Tamlyn grabbed his arm, as he went to fling the cake away. “Wait, Julian.”
Her using his given name reached through the ire as nothing else could. He paused, his chest rising and falling in umbrage, fighting against the odd feeling of his heart being wounded. He could not say why the incident upset him so much. Mayhap ’twas this morn had lulled him into thinking he could actually belong here, these people could come to accept him as their lord. “Something was purposely put into the cake?”
“Aye, I suspect ’twas.” She took the cake from him and broke it apart. As the cake crumbled, she revealed a small gold ring, a twisted weave design, similar to one on her torque. “Beltaine cakes all are the same—save two. One cake be created for a man. One for a female. Inside each is a ring. ’Tis how the May Queen and the Lord of the Glen are chosen each turn of the Wheel. This time, I think Lady Chance had a bit of earthly help from a wee Pixie.” She winked at the child. “My people honor you, Julian.”
“And what happens to the chosen lord? Clan Ogilvie tosses him onto the balefire, a sacrifice to your Auld Gods?” he asked with edged sarcasm.
“Mayhap, long ago in darker times, when crops failed such happened,” she replied with a dram of humor. “For the next four seasons, the May Queen and her Lord of the Glen are treated as royalty. If peat be needed for winter fires, then all the men pitch in, cut and stack it for them. If the roof needs thatching, he does not work alone. Women sew him a beautiful wardrobe, bake bread and brew heather ale for him. The tanner makes him fine boots. The farrier shoes his horses, and they receive extra oats and apples from the Sacred Grove, even in winter. His fields are plowed and reaped with help of the whole clan, and he gets the second portion of everyone’s harvest. Come spring, they clip his sheep, and his cattle are driven to shielings―high pastures in the mountains―and then, back to the glen come autumn.”
One side of his mouth twitched, the tension in him easing. “Ah, I see. For a year and a day, this man shall be treated as a king. What happens after the calf is fatted for four seasons? Then, you toss him on the bonfire next Beltaine?”
She laughed, actually laughed. It was the first time Julian had seen her do so, and he was entranced by the pulsing vibrancy rising off this beautiful woman. His lady. No resentment, anger or pain clouded her heart. She scintillated with awareness of him. And the power of that was a punch to his gut.
Action born of compulsion, his left hand touched her face, stroking the soft slope of her high cheekbone. Some might consider this a weakness in a man. He did not care who saw. He had to touch her.
Reaching up and taking that the hand, Tamlyn slid the gold ring onto his pinkie finger, her eyes almost shy in meeting his. “There, Julian. Aon a thaghadh—our chosen one. You be our Lord of the Glen for a year and a day.”
“Answer me, Tamlyn, what happens after a year?” he pressed, his voice huskily, asking for more than just the meaning of the ceremony.
“The rites come from the dark times. They cared for the human king-god symbol, felt if he prospered so did the clan. When the harvest thrived, then he remained safe. If famine gripped the land, they made the more horrible sacrifice to the Wicker Man. Those days are gone from memory. Now, ’tis only a privilege. My people worry about this coming year, Julian. The May Queen chosen last year ran off with a lad from a clan three glens away. ’Twas viewed as a bad omen for us. The coming of the Dragon of Challon changes many things. My people are saying they grant you a year and a day to prove yourself a good lord to Glen Shane.”
“And what of their lady?” Julian pressed his advantage. When she blushed and lowered her lashes, he lifted her chin, forcing her gold eyes to meet his. “Does she grant me a year and a day to prove I can be a fit lord and husband?”
Tamlyn smiled almost sadly. “You ken what I ask in compromise.”
“I granted you the right to be wed in the traditions of your people. I shall honor that. As for the Red Laird, I will do what I can, Tamlyn.” Julian watched her face register relief, swallowing the bad taste in his mouth. He knew it to be a promise that held little hope. Edward would hear no plea from him for leniency for the Earl Kinmarch. “As for the third condition, I told you what you must do to insure I comply.”
Even in the firelight, he saw her blush, recalling how they greeted the dawn in the solar. Heat exploded in his blood, and he leaned toward her planning on kissing her.
