Milread nodded. “It is good for a child to have a pet. There is much to be learned from tending creatures who dinna speak with words.” Her task complete, she propped the broom in the corner. “Mayhap next time this year you’ll give him another friend, a two-legged one, a wee brother or sister to bear him company.”
Alys felt her spirits dip. She wanted Callum’s baby with all her heart. For the second time that night, the midwife’s warning came back to haunt her.
“I hope so. Otherwise Alasdair is in danger of becoming more spoiled still. And Callum would make the best of fathers. I see him with Alasdair and…” Alys ended the thought there, pulled over one of the banked pillows, and hugged it to her breast. “I know my lord is a hard man and as unlike his brother as night is to day, and yet with us he is gentle as a lamb and so…wonderfully tender.”
Milread snorted. “Wheesht, lassie, pray to the gods you think the same of him a year hence.”
Come what may, I dinna desire to marry you for a year and a day but for the rest of our earthly lives.
Alys sighed. She lifted a hand and absently traced the outline of her sensitized lower lip. “I will, Milread. I know I will.”
Certain as she was of Callum, she was still uncertain of what the future might hold. She’d learned not to trust happiness. Just after she and Alexander had married, he’d announced he was rejoining his English knight’s army. She’d pleaded and argued with him, to no avail. He’d been adamant. This stubbornness was a side of him she’d never before seen. But he’d been tender, too, swearing to return for the birthing. As much as she’d wanted to believe him, in her heart she’d known his parting kiss would be their last, that the child growing inside her would know no parent save her. When the letter informing her of his death finally found its way to her, read aloud by a kindly priest from the Church of St. Andrew, she’d dropped to her knees, devastated but not really surprised.
Callum’s coming into her life had brought her joy such as she’d never before known. The past seven months’ courtship still seemed more fairy tale than reality. Even the antipathy between him and her best friend, Brianna, had been laid to rest upon Brianna and Ewan’s marriage last spring. Her best friend and the love of her life were allies once more, which gladdened her heart greatly.
And yet on the eve of her own Christmas wedding, she couldn’t entirely trust her good fortune. She thought of the lifetime of companionable days and delicious nights that lay ahead, the lifetime of unending Christmas Callum swore to give her, and clutched the pillow tighter. Perfect happiness was within her grasp. Given her history, could she hope to hold on to it?
Sightless though she was, the old woman seemed to be studying her intently. “Something’s amiss, child. Tell me what troubles you?”
At a loss for words, Alys shook her head. Tears welled. Her shoulders shook. She bowed her head. “I never thought to be anyone’s bride again.”
Having trod the prostitute’s path, she’d never expected any man to want her for more than his mistress. And yet Callum knew of he past and still he wanted her for his wife. The seven months’ waiting she’d imposed had only strengthened his resolve.
“Och, dinna fret so!” Milread shuffled through the rushes toward her and enfolded Alys in bony but loving arms. “Life often brings to us gifts that we least expect.”
Alys shook her head. “You ken my past. I canna come to my husband as a virgin and yet when I am with him, I feel as if the world was fresh and new and I a maid once more.”
Milread laid her gnarled hand atop Alys’s and gave it a wee pat. “Loving another with all one’s being has washed many a soiled soul clean. And your bridegroom is nay saint himself. Be bold and buxom in bed tomorrow night, wean, and you’ll find the Fraser well-pleased with his bride. Once you are his lady in every sense, passion’s fire will burn away these dark doubts and misgivings from your mind.”
Alys looked up. “Do you really believe so?”
Milread snorted. “Barring Lord Ewan, I’ve never set eyes upon a man so besotted with his bride.” She framed Alys’s face in her clawlike hands. “Now tell me, what can I do to bring a smile to that bonny face?”
Alys hesitated. The terrible foreboding that had taken hold of her upon waking that morning had grown steadily stronger throughout the day. Now that Callum was gone, she felt as though a brigade of bogeymen might be coming for her at any time.
Unused to asking for what she wanted, she said, “Well, there is one thing…”
“Name it, child, and I will do my best to make it so.”
She slipped her gaze to the cord at Milread’s waist from which a faded crimson pouch swung. “I crave the boon of your soothsaying. Will you read the runes for me?”
