Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  Holding the bow, with a few arrows tucked into her belt, she watched for escaping deer as well as approaching enemies. With so few men left in the clan, she often provided an extra set of hands and eyes during hunts. While the hounds took down the deer with their powerful jaws, and her kinsmen followed up the kill, Alainna stood guard.

  A thin crust of snow crunched beneath her boots, and the wind swept over the slope. She was glad that she had worn male clothing that day; the versatile wrapped and belted plaid, layered shirts, and the woolen trews beneath were warm and snug against the bitter cold. She loosened the long pin that held the plaid on her left shoulder, and pulled the gathering over her head as a shield from the wind.

  The thunderous noise rumbled behind her, louder this time. She glanced toward the hilltop. The setting sun threw pink streaks across the sky, and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes against the brilliance. Then she gasped in astonishment.

  A group of horsemen appeared on the hill crest like a host of bright angels, their cloaks winging out, their shields shining in the late sun. As they skimmed the hilltop, their leader paused to wave at the others, and they drew to a halt.

  Even at this distance, she saw that they rode tall, fine-blooded horses, carried good weapons and elongated shields, and wore quality armor and fur-lined cloaks. Few Lowland knights and fewer Highland men could afford such horses or armor.

  Normans. Her heart thudded heavily. She had been dreading their arrival for weeks. Normans rarely traveled into the Highlands except on royal business, and although many of them had Lowland properties, none so far held land in the north.

  She climbed toward the hilltop. The king must have sent them to Kinlochan, she thought. If the king had made his decision, her land, her future, and the welfare of her clan now hung in the balance.

  Two knights split away from the rest and rode toward her, both hooded and cloaked over their chain mail, one on a dappled gray horse, the other riding a beautiful horse the color of rich cream. She wondered if the Breton, Sir Sebastien, was one of them, but she could not see their faces.

  The dogs' furious barking drew her attention back to the glen. The deer, sensitive to new sound and movement, had scattered, some of them leaping over the net. Alainna cried out in dismay to see the deer, pursued for hours, lost so easily. She realized that her kinsmen, trying to corner the deer once again, had not yet noticed the knights on the hill.

  Temper sparking, she strode toward the knights, hardly caring who they were. Those deer had been essential to the welfare of her clan. She stood before the riders, fisting a hand on her hip, the other hand gripping her upright bow.

  "Be gone from here!" she shouted. "You ruin our hunt!" She spoke in Gaelic without thinking, then realized that the knights would speak English or French. If Sebastien le Bret was among them, let him translate, she thought sourly.

  "Ho, lad! Good day to you!" The knight on the dappled horse waved and pushed back his cloak hood. He was a large man with blunt, pleasant features, a face reddened with cold, and hair the color of brass. "Tell us the way to Kinlochan!" As she expected, he spoke English.

  Her heart slammed hard. "Be gone!" she shouted again in Gaelic, waving her arm. She had seen him weeks ago, guarding the king beside Sebastien le Bret. She looked at the other knight.

  She knew him then, even hooded, knew the wide set of his shoulders, the length and power of his mail-encased legs. A delicate shiver went through her, neither cold nor fear, stirred by the memory of steady gray eyes, and a pair of strong arms that had lifted her in a church.

  Sebastien le Bret dropped back the hood of his fur-lined blue cloak, worn over the dark green surcoat she recognized from the first time she had seen him. Chain mail framed a face whose striking planes and steel gray eyes were familiar. His brows drew together as he looked at her.

  "Have we met before?" he asked in Gaelic.

  She gave him a frown to equal his, her heart still pounding, "Leave, you," she said, pointing in the direction they had come.

  "He speaks only the native tongue, Bastien," the other knight said. "And he seems annoyed with us."

  " We have disturbed their hunt. Look down in the glen."

  "Ah. They were trapping the deer. I have heard that the Highlanders practice that barbaric method of hunting."

  "When men are hungry, they are practical," Sebastien said, watching Alainna.

  Her gaze locked in the grip of his. She suspected that he recognized her—but if both men assumed she was a boy, she would take advantage of that anonymity.

  " Ask him to tell us where the castle is," the other urged.

