by Amy Jarecki
Valeria plucked the strings, adjusting their tone, and then looked up. The crowd was loud as always and the folk down near the end hadn’t noticed her at all.
Oisean pounded the hilt of his dirk on the table. “Silence.” He waited for the roar to quiet to a low hum. “Our guest will try her hand at the Pictish lyre.”
Taran held his breath as Valeria strummed the strings. She plucked a tune as lovely as the call of a willow warbler. Taran exhaled. The hall fell silent. With all eyes on her, she began to sing. Taran’s jaw dropped. She’d chosen a Celtic ballad, which bemoaned the story of a love lost at sea. He marveled at her intuitiveness, selecting a familiar tune.
Her song rang through the vaulted rafters, clear and crisp. She sang with confidence. The swirling resonance of the lyre complemented her angelic voice. When the ballad ended, the only sound was the reverberation of the strings. Valeria focused on Oisean, her smile polite, but devoid of emotion.
Never one to be rude to a guest, the king slapped his hands together with an approving laugh. The hall erupted in applause. Smiling, the king lumbered up and helped her step down from the dais. “Ye’ve good breeding, ʼtis a certainty. Mayhap ye can teach the young’ens a thing or two about refinement.”
Greum stepped in and took the lyre. “I think I’ll wait till I’ve had a few more tankards of mead before I try to match yer performance. Me strumming’s not quite as delicate as yers, m’lady.”
She chuckled. “I would not expect it to be. I should think you would prefer a bawdy, foot-stomping ditty.”
“Aye,” Taran agreed. “He strums that thing like he’s chopping a wooden post, but there’s nothing better if ye’re in a mood to kick up yer heels.”
When Valeria resumed her place next to him, he reached for her hand and leaned toward her ear. “Ye captivated the room with yer song, m’lady.”
“Thank you.” Valeria pulled her hand away yet again.
Taran knitted his brows. “Is there something worrying ye?”
The thin line of Valeria’s lips confirmed his suspicion. “Sir, I have no experience in these matters, but I understand your betrothed is watching us from across the room. I shall not be played for a harlot.”
Her cool voice tore his gut to shreds. Taran sat back. He’d forgotten how fast news traveled in the castle. What could he say? Bubbly Leda chatted amongst her friends, casting glances his way. His eyes scanned the faces around to Drust who frowned into his tankard. How long would Valeria remain at Dunpelder? They’d made a connection on their journey, and before, she’d singled him out in the gaol. Clearly, she had feelings for him.
Now, she politely tolerated his presence, reining in any ardent thoughts because he was betrothed to a woman for whom he felt no love. Leda paled in comparison to Valeria, but his Pictish duty as heir bound him to Gododdin as much as it did to his fate.
Valeria scooted her chair away from the table. “I believe you were right when you mentioned I might be tired from our journey. If you’d be so kind as to excuse me, I would like to retire early.”
Taran stood. “May I escort ye to yer chamber?”
“That should not be necessary.”
Oisean swiped his hand across his mouth. “An escort is appropriate. Ye would not want to encounter a young buck who’d been too freely tilting his tankard.” He looked to his son. “Drust. Escort the lady to her chamber.”
Taran frowned and resumed his seat, but he didn’t miss the alarmed cringe on Leda’s face. He watched Drust offer his arm to Valeria and walk her to the grand staircase. His cousin glanced over his shoulder at Leda, their eyes meeting so quickly, Taran would have missed it if he’d blinked.
In minutes, Drust returned. His fingers lightly brushed Leda’s shoulder as he strode past.
Could Drust be in love with Leda? Taran drained his mead.
Greum hopped onto the dais and picked up the lyre. Fionn hobbled up beside him, pounding the wooden floorboards with his newly fashioned crutch.
“How’s the ankle?” Taran hollered over the rowdy crowd.
“ʼTis coming good. Mistress Pia bound it firm.”
“It seems our guests will be quite useful to Dunpelder,” Betha said. “Pia and her healing talent, and Valeria educating the children.”
