Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  Chapter 6

  "We would like one of our guests to tell the evening story now that our supper is done," Lorne said from his chair beside the central open hearth. "Sebastien le Bret, tell us a tale from your own country, if you will."

  Sebastien took another sip from his cup of ale to cover his surprise. The men and women of the clan, most of whom seemed as elderly as Lorne, looked at Sebastien from their seats around the hearth. His own men, seated on benches alongside two trestle tables, stared at him also.

  His impulse was to refuse. He paused. The fire in the circular stone hearth cast a reddish glow that reflected on the waiting faces, and a hot crackle filled the silence.

  He glanced around the room, a large chamber that showed solid construction and simple comfort. Kinlochan's main hall was a long, raftered room made of stout timbers, with wooden piers dividing side aisles into bays that flanked the central area. A thick layer of clean dry grasses and flower petals on the floor added a clean fragrance. The planked walls were hung with lengths of wool woven in colorful patterns, and various weapons and large shields studded in bronze were suspended around the upper walls.

  Seated on benches and stools were a host of Highlanders, Norman knights, and the squires who had accompanied the king's men. All of them looked expectantly at Sebastien. He cleared his throat, and sipped from his cup once again. He had sometimes told stories to his little son while the child drifted to sleep, but he was no bard, and had no desire to display that lack of ability.

  "The gifts of the Scottish storytellers are well known," he finally said. "I would rather hear an authentic Scottish tale told by a true bard."

  "It is Highland custom for a guest to tell a tale the first night of his visit," Alainna said in English. She stood beside her great-uncle's chair. "We would like to hear something that is told at hearth-sides in your country."

  Sebastien watched her as she spoke, half distracted. Firelight slid over her body, enhancing its supple curves and sheening her long braids to rippling bronze. He had been aware, ever since he had recognized her out on the snowy hill, that she was to become his wife by order of the king. No matter what conflicts he had concerning the marriage, she was a rich prize for a man's bed. His body reacted to the sight of her, and to the sultry sound of her voice.

  Soon he would have to tell her why he had come to Kinlochan. He did not relish the moment. None of the Highlanders, he was sure, wanted this marriage.

  Nor did he relish explaining that he would leave Kinlochan as soon as possible. Knights with different lords to serve and various holdings to oversee often left their wives and families for months and years at a time. He knew that too well, yet had no choice now but to repeat that again.

  He glanced around at a rainbow of smiles, small and large, bright and dim, toothless and full. His own men plainly grinned as if to dare him to accept Lome's request, while the Highlanders looked eagerly toward him. Clearly he had no choice but to oblige.

  "Come to the hearth." Alainna stepped before him, the hem of her simple gray tunic swinging around her ankles. Over it she wore a plaid mantle of brown and blue, belted at her waist, its upper drape fallen back in folds behind her. Her braids were bright and glossy. He wanted to slide his fingers over that fascinating silkenness.

  "Tell one of the stories you heard in Brittany as a child," she said.

  "I did not hear many tales as a lad. Outside of scripture, that is." He paused. "But I can recite one of the Breton tales that troubadours tell in the court of the duke of Brittany."

  "That will do." She held out her hand as if touch was natural and common between them. Her fingers closed over his, smooth, graceful, and pale. Warmth sprang between them, and something fine and hot leaped within him from groin to heart. She tugged on his hand, and he rose to his feet.

  He felt awkward, preferring to be on the outskirts of a group where he could observe and learn. He liked his back to the wall, his thoughts to himself, and the advantage his.

  Alainna looked up at him with a quick, sparkling smile. His heart seemed to turn within him. The chatter and the faces and the firelight faded, and only her smile, meant for him alone, existed.

  Beside the hearth, Lorne gestured toward an empty stool. "Please," he said, "sit by our fire."

  Sebastien let go of Alainna's hand and sat. The central fire gave off much heat, and he was glad that he wore only a tunic of brown serge, hose, and boots. He had shed his heavy armor, padding, surcoat, and fur-lined winter cloak, as had his fellow knights. They had left their belongings in a corner of the raftered hall, where sleeping pallets had been stacked for their use later.

