No Viking ghosts appeared.
Indeed, the moment was remarkably unremarkable.
“What do we do now?” Caimbeul asked.
Noёl answered. “I suppose we wait.”
As the moments crept by, Ysenda became more and more despondent. Nothing was happening. The spell wasn’t working. She should have known better than to believe in magic.
After an uncomfortably long silence, she finally spoke. “Maybe we should be gettin’ back.”
“Do ye think it worked?” Caimbeul asked.
“Nae.” The word scraped across her throat, like a sword blade on a sharpening stone.
Caimbeul’s brows came together. “So what do we do now?”
Noёl’s chest was tight. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to answer that. He’d hoped, impossibly, that somehow the well would give him an answer. But there had been nothing.
“What we must,” he decided.
Caimbeul straightened, as much as his crooked frame allowed. “Whatever happens, I’m goin’ to France with ye,” he blurted out. “That is,” he amended, “if ye’ll have me.”
From the corner of his eye, Noёl could see Ysenda had clenched her jaw.
He shook his head. “I can’t take ye from Ysenda, Caimbeul. Ye may be her younger brother, but now that ye’re grown, she needs your protection.”
Caimbeul scowled, simultaneously disappointed and flattered. In the end, all he did was mutter, “I’m not her younger brother. I’m the oldest.”
There was a long, melancholy silence.
Finally, Caimbeul’s words sank in. Noёl blinked, wondering if he’d heard wrong. “What? What did ye say?”
“I’m older than Ysenda. Three years older.”
He frowned. “Ye are? And what about Cathalin?”
“I’m two years older than Cathalin.”
He rattled his head. Surely that wasn’t right. “Ye’re the oldest?”
“Aye.”
Noёl closed his eyes. Was he missing something? “Ye’re the oldest?” he repeated.
“Aye,” the siblings said together.
“The oldest, as in the rightful heir to the laird?”
“Oh. Well, nae,” Ysenda explained. “The laird has never…he’s never claimed Caimbeul as his heir.”
“Hold on.” Noёl’s heart started to race. He didn’t want to get prematurely excited. But something was awry here. “Are ye sayin’ ye’re the next in line?”
“In principle, aye, but—”
“Nae, nae, nae, nae,” Noёl interrupted. “Not in principle. In actual fact.” Now his heart was pounding. This could be his answer. “Exactly why has he not claimed ye? Are ye not his son by blood?”
“I am.”
“Are ye a bastard?”
“Nae.”
“Why then?”
Caimbeul flushed and lowered his gaze.
Ysenda answered for him. “He’s never claimed Caimbeul as his son because he’s a cripple and unfit to rule.”
“But he’s not unfit,” Noёl insisted, beginning to pace eagerly now as he considered this new piece of information. “Ye saw him on the field. Not only is he bright and clever, but he can even hold his own with a sword.”
Ysenda and Caimbeul stared at each other. Clearly, the thought of contesting the inheritance had never crossed their minds.
He supposed he could see why. The Highlands were so remote that a clan laird was essentially the ruler of his own domain. The Scottish king might lay down the law of the land. But the laird felt he had the power to bend that law as he saw fit.
In truth, however, laws were a matter of record. No man could alter what was written down by a king to suit his own wants or needs…not even a laird.
“It doesn’t matter whether the laird wishes to claim him or not,” Noёl explained. “Caimbeul is his son. As long as he’s fit to rule—and anyone can see he is—by law, Caimbeul is the true heir.”
“So ye’re sayin’ the holdin’ doesn’t rightfully belong to Cathalin,” Caimbeul mused aloud, “no matter who she weds? It belongs to me?”
“Exactly.” Noёl crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. “Which means—”
“Which means we can all have what we want,” Ysenda gushed. “We can stay married and go to France. Cathalin can wed her Highlander…”
“And I can come to train with your men,” Caimbeul inserted, for fear he might be excluded.
Noёl gave him a slow grin. “Aye.”
Caimbeul rubbed his jaw, thinking this over. Then his brow creased. “It doesn’t seem possible. Do ye truly think ’twill come to pass? My father is very strong-willed. And the Highlands is a long reach for the arm o’ the law.”
“Which is why the king sends men like the Knights o’ de Ware to enforce the law,” Noёl said.
“Ye’d do that?”
“Aye, o’ course. Ye’re one of us now.”
“But what about the clan?” he asked. “I don’t want war with the clan.”
“They’re my clan as well,” Noёl assured him. “When the time comes, we’ll find a way to keep the peace. Ye’re a clever man. Ye’ll think of somethin’.”