“Aye, as long as her presence doesn’t bring on a Roman legion,” Oisean agreed.
Taran rubbed his full belly. “With her father dead and the border under siege, what threat is there?”
“Slim to none.” Oisean narrowed his eyes. “ʼTis why I offered safe harbor to the lass. The greater fear is the ire of Runan and his men.”
“That it is.” Taran ground his teeth. Though the stronghold was sound, if Runan marched on Dunpelder, both sides could incur heavy losses.
As the night wore on, Oisean tired, another quandary for Taran. He remembered his uncle as a man who could drink any Pict under the table and still wield his sword with deadly accuracy. He watched the king and queen retire. Then, grabbing his tankard, he moved down the table and sat beside Drust.
Taran picked up the pitcher and topped up Drust’s cup. “Ye know what ails yer da?”
“The healers have tried everything, but he loses stamina near every day.”
Taran turned the tankard in a circle and watched the mead slosh inside. The walls of the hall closed in on him. He and Drust had never been the best of friends, but they had a bond of kinship and respect.
He patted his cousin’s shoulder. “Come, walk with me.”
Drust slid his dirk into its scabbard and chugged down his mead. “Ye’re brewing something, I can tell.”
“Aye.”
The night air nipped at his skin in contrast with the smoky, fire-warmed hall smelling of sweaty bodies and greasy food.
Taran tugged on his surcoat. “I saw yer eyes when ye glanced at Leda.”
Drust shrugged. “What of it?”
“I need to know if ye have feelings for the lass.”
Drust rounded on Taran and pinned him against a stone wall. “She’s yers—always has been, though ye don’t deserve her. Besides, I’d never cross ye even if I did have feelings.”
Taran could have laid his cousin flat, but for the moment, it was best to let him think he had the upper hand. Still, he fingered the hilt of his dirk. “Ye misunderstand. I ken ye would never touch her.”
“Touch her? She’s the finest maid in all of Gododdin. No Pict would dare consider laying a hand on Leda lest he face the ire of the king.”
Taran smirked. “Aye but ye just answered me question.”
Drust dropped his arms. “And what of it?”
“I wondered if ye had an inclination to marry her—take the bonny lass to Fife when the time comes to assume your post as chieftain of me da’s region.”
“Blast, Taran. Are ye planning to ruin yer life? Has that Roman maid got ye bewitched? Leda is yer match. She’ll make a fine queen.” Drust took a step back. “I’ll hear no more of this. Ye ken ye’ll be king. The sooner we return Valeria to her own, the faster ye’ll focus yer mind where it should be.”
Drust marched back into the hall. Taran kicked a stone and listened to it tap against the cobbled path. Slamming his fist into his palm, he headed to the stables—the one place where he could find solitude. Every day during his incarceration, he’d dreamt of returning home. Not once did he anticipate the problems he’d face. The elders would expect him to marry and produce heirs to become chieftains of Pictish provinces like Drust. His marriage to an outsider would send the entire nation into turmoil. But Valeria has royal blood in her own right.
Taran’s mother was Oisean’s eldest sister, and following the female royal line, he’d been raised to accept his place as a Pict prince. He revered the position and accepted it with honor, but the thought of living a life with Leda after having cradled Valeria in his arms for two days tied his stomach in knots.
Would he be able to forget her once she returned to the Romans? He pushed into the barn and climbed the loft’s ladder. The
smell of freshly cut hay surrounded him. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
Bloody oath, would the memory of her ever cease to plague him? Valeria’s delicate features with those expressive eyes, her lovely voice—everything about her stirred longings where they had no place. Desire flashed through his mind like a wanting that could never be satisfied.
He made a nest in the hay like he’d done so many times as a child. The stable was his sanctuary where he could think and solve the problems of his youth. He feared the mistress of the loft might not whisper a solution to his problems this night, but he pulled his woolen sash over his shoulders and lay down.
“Taran?” The only person who knew where to find him was his closest friend.
“Greum? What of the music and dancing?”
“Things are winding down for the night. I thought I’d find ye here.”
“Aye. I have a lot on me mind.”
