Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03]

by The Sword Maiden

  He blinked, noticing the small lights dancing in his sight. One day soon he would send a message north to invite Aleck Beaton to Innisfarna. Not only did he want to introduce his friend to Eva, but he was ready to hear Aleck's opinion on his eyesight. His vision problems had not worsened in a long while, and the changes were tolerable. And he had Eva's help with the steel smithing now. If later in life the vision in that eye diminished, he knew he would have a loving family around him.

  Setting the steel back in the forge fire, he resolved to hurry. He enjoyed the quiet nighttime hours when he could seclude himself in the smithy for a while. But this particular evening visitors were expected—in fact, he had heard voices and the sound of horses' hooves in the yard not long ago.

  Smiling in anticipation, he set the steel aside to lose its heat. He would return later to transform the lump of metal into the blade he pictured in his mind: a small, beautiful thruster sword, a twin to the one he had repaired and hidden away, never to be used again. This second one he meant as a gift for his wife. His betrothed, he corrected himself; the wedding was soon. Very soon, and he had best hurry if he was to attend it.

  He noticed the grime and charcoal traces on his hands, and the sweat slicking his bare forearms. As he rinsed his hands in the dousing tub, he heard a light rapping at the door.

  Simon stepped inside, greeting Lachlann with a wave. Several others crowded the step behind him. Through the doorway, the night sky sparkled like diamonds on black velvet.

  "Are you ready?" Simon asked.

  "In a moment," he answered.

  "But we are here, smith, and eager to see this wedding," Iain Og said, and shoved open the door. "You will just have to put down your hammer and tongs for a while. Though we will not say what set of hammer and tongs you will be using later." He guffawed, and someone laughed, but Iain Og was rapped on the shoulder for his quip by Mairi MacKerron, who came inside after him. Lachlann went to his foster mother and embraced her, glad to feel her cool, practical kiss on his cheek.

  "You have not cleaned up," she said, patting his sweat-dampened shirt. "And it is time for your wedding!"

  "I thought all of you would come later," he said.

  "It is later," she said. "You were lost in your work."

  He chuckled at the truth of that, and stood with her while the others entered the warm, dim smithy. He greeted them, smiling at each familiar face, all of them dear to him, some of them known to him all his life.

  The five male MacArthur cousins came inside, followed by their sister, Margaret, and Angus, who each carried a little one. Alpin followed, escorting Ninian with a hand on his shoulder. Then Eva entered.

  Lachlann's gaze softened as he watched her. She wore a simple gown of dark red wool, with an arisaid of brown and red fastened by the silver circlet he had repaired for her. Her hair, loosened and glossy as midnight, was glorious around her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled as she smiled at him.

  He noted, too, the lush rounding of her breasts beneath her gown, and her body, taut where she carried the child that only the two of them knew about as yet.

  Blacksmiths like their secrets, he thought, smiling.

  He reached out to take her hand. "You look like a flame, mo caran," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "You look beautiful."

  "And you could use a little scrubbing, my handsome, brawny smith." She laughed, resting her hand on his bare arm. "But that can wait. I love you like this, with the traces of your strength and your work upon you," she confided in a whisper. "I have some rose petals for your bath later, if you want."

  "It is not flowers I want in the bath," he murmured, and turned with her to face the others. "I have an announcement," he said, raising his voice over the happy chattering.

  "We know—you are getting married," Andra said. The others laughed, and Lachlann smiled, waiting for quiet.

  "I wanted to tell you—and Eva—that I am leaving for Perth in a few days," he said.

  Eva's grip tightened on his arm. "Perth!"

  "Only for a little while," he assured her. "I have requested an audience with the king to discuss the MacArthur situation, which is still uncertain following... the events of weeks ago."

  "Why would the king listen to a bladesmith," Eva asked, "even if you are a knight, and acted as a messenger for him?"

  "He might listen to a king's cousin," he said. "My mother, Aileen Stewart, was second cousin to the royal Stewarts."

  Astonished, she looked up at him, then glanced at Mairi, who nodded in confirmation.

  "The Stewarts of Glen Brae are closely related to the king," Mairi said. "So Lachlann can claim that kinship as well. I think it is a good idea. The king may remember Aileen Stewart for her beauty and kind heart, and he might be inclined to consider mercy for the MacArthurs."

  Lachlann looked down at Eva. "It is worth the chance."

  She nodded. "Then I did not need Colin's influence after all to help us. I had you to help, all along."

  "You always had me, Eva," he murmured.

