Shana Abe

by The Truelove Bride

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Avalon watched his face change; a slow comprehension of her words, desperation to blankness to disbelief. And then he broke into a smile, that feral one that used to fill her with dismay but now only found something matching in her, an untamed spirit that leapt forward and made her glad, incredibly glad, that she had said what she did.

  There was noise all around them, unfathomable sounds, a babble of people, a storm buffeting her. But Avalon saw only him, only Marcus standing calm, her anchor, coming up to her now with hooded eyes.

  “Are you certain?” he asked her, staying with her in the center of the storm that lashed them.

  “Yes,” she answered, and the gladness did not retreat.

  He gazed down at her and she felt his own satisfaction beyond even his smile, saw it clearly in the crystal blue of his eyes. Then he turned and looked up and away from her, taking in the rest of the room.

  “We’ll do it now,” he announced, and this again did not dismay her, as if she had expected him to act this quickly, keeping a firm grasp on this dream moment.

  The storm swirled and cleared in eddies, surges of cheering and loudness, dishes put aside, tables thrust away, men were talking to Marcus and each other, women were touching her with soft hands, surrounding her, pulling her back into themselves.

  She let them, it was fine to let them tuck her gown together, a curtain of bodies between her and the rest of the storm. They fixed her plaid for her, said things in bright, happy voices that she didn’t fully listen to, let them smooth back her hair—someone produced a comb, where did that come from?—and she had two fine braids again, divided and coiled and wrapped around her head.

  Someone—it was Ellen—handed her the tip of a bough of fragrant pine, still crisply cold from outside, and a sprig of something glossy green and dark, with deep red berries. They tucked more of it into her hair, woven into the braids, a coronet of winter.

  She started to laugh for some reason, she didn’t know why, except it was just so funny, standing here in the great hall of Sauveur with holly in her hair, clutching her bit of pine because she was going the marry the laird, just like the girl in the meadow, and it seemed so right.…

  The women parted. When she looked past them Avalon saw the wizard waiting patiently before the tables and benches, a roaring fire behind him in the hearth.

  Marcus was there as well, standing next to him with his tartan as neat and straight has her own, silhouetted against the fire, broad shoulders, dark visage, flames disguising his features.

  But she could feel what he felt, and there was nothing dark about it. Indeed, it was a tremendous luminosity, so bright and stunning it almost hurt her to take it in. He reached for her as she drew closer to him, and then the fire was her ally, letting her see the shimmering hope in him with her own eyes.

  Her heart was beyond her control, beating so fast it was as if she had been running for hours, but all she had done was take a few steps to join his side. The stem of pine she held was echoed on his plaid; he had its twin fixed to his shoulder with a straight pin of silver.

  “Lady, have you made your choice?”

  The wizard spoke in calm tones that managed to carry throughout the entire room. Avalon faced him.

  “I have,” she said.

  Balthazar inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment, and then continued.

  “I have taken a charge to protect you, lady, and I must fulfill this before God. I must hand you over only to the one who is worthy, who will not fail in his duty to you. Is this the man?”

  One robed arm swept out, indicated Marcus, still as a stone beside her.

  “Yes,” she said clearly.

  Bal looked to Marcus. “Are you the man I have described, Kincardine? Before God, do you vow to protect this woman in my stead?”

  “Aye,” replied Marcus, in that deep and sure voice that gave her shivers.

  The storm remained behind them, subdued but alive, tremors of excitement at each word, drops of anticipation into this sea of the moment.

  “God is watching,” the wizard said now, much louder than before. “And He is listening. Those who go forward with a pure heart may greet Him, and kneel at His throne. Is your heart pure, lady? Is this your true desire?”

  He pinned her with his gaze, unrelenting, and had she an ounce of uncertainty in her she knew this would have made her crumble, this darkly severe look, plumbing the depths of truth. But Avalon knew that her choice was a sound one.

  “It is,” she said, almost as loud as he.

  “And yours?” The wizard turned back to Marcus.

  “Aye,” he said again.

  The excitement mounted, Avalon could feel it almost as a living thing pressing against her back, pushing her on, decades and decades of watching eyes, hopeful hearts, all of it hanging on this moment, this union.

  “Before God!” bellowed the wizard, pointing to the heavens. “Do you take this man now?”

  “I do!” exclaimed Avalon.

  “Do you take this woman?”

  “I do,” said Marcus, forceful and strong voiced.

  An unexpected wind came, blew open the main door and into the heated room, a brisk cold force that made the flames of the fire cower and then leap back to life, taller than before. Avalon stood still amid it, then looked up at Marcus. He met her gaze, then took her hand.

  The wizard opened his arms wide and spoke over the rush of wind and the song of the people. “The flowering of these two spirits has been committed before you all today, in the sight of God, who rejoices in it. Let no man come between them! They are wedded true!”

  As the people let out a great cheer the wind danced around them all, rushing past the door despite efforts to get it closed, and with it came a sudden shower of snow-flakes, glinting magic in the air, graceful and ethereal, sifting down on everyone, everything, before melting into dewdrops.