Greum made himself a similar nest and unclasped his sash. “It tears at me heart to see yer uncle wasting away.”
“Drust warned me, but it was a shock to see him.”
Greum rolled on his side and propped up on his elbow. “Her ladyship was in fine form this night.”
Taran groaned. “Aye.”
“Ye’re smitten, are ye not?”
“I cannot be.”
“But ye are.”
Taran didn’t reply. Closing his eyes once again, he saw her face lift to his with her bow-shaped mouth that tempted his very core.
Greum shifted to his back. “What’re ye going to do ʼbout the lass?”
“We’ll need to find that bishop as soon as it is safe.”
Chapter Twelve
Early the next morning, Taran rapped on the door of the king’s private chamber.
“Enter.”
He stepped inside. “Ye sent for me?”
“Aye. Sit.” Oisean gestured to a chair across from his hardwood table, carved with his sign, Oisean, son of Alpin—the same one tattooed over his face and heart, like Taran’s. “I’ve a growth inside me gut.”
Taran let out a sigh. At last the time had come to uncover his uncle’s ailment. “Does it pain ye much?”
“Aye. There have been days when I cannot rise from me bed. I’m afraid I’m not long for this world.”
“Och.” Taran clenched his fists. “We must bring Pia to look at ye.”
Oisean held up his hands. “ʼTis too late for that. I called ye here to talk.”
Taran sat back and nodded.
“When I go, ye’ll be king of this land, caretaker of every soul. Do ye ken what that means?”
“Aye. I ken.”
“Take Drust and call upon the villages of Gododdin, collect the rents and post a notice of a gathering at Dunpelder.”
“A gathering?”
“Ye shall be crowned king and wed yer bride before all Picts.”
Taran stiffened. “Now? When do ye plan for this celebration to take place?”
“At summer solstice, two months hence.”
Taran sat for a moment, staring at the man across the table. Couldn’t this wait? “What shall we do with Lady Valeria?”
Oisean shrugged. “Return her to her Bishop Elusius as she suggested. That seems the most reasonable disposition for her.”
“Aye.” The word didn’t come out with conviction as it should have.
“Ye’ve not got eyes for her, have ye?” Oisean leaned across the table. “She’s as fine as a rose in full bloom, but she’s not for the likes of you. Ye must marry a Pict. Ye cannot marry a foreigner, especially one allied with our sworn enemies. Did ye learn nothing rowing that Roman warship?”
“I have no love for Rome, ʼtis true, but when I look at her, she isn’t Roman. She’s Valeria, a woman who risked her own hide to bring me a knife in her father’s gaol so I might live.”
Oisean folded his arms. “Take the trip with Drust. The time away from the Roman wench will give ye time to adjust yer priorities.”
“Aye, sire. I’ll announce the gathering, but let the crowning and the wedding be a surprise.” Taran stood. “I shall also bring Pia to ye. ʼTis worth the look.”
He marched to Valeria’s chamber and rapped on the door. It cracked open, revealing Pia’s round face.
“Me uncle has a growth inside his gut. Will ye look at him?”
The door opened fully and Valeria stood within. Her piercing eyes tore through his heart.
“I cannot cure an evil growth,” Pia said. “But I might be able to take the edge off his pain.”
Valeria stepped forward. “Do your healers have essences of poppy and mandragoras?”
“I know not—most likely. Morag gathers the healing herbs for Dunpelder.”
Pia rolled her eyes. “That rules out atropa belladonna.”
“Atro-per-beller-what?”
Valeria folded her arms. “ʼTis a potent berry that will cause death if used inappropriately. Morag made it clear our presence is unwelcome. She’ll be suspicious of anything we may try, especially atropa belladonna.”
Taran’s jaw twitched. “Come with me. I’ll set Morag’s priorities.”
****
“I’m none too pleased to have a slave woman rifling through me herbs,” Morag complained.
Taran pulled her aside. “If she can help the king suffer less, it will be a worthwhile sacrifice, do ye not agree?”
She pursed her lips. “I do not like it. She could poison him.”
