The crowd cheered in agreement and drank to the newly married couple. Ian did not take his seat, for he was not done speaking.
“I must admit, I never thought Rodrick the marryin’ kind,” he winked at Muriel. “I never thought there would be anyone brave enough to agree to it.”
The crowd laughed in agreement. No one had thought Rodrick the marrying kind.
“To Muriel,” Ian said as he raised his glass to her. “The only lass in all of Scotia brave enough to marry Rodrick the Bold!”
Rose giggled and added, “Mayhap we should call her Muriel the Brave?”
The guests cheered and drank. Muriel’s face flamed red. Under her breath she said, “I certainly do no’ feel brave.”
Rodrick patted her hand. “But ye are lass,” he said with a warm smile. “Fer ye have married me.”
With the special meal over, Rodrick and Muriel walked arm in arm to the small hut. The little hut that would now be their home together. Pausing at the door, he pushed it open. With a wide, beaming smile, he scooped Muriel up in his arms.
She squealed, more out of surprise than anything else.
“What are ye doin’?” she asked him incredulously.
“Carryin’ ye over the threshold, lass,” he smiled down at her. “’Tis customary, or so I be told.”
Without another word, he carried her inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
Were the circumstances different, he might have tossed her on the bed. Instead, he carefully set her on her feet and looked around the space. A new, bigger bed had been brought in by persons unknown. Rodrick had a sneaking suspicion the bed was due to Rose.
Dried flowers had been hung over each window and a vase of them sat in the center of the table. A fire had been lit, along with numerous candles. It smelled to him of home and warmth.
“Lass, I dare tell ye, it has been many a year since I have slept in a home of any kind,” he admitted.
Muriel had not moved from the spot where he’d placed her. Nervously, she worked the edges of her cloak with her fingers.
“Me family died when I was young, ye ken,” he went on to tell her. “I was all of nine.”
Tilting her head to one side, she studied him closely for a moment. In the past weeks, he’d only spoken of his childhood in general and vague terms. Curious, she asked, “Who took care of ye?”
“Warriors,” he replied softly. He did not like to speak of those times, of his youth, of losing his family. It always made his heart feel empty. “I have told ye that before, have I no’?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “Nay. Ye told me ye lost yer family to the ague, but no’ much else.”
With a shrug of his shoulders, he pulled out a chair and offered it to her. Muriel, feeling a bit more comfortable, began to remove her cloak. It took him only two steps to reach her. With a smile, he helped her out of her cloak and into her seat. He sensed her anxiety but said nothing of it. After hanging the cloak on the peg by the door, he took the chair opposite her. Stretching out his long legs, he rested an arm on the table. “There be no’ much to tell,” he said. “I lost me family to the ague.”
From her expression, she was not convinced there was naught more to his life than that. “And what happened between then and now?” She asked with a quirked brow.
Talking seemed to put her at ease. While he was never comfortable sharing most of his life’s story with anyone, he decided it would be best if he put his pride aside for at least a little while. “The ague destroyed our small clan,” he began. “There were less than fifty of us when ’twas over. Mostly men.”
“All warriors?” she asked as she absentmindedly rubbed her belly.
“Mostly warriors,” he replied. “There was a handful of younger men and even younger lasses. I was the youngest.”
“How did ye all survive then?”
He offered her another shrug of indifference. “’Twas no’ easy,” he said. “But we somehow managed to make it work.”
Pursing her lips together, she studied him closely for a moment. “’Tis no’ easy fer ye to talk about it, is it?”
“Nay, lass, ’tis no’.”
Drumming her fingers on the table, she chose her next words carefully. “’Tis no’ easy fer me to talk about what Fergus did to me.”
Lifting a brow, his face turned hard. He did not want to think about Fergus MacDonald, especially not on this special day. “Lass,” he began before she cut him off.
“Ye ken my time with them was the darkest, ugliest time of me life. If ye want me to trust ye, then I would hope ye would trust me.”