  "Hugo, we must ride farther northwest. I was told 'tis situated by a narrow loch at the foot of a mountain. We will find it soon. Disturbing their hunt was not necessary." He lifted the reins. "Our apologies, lad."

  "This damned wind is cold," Hugo complained. "The hills are more vast than I thought. We must find shelter soon or sleep in a cow byre tonight. What is the word for castle? Dun," he said clumsily to Alainna. "Kinlochan."

  "There is no castle near here," she told Sebastien. "Kinlochan fortress is three leagues northwest. What is your business there?"

  "King's business," he answered. "What of Turroch, which belongs to Clan Nechtan? Where is that holding?"

  "Turroch! Why do you want to know?"

  "King's business again. Which direction is it?"

  She glared at him. "The fortress of Cormac MacNechtan," she said in precise, clipped English, "is five leagues west from here. If you are welcome there, you are surely not welcome at Kinlochan. Ride on."

  "Your English is surpassing good for a Highland savage," he drawled. The steady glint in his eyes told Alainna that he knew her now. She reached up to draw back the plaid that obscured her hair, and stared up at him openly.

  "So I thought," he said. "Greetings, Lady Alainna."

  "The Highland lady, by God!" Hugo crowed.

  "I wondered if she had a brother with the same eyes, but 'tis the demoiselle herself." Sebastien inclined his head.

  "It is," she answered. Hearing a shout, she glanced back at the glen. Her kinsmen climbed the long hill, spears in hand.

  "Those savages are in a mood to attack," Hugo said. "Iron-tipped spears and bare-legged barbarians are no match for mounted and armed men. Shall I summon the others, Bastien?"

  "A few barbarian spears can bring down armed knights," Sebastien said. "Ride back and tell the others to hold. We want no trouble here." Hugo wheeled and rode toward the others.

  "Go with him," Alainna told Sebastien. He did not move, watching her, his hands relaxed on the pommel. After a moment, she held up her hand to signal to her kinsmen to wait. They stopped cautiously, standing on the hill, spears ready.

  "I am not leaving," Sebastien said. "I have ridden a long way to talk to you."

  "Last we spoke, you were planning to depart Scotland."

  "I will do that soon enough. For now, I am here in the king's name."

  "What is your mission?" she asked, heart pounding.

  "The king sends you a champion, and a husband," he said.

  She frowned up at him warily, unsure if he referred to himself or one of the other knights. Her gaze flickered there, returned to him. "Which of you is this champion? And why do you have orders to go to Turroch?" She fervently hoped the king had not chosen Cormac MacNechtan after all.

  "My comrades and I would be happy to discuss it out of the cold. I believe there is a Highland custom of hospitality."

  "Find your welcome at Turroch," she snapped. "We have another Highland custom—my enemy's friend is my enemy."

  "Then your friend's friend is your own, I think."

  "We have no shared friends between us."

  "The king is your friend, lady, and mine. He sent me here to offer you a solution, as you requested of him."

  "I did not request interference from Normans."

  His eyes, winter gray, swept her from head to foot. She raised her chin under his silent scrutiny. Cold wind s
kimmed her cheeks and strands of hair fluttered across her eyes. She would not look away for pride.

  "Cool your ardor, my lady, we mean no harm," he said. "This wind may not bother you, but I am not overfond of it, nor are my men. We have been riding since dawn. Will you offer welcome to us or not?"

  She sighed. "We will." By tradition, hospitality was never refused, even to an enemy. Nor could she refuse a messenger sent by the king. "Wait with your companions. I will speak to my kinsmen, and we will lead you to Kinlochan. Now that the deer are gone," she added, "we have no reason to stay out here longer."

  She glanced past him and counted at least twenty knights. Without venison, she was not sure how Kinlochan's hospitality would feed such a large host of knights. She doubted that Normans liked porridge any better than they liked cold weather.

  "We will await the lady," Sebastien said courteously, but his eyes sparked like steel. He gathered the reins. As the horse turned, Alainna saw the blue painted shield that hung at the side of his saddle, until now partly obscured from her view.