  Someone handed him a cup filled to the brim with ale, foaming and slightly flowery in taste and scent. He sipped and looked into the fire. The room grew quiet around him. Alainna settled on the floor at his feet, her back close to his knee.

  "Long ago," he began in English for the benefit of the Normans, "there was a knight of Brittany named Sir Lanval, who visited the court of the great King Arthur. Sir Lanval rode out in the forest and came upon some beautiful ladies dressed in green, bedecked with flowers, dancing. They were the handmaidens of the Queen of Faery, who stepped forward, the most beautiful woman the knight had ever seen. She beckoned him into the Otherworld with her...."

  Alainna sat at his feet, echoing his words in Gaelic, her shoulder brushing his knee. As he spoke, he watched the firelight gleam in the bright strands of her hair.

  "After he wed the faery queen and returned to his own world, Sir Lanval unwittingly insulted Queen Guinevere by saying that he loved a woman who was more beautiful than any earthly queen. She was deeply offended and called for the knight to be put on trial. The court gathered before King Arthur."

  He went on, while Alainna spoke in a lilting tone. He wanted to continue just to hear her soft voice interweave with his own.

  "And so he waited for the king's judgment when the faery woman whom he loved, and thought he had lost forever, appeared in the midst of the court, gowned in dazzling green, to speak on his behalf, for she loved him as well as he loved her."

  When he finished and Alainna had translated the ending, she glanced at him. All he saw was her smile, despite the pleased expressions that surrounded him.

  "You are a storyteller as well as a champion," Lome said. "And you are welcome at Kinlochan for both talents, of course."

  "If you have more tales like that one, you must stay long enough to tell them all!" An old man with one hand, the other ending in a scarred stump, grinned at him.

  "The knight and his men will not be here that long," Alainna said. She straightened where she sat, the line of her back proud. "He bears a message, although we have not yet heard it from him."

  "You have not yet asked me," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear him.

  Her eyes smoldered blue. "I did not yet ask because I will not disturb the pleasant mood with poor news from the king."

  "The king's message must be revealed to you privately, by his order. I do not intend to present it to your clan. That is for you to do. Whenever you want to read the king's message, I am ready to oblige."

  "Later," she answered, looking away.

  "We thank you for that story, Sebastien le Bret," said the old woman seated beside Lome. Sebastien recalled that she was Una, Lome's wife. She had helped to serve the food earlier, although he had noticed that she had eaten little herself in her efforts to make certain the others were satisfied. "Food and storytelling first, Alainna," Una went on. "It is Highland custom to extend hospitality before discussing matters of business."

  Another woman, large-boned and handsome, her dark hair threaded with silver although she seemed of middle years rather than elderly, walked toward him. She handed him a small cup. "I am Morag MacLaren," she said, smiling. "And that was a fine story. This is uisge beatha, the water of life," she said. "A fitting drink for a bard and a warrior."

  Sebastien took the cup with murmured thanks, and sipped, blinking his astonishment. The stuff
was potent. He had tasted a similar Danish drink called aqua vitae, and had seen it take down men more accustomed to watered wine and ale. He sipped again, slowly, letting the burn of it ease down his throat.

  He rose and bowed to Lome. "My thanks for the privilege of a seat by your hearth. I look forward to a tale from a master." He walked back to his seat, but the bench where Hugo and Robert sat was crowded. He stepped into a side bay and sat on an empty bench in the shadows.

  Una handed Lome a small harp, and the bard began to play a melody that filled the room with exquisite sound. Sebastien sat in his darkened corner and sipped the uisge beatha again. He liked its earthy flavor, its slight sweetness, and its mellowing magic.

  Alainna rose from the fireside and crossed the room toward Sebastien. She sat beside him in the shadows while they listened to the music. While Lome played, Alainna looked up at Sebastien. "You told a fine tale, and did a fine thing."

  He leaned toward her. "What was it I did?"

  "You left your seat when you were done, and gave Lome the warm hearth-side for his own again. It was a courteous gesture, and I thank you for it."

  "Ah," he said lightly. "I am a courteous man."