Milread waved a hand in the air. “Bah, those old stones are best kept in their pouch. The Fraser loves you true, lassie. I’ve no need of runes to tell that.”
Suddenly desperate, Alys caught at her hand. “But the stones can be used to answer other kinds of questions, can they not? Will I be able to give him a child? Will he still come to my bed when I’m old and gray? Will we live long and happy?”
Milread released a put-upon sigh. “Sometimes it is wiser not to ken the future. Both joy and sorrow are best met in the moment.”
“Milread, please, all day I have fretted and worried.”
The crone blew out a breath and loosened the cord of her pouch. She drew out a balled white cloth, shook it out, and spread it upon the foot of the bed, then handed the bag to Alys. “There are twenty-five stones in that bag, twenty-four bearing the sacred Norse symbols and one left blank. Shake the bag well, slip your hand inside and knead the stones so that they absorb your energy.”
At Milread’s direction, Alys stood at the southern edge of the bed, held the runes betwixt her hands, and silently asked her question. What does the future hold for my marriage to Callum?
“When you feel ready, let the runes tumble out onto the coverlet,” Milread instructed.
Alys nodded, drew a deep breath, and released them.
“Good, good.” Milread came around and turned the stones with symbols showing facedown. “Now with your eyes closed, pass your right hand over the pieces. Quiet your mind and let your hands feel the energy of the stones as they speak to you.”
Alys did as Milread bade her. She felt coldness creep into her palm when she passed over some pieces, warmth when passing over others. For both extremes, she experienced a definite tingling.
“When you are ready, open your eyes and choose seven stones, nay more, nay less, and lay each down in order.”
Alys chose seven stones in turn, having a care to keep them facedown for now.
When she’d finished, Milread turned them faceup. The vertical cuts meant nothing to Alys, but they obviously meant a great deal to Milread. The crone’s wrinkled face had turned ashen, her sightless eyes saucer wide and staring.
Alys leaned in for a look. “What is it? What do you see?”
Milread’s milky gaze shuttered. “I see nothing.” She snatched up the stones and shoved them back in the bag.
Alys grabbed at the old woman’s arm. “I don’t believe you. You always see something. I know you foretold Brianna’s and Ewan’s marriage.”
Milread blew out a breath. “My lady and Lord Ewan plighted their troth as weans. The taking of a blood oath as good as set the outcome in stone.”
Alys refused to be put off. “Tell me what you see. Please, Milread, I need to know. You look as though you’ve seen a specter. You’re trembling.”
Milread shook her head, fiercely this time, the grizzled strands lashing at her face. “I am old, child, and the cold coming through the cracks in the casement makes my bones ache and my limbs tremble. That is all.”
Alys drew back. “You are certain there is nothing amiss?” As much as she wished to believe her friend, the hairs standing at attention on her nape and the chill settling over the rest of her told her she should not.
“Aye, I am. The runes give a j
umbled message, most likely because both of us are spent. Now leave off your worrying and climb back into bed. You’ll want a bonny face to show your lord upon the morrow. And for that, even one as young and fair as you must have rest.”
Alys nodded. “If you are sure…”
Instinct told her that Milread was holding something back. Whatever that something was, the firm press of the crone’s shrunken lips also told her she’d receive no satisfaction this night. She was beginning to think she’d get no sleep, as well.
Milread spoke up. “Rune reading is thirsty work. Let us drink to Christmas and weddings and happy times.”
Alys nodded. She wasn’t particularly thirsty, but mayhap the wine would calm her nerves and still her racing thoughts.
Milread crossed the room to the trestle table. Fortunately the earlier passionate interlude had not resulted in the flagon being upturned, only the empty goblets. Turning her humped back to Alys, she poured out the wine.
She turned about, retraced her path to the bed, and handed one of the goblets to Alys. Raising her own cup high, she proclaimed, “May the gods bless and mind you all your days.”
Alys touched her goblet to Milread’s. “Merry Christmas, Milread.” She took a small sip.
The wine, she thought, had a very queer tang. She wondered if it might be bad though the half-cup she’d had earlier in the night had tasted fine.