  The shield bore a simple design of a single white arrow on a blue field. She had seen that design before, in a dream, carried by a mysterious golden warrior. Dear God, she thought. Just as in her dream, she now stood alone on a snow-coated hill to greet warriors, while her kinsmen hunted in the glen below. The golden warrior in the dark blue cloak, with his shield of a single arrow was here too; all he lacked was the magic of the faery realm.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  "Wait!" she called, running a step or two after him.

  He drew rein and turned. "What is it?"

  "Your... your shield shows an arrow on a plain field. What does it mean?"

  "'Tis for Saint Sebastien," he answered. "An arrow is his symbol, and serves well for mine."

  Why would she dream of Sebastien le Bret before she had met him, and why would she have found an arrow in the grass, as if it were an omen? She did not understand what any of it meant. He was not the warrior her clan needed.

  "Sebastien," she repeated. "Why your baptismal name? What of your surname, Le Bret? The crests that Norman knights carry on their shields and banners refer to their family names."

  "There are many knights," he said, "from Brittany." He circled the horse and cantered away.

  Alainna stared after him. The wind whipped at her plaid, stirred her hair. The sunset glowed over snowy grasses, and sparked bronze in the armor of the warriors and the leader who waited for her. Her dream had come to life.

  Her heart pounded hard. The golden warrior did exist after all. But he brought destruction, not salvation.

  In the glen below, her kinsmen shouted as a stag bounded across their path. They began to chase it, following the dogs. Alainna stood on the hill and watched them, caught in the maze of her thoughts.

  Although she did not look at him, she was intensely aware of the Breton knight who waited with his men.

  By the time her kinsmen returned after losing the deer, the setting sun cast blue shadows over the hills. Alainna began to walk down the hill toward the men. A white hare scurried across her path to disappear beneath a gorse bush.

  She sighed. Clan Laren did not even have a hare to put in their kettle, with so many mouths to feed this evening. A fortunate day had turned unlucky indeed.

  Another hare scuttled after the first. Alainna stopped, wondering what stirred them from their hiding places to cross her path. She turned then, and froze all movement.

  A few yards from where she stood, a boar emerged from a stand of trees. The small, high-set eyes gleamed, the long snout lifted to reveal yellowed tusks and a black mouth. Mottled brown, huge, and ugly, it appeared agitated, head swinging up and down as if it meant to attack.

  The horses on the hill and the hunting dogs in the glen must have disturbed the boar while it foraged among the trees. Alainna knew the animals had uncertain tempers. She stepped cautiously down the slope.

  The boar snorted, wagged its long head, and trotted toward her. She began to run, stumbling a little on the steep hill. Crashing noises behind her told her that the boar followed.

  They were fast, dangerous, and temperamental animals, she knew, with poor vision but for what lay directly in their path. If she ran a crazed path and got out of its sight, and if she could find a tree to climb, she would be safe until her kinsmen could reach her.

  If the beast came near her now, it would swipe its powerful tusks at her ankles, following an instinct to cut prey down at the feet, rendering it helpless to escape.

  That horrifying thought gave her renewed strength. She turned and ran past a cluster of gorse bushes, ignoring the stinging needles that pierced her skin through her woolen trews. She began to zigzag in an effort to confuse the boar.

  She glanced back, stumbling again, nearly falling, dropping her bow in her haste to get up. The boar swung stubbornly after her, crashing through the gorse. Alainna pushed onward, running through dry bracken toward another group of trees.

  Behind her, she heard shouts, barking dogs, and the thunder of hooves, but could spare no more backward glances. The boar's relentless snorting was loud and insistent.

  She saw a wide alder tree ahead and ran toward it, reaching for a lower branch. Leaping into the tree's sanctuary, she steadied herself on a thick limb, and glanced down. Without her bow, she had no defense, and clung desperately to the tree.

  Seconds later, the beast rammed the trunk, jarring her perch. Her foot slipped with the impact. The boar swiped at her dangling boot. She jerked her leg out of the way and scrambled higher, shaking in terror. The beast slammed into the tree again and again, bellowing its fury.

