavy scent of roses rose in the steam. Zora brought a warm cloth and a dish of sea salt mixed with olive oil and began bathing her arms as Arbela relaxed as much as she could.
“What do ye bathe with?” Agnes asked, fascinated with the ritual she’d been part of for the past week. Zora described the bathing oil.
“These items Arbela has kept in her wedding chest since she attained womanhood, and we have added to it over the years.”
“I scarcely remembered the chest,” Arbela noted wryly. “Aunt Zora has kept up with it far better than I.”
Agnes giggled. “Ye would likely have stocked it with arrows.”
“I am glad ye are coming with me,” Arbela laughed. “Even if only for a short time. Ye are a good friend, and I hope to make another like ye at Dunfaileas.”
“Och, ye will,” Agnes protested, but her cheeks pinked and Arbela knew she was pleased with the compliment.
“I will be along soon enough, child,” Zora reminded her. “I believe the next two weeks are a time for a couple to bond without one who has been as your mother in attendance. A maid is sufficient, and since ye have none, Agnes will see to your clothing and such.”
“I am happy to assist,” Agnes said. “A couple of weeks apart from Dubh will do neither of us harm. And if he is prone to wander, I need to know this.”
Zora collected a clean cloth and wetted it in a basin of rose water and wiped the mask from Arbela’s face, silencing her question of what to do with a wandering suitor—or husband.
After cleaning the mask, Zora laid a warm, damp cloth over Arbela’s face.
The door to the bedroom opened, and, even without
seeing, Arbela knew Caitriona had entered the room. The girl had insisted she would assist on Arbela’s special day—Arbela could still hear the young woman’s condescending voice as she made her announcement, and even how Caitriona’s strident voice set her teeth on edge. Arbela had counted it her great fortune the girl had been tardy in this endeavor today as she was in many others. However, she had arrived at last, and peace fled the room.
“I am here!” Caitriona announced with a clap of her hands. “I will see to the bride’s clothing and jewels.”
“Bring that basin, and ye may wash her hair,” Zora corrected her.
“But I—”
Arbela’s lips curved. Whatever Caitriona had been about to say disintegrated beneath one of Zora’s firm looks. Arbela had known neither free person nor slave to utter another syllable after receiving one of Zora’s silent reprimands.
Creaking sounds ensued as the wooden basin was dragged across the floor. Standing behind Arbela, someone—Caitriona, most certainly—pulled Arbela’s hair over the edge of the tub and wetted it.
“I will require an apron for my dress,” Caitriona whined. “I dinnae consider being a lady’s maid today. I’d rather tend to her clothing—Ow!”
“Wet fingers should never touch silk,” Zora admonished. “I will inspect Lady Arbela’s hair when ye have finished.”
Arbela hid her laugh beneath the cooling linen and settled a bit deeper in the warm water. Hands picked up her hair and began massaging a generous quantity of rose-scented soap through the strands. Arbela did not worry Caitriona would play foul with her hair—not beneath Zora’s eagle-eyed gaze.
It was at last time to move from the bath—lest ye ruin the henna on your hands and feet, Zora fussed—and Arbela once again slipped into a heavy robe, averting her eyes from the elaborate costume laid out for her on the bed. Caitriona combed out Arbela’s long, thick hair, brushing it gently as it dried while Zora inspected the beautiful, intricate patterns in henna on Arbela’s hands and the tops of her feet.
Agnes knelt beside Zora. “Ye spent all of yesterday applying the designs—or several hours of it. Tell me of them again.”
Zora leaned back and pointed to Arbela’s hands. “The flowers represent love, happiness and fulfillment, whilst the leaves and vines show devotion and dedication to her new life.” She turned Arbela’s hands palm up. “We add the designs to the palms of a bride as a blessing for her, and on the back as a talisman of protection.”
Arbela stilled. “I did not know there was so much symbolism in these designs.” She swiveled her hands, surveying them front and back. “I thought they were pretty and meant to enhance the beauty of the wearer.”
“Ye need nothing to enhance your beauty, hayat alby,” Zora said. Arbela’s heart warmed at the familiar endearment—my heart’s life. “Ye will find many things have multiple meanings, depending on the time, execution or simply who ye ask.”
“I thank ye for your devotion, Aunt Zora,” Arbela said, finding a sudden hole where her most cherished beliefs of right and wrong lay. “I am humbled to find I should guard my tongue when tempted to malign another’s religion or practices.”
“As long as ’tis not the black arts, mayhap ’tis best to spend time in another’s shoes before declaring the fit to be imperfect.” Zora smiled. “Let us finish your preparations. Your groom will await ye soon.”
Chapter 15
Caelen glanced about the room as he lifted his left shoulder, giving it a bit of a massage. A man could become a wee bit sore from all the congratulatory clouts he’d endured. He rotated the arm experimentally, loosening the muscles tense from the inexplicable apprehension this visit to MacLean castle brought. Everyone around him was happy with the marriage—but they weren’t the ones pledging themselves to a life with a young woman raised to state her mind and choose her weapons with equal ease.
Donal MacLean was pleased with the arrangement. He’d toasted the upcoming nuptials several times this morning, and if his jovial attitude was any indication, ’twas likely he’d been toasting for some time previous.
Bram was cheerful enough, though ’twas clear he viewed Arbela as something between a faerie tale princess and a bosom playmate. Caelen wondered what the lad would think when Arbela proved to be more exacting than his nurse.