  She smiled, her hand clasped in his. "Perhaps Donal will be here with us by the new year. Lachlann, I dreamed about him the other night. He was with us at Innisfarna again, and he and Simon were bouncing our children on their knees."

  He cocked a brow. "Children?"

  "Two little girls," she whispered to him. "Aeife and Jehanne, you called them, in my dream." Her chin quivered a little as she said it, and her eyes shone with tears.

  He could not answer for the tightness in his throat.

  "Ho, blacksmith," Iain Og said. "Are you ready now?"

  Lachlann nodded, and led the way across the room to the anvil. Ninian carefully removed a pair of tongs and a hammer from the anvil surface and set them on the edge of the forge. Then he smiled up at Lachlann openly, without hiding his scarred mouth, with its feline, strangely elegant shape. His blue eyes twinkled.

  Lachlann rested a hand on the boy's golden head. "You will be a good smith one day, if you want to be," he said. "And I could use an apprentice. Soon Eva will be too busy to spend much time in here with me," he added. Ninian grinned and nodded, and Eva smiled at them both.

  "Tell us, blacksmith," Simon said, when all of them gathered in a partial circle around the anvil. "Have you ever performed a wedding?"

  "I have not, but Finlay did so several times. A wedding at the forge is an ancient tradition," he told them. "Back in the time of the mists, before the Christian priests, it is said that smiths were essential members of their villages, gifted with the knowledge of transforming and joining metals. So it was deemed appropriate for smiths to bind couples in marriage. The tradition is hardly used anymore, but it will do well for us." He smiled down at Eva.

  "You will want a priest later, but this will do until the priest comes to our glen again," Mairi said, nodding.

  Simon took his sister's arm and positioned her in front of the anvil, facing the forge. "We will witness your marriage," he said. "I always thought you two were well suited," he added. "Donal thought so, too."

  Eva glanced at him. "Donal? When did he say so?"

  "Years ago, when your betrothal with Colin was first discussed, Donal told Father that you would be happier wed to Lachlann the smith's son, who would care for you and treat you well, and whose talents would be an asset to the clan. He said that you could not wed a finer man than the smith's lad."

  Tears pooled in her eyes. "I never knew that."

  "Donal never told you, for our father was adamant about his choice for you. So you see," Simon said affectionately, kissing her cheek, "you have the approval of your clan chief, too."

  She turned, smiling tremulously, to face Lachlann. He stood across the anvil from her in his usual place, with the fire warming his back. "If we pledge our hearts in marriage to one another in the eyes of God, we do not need witnesses or a priest in the land of Scotland. Yet these witnesses are welcome to share this with us, and to take it into their hearts as we take it into ours."

  He held out his hands. Eva took his
fingers, across the anvil, and he felt her hands tremble slightly.

  He looked down at her, with her eyes storm-colored and softened with unshed tears. In the rich light of the forge, she glowed in his eyes.

  "I take you for my wife, Eva MacArthur," he murmured. "Over this anvil, with strength of iron and warmth of fire, in the eyes of these witnesses and in the presence of God, I make this marriage with you. This will endure forever," he added, his gaze deep in hers.

  "I take you for my husband, Lachlann MacKerron," she murmured, and repeated the words he had said, words that came from his heart, and chimed out now in her mellow, loving voice. "To endure forever."

  "Let it be forged between us," he whispered, and bent to kiss her with the anvil between them, and the light and heat of the fire upon them, and the love of the others in a ring around them.

  Then, in a blur of laughter and sniffling embraces, he received the congratulations of all those he loved so well. And at last, eager to reach Eva, he stepped around the anvil and gathered her into his arms.

  He kissed her, deep and endless, while the cheers rose around them. Drawing back, he brushed at a wayward strand of her hair. "This marriage was made between us long before this moment, my friend," he whispered. "We began forging it long ago. But something so good and so strong, and so very valuable takes a long time, and a lot of care."

  "Then we will continue to work on it, smith," she answered, smiling up at him, "day and night."

  "Ah," he said, wrapping an arm around her, "now that we will do."

  The End

  Page forward for more from Susan King.

  Dear Reader,

  A company of Scots guards serving in the French court were assigned by the Dauphin to ride with Joan of Arc, and many, like Lachlann in this story, were loyal to her; many died in her service. During the Hundred Years' War, thousands of Scots went to France to assist against the English, and those that survived were sometimes rewarded with land, titles and knighthoods. Other details in the story are also based on historical fact; Joan's sword, called the sword of Saint Catherine of Fierbois, revealed to her in a dream and discovered in a chapel at Fierbois exactly as she indicated, was apparently broken. Though the facts are unknown (speculation says she broke it in a fit of temper), a blacksmith declared it impossible to repair. Joan admitted that the sword had broken but she would not say what happened to it.

