Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  Sebastien watched her, and idly scratched the dog's head. "I would like to hear her story."

  "I may tell you someday. If you are still here."

  "I will be here for a while, at least." He paused as a thin, eerie, nearly human cry rose out in the darkness somewhere and faded. The sound sent chills up his spine. "What was that?"

  "A wildcat," she said. "They are about at night here, especially up in the hills. As are wolves. And boars, as we know quite well."

  "In winter such animals are hungrier and even more fierce. Best that you are never out here alone, my lady."

  "I am protected here beside the Maiden," she said simply, placing a hand on the stone. "I come here often by myself to make offerings on behalf of my clan. I have always been safe."

  "I admire your faith in tradition, but a little caution on your part would ease my mind."

  "Why should I bother to ease your mind?" she asked crisply.

  "You are to be my wife," he pointed out. "Lady Alainna, I know that the news I brought you is not easy to bear. The king's orders were not welcome to me, either."

  She said nothing, silhouetted in the dark beside the stone.

  "I told you in Dunfermline that I have other plans. They still stand. I must return to Brittany to attend to... some important matters. Personal matters."

  She nodded again, silent. He frowned. The passion that seemed so strong in her was diminished. He did not want to be responsible for any subduing of her spirit, but feared he was.

  The dog nudged against her and sat on his haunches, watching her with pure devotion. She touched his head, bending, the rippled fall of her hair a shining cloak.

  "What was it you wanted, if you did not want to marry a Scottish wife for a Scottish grant?" she asked.

  "I have always intended to settle in Brittany when my knight service is done. I have... strong ties there. The longer I stay in Scotland, the more I risk to lose in Brittany."

  "Then leave," she said simply.

  "I gave my pledge to the king. This arrangement is for your benefit as well. You need our protection here."

  "I need no one's protection."

  "Your clan does," he reminded her. "And I think you would do anything for your clan."

  She lifted her head. "I would."

  "Even marry a Norman."

  "I will not marry a Norman if it means harm to my clan, or the loss of our lands."

  "I am not the Celtic champion you wanted, but there is no other available to you, by king's order."

  She patted the dog and said nothing.

  "My lady," he said, "we are both caught in this predicament. If we dispute it or refuse, the king will grant the land to someone else entirely. That man might be inclined to toss elders out into the cold and mistreat you, where I am not so inclined. We both have no choice but to accept, and to tolerate the situation."

  "You are asking for peace between us."

  "Peace, or a truce."

  "Tell me this, Sebastien le Bret." He liked his name on her lips, like the susurration of wind over water. "Will you take my clan's name for your own?"

  He paused. "I cannot do that." He would say only that. Kinship and home were natural rights in her world. How could she understand how much his simple, self-created name meant to him?

  "Will you allow our children to bear the name of MacLaren, rather than Le Bret?"

  He sighed, thinking of Conan, and hardly daring to think of other children in the shadowed future. "I cannot agree to that either, my lady."

  "Then," she said, "we will have no peace between us. And I do not know how we can have a marriage." She stepped away, turning past the stone to disappear into its shadow. Finan followed her.

  Chapter 8

  Sebastien walked around the stone, expecting to find Alainna fled into the darkness, obliging him to lope off in pursuit. But she stood so close in the stone's shadow that he nearly bumped into her.

  "Listen to me," he said firmly. "I am not your enemy. I am not your conqueror. I do not wish to bring harm to your people. But these are now my lands by king's decree, and I honor my obligations, whatever they are."

  "And I am one of them now," she murmured.

  "You are," he agreed.

  She was silent. A turn of her head revealed the sheen of tears in her eyes. He knew what the king's message, and the king's grant to him, had done to her. He felt responsible for her distress.

  "I would rather go into a convent and give my inherited rights to the Church than give them to a Norman," she said after a moment. She stood as firm as her pillared sister.

  "That can be arranged, if that is what you truly wish." He said it harshly, feeling his temper stoke, as if she had added kindling to the banked fire in him.

  "Or," she said, "I can refuse to give up Kinlochan or myself to your... ownership."

  "You could, but to go against royal orders is treason."

  "There are Celtic rebels in the Highlands who care nothing for treason. They do not even acknowledge William as the rightful king of Scotland, for they claim he is not descended of the ancient royal line. I can go to them and plead for help."

  "Do you know where to find these Celts?"

  "I can find people who might know."

  "Be careful what you say to me," he said abruptly. "I am here to hunt rebels, as much as to accomplish other things."

  "If I found them, they would not fight MacNechtans for us, but they would fight on our behalf against the crown."

  "Alainna," he said, "do not be foolish."

  "I am never foolish!" she snapped. "You do not know me."

  "Somehow," he said slowly, "I feel as if I do."

  Her glance flickered away. "What do you mean?"

  He turned to face her. "I know that you are proud and stubborn. I know you would do anything to save your clan and your heritage."

  "Anyone knows that of me," she said. "I do not hide that."

  "And I know," he said, leaning toward her, "that you will not flee to a convent and abandon your kin. Nor will you join rebels, for that would be unsafe for your clan. I know"—he leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a murmur—"that you are not only proud, but passionate and loyal." He gazed at her. "It shines in you like a light."

