Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  His two Breton comrades nodded again. Dressed similarly in chain mail and deep green surcoats trimmed in silver, the three tall knights stood nearest the king as members of an elite honor guard prized for valor, military skills, discipline, and golden looks.

  Robert was slim and pale haired, while Hugo was broad and coarse, with hair like brass. Sebastien knew that his own unmatched skills and dark golden hair had gained him a privileged place among the knights sent by the Duke of Brittany to serve King William.

  "A Highland heiress? Interesting," Hugo remarked. "She does not look the savage."

  Sebastien silently agreed as he studied the girl. Her pale creamy skin, was now blushed pink, and long, thick braids of a coppery tint fell over the front of her supple body. Her eyes appeared to be the same dark blue as her elegantly cut gown. She looked like any Norman or English lady, he thought, but for the plaid mantle draped over her shoulders and pinned at her throat with a large silver circlet. Belted at her waist, it spilled in gentle gathers over her hips.

  Nicely shaped hips, Sebastien noted, along with a slip of a waist, long legs and arms, square shoulders, full breasts. Her form and her flame-colored hair had an earthly allure in contrast to her serene oval face.

  "Ah, what a sweet morsel," Hugo whispered. "If she is here to seek a husband, then I am her man."

  "Perhaps that one is her man," Robert remarked.

  Sebastien saw a Highlander step toward the dais. Alainna MacLaren rose to her feet. She was not a small woman, but this man towered beside her. He wore a plaid length of brown and green, draped full and skirt-like over a pale shirt. He was broad as well as tall, his bare legs hewn, his head large and handsome, long auburn hair tamed by braids. He addressed the king in the fluid language of the Gaels.

  "Barbarian," Hugo murmured. "He does not wait for the king's permission to speak, but plows ahead like an ox. And the king allows it! Such a lack of manners would not happen in France."

  "Hush," Robert murmured. "You have been here long enough to know that Scots behave as if no man has greater rank, even their king. Their pride in their equality has its charm, and does not offend the king. If he does not mind, why should you?"

  "No wonder they have such problems here," Hugo muttered.

  Sebastien watched the dais. At the same time, he kept his hand on his sword hilt and stayed alert for any rumble of discontent or sudden movement that might indicate a threat to the king.

  He was a keen and cautious observer. He could perceive a great deal quickly about people and situations, and had come to trust those abilities. In the lift of this girl's chin and the set of her head on a long, graceful neck, he saw pride and strength. But the blue depths of her eyes held a subtle, haunting sadness. A fragile lioness, he thought, frowning.

  At the king's murmured request, the girl addressed him next in English. Educated as well as lovely, Sebastien thought. Hardly a savage. She changed languages with ease, her speech accented but precise, her voice low and lovely.

  Beautiful and intelligent women were not a rarity in his experience, but he recalled no woman of his acquaintance who radiated such grace and strength, or glowed with pride as this one did. Brilliance filled her like a light in a horn lantern. He watched her with increasing fascination.

  "Sire," she said to the king, "my kinsman, Giric MacGregor, and I have traveled to court so that I can pay homage for my inheritance. My father, Laren MacLaren, chief of our clan, was killed in a battle with Clan Nechtan last September. My two brothers were killed in earlier skirmishes with Clan Nechtan, leaving me chief of Clan Laren and sole heiress to Kinlochan." The warm timbre of her voice slid through Sebastien like a caress.

  "We extend sympathies to you, Lady Alainna," the king said.

  "My lord." She bowed her head sadly and raised it again. "I am here to pay a relief fee for my inheritance."

  "One or two knights in service to the crown is the customary payment."

  "Sire, I can offer no knights in service just now. My clan is reduced by tragedy. We have wealth in land and ancestry, but few goods left to us, and fewer men. We have been nearly ruined by this blood feud. Please allow me to offer another token to fix my claim on Kinlochan."

  The king nodded. Alainna of Kinlochan turned to her Highland kinsman, who withdrew a cloth-wrapped object from the folds of his plaid and handed it to the king.