Ysenda’s beautiful silver eyes shone with hope. But there was wisdom and caution in her voice. “’Twill all have to be kept a secret. If the laird suspects that Caimbeul has a claim to the holdin’…”
She didn’t finish the thought. But they all knew the risk. Laird Gille wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate his heir if Caimbeul proved to be…inconvenient.
“Aye,” Noёl said. “’Twill be a secret between the three of us.”
They nodded in solemn agreement.
And then, with a soft cry of victory, Ysenda threw herself into Noёl’s arms.
He chuckled with pleasure and held her close.
But as their lingering embrace went on and on, Caimbeul finally rolled his eyes and turned to leave.
“Where are ye goin’?” Ysenda asked him.
“Back to the keep,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to do for a long while. But don’t fret. By the time ye get finished…celebratin’…ye can catch up with me.”
Noёl bid him farewell. Then he grinned and kissed the top of his lovely wife’s head. “It looks like we’ll have our whole lives to celebrate.”
“Not just our lives,” she murmured. “Eternity.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” he asked her softly. “The Viking well. It granted us our Yuletide wish.”
She nodded. Then she gazed up at him. Her smile was as sweet as mulled wine. Her eyes glowed with the warmth of Christmas candles. “For ever and aye.”
Epilogue
Leaving her Highland home to travel south with the Knights of de Ware, Ysenda had never felt so well protected. Of course, that hadn’t kept her from packing her own chain mail and weapons. Old habits were hard to break. It would be a long while before she’d grow to accept that she had an army of knights at her command and that her brother could take care of himself.
Caimbeul had certainly proved that upon their return to the castle.
Ysenda had had a lot of time to think on the way home from the well. Now that she was no longer beholden to her father, years of anger over Caimbeul’s mistreatment began to fester within her. All the laird’s past abuses—his mocking, violence, and cruelty—congealed into a single, hard knot of rage and injustice that stuck in her craw. With each step she took toward the castle, fury flowed hotter in her veins.
When they finally arrived at the keep to face her father, he was alone in the great hall and deep in his cups. His drunken sneer as the three of them approached only added fuel to the almost irresistible desire Ysenda had to pay him back for all the pain he’d caused.
But she’d held her tongue as Sir Noёl explained that they wished to take Caimbeul with them to France.
Her father’s eyes lit up. “Ach, aye!” he crowed. “I’ve heard the French courts like to use dwarves and such for entertainment.”
Ysenda longed to curse her father for his brutal words.
But then she heard the echo of her mother’s voice. Above all, the warrior maid had taught Ysenda to maintain control of her emotions. Losing one’s temper was never wise. Besides, she and Caimbeul would leave soon and likely never see the laird again. There was no point in stirring up trouble. So she tensed her jaw against the urge to fire off a biting retort.
The laird eyed Caimbeul speculatively over the top of his cup. “Or maybe ye’re plannin’ to sell him along the way? The lad has a decent voice. No doubt a singin’ cripple could bring ye a good price.”
Ysenda clenched her teeth until they hurt. But she kept mentally repeating her mother’s advice. One must take a deep breath, harness all the anger, and choose one’s battles wisely.
The laird took a drink and then smacked his lips. “He’s probably got another five or six years o’ life at most. Still, ye’ll get your coin’s worth.”
That made Ysenda’s blood boil. But no matter how much she yearned to claw that smug smirk off of the laird’s face, no matter how gratifying it would be to tear the beard from his chin, no matter how her fist ached to…
Crack!
Ysenda lifted a brow as her father’s head snapped back under Caimbeul’s solid punch. The laird staggered backward, dropping his cup and clutching his nose.
As Ysenda stared in wonder, Caimbeul shook his bruised knuckles. Then he grinned in satisfaction. “That’s for a lifetime o’ sufferin’…Da.”
Those had been Caimbeul’s last words to the laird, who’d shuffled off to have someone tend to his bloodied nose. Ysenda had never been prouder of her brother. And she thought their mother would agree that he’d chosen his battle wisely.
Now they were headed to France—to freedom and to family. As impossible as it seemed, Ysenda thought Caimbeul looked taller as he traveled beside his new companions-in-arms. Perhaps he no longer felt crushed by the weight of his infirmity.
As for her husband, though his men laughingly insisted Noёl was the ugliest of the de Ware brothers, Ysenda could not have been happier to be wed to such a handsome, kind, noble, brilliant, and honorable man. Noёl had promised that when her father died, he and his men would return with Caimbeul to help him claim the Highland holding without shedding a drop of blood.
