Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  She opened her eyes and found him gazing at her. And she knew that he understood the story of Aenghus and Caer as she did.

  The choice was his, and the power was his, to stay or to go.

  * * *

  The hour was late, and the mist was thick and cold. Alainna was glad that Giric was there to row her and Esa out to the island after everyone else had gone to sleep.

  Ruari waited for them on the shore, a tall, silent figure in the mist and the moonlight, his hair silvered. The boat touched the pebbled beach, and Giric stood, stepping out to pull the boat firmly ashore. He turned back, holding out his hand.

  Esa rose from the boat and stepped out, gliding past Giric. Alainna watched from her seat.

  Slim and graceful, Esa stood before the man on the beach. Ruari held out his hand. She took it in hers and lifted it to her face, looking up at him with wonder that was pure and clear in the moonlight. She kissed his hand.

  She touched his cheek, his hair, his chest. He slipped his hand over her head and said something. Then she laughed, a sound like a silver chime, and threw her arms around him.

  Alainna looked away, her eyes glazed with tears.

  Giric sat down beside Alainna, and took up the oar. "I will return," he said, "before dawn, to fetch her to back to Kinlochan again. And every night, I will row her out here to him, so long as Ruari wishes to hide here." His voice sounded thick.

  Alainna nodded, unable to answer for the tightness in her own throat. She dashed tears away and pulled her plaid closer about her head as the boat floated with the current of the loch.

  The love that Ruari and Esa shared was deep and strong. She hungered for such passion in her life. Now she knew that she felt that for Sebastien, and she was sure that he felt something genuine for her.

  What was there could grow and deepen, could last forever. But pride and honor separated them, and she did not know if that barrier could ever be breached.

  She looked over her shoulder one last time. Ruari and Esa had vanished together into their private, misted world.

  Chapter 19

  Snowflakes spiraled down in lazy paths as Sebastien walked through the bailey. He glanced up, wondering if the snow would grow heavy, for the wind had a bitter edge. He ducked his head against the cold, wishing he had not left his cloak in the hall as he crossed the yard toward Alainna's workshop.

  In the few days since they had fetched Esa, he had glimpsed Alainna here and there as she walked toward the kitchen, or carried a bucket of water from the well, or exited the hall as he entered. He had exchanged only brief greetings with her, and she had not attended supper or storytelling. Una had told him, when he had asked, that she was busy with her stonecarvings.

  In the evenings, the hall seemed cold and dim without her there. Even Lome's tales sounded flat without Alainna's soft voice echoing translations. He and Giric had translated, neither of their efforts as lyrical as hers. For Sebastien she was the warm, bright heart of Kinlochan.

  After his weapon practice that morning, he had returned determined to seek her out to discuss Kinlochan and its tenants, although in truth, he simply wanted to see her. They were to be handfasted in another day, on Christmas Eve, and he found himself thinking about that often.

  Another reason he wanted seek her out was to clarify certain issues and questions before he could finally approach Cormac MacNechtan with the king's orders. He wanted to ride to Turroch soon, certainly before the new year.

  Sebastien brushed snow from the sleeves of his dark tunic, the flakes so large and white that their patterns stood out against the wool. Long strides took him through the middle of the yard. Hearing his name called, he looked around.

  Una stood in the doorway of the kitchen, beckoning to him. He changed his direction and strode toward her.

  "Come in, Sebastien Ban," she said. She tugged at his sleeve to urge him inside. "I want to speak with you. The snow is light, eh?"

  "I wonder if it will thicken," Sebastien answered in Gaelic.

  "It may." She walked to the wide hearth constructed of fieldstone and set against the back wall. Several oatcakes were baking on a large iron griddle just over the fire. She used a wooden spatula to turn a few of the cakes.

  "I always watch the weather omens," she said as she worked. "Birds, shadows, wind, clouds all tell me what to expect. That, and my husband's aching bones."