His captain and milk brother, Rory, viewed the marriage with a bit more solemnity. Initially pleased with the arrangement and all it meant for their clan’s well-being, he’d become a bit more skeptical when Caelen had at last admitted the constraints of the agreement between himself and Arbela.
Rory’s eyebrows had disappeared beneath his shaggy forelock, and his whistle of disbelief sliced through Caelen’s composure. “Ye dinnae stop to think what a life of celibacy will be like?”
“Och, once she doesnae quicken with a bairn, no one will think it amiss if I take a mistress. Quietly, of course.”
“Caelen, yer wife will take it amiss, I can state with certainty.”
“By then, she will be content in her life and have come to her senses—”
“Come to her senses? Did ye fall off yer horse and land on yer head? Have ye lost every bit of sense ye ever laid claim to? If Arbela doesnae gut ye, her brother will. And I’d take on Alex sooner than I would yer wife. She is likely to draw her blade a wee bit further south.”
Rory’s words rang true. A pledge was a pledge. Unless Arbela agreed to dissolve or amend it, he was stuck in an unenviable position. Alesta had taken word of his impending marriage philosophically, and bid him good life yesterday morn, refusing to bed him the night before his wedding.
His marriage was a business arrangement. Nothing more. How he and Arbela spent their time apart should be no one’s business but their own. He held no desire to bed the strong-willed woman whose manners and appearance were foreign to him. Ruthie had been tall and willowy, her green eyes startling in her pale skin. ’Twas the image he’d always admired, and even Alesta, her beauty mostly a thing of the past, fit his ideal more than Arbela did. And even on their wedding night, Arbela was unlikely to agree to a shared bed.
The sudden skirl of pipes snatched him from his musings. Glancing up, he spied a procession coming from the end of the great hall to his position near the enormous double doors of the keep. Even Bram, who’d begun to fidget, stood straight, grabbing at Calder’s tunic as he peered around his legs.
“Bela?” he asked.
Caelen caught a glimpse of scarlet fabric trimmed in gold and glittering in the candle light. “Aye,” he breathed, awed in spite of himself.
Deep in a crowd of well-wishers, Arbela’s short stature made her an elusive target. But Caelen’s eyes followed her as she approached. Reaching a point only a few feet away, she halted and the party around her drew back, allowing him to see his bride clearly for the first time.
Arrayed in a gown of dragon’s blood red, her glittering necklace of rubies and diamonds appeared worth a king’s ransom. Her dark eyes flashed, their tilted lines accented with a dark liner, adding to the exotic mystery that was Arbela. Her face, framed by a gossamer-thin veil, invited his touch, and he checked his impulse to caress her cheek.
“Do we continue to the chapel?” she murmured, one eyebrow raised in mild mockery. “Or admit our folly?”
Caelen glanced at the expectant faces gathered around him. With a deep bow, he offered his hand, accepting the startlingly patterned one she placed in his. He cleared his throat.
“I am willing if ye are.”
Eyes bold and challenging, Arbela inclined her head toward the door, and they began their walk to the chapel.
The crowd followed. Pausing at the door to the castle’s small chapel, Arbela and Caelen exchanged their vows. Caelen’s voice flowed solemnly to Arbela’s ears.
“I receive ye as mine, that ye become my wife and I yer husband.”
She repeated the words back to him. “I receive ye as mine, that ye become my husband, and I your wife.”
As they stepped inside the chapel, Arbela fing
ered the ring Caelen had placed on the third finger of her right hand. The red and gold cabochon jasper was smooth beneath her thumb as she twisted the beaten gold band on her finger. Though she had jewels aplenty—and of much greater worth than the semi-precious jasper—this one would never leave her hand. The idea drew her thoughts away from the nuptial mass.
She moved through the responses with little awareness. She stood, sat, and knelt as prescribed. With effort, she pulled her attention to the priest’s words. Her father, Zora, Rory and a second representative from Dunfaileas stepped forward and held a shimmering veil over Arbela and Caelen’s heads as the priest spoke a blessing over them. His hand rested lightly on her head and she peered at Caelen from the corner of her eye.
“Ego congelo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,” Father Sachairi concluded.
Arbela jerked her gaze to the priest and Alex’s shoulders shook. Caelen made to rise, but Arbela did not budge. He sent her a look of surprise.
“’Tis a bit late to balk, M’lady,” he murmured.
“The priest…he….” Arbela’s voice trailed off. She leaned forward, catching Father Sachairi’s gaze. “With respect, Father, ye must repeat the declaration.” She leaned further still, and he bent his ear close. “The verb is conjungo, not congelo.”
The priest gave Arbela a startled look. “What right have ye—”
Donal silenced him with a small wave of his hand. “The lass is correct, Father. Dinnae fash. ’Tis easy to mistake the Latin. But my daughter speaks it well.”
Red-faced, Father Sachairi mumbled the words. “Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
“Amen,” Arbela responded, head bowed. She hoped she appeared demure—correcting a priest at one’s own wedding was not something done lightly. But she kept her head bent until she could control the mirth that threatened to erupt wildly at the error.
I stiffen ye in wedlock…. From what she knew of the act that passed between husband and wife, stiffening was needed, though it shouldn’t take a priest’s command to make it so. The traditional I join ye was much preferred in a public setting, though it seemed she and Alex and her father were the only ones who’d noticed. She bit her lip as she idly wondered how many other couples the good priest had ‘stiffened’.