  A movement nearby caught her attention. She glanced up, startled, as a pale horse approached, carrying a rider in steel and indigo. A blue shield with a single arrow gleamed on the saddle. Sebastien le Bret, lance couched under his arm, guided his horse quickly toward the alder where Alainna clung.

  Quickly, efficiently, he wheeled sidelong, lifted the lance, and hurled it at the boar. The point sank into the target, and the boar grunted and fell heavily at the base of the tree. The wooden shaft quivered in its flesh.

  Alainna stared, stunned, at Sebastien. Her breath burned in her throat and her heart slammed. She could not seem to move her limbs, could not seem to think, her mind emptied by panic. Nor could she shift her gaze from the knight's.

  He reined in his sidestepping horse. Men gathered behind him, Highlanders and Normans both. Alainna saw only the knight who rode close to the tree. He turned his mount so that he could lean toward her, and extended an arm, his gaze steady on hers.

  Clinging to the branch, she clung to his gaze as well. She felt as if she were drowning and he held the only rope. All else but his eyes, his outstretched hand, faded around her.

  "Alainna," he said gently. He moved his fingers, beckoning. "The beast is killed. Come out of the tree."

  She nodded stiffly, her panic clearing. She felt foolish. Refusing his hand, she edged along the branch, and paused uncertainly when she saw the dead boar.

  "Alainna," Sebastien said firmly, "come with me."

  Come with me. His words brought back the memory of her dream, where the golden warrior had held out his hand to her—although she had not been up a tree, shaking like a terrified child—and had said the same words. In the dream, she had known that her life would change—might even end—once she took his hand.

  She hesitated. Sebastien reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her toward him. She swung into place behind him, looping her arms around his waist for balance. He urged the horse forward, and her kinsmen ran toward her.

  "Alainna girl, are you harmed?" Lome asked. He looked so old, she thought, his long face gone gray with worry, his white hair straggling, his shoulders bowed. But his keen, sky-blue eyes were sharp with concern.

  "I am fine," she said. Lome grasped her hand, and nodded thanks to Sebastien. Then he walked past them to kneel beside the fallen boar.

  Giric came near them
and murmured thanks in Gaelic to Sebastien. While he spoke, he held Alainna's hand, and she smiled down at him. She saw Sebastien cast them a small frown. Lome returned, holding the javelin that he had pulled free. He wiped it clean on his plaid and handed it back to Sebastien, who dropped it into a saddle loop.

  "Clan Laren thanks you, sir knight," Lome said in English. "You killed a boar as fierce as the one who took down the mighty champion Diarmuid in ages past. You have saved our beloved girl. We are forever in your debt."

  Alainna stared in amazement. She was not surprised to hear formal words of thanks from Lome, but she was startled by his use of English. Lome rarely used the southern tongue, regarding it as inferior to Gaelic. That demonstration of respect went far beyond his words of gratitude.

  "'Twas an honor to help the demoiselle," Sebastien said.

  "My thanks as well, sirrah," she said, although she would not declare herself indebted forever, as Lorne had done. She swung her leg free to scramble down from the horse.

  Sebastien grabbed her arm to help her down, and held her wrist once she stood beside the horse. Even through the thick leather of his glove, she felt the comforting strength of his grip. She pulled away.

  "I hope some fresh boar meat will help to make up for the loss of the deer," he said.

  "It will," she answered, then stepped back.

  "Good meat, and a fine champion to thank for it," Lorne said, smiling. "You and your men are welcome to share our meal at Kinlochan, of course. It was your kill, after all."

  "We are grateful for your generosity," Sebastien said. "Some of my men will help you tie up the boar. My lady, I am glad you are safe." He nodded briefly to her, and guided his horse toward his men.

  Safe. The word echoed in her mind as she watched him ride over to speak to his comrades. Safe. He could not know how essential safety was to her. No champion, even if he slayed a monster at her feet, could vanquish the fear that haunted her daily—that her clan would disappear forever.

  She sighed and passed her hand wearily over her head. Lorne circled an arm around her, and she leaned gratefully into his sinewy embrace. As they walked away, she wondered how truly safe any of them were now that the king had sent Normans to Kinlochan.