  "What did you want to tell me, Dame Una?" Sebastien asked. He inhaled the aromas of baking oatcakes and something savory that bubbled in a kettle over the fire. The kitchen was fragrant and dimly lit. Long and low-ceilinged, it was the only building in the fortress constructed of stone and roofed in slate to discourage fires. A thick oak table, knife-scarred and scrubbed clean, filled the central space. Herbs and onions hung in bunches from the ceiling; baskets of apples and carrots and sacks of grain lined one wall.

  "I want to give you a gift," Una said. She slid the steaming oatcakes off the griddle to cool on the table surface. "A kitchen is not a place for a warrior, I know, but I thought you might be hungry. I saw you outside at the pillar not so long ago, like a fine warrior protecting our Maiden." She grinned, her delicate head trembling a little.

  He chuckled. "I practice at swords in the mornings. Though I would gladly protect your Stone Maiden if she were real."

  "She is," Una said matter-of-factly.

  "You mean Alainna."

  "Both of them. Here you, eat. These are made with honey and salt. Sweet and good. You need it."

  Sebastien took one obediently and bit into it. The cake was thick, hot, and delicious. He swallowed, and accepted the cup of fresh, cool ale that Una handed him.

  "How is the Stone Maiden real?" he asked.

  "She is caught inside the pillar stone," Una said. "She waits there, watching over us. She is under a spell of magic cast by the faeries, but she will be free soon."

  "Ah, the faery spell. Alainna told me."

  "I want to thank you for going out each morning to protect our Stone Maiden," Una went on. "Her strength may be waning now, as the seven hundred years draw to a close. She is grateful that you guard her." She smiled. "Here, Sebastien Ban, I want you to have this." She held up a folded plaid of a rich dark green, threaded with yarns of black and red.

  "This is a fine gift," he said. "I cannot—"

  "Tcha, you can," she answered, draping it in a swath over his left shoulder. "You have done much for us. And I am thinking you are cold in Norman cloth. This is good Highland wool, woven by our own Esa, from yarns that the women of Kinlochan have prepared from Kinlochan sheep. Such a garment will keep you as warm as if you sat at our hearth, eh?" She patted his chest and smiled at him.

  Sebastien felt his heart wrench beneath her small mothering hand. "It will," he agreed, smiling fondly at her. "It is a good garment indeed, and a good gift."

  "May it bring you joy and blessings, and may it keep you safe." She paused, her lips trembling. She handed him a long iron pin, twisted decoratively at one end, to fasten the plaid. "Wear it in the manner of a Highland man. You look fine in the breacan." She gave him a quick and impish smile.

  "But I am not a Highland man."

  "You are, in your heart, if you but allow yourself to be," she said cryptically. She pushed him toward the door. "Go, you, and find Alainna. She is working this morning."

  "Working again?" He had not meant to say that.

  "She does her carving every day, every night, even on the Sabbath. Go talk to her," she urged. "Tell her she works too hard and does not rest enough. Tell her you want to see her in the hall laughing and sharing stories with the rest of us."

  He smiled ruefully. "I doubt she will listen to me."

  "Ach, she will. After all, you were sent here to protect the Maiden."

  "The Stone Maiden, or the Maiden of Kinlochan?" he asked as he opened the door.

  "Both," Una said, and pushed him outside.

  Sebastien smiled to himself as he crossed the bailey, and paused to adjust the dark green plaid around his
shoulders like a cloak. He folded its long length, draped it over his shoulders, and wrapped the excess across the front, using the iron pin to fasten it closed. The thick wool blocked the wind admirably as he resumed his walk through the falling snow.

  "Now that," a man said, "is not the way to wear a plaid."

  He swiveled to see Lome coming toward him. The old man's long hair seemed whiter than the snow itself, his beard a pale dusting on his gaunt cheeks, his eyes piercing blue. He carried a long sword in his hand, and Sebastien looked at it, puzzled, knowing the bard was not a warrior.

  "Do I need to show you how to put on the breacan again?" Lome asked.

  Sebastien shook his head, smiling. "I remember," he said. "Una gave me this length of plaid just now," he explained. "I am honored by her gift. But I am not certain that I should wear the plaid in the Highland manner, being Breton by birth."

  Lome smiled. "That plaid belonged to our son."