Milread drained hers in a single swallow. She wiped her mouth on the wrinkled back of one liver-spotted hand and regarded Alys’s still full cup with an assessing eye. “Drink it down, lass.”
Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Alys did as Milread asked. Licking the sourness from her lips, she handed over her empty cup and crawled beneath the turned-down coverlet.
Milread pulled it up over her. Alys reached out and clasped the small, roughened hands. “I am sorry Brie canna come, but I’m so verra glad she sent you in her stead.”
Seven months gone with her first babe, Brianna was too big for travel even by litter, and her husband, Lord Ewan, far too devoted to leave her side even for his brother’s wedding. As much as Alys missed having her best friend with her, she would not have Brianna take any risks for her sake.
Milread’s rheumy eyes misted. “Wheesht, child, it will be some years yet afore I am food for the crows. Until then I mean to make as merry as I may. I wouldna miss your wedding for all the world’s treasures.”
Alys yawned and burrowed beneath the bedding, a lovely, unexpected relaxation slipping over her. “Do you really have an extra eye, Milread?”
Milread nodded and pulled the coverlet up. “Aye, child, I do but then so do we all. The Third Eye sets betwixt our two seen eyes albeit ever so slightly above. It opens when we have need of seeing the inner truth of people and things. Because of my blindness, I’ve learnt to keep mine open always, even whilst I sleep.”
Suddenly Alys could scarcely hold her eyes open. Yawning, again, she snuggled onto her side. Mere moments ago she’d been worrying about something, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what.
“Good night, child.” Milread’s voice seemed to float above her like a protective cloud. “May Odin and Frigga bring you sweet dreams.”
ALYS DIDN’T ANSWER. Milread stared down at her charge. The girl’s aura was rosebud pink and glowing gold except for one gash of crimson, the mark of a not yet fully healed psychic wound; otherwise she was the picture of peace. Her soft, rhythmic breathing announced the sleeping draught had done its swift work. She slept. Her slumber would be both dreamless and deeply restful, which was just as well, for she would need all her strength in both mind and body for the trial that awaited her.
Milread turned away from the bed. Pacing the chamber, she hadn’t felt so helpless since seven months before, when Brianna had set out to rescue Lord Ewan, taking only Alys with her. The two young women had very nearly met their deaths at the hand of the villainous Duncan. Fortunately, Ewan had broken free of his captors and circled back with Callum. It had been Callum’s arrow that had felled Duncan, saving all three lives.
But events couldn’t always be counted upon to work out so neatly. At times everyone needed a little magick, a celestial helping hand. Spent from worry, Mildread curled up on the pallet at the foot of the bed. A shudder ran through her, wracking her bones like a great gale. Alys had spoken true. The runes had been both deeply telling and frighteningly dire.
THURISAZ, which suggested the present run of bonny fortune was about to end.
ANSUZ reversed—trickery, lies, deceit.
WYRD—the abyss, a void of all hope.
NIED—a time of extreme emotional travail, crossing the abyss.
PERDHRO—a dark secret about to come to light. Alys’s prostitute past leapt to mind and settled there. By all the gods, Milread prayed not. The poor child had suffered more than sufficient on that score.
WUNJO, reversed, a crisis, most especially love reversed. If Callum Fraser forsook her lady, by God she’d see his cods cut off!
And lastly HAGALL, hail, foretelling of calamitous natural events, in the main…
Death.
STALKING DOWN THE CORRIDOR to his solar, Callum allowed that while seven months of celibacy may have improved the state of his soul, it had little benefited his sense of humor. Head aching and balls hard, he marveled at his uncommon restraint. Even as a beardless youth, he’d been intensely sexual, and the females in his orbit had responded in kind. Like ripe apples, willing women had been falling into his lap since he’d bedded his first wench at the age of thirteen. Committing himself to any one woman had been a concept beyond his ken.
But Alys was different. Alys was his true love. He’d known it from the day she’d happened upon him sitting amongst the weeds in his mother’s abandoned garden. He still marveled at how her quiet presence had lit up that sad, shadowed little corner like a sunbeam. The moment she’d wandered inside, all big blue eyes and shy smiles, the scraggly shrubs had seemed to spring to life, to bear blooms the very pale pink of her perfect rosebud lips.