He hated to admit it, but she was right. Expelling a heavy sigh, he nodded in agreement. “I was raised by hardened warriors. Men who taught me how to fight, how to protect the keep. They taught me how to wield a sword, to fight with me bare hands. They taught me many things, lass…”
“But?” she asked, urging him to continue.
“They taught me how to survive, to fight, to hunt, and what it means to be a warrior. They did no’, however, teach me how to speak from me heart. In fact, such things were frowned upon.” Growing uncomfortable, he began to slowly spin the vase of flowers.
Muriel smiled warmly. “But methinks ye learned anyway.”
Uncertain what she meant, he asked for clarification.
“Rodrick, there be many ways of speakin’ from the heart. ’Tis no’ just words a man says, but his actions that tell just as much, sometimes more, than words.”
Looking up from the vase and into her eyes, he felt his face grow warm with just a bit of embarrassment. A grown man, he was blushing like an innocent lass who’d just learned how babes were made. Her beautiful eyes were filled with understanding.
These two lonely people had somehow managed to find one another amidst the chaos and cruelty that life or fate — or whatever one chose to call it — oft threw into the paths of unsuspecting individuals. They were now embarking on one of life’s grandest adventures: marriage. However, ’twas not what one might consider typical or even average. Nothing about these two people could be considered typical or average.
They sat in quiet contemplation for a long moment. The fire crackled, the flames of the candles dancing in the invisible breeze wafting in from the tiny windows.
Rodrick knew not what he should say or do. ’Twas late in the day, but not so late as to climb into bed.
“Tell me more,” Muriel said, finally breaking the silence. “What kind of child were ye?”
Before or after the ague took me family? There was quite a distinct difference between the two. Letting out a heavy breath, he began to toy with the vase again. “Before me family died, I reckon I was like most lads of that age,” he began. “Busy playin’ with me friends, helpin’ me family with our little farm, pretending to protect kith and kin against invaders and dragons.” He chuckled softly at old memories of his childhood, of the time before it all fell apart. “If ye were to ask me da, I was a precocious boy, oft into trouble of one sort or another. But if ye were to ask me mum, I was naught but an angel.”
Muriel smiled warmly at him, showing straight white teeth, her eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “Ye? An angel?” she asked playfully.
“Aye,” he replied, returning her smile. “Were me mum still alive, she would tell ye as much.”
“Methinks yer parents would have been verra proud of how well ye grew up,” Muriel said with much sincerity.
Rodrick could only hope she was right.
They sat, this newly-wedded pair, for several hours, sharing their happiest memories from their childhoods. The conversation helped to set both of them at ease, to take their minds off the fact this was their wedding night.
Several times, Muriel got to her feet to walk around the small space, to stretch her back, for it was growing more uncomfortable for her to sit for long lengths of time. There was no denying the fact she was with child, for her belly was round. Though she was in her seventh month, Rodrick still thought her the most beautiful w
oman he had ever had the pleasure of knowing.
’Twas nearing the midnight hour when Muriel began to yawn, rubbing her lower back with her palm. Rodrick stood, stretched his own arms out wide, and said, “I think it be time fer us to lay our heads down.”
The smile left her then, as her eyes darted from him to the bed and back again, fearfully. He could not resist the urge to smile. “Lass, ye can have the bed,” he told her. “I shall sleep on the floor.”
Inwardly, she wrestled with her fears for a long moment. I have to put me fears aside and trust this man, she told herself. “Nay,” she finally said. She could not expect the poor man to sleep on the floor for the rest of their lives. To expect as much was unfair to both of them. Besides, he had given her his promise, on multiple occasions, that naught would happen until she agreed to it. “We can sleep in the same bed, Rodrick.”
Raising a brow, he asked, “Are ye certain?”
“Aye,” she said with a smile.