  Sebastien stared in astonishment. "Morag's husband? I did not know—"

  "No matter. Wear it with courage and grace, as he did. It is no good to him now, and it is no good to hide it in a chest wrapped in bog myrtle to keep out the pests. Una is right to give it to you."

  "You should give it to a Highlander."

  "We have many plaids to share in this clan. We have so many, Sebastien Ban, because we lost many men. The women have chests full of things stored away. You wear it, and may it bring you good fortune." Lome clapped a hand on Sebastien's shoulder.

  "I am grateful to you."

  Lome held the shining sword upright by the hilt. "And I was coming to find you today, to give you this." He offered it to him. "Take it. It is what we call a claidheamh mor, a great sword. A Highland sword."

  Sebastien took it in two hands. "I have heard of these claymores, and I have seen them used," he said, looking at the long, heavy blade, the two-handed grip swathed in leather, the brasswork on the hilt. "This is a very fine weapon. I cannot accept such a—"

  "We want you to have it," Lome said brusquely. "My kinsmen and I. Lulach and Niall, Donal and Aenghus, we all talked about this. We have seen you at your swording nearly every morning, out there beside our Stone Maiden. You have excellent skills and great strength. You need one of these."

  Sebastien hefted it experimentally. The claymore was far longer and heavier than his own blade, but beautifully balanced by the weight of the longer hilt and the downward-sloped guard. "I have used two-handed broadswords before, but this is even longer than those. It is taller than some men I know."

  Lome grinned. "You can use this well, for you are a tall man yourself." He reached out to take the hilt again, placing the sword tip against the ground. "The pommel should come just below your chin. Ah, a good fit." He handed it back to Sebastien.

  "It will be a challenge to wield this, for it is much longer and larger than the blade I am accustomed to using," Sebastien said, as he admired its strong, simple design.

  "You will practice, and you will master it. We will show you how—or my kinsmen will. For myself, I do not wield weapons of war, only for hunting. It is not seemly for a clan bard. But that is a good weapon, and it will keep you safe. It will help you to defend Kinlochan—and our Maiden."

  Sebastien held it horizontally and smoothed his fingers along the fuller, the indented channel that gleamed along the length of the sword. "I am very grateful indeed. You are kind to share this, and the plaid, with me."

  "These belonged to a strong warrior once, and now they do again." Lome's voice thickened.

  "Your son?" Sebastien asked quietly.

  He nodded. "A thing is the bigger for being shared, they say. If the leaves of the forest were gold, and the foam of the sea all silver, the great hero Fionn MacCumhaill would have given it all away—so who are we to withhold what we have?" Lorne smiled. "You were sent here to protect this clan, and you bring us help and hope. We wish to thank you for it."

  Sebastien glanced away, uncertain how to respond to the faith this clan had placed in him. "I value these gifts, Lorne MacLaren, and I will try to do them justice," he replied. "Though I am a Norman knight and not a Celtic warrior."

  "Be what your nature tells you to be," Lorne said easily. "Either way, you are welcome here."

  Sebastien's throat tightened. "I would like to give you something as well, to mark the Christmastide and new year," he said.

  "Ach, you will give us more than you can know when you wed our Alainna, when you defeat Clan Nechtan, when you father sons for Clan Laren and become our clan's leader." Lorne smiled.

  Sebastien stared at him. "Lorne," he said. "I have not decided to settle here at Kinlochan. You know that."

  The old man continued to smile, and Sebastien saw a deep gleam of wisdom in the pale blue eyes. "You will decide to do what is most honorable."

  "Honor is a tender thing," Sebastien murmured, remembering what Una had told him once.

  "It is," Lorne agreed. "We are thinking that you will bring good changes to Kinlochan, and many benefits for our clan."

  " Alainna does not want anything to change here," Sebastien said wryly. "But change comes in spite of what she has wanted for the clan."

  " Ah, that one feels it is her duty to protect our traditions. She was raised with war and danger all around her. And her father, on his deathbed, asked her to preserve the clan, our legacy, our lives, our future. She made a vow to him. Young she was for such a vow, but she has the strength to carry it through."