Given his past paramours, it wasn’t fair of him to begrudge Alys her one lost love, a dead husband no less, and yet he did, God how he did. Alex Field—Callum hated the Englishman, the Outlander, with the whole of his hypocritical heart. He was jealous of a dead man. It was madness, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Admittedly it wasn’t fair to condemn a man he’d never met, yet from the little he knew of Alys’s first marriage, he’d pegged Alexander Field as a codless scut. Like sour wine, a man leaving his pregnant wife alone in a foreign city with no family or friends left a bad taste in his mouth.
Fortunately his ill feelings didn’t extend to the boy, Alasdair. He’d first reached out to the child for Alys’s sake, but in the seven months since, he’d grown to love the lad for himself. He was a bonny boy, sweet-natured like his mother, and in spite of all the love she lavished upon him, sadly starved for male attention. Callum couldn’t make him his heir, but he meant to be a father to him in every other way.
He entered his solar with relief. As he did, he realized this was the last time he would cross his threshold as a bachelor. That thought brought relief and a sense of peace, not the panic he once would have felt. He couldn’t wait to make Alys his bride in truth, to bring her back to his chamber, and aye, his bed. Closing the door behind him, he began shucking off his clothes. With luck his dreams would afford him the sweet relief of finishing what he’d started in Alys’s chamber.
Naked and painfully aroused, he crossed the chamber to the bed. Eager to plunge beneath the coverlet and sate himself in sleep, he brushed the bed hangings aside.
“What mischief making is this?”
He stared down, scarcely able to credit the proof of his eyes. Rose petals, hundreds, nay thousands, formed a fragrant pink carpet across his coverlet. The willow branch lying across the banked pillows was the settling of it. Milread! Cupid’s culprit was none other than Brianna’s crone. The witch had invaded his sanctum and still had managed to return to Alys’s cham
ber in time to spoil his sport. Scattering rosebuds was all well and good but where the devil was he supposed to sleep?
Fury lanced through him. A man’s castle was supposed to be just that. He swung back his arm, intending to sweep the bed clear, and then stalled himself. The petals reminded him of Alys’s rosebud lips. He picked one up and rubbed it betwixt his thumb and forefinger, testing its texture. Soft, so very soft. The troubadour’s tributes didn’t lie. His lady’s rosebud mouth truly was petal-soft and her skin, too. From the glimpse he’d gotten through her nightgown, tight pink rosebuds tipped her lovely breasts, as well. And her heart was the softest part of her. If ever a woman deserved to be loved upon a bower of roses, it was his lady.
He turned away from the bed and walked over to the cupboard. Pulling on his cloak, he settled himself into a brocade-covered chair by the fire. As a boy he’d made it a custom to stay awake on Christmastide Eve. Even after wrapping and rewrapping his purloined presents, still he’d been too excited to sleep. “Callum’s Christmastide Vigil” his parents had called it.
He held the petal to his nose, inhaling its fragrance. Dawn was mere hours away. Christmas came but once a year, a wedding but once in a man’s life. He had the rest of his life to sleep.
He’d broken enough traditions for one night.
3
December 25, First Day of Christmas
CHRISTMAS MORN DAWNED clear and bright. Everyone, Alys included, agreed no winter bride could call for a bonnier wedding day. And yet despite awaking from a deeply restful and strangely dreamless sleep, the previous day’s misgivings returned the moment her feet touched upon the floor. Milread had seen something in that rune cast, something evil and dark. If Alys had doubted it before, the witch woman’s uncommon quietude whilst helping her dress was the settling of it. But no amount of persuasion could coax the old woman to say aught on the matter.
The nuptials took place in the Fraser chapel, the railed altar festooned with holly and yew and delicate white snowdrops known also as Candle Mass Bells. Callum’s household priest and former tutor, Father Fearghas officiated the ceremony and subsequent mass. Owing to her prostitute’s past, Alys often felt anxious with clergymen, but the rotund little priest with his twinkling eyes and easy smile instantly set her at ease.
Blaze Historicals Bundle II Page 21