’Twas difficult, to say the least, for Rodrick to climb into bed with her each night and resist the strong urge to take her in his arms. Refraining from touching her or kissing her took Herculean strength.
But refrain he did.
They slept side by side each night, each doing their best not to touch the other. It went on like that for weeks, with Muriel sleeping on the outside edge of the bed, clinging to its side. However, as time went on, it became more and more difficult for her to sleep in such an uncomfortable position.
Late one night, as she was in a deep sleep, she rolled over, grunting ever so slightly as she brought her burgeoning belly with her. Before he knew what was happening, she was snuggling into him, as best she could, and tossing an arm over his chest.
Rodrick held his breath. Uncertain if he should gently move her arm away or mayhap give her a gentle nudge, he remained as quiet and as still as a snow-covered loch. Closing his eyes, he breathed in her scent. ’Twas a blend of flowers and warm bread that lingered from their evening meal. Intoxicating and maddening all at once.
Deciding he should allow her to sleep, he pretended for a long while that she loved him as much as he loved her. Pretended that she wanted him in the physical sense, that no harm had ever been done to her. ’Twas reckless – he knew it – but he could not help himself.
Ye’ll burn in hell someday, he whispered to himself. Ye risk hurtin’ her heart more than yer own.
He’d rather be gutted and have his entrails dipped in oil and set afire than to hurt her. But for just a little while, he would allow himself to dream.
They had been married less than a sennight when Rodrick presented Muriel with his gift and promise. Muriel was getting up to clear the table when he stopped her. “Please, lass, sit for a moment.”
Reluctantly, and with a look of concern etched across her brow, she retook her chair. She was still quite cautious when it came to him. Especially if he was within arms’ reach. He hoped his gift would help put her caution and ill ease to rest.
“There be somethin’ I want to give ye,” he said. Leaving her at the table, he went to his cloak and removed the small bundle that was wrapped in soft linen. Smiling, he sat back down and placed the bundle in her hands.
“What be this?” she asked.
“Open it,” he said with a nod toward it.
Carefully, she placed it on the table. She untied the bit of leather and pulled back the linen. Confused, she looked up at him.
“’Tis a sgian dubh, lass. Yer verra own,” he explained with a good deal of pride.
Tears welled in her eyes. His chest felt constricted, for he thought he’d done something wrong. “I meant for it to make ye smile, lass, no’ cry!” he explained. “To make ye feel safe.”
She remained quiet as she studied it without touching it.
Wanting very much for her not to cry, Rodrick continued to explain the meaning behind the gift. Taking it in his own hands, he showed her the intricately carved handle. “See? This be a wolf,” he told her as if she couldn’t see it. “Those be little garnets in his eyes, ye see. And wrapped around him is the MacElroy plaid. ’Tis the MacElroy banner, ye see.”
The tears she’d been fighting gallantly to hold onto began to slip down her cheeks. So quiet was she that he was growing more and more concerned. “Lass, I did no’ mean to make ye cry.”
Muriel wiped away the tears with her fingertips and took in a deep breath. “I ken that. These be happy tears, Rodrick.”
He could live to be a thousand years old and never understand why a woman cried when she was happy. Letting out a quick sigh, he scratched the back of his head in confusion.
“Ye give me this because ye want me to feel safe, aye?” she asked as she took the sgian dubh from his hand.
“Aye,” he replied in a low voice. “I want ye to always feel safe.”
Finally, she smiled. “Thank ye, Rodrick.”
“Ye’re most welcome, lass,” he said. “But there be more.”
She raised a brow and asked him what he meant.
“After ye have the babe, I want to teach ye how to defend yerself. Not only how to use the sgian dubh properly, but how to truly defend yerself.”
All manner of feelings tumbled around in her belly. Predominately and at the forefront was a deep sense of gratitude.
“Would ye like that?” he asked.
Nodding her head, she said, “Aye, I would.”