  She kept her head high and remained silent. He could hear the soft sound of her breathing. He let his gaze travel the graceful length of her throat to where her breasts rose and fell beneath her gown.

  By God she was beautiful. The pride and fierceness in her would challenge a man, heart, mind, and soul. He had always liked a challenge, a risk.

  He leaned a shoulder against the stone, enveloped in shadows as he looked at her thoughtfully. "You are scared, deep within," he murmured. "I saw pride and fear in your eyes weeks ago, when you stood in the royal hall. I see that in you now."

  "You do not." She slid him a quick, vulnerable glance.

  "I do. 'Tis here, in this lifted chin." He touched her jaw gently. Her skin felt silken and delicate.

  She drew in her breath as he glided his hand to her shoulder, as his fingers skimmed her spine, sank to her waist, lifted away. "And here, in these shoulders and this straight back," he went on. "Capable, proud girl, they tell me, one who cares deeply, works hard, and never complains." She was lean and strong, her firm curves so evident beneath the plain gown and gathered plaid that his own body surged, instinctually tempted.

  She did not protest his touch, although her eyes closed briefly. He lowered his hand. She glanced at him, sidelong and wary. The dog cocked his head and watched them curiously.

  Her profile was clean and pure, her silence eloquent. She would not rail at him in temper, he thought; that initial storm had passed. But he was certain she saw peace as yielding, and would not grant it to him.

  "I will not be charmed into making peace with you, either to make your tasks here easier—or more pleasant," she said.

  "You are very much like your Stone Maiden, I think." He touched the cool, smooth granite. "Strong and proud. But
lonely and unprotected, even while you watch over your people."

  She angled her head down as if to hide her thoughts. "What does it matter?"

  "It matters," he said softly. He was not certain why, but he knew that it did, very much.

  She shook her head. "You have what you came to Scotland for. Chartered land, a title, a bride—" She caught her breath.

  "The lady asked for a champion." He shrugged. "I am here."

  "So you came here only out of some virtuous chivalric duty."

  "You do not know me," he countered. "You do not know what gives me purpose."

  "I know you at least as well as you know me."

  He looked down at her, lifted a brow skeptically, and waited.

  She tilted her head to study him. "Pride," she said. "Strength. And secrets—indeed, many of those."

  He straightened away from the stone. "Most men have pride, strength, and secrets. And many women too—yourself included."

  "I do not keep nearly the secrets you do," she said. "I have scarcely any."

  "More than you will admit," he murmured.

  She frowned. "I know that you protect others. It is your task in life. But I think you protect yourself too, very carefully." She rested a hand on his arm, which he had folded, with the other, over his chest. "Here, you hide your heart," she said.

  She reached up and touched his jaw, which he had set tight. "Here is the pride, and the effort to keep secrets," she said. Her fingers, feather light, traced up the left side of his face. "And here are the secrets themselves." She touched her fingertip to the scar that seamed the corner of his brow.

  Her touch was melting gentle. He leaned away, though his body tightened, his heart pounded. She lowered her hand and the link was gone, like a bird flown.

  "Pride, and loneliness, too," she said. "You are a solitary soul, the kind that seeks its home."

  He narrowed his eyes in the darkness, and was silent.

  She glanced at the pillar. "I am weary, and I a stranger," she murmured in Gaelic. "Lead me to the land of angels."

  "What was that?" he asked, intrigued and puzzled.

  "A charm, an invocation for aid. An ancient Gaelic prayer," she explained.

  I am weary, and I a stranger, Lead me to the land of angels. Be my eyes in time of darkness, Be my shield against hosts of faery, Be my wings till I find my home.

  "That is beautiful," he said, stunned by her poignant words.

  "We have many such charms and prayers. I often come here to say them to this stone and ask for protection from the soul who was the maiden. We revere her as a kind of local saint here."

  He nodded. "There is a place in Brittany, near the monastery where I was raised, where seven stones are thought to house the spirits of seven brothers who all became saints."

  She tilted her head. "You were raised in a monastery?"

  "Until I was eleven, when I was taken to England and became a page, and eventually a knight. You sound surprised."

  "I thought you became a knight as the son of some fine French lord. You must be the youngest, then. How is it that you are not a religious, if your parents gave you to the church?"

  "I was a foundling," he said, more abruptly than he meant to do. "The monks took me in."

  "You do not know your parents?"

  He shrugged. "I learned something about them eventually, But I sought my own way early in the world."

  "Ah, that is what I saw in your eyes," she said softly.

  "What?" he asked warily.

  "You have the look of a wandering soul," she said. "A soul seeking a home."

  He watched her silently, too proud to turn his gaze from hers or to speak in his defense. To do either would be to admit that she was right, that his soul yearned desperately. But that part of him was core, and precious, and could not be shared. To admit that would be to show a weakness, a wound. No one had ever seen into him so deeply, so easily.

  He inclined his head. "I think," he drawled, "that I have been reprimanded for my bold claim to know the lady."

  " You were honest with me, and I with you. We may be alike in some ways, I think."

  "In pride only. But if we understand that in each other, we can declare peace between us."