Their path from the keep took them past the Viking well. Ysenda requested a private moment before they continued on their journey to visit one last time. Gathering her cloak about her, she clambered across the snowdrifts until she reached the silvery stream and the crumbling stones of the ruin.
There, she ran her fingers over the ancient runes carved into the lid of the well. She whispered thanks to the lost lovers for granting her wish. Then she sent up a silent prayer of her own—that somehow, some way, no matter how long it took, the doomed couple might eventually have their own curse lifted.
By the time she returned to the company, the knights were speaking with a dozen strangers—travelers headed in the opposite direction. The band of ragged Highlanders said they were on their way to the keep of Laird Gille.
The wee lad at the fore licked his chapped lips and raised his beardless chin, boasting in his high, sweet voice that he was going to marry the bonniest lass in all of Scotland.
Ysenda’s brows lifted. But she wisely held her laughter. She wished she could see her sister’s face when Cathalin beheld the bridegroom she’d wanted so badly—all four feet of him.
Instead, she smiled up at Noёl, whose lips were twitching with amusement. He gave her a wink, and she sighed with pleasure.
This was going to be, without a doubt, the best Yuletide ever.
THE END
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More Books by Glynnis Campbell
The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch
The Shipwreck (novella)
Lady Danger
Captive Heart
Knight’s Prize
The Knights of de Ware
The Handfasting (novella)
My Champion
My Warrior
My Hero
Medieval Outlaws
Danger’s Kiss
Passion’s Exile
The Scottish Lasses
The Outcast (novella)
MacFarland’s Lass
MacAdam’s Lass
MacKenzie’s Lass
The California Legends
Native Gold
Native Wolf
About Glynnis Campbell
I’m a USA Today bestselling author of swashbuckling action-adventure historical romances, mostly set in Scotland, with over a dozen award-winning books published in six languages.
But before my role as a medieval matchmaker, I sang in The Pinups, an all-girl band on CBS Records, and provided voices for the MTV animated series The Maxx, Blizzard’s Diablo and Starcraft video games, and Star Wars audiobooks.
I’m the wife of a rock star (if you want to know which one, contact me) and the mother of two young adults. I do my best writing on cruise ships, in Scottish castles, on my husband’s tour bus, and at home in my sunny southern California garden.
I love transporting readers to a place where the bold heroes have endearing flaws, the women are stronger than they look, the land is lush and untamed, and chivalry is alive and well!
I’m always delighted to hear from my readers, so please feel free to email me at [email protected]. And if you’re a super-fan who would like to join my inner circle, sign up to be part of Glynnis Campbell’s Readers Clan on Facebook, where you’ll get glimpses behind the scenes, sneak peeks of works-in-progress, and extra special surprises!
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My Champion
The Knights of de Ware Book 1
“You, Linet de Montfort,” Duncan said, “are afraid of me.”
Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say in her defense.
He shook his head. “You, who so boldly insulted El Gallo on the docks, who dared to co
nfront Sombra himself, you’re afraid of a lowly beggar.”
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered in denial. Yet deep in her heart, she knew it was true.
“You cower from me. You pretend it’s disgust,” he announced with self-mocking arrogance, “but I hardly think—”
“I do find you disgusting,” she tried to convince him. But she couldn’t look him in the eyes with the lie, not while that wild black curl fell across his forehead, not while his eyes shone with blue mischief.
The last thing she expected was his roar of laughter.
“Oh, aye—disgusting! And what in particular do you find disgusting?” he inquired, closing in on her again.
She eased backward. Nothing about the beggar was disgusting. Everything about him was fascinating—fascinating and dangerous.
“My nose? My eyes?” His voice softened, luring her in even as she retreated across the barn. “My mouth?”
She started to take another step away, but a spade abandoned on the stable floor tripped her up, making her stumble backward. The beggar reached out for her elbow just in time to keep her upright. But by then her back was against the planking of the stable.
“Perhaps it’s my…touch that disgusts you,” he said.
She was trapped now, pinned between a wall and a man whose sheer, raw masculinity rivaled the wood for strength.
“Shall I show you,” he whispered, “how I kissed the crofter’s wife?”
“Nay.” She stiffened like a stick. Not a kiss—anything but a kiss, she thought, even as her lips tingled in anticipation. No matter what he did to her, no matter how her heart raced, she refused to bend beneath his onslaught.
The Handfasting Page 10