Raven whirled to a stop before them as the frantic dancing halted, long enough to give everyone a chance to regain their breath. “The May Queen, Lord Challon, be revered in the same fashion as the Lord of the Glen. All her weaving and spinning be done, new ramients made for her. That thrills Tamlyn. You shall find Tamlyn hates those chores. She reigns as May Queen this night—because that mooncalf Jenna ran away with Ian Campbell. Special gifts of sweets and apples be left at her door. She gets the first ration of every-one’s harvest. Of course, ’tis a very special blessing for the clan if the Lord of the Glen begets a bairn upon the May Queen. ’Tis thought the child is favored by the Auld Gods. Tamlyn be such a chosen one.”
Her blush turning a deeper shade of crimson, Tamlyn glared at her sister. “Raven usually be my quiet sister. Mayhap it would behoove her to recall that.”
“That sounds like a threat, sister dear,” Raven teased.
Julian gently rubbed his left hand at the small of Tamlyn’s back, wanting to maintain the nearness. “Seems some of your pagan customs contain fine sense.”
Another young girl—this time toe-headed and covered with freckles, and carrying a different basket—bobbed before them. “A cake for a queen,” she announced happily.
“Thank you, young Meggie.” Raven’s grey eyes flashed with mischief, as she plucked one off the top. “Your turn, Sister,” she insisted, before biting into hers.
Tamlyn reached for one to the side. Instantly, the child jumped back two steps so the cake she had been about to grasp was beyond her fingers. Frowning, Tamlyn reached for it again.
“Och, Tamlyn of Glenrogha, you’ll no’ be wantin’ that one. Auld Maudie touched it. You ken how dirty her fingers be.” Meggie giggled.
“Sage advice, eh, Tamlyn, since ’tis likely none of us has e’er seen Maudie’s skin under the four score years of grime.” Raven explained, “’Tis a standing joke amongst the men. Each year they threaten, when we hold the Floating of the Sheep, to toss Auld Maudie in along with the sheep, for ’tis the only way they will see her clean.”
Tamlyn lifted her hand to reach for the next one, watching the eyes of the freckled faced girl for a reaction. When she shook her head, Tamlyn said, “Och, no’ that one either? I suppose she touched it as well?”
“Aye, I be certain she did.” The child chuckled, enjoying the game.
Sighing, she moved to near the back. “This one, wee Meggie, shall I select it, or has Maudie ruined it as well?”
“Och, ’tis a muckle fine one, methinks.” Meggie grinned triumphantly.
Tamlyn carefully bit down and chewed, clearly surprised and disappointed she did not find the ring after the little game. By the third bite, Julian feared Meggie erred in her game of biscuit-switching.
She bit down once again, her tooth clunking against something hard. “Och, what a surprise,” she announced dryly, “I think I found the queen’s ring. Wonders shall never cease, eh?” She broke apart the remaining treat to reveal the golden ring of Pictish design.
Raven laughed musically, snatching up a cake. Going to Sir Destain who rested in a chair, due to his leg wound, she gifted him with the small treat. “Dare any of us doubt the workings and wisdoms of the Auld Ones?”
“You be getting up in years, dear Sister.” Tamlyn pulled a face at Raven. “Only, I wouldst hardly call you ancient.”
Julian took the band from Tamlyn’s fingers, eager to see it on her hand―a visible sign of her bond to him. Feeling contrite, he should have gifted her with a ring before now, showered her with a queen’s ransom in jewels. Yet somehow, the simple woven-strand ring s
eemed perfect for this special woman.
Her eyes lifted to his, and then back to her trembling fingers, as he slid the ring on the first finger of her left hand. The woven circle matched his, but was more feminine. Possession and need swelled within him to where he wanted to crush her hand to his heart. Instead, he raised it to his lips reverently and placed a kiss, a promise, to the soft skin on the back of her hand. Their eyes locked, speaking in a language that needed no words. Words were too pale to convey the power that rose between them.
Rowanne rushed up and whispered into Raven’s ear. Both she and Raven linked arms with Tamlyn. “Apologies, Lord Challon. We needs must spirit our Tamlyn away. We promise you shall see her again anon,” Rowanne called over her shoulder to him, and the twins lead Tamlyn from the gathering.