Feeling better, he smiled and patted her shoulder with one hand. “Good. We shall begin in the spring, after the babe is born and ye have fully recovered.”
She too was feeling much better, as well as a bit playful. “I want ye to teach me everythin’,” she said.
Rodrick chuckled. “Well, I do no’ ken if ye want to ken everythin’ lass.”
Quirking a brow, she said, “But I do.”
He stared at her in quiet disbelief.
“I even want to ken how to best ye, should the need arise.”
His laugh all but shook the little hut. Deep and booming it was. “Och! Lass! If ye ever do learn to best me, ye’ll be the first person on God’s earth to do so.”
Muriel’s belly continued to grow as the days went on. Rodrick did not seem to mind it at all. Each morn he would wake with a cheerful smile and ask, “How is me beautiful bride this morn?”
She thought it rather silly that he would think of her that way. She certainly didn’t feel beautiful. But she did feel better. Better than she had expected to or even believed was possible just a few months ago.
He was just as patient as he had promised he would be. But then, they’d only been married less than a fortnight. ’Twas a quiet worry that rarely left her thoughts that mayhap, someday soon, he would have enough of their marriage in name only and either demand she perform her wifely duties or, worse yet, leave her.
Still, he was so kind to her. On the second day after they were wed, he had built a dressing screen with his own hands. He told her ’twas so she might have privacy when changing and not have to worry about him seeing her in a state of undress by accident. She had a sneaking suspicion he did not want to keep going out into the cold air whilst she changed.
On the fourth day, he hung curtains in the far corner of their hut. Curtains that hid their chamber pot. Again, so that she could have privacy.
Muriel asked naught from him. She didn’t have to. ’Twas as if he could read her mind. He brought water in from the well each morn, as well as wood he used to set the fire. When he saw she was tired or uncomfortable, he would wrap a fur around her shoulders whilst rubbing her shoulders.
Thrice a week he would fill a tub with hot water so that she could have a good, long soak.
He had procured sweet smelling soaps and soft cloths for bathing. He had even purchased fabric with which she could make clothes for their babe.
Each gesture was genuine. Rodrick was not doing these things to impress her. These sweet gestures came from the purest of places: his heart.
Her fondness for him grew with each passi
ng day. In return for his kindness, she cooked for him, mended and washed his clothing, and kept their hut as neat and tidy as possible. Anything she could think of, she did, to show him she was grateful. Anything, save for the physical intimacy shared between most husbands and wives.
Rodrick and Muriel soon found themselves falling into a comfortable routine. Each morn she would prepare his breakfast, then he would head off to train the men. They had to be trained in shifts because so many of them still needed to work on the construction of the keep. Rodrick would stop long enough to race back to their home to eat, then race off again. Depending on the weather — and at this time of year the weather often dictated with supreme indifference — he might be gone from dawn to dusk.
On one particularly sunny afternoon, just after the new year, Muriel decided to take Rodrick’s lunch to him, instead of waiting for him at home. ’Twas a bright, clear day, with only the hint of a breeze. The earth and everything around them was blanketed in snow. But the men had made paths from the cottages to the kitchen tents and to the keep, to make the trek easier for one and all.
With booted feet, she trudged through the snow with a basket of food draped over one arm. ’Twas not as easy as she had anticipated, what with her big, cumbersome belly. Still, ’twas nice to be out of doors and breathing in the fresh air and soaking up the sun.
Muriel heard the men before she saw them. Metal clashing against metal rent the air. She heard much grunting and cursing as she rounded the corner of the keep.
There, on the wide-open yard, were two-dozen men. Not a one of them wore their winter fur cloaks. A few of them were even bare-chested!
One of those bare chests belonged to her husband.
He was in the center of the yard, wearing only his black leather trews and fur-covered boots. His long dark hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, tied in place with a bit of leather. Sweat covered his wide chest and well-muscled, taut arms. The sun glistened off him, casting him in a near ethereal glow.
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