  "A virtuous knight," she agreed wryly.

  Sebastien chuckled. "Your great-uncle Lome told us the names of your kin when my men and I first came into the hall," he said, "but I confess I did not hear them all. Giric is your foster brother, I know, and Lome and his wife, Una, are your great-uncle and great-aunt. Who are the rest? Is the woman who brought me this drink, Morag MacLaren, your mother?"

  "My mother died when I was young," she said. "Morag is Lome and Una's daughter-in-law, widowed since their son died in a battle against Clan Nechtan. She lives with us and helps Una manage our household. The two of them are adept at anything to do with hearth, pantry, chamber, and garden. I am not quite so competent as they, so I keep out of their way." She smiled. "I have other tasks to busy me, and Una and Morag leave me free to attend to them."

  Then, with the careless grace that he had noticed before in her gestures, she indicated Lorne the bard. His voice was reverberant, even though he spoke quietly to Giric. "Lorne MacLaren is my great-uncle—my father's uncle. He is a trained storyteller, a fili taught in a Highland school. He was bard to my father and to my grandfather, his own brother. Una is his wife. Her people are Clan Donald of the Isles. You may have heard of them. Morag's husband was their only son."

  "And the others?" he asked.

  She leaned toward him to speak quietly and be heard above the din of voices. Sebastien, relaxing under the spell of the drink, the company, and the girl, enjoyed the closeness.

  "The old man seated beside Lorne is Niall of the One Hand, a cousin," she said. "He lost his left hand in a battle with Clan Nechtan many years ago. The man with the iron-dark hair is Lulach, Lome's brother. Their father was my grandfather, and chief of our clan before my father and myself. Lome, Lulach, and I are descended from the first Laren of Kinlochan, an Irish prince who settled here long ago."

  Sebastien nodded. He saw the resemblance in their tall, lean, strong-boned bodies, in their straight features and stubborn chins. He saw a more subtle resemblance as well, and found its traces in nearly every Highlander there. A vein of pride ran through each, hinted at by posture, gaze, and speech.

  "That wide woman there," Alainna continued, "is Beitris, Lulach's wife. She and Lulach have come here to stay the winter with us, as have some of the others. The other women are Niall's wife, Mairi—who has grown far too quiet since she lost her sons last year—and those three are Isabel, Margaret, and Giorsal, all widows of men we have lost."

  Sebastien nodded in grim sympathy. "And Giric MacGregor?" he asked, looking at the handsome, dark-braided Highlander who laughed with Niall over some jest. "How is he related to you?"

  "He is not related by blood," she said. "His father and mine were friends, and he fostered with us as a boy." She smiled as she watched him, and Sebastien felt a quick pang of jealousy. Compared to their elderly Highland kin, Alainna and Giric seemed striking in their youth and beauty, like the lord and lady of spring in the midst of winter.

  "And the others?" He nodded toward several men and women, all as elderly as the girl's immediate kinfolk. "They are members of Clan Laren too?"

  She nodded. "They are tenants of Kinlochan, and most are distant cousins. They came here because Giric and Niall carried the news of the Normans' arrival, and told them that a great boar would be roasted on our spit, and that all were welcome."

  "Normans too?" he asked, tipping a brow.

  She laughed. He liked its bright ring. "For now," she agreed. "For the boar you provided, and the story you told."

  "Who are the two men leaning against the wall?" he asked. One was short and thick, the other tall and burly, with a shock of white hair. Both wore wrapped plaids over loosely shaped shirts like the other Highland men. Sebastien thought the garments looked exceptionally comfortable, although he wondered about their practicality when walking in the wind and cold.

  "Cousins. Donal, the white-haired man, is supposed to keep watch on the walls tonight, but he has come in for the meal. The other is Aenghus Manndach, Aenghus the Stammerer. He does not say much. He herds our cattle—or did, when we had some."

  "You have lost your livestock?"

  She scowled. "Clan Nechtan's thievery left us but two milk cows, and three others that we slaughtered at Martinmas to store the meat for winter. We may not have as many mouths to feed in Clan Laren, but we want them well fed. I care about each and every one of my kin, as you surely do about your own."