  Smiths were essential craftsmen in medieval society and their skills were imbued with mystery. In Scotland, blacksmithing and bladesmithing were well developed, and although steel weapons were most often imported from Europe, swordmaking in Scotland originated with Celtic as well as Viking smiths. Rob Miller, a bladesmith from the Isle of Skye, shared with me some valuable insights into the old traditions and processes of this ancient craft. His work can be seen at www.castlekeep.co.uk.

  I hope you enjoyed The Sword Maiden. To learn more about my books or to contact me, please visit my websites, www.susanfraserking.com, and www.susankingbooks.com. I'm also part of the Word Wenches blog at www.wordwenches.com.

  Happy Reading!

  Susan King

  Missed one of the first two books

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  THE STONE MAIDEN

  The Celtic Nights Series

  Book One

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  Excerpt from

  The Stone Maiden

  The Celtic Nights Series

  Book One

  by

  Susan King

  National Bestselling Author

  THE STONE MAIDEN

  Reviews & Accolades

  "King—whose research into the territory and time period is evident—strongly draws readers into the plot and her characters' lives."

  ~Publishers Weekly

  "Exhilarating... Demonstrates why fans and critics cherish her novels."

  ~Affaire de Coeur

  "Filled with excitement. Susan King shows why she is considered by fans and critics to be one of the monarchs of the sub-genre."

  ~Midwest Book Reviews

  "A strong heroine [and] an honorable man... this story brought a tear to my eye. Every part blends seamlessly... I could feel the mist and smell the heather."

  ~LaurieLikesBooks.com

  Scotland, The Highlands, 1170

  Sebastien scanned the shadows in the old church out of habit, though he knew no danger existed here. He was simply waiting, silent yet wary, as was his duty as a king's guard, while the visiting Highland girl explored the abbey. Pray saints she would hurry. He had other things to do than stand here. Yet at the same time, he sensed she needed a little peace here, and he would allow her that.

  The place seemed to glow, he thought, glancing around its familiar interior. Perhaps its luminosity came from the afternoon light—or perhaps the girl created it, he had the sudden thought, like a flame inside a lantern.

  She was indeed a flame, for earlier in audience with the king, she had stirred him to temper when he preferred cool 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—a protective urge. Odd, he thought.

  She had wandered off and disappeared among the huge columns in the dim old church for a long while, so he crossed the nave out of curiosity. Rounding past one of the wide columns, he stopped in astonishment.

  Alainna MacLaren had stepped up from the floor to perch on the narrow edge of a column base, toes balanced, chest and torso pressed against the pillar, one arm hugging the column. The other hand stretched toward the groove of a carved chevron as if she sought a hold.

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

  She gasped, 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.

  "First tell me what happened. Did you turn your ankle? Were you startled by a mouse?" He turned, holding her, looking around. "Shall I vanquish the little beast for you?"

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

  "So be it." He let her go and she stood.

  "Your Gaelic is good for a Norman knight," she said, for they were both speaking quietly and quickly in that tongue. "It is surprising."

  "I have been a guard here in King William's court for long enough that I took time to learn the language. That way," he said, "I know what is going on around me. It is to my advantage."

  "I suppose I should be careful what I say then," she said, brushing at her skirts. She glanced up at the column.

  "At least be careful what you do. Why were you trying to climb that column like a squirrel in a tree?"

  She did not seem amused. 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 want to continue," he drawled, "I could boost you up on my shoulders."

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

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

  He looked up. "Mark?"

  "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 did see a distinct symbol cut into one of the stones above their heads. He nodded.

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


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

  "A remembrance of your cousin," he said.

  Her gaze was wide, sincere. "My thanks, sir knight. You must be very 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 and saw that she had made some small sketches on it with the charcoal. "These are good. You are quite an imagier."

  "I had some training from my cousin. Let me 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. These are clearly his work."

  He listened, admiring the fine work she showed him, though he glanced more at the girl than the carvings. Her voice was soft and soothing, the sight of her like a balm to his weary spirit. As they neared the arched doors, she turned to him.

  "My foster brother is waiting for me outside."

  Sebastien felt a wrench within, like dismay. He simply held the door open for her. She glided past, the top of her head just at the level of his shoulder, though she was tall for a woman.

  Outside he saw the girl's foster brother, 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, Alainna of Kinlochan. We will not meet again."

  She looked startled. "Why so?"

  "I plan to leave Scotland soon."

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