  Sebastien nodded. "I know she does. And I understand now—any harm to the clan is a failure for her as a leader, and as a daughter. But she is not responsible for whatever fate befalls her clan."

  "I have told her that, but she is stubborn, that one. You tell her, Sebastien Ban." His gaze was direct and clear. "You can show her that change is not failure. She must learn that what is new, when it replaces the old, is not always undesirable."

  "She wants no Norman influence to affect Kinlochan. I cannot even convince her that her tenants must gather grasses to make fodder for the horses and cattle next winter. Alainna sees it as a Norman custom. But it is simple common sense."

  "Then make it a Highland custom." Lome grinned. "A Kinlochan custom."

  Sebastien smiled ruefully. They crossed the width of the bailey in companionable silence, with the wind whispering around them and the snow pale and delicate on their shoulders. Sebastien went to the door of Alainna's workshop and raised a hand to knock.

  "Stop," Lome said, holding up a palm. "Wait. We will not interrupt her just now."

  Above the wind, Sebastien heard Alainna's voice in song, drifting through the half open window in a haunting melody.

  Alas for those who are gone,

  Brave men,

  Fair women.

  Alas for those who are gone,

  Strong men,

  Kind women.

  Through the window, Sebastien could see Alainna bent over her stone, her back and arms moving in steady rhythm with the cadence of her song. She was lost in the weaving of work and melody. She did not realize that they watched. Sebastien looked at Lome, and saw that the old man's eyes had misted.

  Her voice softened and continued.

  Peace there be, joy there be

  Courage there be, kindness there be

  Safe we are in the stream of life

  Shield us and bring us home.

  Her song faded. Sebastien heard the faint, steady scrape of iron upon stone. He blinked at the moisture in his eyes. "Why does she sing?" he asked Lome.

  "Women sing as they weave, shepherds sing, boatmen sing., mothers sing, lovers sing," Lome said. "We are a race of poets and singers as well as warriors. This is a special chant, not to be disturbed until it is done. We could go in and listen, but not this time."

  Her song began again, the same phrases, soft and low.

  "She is singing back the soul," Lome said then.

  A chill went through Sebastien. "Whose? Her father's?"

  "The soul of our clan," Lome said. />
  He nodded thoughtfully, listening to the gentle cadence of her voice. He remembered what Alainna had told him when they stood together beside the Stone Maiden. No doubt she felt the pressure of the short span of time that remained until the faery spell of protection was gone.

  "She sings back the soul of her clan, drawing it home as it begins to depart. She wants to summon it back before our clan vanishes into the mists of time. It is a kind of magic she does, very old." He smiled.

  "Can that be done?" Sebastien asked.

  "Think of her song as a prayer," Lome said. "An appeal. What she does in there is as sacred as if she knelt in a church. She is asking God for help. She is pleading for her clan."

  Sebastien nodded wordlessly and looked down at the slate doorstep, dusted with snow, at his feet.

  "You," Lome murmured, "are part of God's answer to her, I think." He patted Sebastien on the shoulder and left.

  Sebastien stood by the door for a long moment, wishing he could go inside, wanting to talk to Alainna, to be with her.

  He had so many questions now, some for king and crown, some for himself alone. Her song ended, and he lifted his hand to knock.

  But he could not bring himself to disturb her. What she did seemed too precious to interrupt. He stood there, wrapped in a Highland plaid and a Norman tunic, and felt like an intruder.

  He was an outsider here. The manner in which he wore a length of plaid would not change that. Neither would the weight of the great claymore in his hand.

  He could listen to their stories, speak their tongue, drink their water of life, hunt in their hills; he could build a stone fortress to overlook their loch, and become a lord among them. He could marry their beautiful chief. He could stay here forever, and raise his children here, if he chose to do so.

  But he wondered if he could ever truly share in the loyalty and caring, in the history and the sense of kinship that existed at Kinlochan.

  He flattened his palm against the door. The longing he had felt since childhood welled fresh and painful in him. He stood on the threshold of all he had ever wanted: home, heritage, love, and welcome. Yet he was not part of this. The fine life he had always imagined for himself lay elsewhere, across a wide sea.