by Cathy MacRae
“Where did ye hear about lions, Bram?” Caelen wanted to know.
“Bela,” Bram stated succinctly, as if Caelen should have known. And he should have. “She even drew one on the hearthstone for me.”
Alex nodded. “Aye. I had forgotten ye showed me the drawing earlier.”
“And she told me how the lion got its mane. It dinnae always have one, but one day….”
Bram’s chatter continued as he regaled them with Arbela’s story and Caelen wondered again what he had agreed to.
* * *
Alex surveyed the castle from his position atop the western tower, observing the crumbling weaknesses in the outer wall, victim of the ages. Fields to the north were only half-plowed, though he could see the rounded backs of men and women doing their best to get seeds in the ground. A lone fishing boat bobbed on the surface of the loch, lines stretching into the water from the vessel, giving it the appearance of a large water bug, legs spread to balance it atop the gentle waves.
He had a good idea of what was required to repair the structure, and of the men needed for plowing, planting, fishing and hunting. The scourge had been unkind to MacKern’s people, and without help, the clan would likely founder—soon.
His thoughts ranged over the home his sister would soon inhabit. The size of Dunfaileas did not bother him, nor did he imagine it would concern Arbela. Indeed, it was closer to their home in Batroun than the enormous MacLean castle at Morven where they now lived. But its ancient bones were apparent in the ten-foot-thick walls, slender windows—when there were any at all—and lack of even the basic comforts they had been raised with.
Food was lean, though he’d see to it enough staples were sent with Arbela to greatly bolster their pantry. And his sister already knew to bring spices for cooking if she wanted familiar flavors at the table.
He wrinkled his nose, recalling the pall of the privy that hung over the castle. That was something he could set men to repairing before his sister arrived. Perhaps he would insist on fresh reeds and herbs on the stone floors before he and Kade quitted themselves of Dunfaileas on the morrow. And insist on a thorough cleaning before their new lady arrived. Of a certainty, the wedding would be held at MacLean Castle. Dunfaileas would not support a large gathering in its present condition.
Alex stepped to the edge of the tower walk. ’Twas obvious where the laird’s heart lay. Of all the outbuildings either within or without the castle wall, the stable alone had been kept in satisfactory condition. Soiled hay, piled to one side, readied to be carted to an area close to the fields where it would rot and enrich the soil. Fresh straw in each stall kept the horses’s hooves clean and free from disease. And, though sparse, the oats were of excellent quality.
’Twas clear Caelen MacKern cared for his horses. His people greeted him warmly and without reservation. His attitude toward his men was open and jesting. Only with his son did he seem reserved. He treated him with distant care, perhaps afraid others would claim partiality should he favor his child over another. Perhaps afraid to form too close an attachment to one so young.
“Are ye ready to present Laird MacLean with yer report?” Kade settled next to Alex, arms braced on the stone wall.
“There are many needs here,” Alex said. “Protection must be our first priority, for without it, all else is for naught. But I shudder to think of my sister living here. Eager to please, the MacKerns may be, but none appear to be miracle workers.”
“Och, the place has potential,” Kade assured him. “’Tis a bit old and neglected, but Arbela will have the place running efficiently in no time.”
“Whilst she makes wedding preparations, I will have Da send carpets, incense, and oil lamps. Silks to line the bed hangings—which we will also replace. Arbela may survive quite well mired in dirt and sweat—and ye and I have both seen it—but I will have her live here in at least modest luxury.”
“What do ye think of the laird? Arbela’s soon-to-be husband.”
Alex swiveled on his heel, placing his back against the wall. “Laird MacKern is a fair man. That said, I will add he is stubborn. I have done what I could to make my suggestions without running afoul of his notion of what is good or even good enough. He either does not care or mayhap does not understand he is taking a princess to wife, even if she is half-Scots. Arbela will not demand special treatment, but she will condone nothing less than fairness, and I am not certain the two of them will always agree what that is.”
Kade gave a light laugh. “The Bull of the Highlands doesnae know what our Desert Flower is capable of. He will soon find out.”
“I warned him once of his fate should he cause my sister distress. I do not wish to restate myself and possibly cause a breach between them before they are even wed.”
“I dinnae believe him to be so dull-witted as to mistake yer meaning,” Kade noted. “Ye have never been one to mince words. As twins, ye and yer sister are much alike.”
Shadows lengthened on the hillside and a tendril of smoke drifted upward. Alex peered at the dark column. Something wasn’t quite right—
“Alex!”
Alex spun about, leaning over the wall to view the yard below. Caelen raced to the stable, Rory and two others on his heels. Stable lads drew horses outside, tacked and ready to be ridden, heads flung high in protest of the melee.
Without a word, Alex and Kade sprinted down the stairs, reaching the yard as Caelen and his men mounted up.
“MacGillonay raids a croft not far from here,” Caelen snarled. “Will ye ride with us?”
Alex and Kade exchanged glances. The smoke.
“Aye.” Alex nodded, intercepting his horse from the stable lad as he led the pair into the yard. He and Kade leapt aboard their mounts and wheeled them about, following Caelen’s charge from the keep. The heavy gate swung closed behind them, jarring an unpleasant thought from Alex’s mind.
Could this be a diversion?
He cast a look at Kade who needed no words to understand the worried expression on Alex’s face. They reined their horses to a halt.
“I will return and keep the men on high alert,” Kade said.
“I will help the laird,” Alex replied.
With no other words necessary, they parted, hooves kicking up dust as their horses strained at their bits. Alex drew even with Caelen. Laird MacKern’s face was dark, his jaw set. His woolen cloak flapped across his shoulders as he crouched over his horse’s withers.
“Hold up.” Alex raised his voice to gain Caelen’s attention. Caelen shot him a furious look. After a moment, he pulled to a stop, his horse snorting as he champed the bit.
“Tell me what we are going in to.”
“MacGillonay attacked an outlying croft,” