“I ask not what you say of this matter. What do you think of her? She is a bonny lass, is she not?”
Malcolm was shocked. Had his cousin taken an interest in this whelp? “Kenneth.” He cleared his throat. “The lass tried to kill you. You cannot mean to bed her?”
“I was thinking along those lines, but not for myself.” The king flashed a wry grin.
“What say you, Kenneth?” Malcolm reached out one arm, “Kill her?” Then the other, to indicate a second choice, “Pardon her?” He leaned close to Kenneth's face. “But do not hold her here. She is mad.”
“It is not wise to kill her.” Kenneth leaned back. “Yet, I cannot free her least she make another attempt on my life. I need someone I trust to guard her night and day.”
“You mean to keep her in the dungeon until she dies?”
“No.” The king leaned forward in his oaken throne. “I mean to give you a worthy reward, a bestowal, a beautiful Pict noblewoman for your wife.”
“You jest?” Malcolm looked hard at Kenneth's face. “A wife? No.” He belonged to the sea, he had no use for a wife. And this one was wild and crazy. “Are you daft?”
Kenneth lowered his tone almost to a whisper yet kept its intensity and edge. “She means to murder me. If not beheaded, she needs to be guarded by the one person I can count on.”
“God's teeth, but you are given to moon-mad musings. Do not do this.”
“She will try to kill me, again.” Kenneth turned his head toward Bethoc. “I can see it in her eyes and so can you.”
“I will not have it.” He could not hold back the furry from his tone and the king jerked his head back toward him again. “Do this and I find my pelt and depart this eve. Do not doubt me, cousin.”
“So be it, I can do naught but execute her.”
“If you would spare her life by wedding her to me,” Malcolm reached out his arm, “then do the same by betrothing her to someone other than me.” He flicked his hand toward his other cousin. “Bequeath her to Donald.”
“He cannot tame this one.” The king’s shoulder length hair fluttered as he shook his head. “He has no way with women. You know this.”
Donald shook his head in agreement, surely not wanting the wild wench foisted upon him.
“I will not have it.” Malcolm stressed each word, emphasizing this was his final say on the matter. He took a step back.
“Very well.” Kenneth tilted his head toward Bethoc and held his piercing gaze on her. “You will die for your attempt on my life.”
“I shall kill you first.” Her breathing came hard, her mouth was set in a fierce scowl.
Malcolm could tell she was frightened. “She is a woman.”
Kenneth pointed his head toward Malcolm. “Take her outside, sever her head, and hang it on the gate as the Picts did to my sire and to yours.”
“I fight for you, I do not murder for you. Choose another man.”
The two men stared at each other, unblinking, till Kenneth broke the silence. “Donald, take care of this. Sever her head and hang it up for all to see we will have no assassins here. Women or men.”
“As you say, my king.” Donald grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to the door.
Chapter Two
“Halt.” He yelled at Donald then wheeled back to Kenneth. “Do not kill the lass. I will wed her.” Once she was no longer a risk to his cousin and the kingdom of Alba was safe, Malcolm could return to his real life. His real world. “Kenneth, I accept Bethoc for my wife, but only under the bond of hand fasting. When it is time for me to go my own way then I shall.”
The king paused and his brow crinkled in thought then he nodded to Malcolm. “It shall be done.”
Bethoc's eyes widened. Her face went pale. “No. I will have no Scot for my husband.”
“It is not your decision. Malcolm, will make sure you do not kill anyone.” Kenneth leaned back against the oaken throne.
“I would rather die.” Bethoc lifted her chin in defiance.
Malcolm let out a chuckle of frustration. “I share the sentiment.”
Kenneth arched his brows as he peered at Malcolm. “If she tries to kill you, slay her.”
Bethoc's teeth clenched and her dark eyebrows shot up, as blazing green eyes stabbed Malcolm with a loathsome threat of a hundred deaths. He almost bit his tongue from laughter at the woman's dramatic expression.
Malcolm glanced askance at his king. “Well, this should be a quaint wedding night.”
“You will have to sleep sometime, Scot, and I will kill you then,” Bethoc snarled through still clenched teeth.
“Tie her to the bed before you nod off.” Kenneth flashed a wry grin.
“I rather like the thought of that.” Malcolm smiled in earnest as he envisioned her long, earthy-brown hair fanned out across his bed. Her neck arched as she writhed and screamed in ecstasy of love play. Then Malcolm flinched. What had happened? He was thinking like a human.
Kenneth nodded at his brother, Donald. “Tell the priest to prepare the chapel for a wedding at dawn.”
* * * *
Bethoc rubbed her hands against her shoulders to ease the bite of the chill, damp chapel. She wore nothing but her dark tunic and braies and her cowl pulled back from her head. Her husband to be had not offered her his woolen bratt to keep her warm. Those addled Scots hadn't even lit enough candles. Bethoc's long chestnut hair swept from one shoulder to the other as she jerked her head and huffed. She’d failed to take vengeance on her sire’s death. The tattoos on her left thigh, depicting her ancestry tingled. She’d let her family down. Kenneth would be dead if only she'd drawn back the bow, but she could not kill a man in his sleep. Bethoc had never killed anyone.
Her arms fell to her side and she curled her hands into fists. She slammed her foot down on the stone floor of the dark chapel, yelped with pain, then rubbed her ankle.
The priest stepped back. “Did you harm yourself, child?”
“No. Neither will I let a Scot harm me. I will not marry this man, Father.” The oaf, Malcolm, looked like he was carved of stone. The brown mop of hair on his head had a strange hint of red and his dark blue eyes were huge, like a cow's.
The scrawny priest's mouth dropped open, which was a sight, for he barely had any chin. “My king, the woman refuses to wed.”
Kenneth curled his fingers beneath his firm chin. “Yes father, but if she does not marry I shall have to cut off her head.”
The priest swallowed as he stared at his king.
Kenneth answered the question in the priest's eyes. “What you heard is true. She tried to slay me as I slept.”
“Oh,” the priest's eyes went round and he glanced back at Bethoc, “you will wed, m'lady.”
“Because the church has no love for the Picts,” she spat. She was to have wed Drostan, lean, yet muscular with hair the shade of a raven's wing. He had an arrogant way about him, but he could make her laugh. Bethoc had not loved Drostan, but she would have made him a good wife. She’d wanted to marry him.
“It may be so as the Picts have no love for the church. The King has spoken and I take his word next to God's.” Upon clearing his throat, the priest rushed through the vows in Latin, then nodded at Malcolm.
“I do,” Malcolm vowed in a flat expressionless tone.
The priest bobbed his head at Bethoc and she jerked away, turning her back. Ignoring Bethoc's gesture and her silence, the priest pronounced the two handfasted for a year's time.
Malcolm cocked his head toward Kenneth. “Now, what do I do with her?”
“Feed her.” Kenneth rolled his eyes. “The scrawny chit must be starved. It takes a lot of energy to try to kill a king.”
“Come, wife.” Malcolm took her arm in his. “Let us go to the hall and break our fast.”
It was as good a time as any to eat. Bethoc shuffled her feet at his side across the stone floor of the chapel and through the short grass toward the long wooden hall. Too sad to pull away, she let Malcolm continue to hold her arm as they ent
ered the feasting hall through the double oaken door carved with Celtic tracery.
“Lady Bethoc, this is the hall where you will sup.” A puzzled look crossed Malcolm's face, he added, “and rest.”
Bethoc nearly bit her tongue. “I have to sleep with soldiers?”
“No, it is here, that I have been sleeping, but I forgot I have a wife now.”
Bethoc could tell by the crease on his brow that he was musing this over as he spoke.
“I have a rath on the other side of the chapel. I never use it, howbeit is mine. You will stay there. With me.”
As her rising rage renewed her energy, Bethoc yanked her arm from his grasp. “If you mean to have me, think again. You'll never touch me, you Scottish cur.”
“Scottish cur husband. Do not forget that my lady wife.” Malcolm’s lips twisted into a cynical grin. “Sit down and break your fast.”
The rumbling of her stomach made Bethoc happy to oblige, but she vowed not to give in to any other demands this fool made.
She swept her eyes across the round hall, surprised at how truly small it was, crammed with a roughly hewn, long table and two padded benches as well as people to fill them. It was the Picts who had power, the Picts who had wealth. The Scots were nothing. Still, she had not known they were this poor.
As she sat, Malcolm squeezed in next to her on the bench. Bethoc gasped as his elbow brushed against her. Even beneath her tunic, his touch made her skin tingle. She must be mad. “You sit too close. Move over.”
“We will be much closer tonight.” Malcolm's lips twisted into a smirk.
Bethoc's palm itched to strike him. Spotting his eating dagger, carelessly laid on the table, she lunged for the blade.
But Malcolm caught her wrist with no more effort than if he’d slapped his hand down to kill a fly. His warm fingers clamped around her like an iron manacle.
“My dagger.” Malcolm's eyes twinkled with amusement.
“You took mine. How will I eat?”
“M'lady, did you fear we Scots had no manners? You have not wed a barbarian. I will gladly cut your meat for you. Do Picts not serve their ladies from their plates?”
“Yes, but I am not your lady.”
“No, you are much more. You are my wife.”
“Ha!” Bethoc crossed her arms against her chest. He wasn't a husband, he was a guard. Well, she would show him. She wasn't a wife; she was a menacing foe.
A servant girl set a bowl of porridge and a spoon before her. Bethoc dipped the tip the wooden spoon into the lumpy gruel.
“To be sure, I do not even need to slice your fare.” Malcolm smiled at her as if she was a small child.
Holding the spoon in her hand, Bethoc gave a twist of her wrist and flipped the glob of porridge onto Malcolm's face. The white blob landed on his forehead and dribbled down his nose.
A vengeful chuckle rolled from her mouth. She propped her elbows on the table, cupped her head with her hands, and heaved with laughter.
Malcolm brushed his hand across his forehead, wiping white mush onto his fingers. Flicking his hand to the side, he shook bits of porridge onto the floor.
Feeling merry from laughter, she forgot herself and wiped the remnants off his brow. Her fingertips tingled from the contact with his smooth, warm skin. Bethoc peered at her hand in puzzlement. What caused that odd sensation? She glanced up, meeting his gaze, she pondered why she found his moist, brown eyes so fascinating. She couldn't blink or turn away. Absently she wiped her fingers clean on her skirt.
“Best wishes to you, Malcolm,” a gray haired man said as he slapped him on the back. “I hear you will need it. Is this your bride? The wild Pict who tried to kill the king last night?”
“Yes, that she is.” He turned his gaze back to Bethoc. “M'lady, this is Fergus, King Kenneth's steward.”
“Fergus.” She acknowledged him with a nod of her head. “Indeed, I am this fool's unfortunate bride.”
The older man's lips twitched into a half smile. “M'lord Malcolm, will you not be having a bowl of porridge?”
“No.” Malcolm let out a chortle. “I have had enough of your porridge this day.”
“It seems his lordship is a man who is hard to please.” Bethoc flashed a sour grin.
“Ah,” Malcolm tilted his head toward Fergus, “Is this not sweet?” He looked at Bethoc. “Me thinks my bride fears she may not please me this eve, in our nuptial bed.”
A tinge of heat crossed Bethoc's cheeks. It was more than anger that caused her face to flush this time.
Malcolm winked. “You have nothing to fear. A bonny lass like you will please me well enough.” Wrapping his arm about her shoulder, he pulled her to his broad chest.
Overwhelmed by the smell of ale on his breath and mortified by the guffaws and bawdy jests of the feasters, she tried to push out of his grasp. But he held her in an iron grip.
Malcolm brushed his lips across her ear and whispered, “Eat your porridge.”
Bethoc shoved spoonful after spoonful in her mouth, swallowing down the thick mush with the sour ale. Her insides turned upside down, not from the food, but from total emptiness. A guttural pain racked her; she fought back the tears threatening to stream forward. Da! Da is dead. He has left me to the Scots.
She tried to take another swig of ale, but the cup fell from her fingers. Intense trembling overtook her, from her hands to her feet. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Gritting her teeth, she fought to control herself. Managing to keep her fingers steady enough to pick up the newly filled tankard, she downed another cup of ale. The warmth ignited by the ale eased her tight muscles and sadness vanished in the wake of a storm of anger, which had built up inside.