As Julian watched the three beautiful women rush off, he twisted the Pictish ring around on his finger. The gold band moved easily, but when he tried to tug it off, he found resistance. It came over his knuckle, but only with a little effort. Easily, it slid back with ease. The golden band seemed made for him.
The breeze swirled around him, causing the balefire to shoot sparks high in the night air. On that playful wind were whispers that once more called to him, telling Julian this was where he belonged.
♦◊♦
“Has anyone see where our ladies vanished?” Julian asked of his brothers.
He searched the massive gathering, trying to locate the three women. Hungry for Tamlyn’s presence, he wanted to share this magical night with her and fretted at the prolonged separation. His eyes skimmed along the dark hill ridge, alert for any movement. Still concerned about the rebel Scots, he did not like Tamlyn being out of sight.
The priest, Sir Malcolm, strolled up. The handsome man smiled; the glint in his eyes mysterious, almost as if he could read Julian’s thoughts. “Draw an easy breath, Lord Challon. You shall see Tamlyn anon. First, enjoy the pageantry.”
Julian nodded. “With the attack on my cousin’s cadre, I remain at attention for any dangers that might melt from the shadows.”
Malcolm patted his arm. “Oh, aye, ’tis surely what causes your...ah...tension.”
The music changed, oddly haunting, the pipes sending small bumps to crawl up Julian’s spine. Not the usual tunes of war, but a low, slow droning that mesmerized. A hush descended over the area as the people settled down to wait.
The music wrapped around Julian and held him in thrall. His eyes followed the Culdee as he walked to the bonfire.
From a pouch hanging about the man’s waist, Malcolm removed something, molding his fist around it. Raising his arm straight out at shoulder level before him, he chanted some words that failed to carry. Then, the priest spoke out so all could hear, “Lo! Behold how it has been from the dawn of time—since the Daughters of Anne formed our clan.”
Finished with the heralding, Malcolm released his fingers and flung gritty powder into the bonfire. Flames jumped, sizzled and hissed, flaring white-hot for an instant, before settling down to a blue flame, which sent out a curl of thick fog. Instead of rising up as smoke usually did, it spiraled outward, rotating around the balefire in an ever-widening circle to snake across the grounds.
Unease rose in Julian as he felt almost alone in the strange fog. A foreboding? Guillaume either sensed Julian’s warrior disquiet or shared it for he stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. Glancing over to check on Destain where he sat in the chair, his eyes were drawn past his brother.
Damian stood off to the side, talking with four strangers. Having accepted the oath of every villein and serf of Glen Shane and Kinmarch, Julian knew they were not of his holding. He blinked twice for the small group was more than passing odd. One, obviously of Norse descent—judging by the white blonde hair—stood a head taller than any man present. He was not someone you would ever forget. Clearly a warrior, he took up a position of deference and protector behind the three younger, slighter men. Dressed too fine to be anything but high born, all three were the exact image of the other, same pale red hair and narrow faces…triplets. Not something you saw often. In earnest conversation with his cousin, the middle one offered Damian a horn of drink.
Julian had not partaken of the mead being offered, for fearing losing his head around Tamlyn. Mayhap, the herbs the priest tossed upon the fire affected him similar to the mind-bending potions oft used in the Holy Land. Yet, after he blinked thrice trying to rid the strange image, the trio remained with their pet giant.
Suddenly, a feral war-scream split the night’s revelry, jerking Julian’s attention back to the balefire. A man soared over the flames of the sunken fire and through the smoke, making it appear as if he materialized from the blue fog. Clad in doeskin breeches, molded to his body by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh, he wore nothing else, though upon his head was a half-mask with antlers of a large buck.
The man-stag executed several high leaps, kicking gracefully to fly through the air, then spinning from leap to leap, until he came to a stop before Julian. Oddly, he stood perfectly still, barely more than an arm’s length away. Vivid lavender eyes glowed behind the animal mask, locking with Julian. Then, with a magician’s pass, he extended his hand. Held between his thumb and first finger was a single fresh-picked violet. Julian glanced down at the purple flower, a shade similar to the eyes of the masked man, unsure of the significance. Julian sensed this was a test—that he was supposed to take it. So he did.