  William opened the gift to reveal a rectangular stone a hand-span in size, its surface carved in relief with a design of a cross and circle in the interlaced style of the Celts. Even across the dais, Sebastien could see that it was beautifully crafted.

  "A fine piece," the king said. "Is it the work of an artisan local to Kinlochan?"

  "It is," Alainna answered.

  "We will accept this token, my lady. One carved stone will be required of Kinlochan in fee each year. The writ will be drawn up for you."

  The girl smiled. "My thanks, sire. If you will, I wish to address another matter, that of my marriage."

  "That we must ponder further."

  "Sire, 'tis your right to choose a husband for me, I know. The elders of my clan have asked me to present some conditions regarding my marriage, if you will permit it."

  "Conditions?" the king asked.

  "My kinsmen wish me to wed a Celtic warrior who can defeat our enemies, sire, one whose lineage is equal to ours. He must speak the Gaelic, and be a man of compassion and courage. And he must be able to travel to Kinlochan from his own lands within a day's time."

  "Your kinsmen have decided upon a riddle to be solved by some champion, with the prize your hand?" The king sat back in his chair. He sounded amused.

  "Sire." Her cheeks flamed pink. "We pose no coy riddle."

  "We have exemplary Norman knights at court with honorable legacies and military prowess. One of my honor guard may do well for you."

  Hugo and Robert straightened like peacocks. Sebastien remained expressionless.

  "I do not wish to wed a Norman, sire. My kinsmen wish me to wed a Celtic champion." She drew a breath. "Sire, there is one further condition. We ask that my husband give up his surname and take the name of our clan for his own."

  Sebastien stared at her. She had pride, temper, beauty—and a good bit of conceit, with which he had not credited her.

  "Huh!" Hugo muttered. "Now she asks too much."

  "That is a great deal to require of any man, Norman or Gael," the king said, "though 'tis sometimes done when the property is valuable. Even if such a selfless warrior existed, 'twould be unwise to involve another Celtic clan in this feud."

  She lifted her chin, an elegant, stubborn figure. "Nevertheless, that man will I wed, and no other."

  She glowed like a candle, Sebastien thought, her strength luminous and passionate. He frowned, listening.

  " Your property is good land, Lady Alainna," the king said. "One of our Norman knights will do well for a husband for you."

  "Sire, please." Her voice faltered. "Consider my request."

  In the quiet, Hugo shifted his weight, and his chain mail hauberk chimed. The girl glanced toward the sound.

  The clarity of her eyes touched Sebastien like a spark. Her gaze was like a penetration of spirit, a tug deep within, as if she had pulled on his heartstrings.

  He had no heartstrings left to pull, he told himself. Each strand, he imagined, had been torn off, leaving remnants that no one could grip.

  Before she looked away, he glimpsed desperation in her troubled blue eyes. Unexpected sympathy coursed through him. He stood impassive as stone, but his heart beat faster. He had known need and fear, had buttressed them with pride and will, as he suspected she did.

  "The king will deny her request," Robert murmured.

  "That area needs the stable military might of Normans, not another Celtic warlord."

  "I want land and a wife, and I have come to Scotland to gain them," Hugo muttered, "but I will not give up my surname for them." He nodded to Sebastien. "You could adopt her name without a second thought, where we ca
nnot."

  "Enough," Sebastien said in sharp warning.

  "I meant no harm," Hugo said. "You lack—"

  "Enough," Sebastien hissed. He trained his eyes ahead, his back straight as iron. Hugo grunted as Robert reprimanded him with an elbow jab. Hugo often spoke without thought, Sebastien knew. The man had saved his life in battle, and was a good fighting comrade, but he had the courtesy of a boar.

  No matter the worth of the land or the worth of the woman, Sebastien could never accept a woman's surname for his own. He had struggled long and hard to bring value to the name of Sebastien le Bret.

  To give that up was inconceivable.

  The king murmured to the girl, and she looked at her Highland companion, her cheeks rosy with dismay or temper. The Gael smiled at her.

  Ah, Sebastien thought. Alainna MacLaren displayed her strength to others, and revealed weakness only to this man. They contrasted in savagery and grace, but their bond, whatever its nature, was strong. The Gaels of Scotland held kinship and loyalty in highest esteem. He saw that shining in these two.