  Avalon turned her face up to it, laughing, and Marcus caught her there, took her laugh as his own as he kissed her, his hands firm on her shoulders. The cheer became deafening.

  They were both smiling too much to continue the kiss, and so he lifted his head and pulled her close, a wordless embrace, and the light in him became impossible to her, impossible to gather together in her own mind, because it was so great.

  At once they were surrounded by the clan, hearty laughter and cheerful shoving to get closer, to congratulate the laird and his bride, to be able to see for themselves the ending of the curse and the beginning of a new blessed age.

  Avalon knew this and even it didn’t dim her own humming elation, the strange feeling of being light-headed and giddy as they were both jostled by the well-wishers.

  The snow had collected in droplets on her lashes, and looking through their prisms she saw tilting colors on the edges of everything. She felt suspended in her joy, thick honey beating through her, and again Marcus became her anchor, warm beside her, her arm linked through his, his hand on top of hers.

  Her caring women came up and kissed her cheeks, red eyed with tears. The warriors, Hew, David, Nathan, all of them filing past, even Tarroth, who had to bend down so she might catch his shy words.

  And it was only when they all began to move to the benches, laid out again for breakfast—the warmth of the people and the room so bountiful—that Avalon realized she had taken her vows as the bride of the Kincardine still in her bare feet, and so had he.

  The lesson had disintegrated into nothing less than a rampant snowball fight, with the leader of the insurgency none other than the new wife of the laird, Avalon Kincardine.

  Marcus watched from a safe distance, shielded from flying snow by the glass of his solar window, still close enough to watch his beautiful bride pack together the snow in her gloved hands and pass the projectiles off to the children, who chucked them at each other with glee.

  She took no sides, staying somewhat in the middle of the war, ducking and laughing
as the children ran around her in circles.

  Her laughter was like music to him, like rain. Healing. He couldn’t believe it had only been four days since she married him. It felt like they had been partners all his life. He lived each day just to see her; each night to make love to her; each morning to wake to the sight of her, glorious and pure.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hew was saying to the others gathered behind Marcus. “We had the ceremony. She agreed to wed him. We all heard it.”

  “Aye,” came the chorus of agreement, at least twenty men, standing firm in their resolve.

  “There will be a challenge,” Marcus said, still watching Avalon. “Warner d’Farouche will not give up so easily. It’s damnable luck.”

  He turned around and caught the brooding agreement on his men’s faces, all of them looking at either the floor or at Sean, the leader of the group Marcus had sent to the MacFarlands.

  “Dead these seven years,” Sean repeated, perhaps to get the taste of the bad news out of his mouth. “And no one stood for him, no one even wanted to talk of him. Keith MacFarland was not a liked man, even among his own clan.”

  “I imagine not,” said Marcus, “since he seemed to have no qualms over selling the lives of innocents.”

  He caught the echo of Avalon’s laughter again, drowned out by the excited shouts of the children.

  “What are we to do?” asked Hew. “We must be prepared for the challenge.”

  “Aye,” said Marcus. “I’ve sent an announcement of the marriage to Malcolm, telling him that it took place in front of witnesses, with the lady’s open consent. Let Malcolm sort through the rest of it. He is our king. He will know best how to present it to Henry and the baron.”

  “Will it be enough?” asked David.

  “If not, then we will think of something else,” Marcus replied grimly. “There is still the note. At least one d’Farouche is implicated. We will bring it up if we have to, if the marriage is sufficiently threatened.”

  He didn’t want to tell either king of Hanoch’s note just yet. Not without irrefutable proof that Warner or Bryce had been behind the raid of Trayleigh. A note such as this could be easily dismissed or accused of being a forgery, opening up all sorts of ugly possibilities Marcus was not yet ready to handle.

  Also, Avalon had not indicated to him that she wished to make it public. Against both the law and the common perception that a man need not defer to his wife, Marcus didn’t want to move behind her back. It didn’t seem right, and it certainly would not aid him in gathering her trust.

  It was Sean who said the word they were all thinking, but no one had yet said:

  “Annulment.”

  A muffled thump made Marcus turn back to the window, where the melting remains of a snowball slid and dripped down the glass. He looked out to see Avalon standing alone in the trampled, snowy courtyard below him, her eyes shielded from the sun with one hand as she looked up at him. She waved.

  “There will be no grounds for an annulment,” Marcus said, placing his palm flat on the glass, so she could see it. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  He joined her minutes later. She was still standing in the bailey, the children gone, light glistening all around her.

  Avalon watched him walk closer, snow up to his ankles, his cloak billowing and his hair uncovered. A smile, just for her.

  To her very great amazement—and relief—the sense of rightness she had felt that morning four days ago in the great hall had not faded. In fact, looking at the remarkable sight of Marcus striding to her through the winter whiteness, it grew more honed, sharper and clearer, like the air around her.

  It felt good, what she had done, in spite of all the bitterness of the past, in spite of her own broken vows, rooted in reasons that had been real enough at the rime.

  And who was to blame for those lost vows, when Marcus had turned out to be nothing like what she had feared? He was not Hanoch, and at the moment he had promised her he would never harm her, she had known he was telling her the truth.