“Aye, and so could you.” Taran craned his neck around the doorway. Pia and Valeria were opening earthenware jars, sniffing, consulting, replacing stoppers, careful to return the containers to their rightful places.
Pia looked up. “This will have to do. Have you a mortar and pestle?”
Morag pushed her way into the tiny room. “Of course.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a marble bowl with a matching pestle. “What have ye got there?”
“Poppy seeds and mandragoras root. I’ll mix them to a powder and then we’ll sprinkle a bit in his mead—not too much at first to see how he takes to it.”
Morag pursed her lips. “That concoction is likely to stop his heart.”
“It will be a powerful pain reliever, but it won’t be what kills him.”
Morag shoved Taran’s shoulder. “How can you stand there and let these Romans poison the king?”
He spread his palms to his sides. “Can ye not see they’re helping? I would trust them both with me life, and the king’s.”
Valeria’s eyes met his. Though she showed no external emotion, the smoldering coals in his heart inflamed. How could she control him with a look? Her mere presence here would drive him mad until the gathering. He must return her to Elusius before then. Atar save him, he’d not be able to follow through with the wedding with the temptress tucked away in the castle.
“Do you have an empty vial?” Pia asked.
The matron fetched a stoneware jar and stopper. Pia carefully poured the powder in, running her finger around the inside of the mortar. “He’ll need a half-thimble full, is all.”
Morag opened her mouth, but Taran held up his hand to stop her drivel. “I don’t want to hear it. Come.” He led them into the king’s chamber. “Sire, Pia’s mixed up a pain reliever for ye.”
“ʼTis quite potent and will make ye sleepy,” Morag said.
“Will it kill me, Morag?”
“Nay, I watched them work. Do ye want to take some now or wait till night?”
The king nodded. “The pain is ailing me. Let’s give it a go.”
Pia filled a pewter goblet with mead, followed by a small amount of powder. She swirled the concoction around in the liquid and passed it to the king. “I wish I could do more to help you, your highness.”
“Aye.” The king took the drink and glanced at Taran before draining the liquid, then slammed the goblet on the table with a grimace. “ʼTis done, now leave me be.”
As they slipped out of the king’s chamber, Pia stopped them. “We’ll need to check on
him. He should not be left alone for long.”
Morag nodded. “I’ll come back before the noon meal.”
Taran tapped Valeria’s arm. “Will ye walk with me?”
She offered a subtle nod and gestured for Pia to continue. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Once they stepped outside, Stag trotted up to them. The happy dog cracked Valeria’s regal façade. Smiling, she clapped her hands. “Come here, boy.” Stag nearly knocked her over rubbing against her, his tail happily beat her thighs as she scratched his back.
Taran bit his lip. Where should he start? His fingers ached to lace through hers and walk hand in hand. “Are the Picts treating ye well, m’lady?”
Valeria gave Stag one last pat. “I’ll say they are tolerating me, but I’m not so sure they’re happy with my presence.”
“They’ll warm to ye in time. Is there anything ye need?”
“A bath would be lovely. ʼTis difficult to wash my hair in the basin.”
“Romans love their baths, ʼtis true.” His gaze trailed down her back, taking in the length of her silky black hair. If only he could reach out and run his fingers through it, but he balled his fists. “I can imagine those bonny locks would need a great deal of at attention.”
Her hair billowed with the turn of her head. “Yes. Why did you tell me your father was ill when it was in fact Oisean?”
Taran frowned. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’m sorry I fibbed, m’lady. As I said, we could not reveal his identity for fear of a Roman attack.”
She crossed her arms. “I see. Are there any other untruths I should be aware of?”
“I…um…” He felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He must tell her. Keeping an acceptable distance between them, he led her through the courtyard, grimly nodding at familiar faces. “Me uncle wants me to ride through Gododdin and announce a gathering.”
“Does that mean you’ll be leaving?”
“Aye, the journey should take about two weeks.”
Valeria sped her pace. “You cannot leave me here alone. Everyone looks at me with distrust, as if I’ll slit their throats.”