“Your first gift as Lord of the Glen.” Malcolm materialized, once again, just behind Julian’s shoulder. “On the first violets of spring, one may maketh a wish and it shall come true. Wish carefully, my lord. What will you wish for?”
Julian warily lifted the flower to his nose. There was no scent. The delicacy belied the endurance of the plant.
What should he wish for? Images of Tamlyn rose in his mind, of him touching her, her scent, her heat. He wanted to plant his seed within her body, for them to create a son. That need, that hunger, was crippling.
“Wish, Lord Challon. It shall be so.” The stag-man said with a small half-smile, touched with a hint of wickedness. Then, he spun in a circle and vaulted away from Julian.
He continued to leap, capering around the bonfire with a vertiginous force, the jumps rising higher and higher, almost gathering power from the bluish smoke. His bare chest glistened with sweat. His arms flung open and closed with each revolution; his head snapped about as he spotted his turns to keep from getting dizzy. Julian saw with each rotation, the lavender eyes fixed on him. Again and again.
So absorbed by the athletic display, Julian failed to notice four men stepping out of the shadows. Unlike the leaper, they were dressed in the green garb of hunters.
They began a hypnotic mime of the four hunters chasing the male stag, pursuing, spinning and leaping through the smoke. The hunters drew closer, closer, miming shooting arrows at the man-stag from bows. Finally, the man-stag was brought down from the invisible arrows. He staggered and fell to the ground, representing death. So bound by the performers, the crowd groaned in agonized empathy, as the male-stag suffered death-throws. The four hunters bent down, each taking a leg or arm, and in solemn respect made a full tour about the balefire. The blue smoke grew thicker, until it swallowed the hunters and their fallen prey, whilst the pipes wailed in a dirge. Then, a lone skirl of the bagpipes tore through the hush, as suddenly, a man leaped through the flames to the exaltations of the people of the clan.
Malcolm explained, “The stag has been reborn—the young Highlander now be Lord of the Forest.”
No longer clothed in the leathern chausses or wearing the animal mask, he was dressed in a plaide of black and green. He carried an ornate claymore, the sword nearly as long as the man’s height. Instead of performing the high leaps and spins, he moved in fluid motion, demonstrating the skill of a man and the Highland great-sword being one. He slashed the air and parried with power, force and control as Julian had never seen, turning the weapon into an extension of his body.<
br />
Before, Julian had sneered at the Scots’ claymore as too long and clumsy. He now saw the fluid swings, thrust and parries meant for offense and defense were anything but cumbersome. With a magical skill, the warrior almost seemed carried by the drums, pipes and flutes. The magnificent sword seemed a part of the warrior, his artistry one Julian envied. Mesmerized, he watched and memorized the sinuous, elegant movements of the young, muscular Scotsman, and knew on the morrow he would seek him out to learn this mastery.
The volume of the melody slowed and lowered, stilling until it was only two pipers playing a low haunting refrain. A whispered hush descended over the whole gathering. Everyone held their collective breaths while all focus left the braw Highlander, and shifted to the opposite side of the hill.
Then, Julian saw what drew them.
In long robes and bearing torches, two men approached from the south entrance to the tòrr, solemnly promenading down the long avenue of trees, in front of a figure covered completely in a net of spun gold. Two female attendants trailed in her wake—Raven and Rowanne—each holding a corner of the gold netting train. The procession had the feel of a mock wedding march. The veiled figure came to a stop, as the robed escorts stepped to the side.
Taking hold of the veil, she drew her arms out before her and then raised them skyward. She stayed in that position, in supplication, then slowly allowed the net to slide back, revealing Tamlyn, standing there in the flickering torchlight. She wore a kirtle of gold, spun from Highland magic, molding over her curvaceous body, with splits up to both her thighs. The heavy golden torque was about her neck. A chaplet of apple blooms crowned her unbound, honey-colored hair, which fell in waves down to her hips. Wide gold cuff surrounded her wrists, and reflected the torchlight. The only thing on her bare arms.
A Pictish Princess conjured from the Scottish mists.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 23