  As for that other thing, that magnificent thing that he said, that he could separate her from his myth—well, she was having to close her eyes and take his words on faith. She had no proof of it. Perhaps there was none that could be offered that was sufficient.

  The clan reeled around her these past few days, almost crazed with delight that she had wed the laird in front of them, that their curse was lifted.

  It was preposterous, silly, and even dangerous, to feel as immune to trouble as they did.

  But she could not deny them to their faces what they wanted so badly. How much harm could it cause to keep her opinions to herself as they went on and on about the legend, about the golden times ahead? None, she hoped. She had no wish to harm any of them. They were truly her family now.

  Forgiveness. Trust. These were the things, she thought, that seemed to speak out to her. If the wizard had been right, that long-ago day in the meadow glen, if there really were lessons to be learned from each lifetime, then Avalon thought perhaps these might be hen.

  Forgive the past.

  Trust in the future.

  But it was the present she was having the most trouble with.

  Clan Kincardine and their legend: her traditional enemy. The fight had been going on too long to forget about it in the blink of an eye. She had to combat their superstition with all her reserves, or else admit that she was a part of something vast and incomprehensible and frightening. Something as strange as a chimera made real. And that could not be true.

  Most chilling of all, it would be too easy to become lost in this world—warmth, comfort, superstition, and faith in such mad ideas. It would take her in and never release her. She must always be on guard against it.

  Yet amid all the confusion, the strange whirlwind of her emotions, Avalon was slowly discovering something solid beneath it all, something ultimately satisfying: a reason to live, not for Hanoch or a legend, not even for Marcus—but for herself, her new life here.

  It was an extraordinary and momentous thing, so new she couldn’t even fully grasp it yet.

  Marcus had made it across the bailey. He picked her up by her waist and swung her around. She clung to him, laughing in spite of herself as the world circled by her, blue and green and white.

  He set her down carefully so she could find her footing.

  “You should come inside. Warm up.” The air iced into puffs between them.

  “I’m warm,” she said.

  Now that she could look straight up into his eyes she saw something beyond the plain intent of his words; there was something more he wanted to say but was not saying.

  Revenge? suggested the chimera, that not real thing inside of her.

  “Have you news?” she asked, unable to help herself.

  “Come inside,” Marcus repeated, drawing her back to the shadow of the castle.

  He took her to the sewing room, led her to the marble pink-laced hearth and helped her off with her cloak and her wet gloves, taking her reddened fingers between his own and raising them to his lips, blowing warm breath on them.

  “You shouldn’t stay outside too long in this cold,” he reproved.

  Avalon shook her head at his concern. “I won’t freeze, my lord. I grew up in weather such as this, if you’ll recall.”

  It wasn’t the cold that was bothering him, she knew it, but it was a prelude to his real concern, and so she waited for him to come around to it, to collect his thoughts and offer them to her. After a moment he did, staring at the great expanse of windows behind her.

  “Keith MacFarland is dead.”

  “Oh,” she said. Relief filled her that this was all it was. “I told you he would be.”

  He inclined his head to her, still clasping her fingers, bringing their joined hands down closer to the fire.

  “With him dies our hope of discovering if it was Bryce or Warner behind the raid,” Marcus said.

  She frowned. “There must be another way.”

  “There
might be.”

  “What, then?”

  He gave her a sideways look, as if trying to ascertain something about her that she would not readily reveal to him.

  “Do you … see anything, Avalon?”

  She took her hands back from his, her fingers inexplicably cold again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Her voice grew a little too emphatic. “No.”

  Marcus held out both hands, a gesture of peace. “All right. I’m sorry. Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” she said, striving to sound normal. “I have no reason to be upset.”

  “Truelove.” He stepped closer and brought her to him, holding her until the stiffness in her back loosened somewhat, and her hands crept up around his waist. Marcus leaned his head down, kissed her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just thought that you might—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “You are mistaken. Do not confuse me with your legend, my lord.”

  “I didn’t think I was,” he sighed. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but don’t you think it’s time you came to some sort of …”

  She pulled back and looked up at him, the light of something deep and unhappy in her eyes.

  “… understanding,” he finished stubbornly, “about who you are, and this gift you have?”

  He felt her clench up inside, felt it as sure as if she had shut her mind and run away from him, instead of remaining utterly still in his arms, aloof.

  “There is no gift,” she said, very soft.

  “You tamed a wild stallion when he should have killed you.” Marcus kept his grip firm around her. “You smelled the sulphur with me in the glen. And I know, though you denied it, that you saw something when you handled the note sent to me about your engagement to Warner.”

  Her lower lip began to quiver, the unhappiness in her became a strength that allowed her to jerk away from him, every inch of her shouting out denial at him, a desperate rejection. He hated this; he hated to do this to her, but there was so much to gain now, and everything to lose.

  “Avalon! I’m not asking you for Hanoch, or for the sake of a story. I’m asking you for us, you and me! Don’t you think that Warner will challenge our marriage? Don’t you know how easy it is to buy an annulment? We are running out of options. We need help. A clue. Something!”