  "We might understand each other better than most strangers," she said. "But we are still strangers."

  "Not for long, by order of the king."

  She opened her mouth to reply, then suddenly turned and walked toward the path that rounded the loch and led back to Kinlochan. The dog bounded along ahead of her.

  Sebastien watched them go, while darkness deepened around him. He glanced up at the stone's silhouette, and traced his fingertips along the lines carved in the cold, smooth surface.

  "'I am weary, and I a stranger,'" he mused. "'Lead me to the land of angels.'" The words haunted him as he turned and walked back to the fortress.

  Kinlochan's gate stood open. Donal rumbled a greeting when Sebastien strode through and gave him a courteous nod. Ahead, Alainna and the dog crossed the bailey together, her stride purposeful.

  He debated whether he should follow her once again.

  She went toward one of the small wooden buildings that nestled against the inner protecting wall. After she entered and closed the door, Sebastien saw candlelight flare and outline the rim of the small, shuttered window.

  "Let her go," a voice said. He turned, and looked down to see Alainna's great-aunt Una standing beside him. He had not heard her approach. "She needs to work out her sadness and confusion. She can do that in there."

  "What place is that? A chapel?" He spoke in Gaelic, as she had.

  "Her workshop," Una said.

  Sebastien frowned uncertainly. No woman he knew had a workshop, unless it was a bakehouse or a brewhouse, or a place where cloth and garments were made.

  "She will lose some of her anguish in her work," Una murmured. She glanced up at him. "Sebastien Ban—I call you that for your fair hair," she added, "you are a golden hero to all of us for saving our girl from the boar, but you have a dark side too. You bear a message that has brought our girl sorrow."

  "A message from the king," he said.

  "Alainna looks as if a candle flame has been blown out in her heart. And yours was the breath that did it, I think."

  Sebastien sighed. "I did not upset the lady by choice. The king's message was not to her liking."

  "Did our king give you these lands, and Alainna to wed?"

  "He did," he answered.

  "Ah." She nodded over and over, and Sebastien realized that he watched a tremor in her small, white-haired head. Finally she looked up at him. "I hoped you were sent here as a champion, and I think you will answer our prayers. But I want you to make a promise to me."

  "Whatever you wish, Dame Una," he said, smiling kindly.

  "Do not break our girl's heart."

  "Upon my honor, I will not," he murmured.

  She watched him. "Honor is a tender thing, Sebastien Ban," she said, and turned away.

  Chapter 9

  The bailey was quiet in the silvered dawn as Sebastien crossed the yard. He glanced up, and saw Alainna leaning in the doorway of a long, thatched-roof building tucked against the palisade wall, Finan at her side. He saw that it was the same building she had entered on the previous night.

  She was lovely in the dawn, her skin pale, her braids red-gold ropes, her tunic plain dove gray. He wondered why she was up and about before the day had even bloomed.

  "God's goodness to you," she murmured in Gaelic.

  "And his blessings to you," he replied politely as he came near. Finan wagged his tail and lifted his head until Sebastien leaned down to caress his tufted brow and bearded muzzle.

  "It is early," Alainna said. "The others are still abed."

  He shrugged. "I am often up early. I like this part of the day. I thought to walk out to look at your Stone Maiden again. It is peaceful there." He spoke in English, and she nodded.

  "Peaceful it is, unless MacNechtans are about
."

  "I can protect myself."

  "Surely you do not intend to go out on patrol so early, and alone."

  "Not yet. I have long kept the habit of practicing sword skills early in the day. I think I may do that this morning. Later your foster brother has agreed to ride out with me and some of my men to look at the property." He ruffled the dog's head and shoulders. Finan rumbled his pleasure. Sebastien glanced at Alainna. "You are awake early, too," he remarked.

  "I often begin my work before the others are about."

  He looked at her curiously. "Your work?"

  "My stonework."

  He blinked in surprise. "Stone?" He thought she would answer baking or cooking, for her hands and clothing were dusted with a pale powder that he had assumed was milled grain.

  "Stonecarving. This was my cousin Malcolm's workshop. 'Tis mine now."

  Intrigued, he peered past her shoulder. "May I see?"

  She stepped back. He ducked his head to clear the lintel post and entered. The room was long, low-ceilinged, and cluttered, crowded with benches and stones. A square window in the front wall provided some light, but was partly shuttered against the chill. An iron brazier at the center of the room created a circle of heat. Sebastien saw the cool vapor of his breath in the dimness as Alainna closed the door.

  A thick layer of stone chips covered the floor, crunching beneath his boots as he stepped forward. Benches held stones of various sizes and colors, and wall shelves were filled with tools, candles, and other items. A long table against one wall supported several flat, carved stones. The air seemed permeated with the vaguely earthy smell of stone, and a sense of coolness.

  He noticed that the whitewashed walls were covered with drawings, some on cloths tacked up with nails, some drawn directly on the walls. In a far corner, a large slab of pinkish stone rested like a thick tabletop on stout trestles.

  Finan padded toward the brazier and lay down on a thick pallet there, resting his great head on his crossed paws. He watched the humans languidly before drifting back to sleep.