  "Understandable loyalty," he murmured.

  "We have another kinswoman, Esa, who is not here," Alainna said. "She lives in the hills and refuses to come to Kinlochan for the winter, although the other elderly ones came when I invited them. We often go to see that she is well, and invite her each time, but she is stubborn, and she is sad, and clings to her loneliness. Her husband is dead, and their son as well, you see. Her husband was called Ruari Mor." She paused.

  Sebastien glanced at her sharply. "Ruari?"

  "Ruari MacWilliam," she said. "He was a brave man, a great warrior, and a tall, large man, so he was called Mor."

  He narrowed his eyes. "When did he die?"

  "Over a year ago." She glanced at him. "Have you heard of him? His reputation as a warrior was widespread, but I did not think tales of him reached the king's court."

  "In a way. Part of the reason the king sent us here is to hunt a man called Ruari MacWilliam, a rebel and outlaw."

  "Outlaw!" she said.

  "It is said he went into exile in Ireland following the defeat of his rebel clan, but rumors report that he has returned to the Highlands to gather support for the MacWilliam cause. They claim a right to the crown—"

  "I know their claim," she said. "Their bloodline goes back to the Pictish kings of Scotland. And Ruari Mor was a good man, and no outlaw!"

  "Among his kin, that may be true. But he is a rogue who will serve as an example if he sets foot in Scotland and is caught. The rebels will be imprisoned and tried, mayhap hanged as traitors if they venture back from Ireland."

  "Ruari is dead, so there is one king's order you do not have to follow," she said sourly.

  "Was there proof of Ruari's death?"

  "Is not a woman's broken heart proof enough? His bloodied plaid and broken sword were brought back to his widow. His son died too, that day. Esa mourns them both still. It is part of the reason she will not come out of the hills. Ach Dhia, you have never seen such sorrow, and there is your proof! I believe she hopes every day to join her husband and their son in death."

  "I will send that word to the king, then," he said, frowning. He wondered how the king could have been misinformed about the Celtic rebel. Sebastien was glad of the news, though; without a rebel to hunt down, he could leave Kinlochan, and Scotland, that much sooner.

  "Can you recall the names of my kin?" Alainna asked.

  "Giric MacGregor, you
r foster brother," he said. "Lome MacLaren, the bard, Una his wife. Lulach his brother, with his wife, Beitris. Morag, Isabel, Giorsal, and Margaret, the widows. Niall of the One Hand, Donal the guard, Aenghus the Stammerer, and one not here—Esa of the far hills, widow of a champion called Ruari Mor. And seven others, tenants and cousins whom you have not named to me."

  Alainna nodded. "You learn quickly. You have a bard's memory, I think." Her eyes sparkled.

  "And one more," he continued, "the toiseach and Maiden of Kinlochan, with hair the color of new bronze and eyes the color of the sea along the coast of Brittany." His heart gave a slow, bold bound as he spoke.

  "Ach." A tiny smile touched her lips. "I am thinking a seat by the fireside has turned you into a poet after all, Sebastien le Bret."

  "Or your uisge beatha has," he said, and sipped it.

  "Now that may be." She laughed.

  "How many more are there in Clan Laren?"

  "The old ones," she said, "are all of my people."

  He stared at her, sure he had misheard. "These few? Not a child or a young person among them?"

  "Not a one. We have had years of war, of sickness and lack. Many have died, many have moved on to live in other parts of the Highlands, with other kin. The old ones and myself are all that are left of Clan Laren."

  He frowned. "You have many men at your beck and call now, should you need them."

  She glanced at him. "So says the king?"

  "So say I," he answered.

  She turned her graceful profile to him. "Now name your men to me. Robert de Kerec and Hugo de Valognes I know. They seem to be good friends to you."

  "Near as close as brothers, if I had any," he said.

  "Who are the others? Bretons all?"

  "Some Norman English, some Norman French, some Lowland Scots. Etienne de Barre, Richard de Wicke, Walter of Coldstream, William FitzHugh...." He said their names and told her a little about each man, some of them comrades to him, many still strangers.