As a Pictish princess, Bethoc knew she was better than this, better than any of these Scots. Silently, she swore she would never forget it. She came to Dalriada to get revenge and she would. She scanned the wooden board searching amid porridge droppings and spilled ale for Malcolm's eating dagger.
“Does this king of yours, Kenneth, really think we Picts will come to Dalriada to see him crowned?”
“No, of course not m'lady.” Malcolm grabbed a piece of rock-hard bread and dunked it in the golden ale. “That would be silly. Would it not? My king means to be crowned in Scone, the capitol of Caledonia, ‘tis it not?”
“Never.” Bethoc spotted the knife fastened to his belt. She made a mental note of where it hung so she could take it when her chance came.
“It is his right. He is king, is he not?”
“Not for long.” Bethoc spoke rapidly, not stopping to take a breath. “It matters not that I did not succeed in killing him, another Pict will. He has no right to rule after slaying the seven earls at a banquet of peace. Each Pict sat down to eat and drink. Kenneth pulled a lever, opening trap doors, plunging the earls into pits jammed with stakes, end up. My own Da died like a hare on a skewer.”
Malcolm's brows arched. “What say you? M'lady, see you any trenches underneath this bench? Any deep pits fixed with stakes to impale Picts?”
She saw wood benches and a hard dirt floor strewn with rushes. “But how?” Bethoc asked out loud in a baffled tone.
“Stubborn cocksureness, not treachery cost the earls their lives.”
“Kenneth demanded the earls name him king of Caledonia. When they refused, his men slew them in cold blood.” She tilted her chin in the air. “So, there were no pits?” She leaned close to Malcolm. “It was still a trap.”
“No.” He shook his head. “A fair fight.”
“You lie,” Bethoc hissed. “How could it have been a just fight? If so, all seven earls would still live. It would take more than a band of Scots to kill one Pict as strong as Drostan or my sire.”
“My lady wife, I speak the truth. Deep in your heart you know it.”
“Liar!”
“You wish it were so. It would be easier for you to deal with his death if your father was slain by Kenneth. Instead, he lost his temper and dishonorably attacked a king of both Scot and Pict blood.
He died due to his rash action, with no thought for the daughter he left behind.”
“I hate you.” Bethoc's chest heaved. ”You lying snake of a man. You ... you ... Scot.” Afraid Malcolm may have spoken the truth, she couldn't look him in the eye. Weighed down by sadness, she couldn't even move.
“You will have to do better if you mean to insult me. Call me Scot and I take it as a compliment.” Malcolm stood, offering her his hand. “Come Bethoc, let me show you to your new home, my rath.”
Bethoc took his hand and slowly rose, but said nothing. Her world had turned upside down. Kenneth mac Alpin reigned as king of Caledonia. Bethoc's father, Talorc, and Drostan, the man she’d been betrothed to, lay dead. And she was wed to Kenneth's right hand man. What would happen next?
Bethoc and Malcolm headed outside and walked on, passing wooden buildings, animal pens, the stable, even the stone chapel she’d been married in that morn. She skirted a mud puddle, then spotted a small rath, surrounded by a short stonewall encasing a yard overgrown with knee high grass and sprinkled with the bright yellow blossoms of cowslips and silverweed. The oaken door creaked as Malcolm pushed it open. Bethoc opened her mouth to speak, only to gasp as particles of dust rushed in. She coughed.
Sunlight shone from the window onto the thick coat of gray dust which covered everything. A cupboard across the room stood draped by the largest cobweb she'd ever seen. An overturned wooden table with two broken chairs lay next to it. At least an unmade bed in the corner looked like it had a decent feather mattress.
Mayhaps it looks worse than it is. Dust clogged Bethoc's nose and throat. She shut her eyes then gritted her teeth and blinked her lids open. It is real. Bethoc shuddered.
“Welcome to your new home.” Malcolm spread his arms wide as if showing off a king's hillfort.
The scent of mold and dirt clotted the air. Bethoc cleared her throat, folded her arms, and clutched her elbows. “I'm not living in this pig sty!”
Chapter Three
The Scottish Selkie Page 2