  A pang of envy seized him. He frowned and let it slide from him like an unwanted cloak.

  Sebastien hoped the girl would find the proud Celtic warrior she sought, a man who could meet her impossible standards and match her fine spirit.

  He, for one, was not her man.

  Chapter 3

  "Lady Alainna, the matter of your marriage will be carefully considered," King William said. "Word will be sent to you when a decision is reached. Farewell to you both."

  Alainna glanced anxiously at Giric. She and her foster brother had traveled so far to reap so little. The king seemed determined to choose her husband according to his conditions rather than her own. "Sire—" she began.

  The king ignored her, and looked toward the three knights who stood on the dais, matched in green surcoats and chain mail, matched in blond handsomeness and brawn. "Sir Sebastien, escort Lady Alainna and her kinsman. See that they receive provisions for their journey."

  "Sire." The tallest of the three men came forward. Alainna had noticed him earlier. He had watched her throughout, his gaze steady, but guarded.

  The Norman stood before her and inclined his head politely. "My lady, come with me," he said in Gaelic. She felt the warm press of his fingers through her sleeve. Startled by his warm touch as much as by the use of her language, she looked up at him.

  "I will not," she replied in Gaelic. "I have something more to say to my king."

  His brow lifted. "As you wish," he said mildly. He stood beside her, solid and strong, his mailed sleeve brushing her shoulder.

  She stared at him, distracted for a moment by his hard beauty, which was flawed slightly by a scar that seamed his left eyebrow. His hair was dark gold, his eyes gray and cool, his face lean and strong-boned, angled at the jaw.

  Calm control emanated from him in appearance and demeanor.

  She pulled her gaze from his and looked at the king. "Please, sire, about the issue of my marriage—"

  "My lady, you have made your plea," the king replied.

  "Sire, my clan's enemy, Cormac MacNechtan, means to petition you for my hand. He wants only to possess Kinlochan and subdue our clan by marrying me, their chief."

  "It is true, sire," Giric offered. "This feud is based on old anger, inherited through generations."

  William frowned. "Marriage between enemies can solve such a dispute."

  "I cannot marry Cormac!" Alainna burst out. "I beg you to understand. We need warriors to fight on our behalf."

  "You need a man who can raise a castle on that site, install a host of men, and bring peace and protection to that region of the Highlands."

  She sighed in relief. "A Highland warrior."

  "A Norman knight," he corrected. "One will be chosen from among the worthy men in my court. Farewell, my lady."

  Alarm rocked through her and nearly buckled her knees. "Sire—"

  The Norman knight took her arm. "Quiet, lady," he murmured. "If you want your way in this, submit a petition. He is done with you now."

  She jerked out of his grip. "I cannot write," she snapped. "But I can speak, here and now."

  "At the peril of your cause."

  She scowled at him, but kept silent.

  "A handsome couple," the king said. "Indeed. Sebastien, as I recall, you are a widower.... How long have you been in my service?"

  Alainna glanced at the king, stunned by the implication.

  The knight paused. "Nearly three years, sire."

  "And not yet granted a suitable reward."

  Heart pounding, Alainna glanced wildly from one man to the other.

  The knight nodded. "The privilege of serving as honor guard to the Scottish king has all my devotion, sire." His answer was smooth and courteous, but his fingers tensed like steel on Alainna's arm.

  She glanced at Giric then, who was frowning and silent.

  "Surely something can be done," the king said. "Lady, it is quite possible that Sir Sebastien le Bret is the very warrior you need." He smiled.

  "Sire—" Alainna protested.

  "I am not the champion for this lady," the knight said.

  "Modest, sir, for a paragon among knights, renowned as a fighter of strength and spirit," the king said. "Exactly what Lady Alainna has requested. And you speak some Gaelic." He continued to smile. "That should please the lady."

  "It may not, sire," Sebastien murmured. Alainna felt the tension grow thick in the air.

  "But your presence at Kinlochan, with a garrison of men, would please me greatly," the king said.

  Alainna gasped. "My clan could not accept Norman knights at Kinlochan, sire."

  The king looked at her. The resoluteness in his eyes made her hesitate. She knew that King William was not a cruel ruler, but he could be swift and decisive. To refuse was treasonous.

  "We shall speak later, Sebastien. Lady Alainna." The king motioned for the chamberlain to call the next petitioner.

  Sir Sebastien circled his strong grip around her arm and guided her away. She twisted to look back. "Sire—" she began.

  "Be silent," Sebastien hissed.

  "He means to give you my lands!"

  "He can give me only what I accept," he said sharply. "Come this way. Sir," he said to Giric, "I will send a page to fetch your horses."

  "The horses are in a stable in the town," Giric said. "I will fetch them myself. Alainna?"

  "I... I will wait in the abbey," she told her foster brother in Gaelic. "I want to see the stonework before we leave. Giric, I cannot wed a Norman," she added frantically.

  "Be calm. Go now, and I will meet you at the abbey."

  "Allow me to escort you to the abbey, my lady," the knight said. "The stonework is very beautiful. Come this way." His Gaelic was cool and polite.

  He guided them through the crowd. Alainna lifted her head proudly, but her heart beat a pattern of panic.

  * * *

  Moments later, panic gave way to anger. It fueled her tread, tightened her mouth, clouded her eyes with tears. She blinked as she followed the knight up the sloping path that led away from the tower. Dunfermline Abbey crowned the top of the hill, golden stone and twin towers gleaming in the sun.

  She walked so fast that she tripped on the embroidered hem of her dark blue skirt, and had to stop. Autumn leaves cluttered the gown's long train. Grabbing a fistful of the soft woolen fabric, she shook it with more temper than grace.

  "Easy, my lady." The knight bent to brush at the leaves. "You will ruin your gown."

  She smoothed her skirt more gently. Although she rarely wore the gown of midnight blue wool with its embroidered hem of golden thread, it was the most exquisite garment she had ever owned. "My kinfolk said wearing this would help my plea in court," she grumbled. "'Twas useless."

  "A pretty plea, nonetheless," he said, "and a pretty gown."

  She sent him a sour look. His smile was fleeting but genuine. Warm. She looked away and adjusted her plaid arisaid draped over h
er shoulders and belted at the waist.

  "That patterned cloth is a fine weave," he said.

  "'Twas made by a kinswoman," she said. "She weaves good woolen plaids, warm and lightweight and much sought after. We are accustomed to simple clothing in the Highlands, but we are not the savages you think, sirrah. My father had this gown made for me in Glasgow. He thought to see me wed in it. Instead, I wore it to pay homage for his lands," she added sadly.

  "Your father would have been proud of you this day," he murmured in Gaelic. His quick use of that language felt comforting, like a caress. For a moment she softened toward him. Then she turned abruptly to resume walking.

  "Not many Normans speak Gaelic," she said.

  "I took the time to learn it. When I act on behalf of the crown, it is useful. Your English is well spoken."

  "My father insisted that my brothers and I learn it, so our priest taught us. Father Padruig says most foreigners think Gaelic is harsh and barbaric. But it is the tongue of bards and poets. It is like music."

  "When some speak it," he murmured, "it is indeed."

  She felt the heat of a blush. "I have never conversed with a privileged knight before, in English or in Gaelic."

  "Not so privileged as you might think, my lady."

  She frowned, puzzled. His armor and weapon were costly, and his dark green surcoat was trimmed in silver thread. He radiated confidence, authority, intelligence, and controlled power. Norman privilege was in his very blood. "My foster brother and I heard that the king's foreign honor guard is highly regarded at court and favored by the king."

  "We were assigned to the Scottish court by our liege lord, Duke Conan of Brittany. 'Tis an honor to serve King William."

  "Is that chivalric humility, sirrah? I have heard of the vows of virtue that foreign knights take."

  "We try to honor our knightly vows. Though few would call me humble, my lady," he said wryly.

  She tipped her head to look at him with curiosity. "When the king spoke of sending you to Kinlochan, you showed courtesy, but you grew tense, as if you were much displeased. Or was it merely your eagerness to obtain Scottish land that made you grip my arm so quick and hard?"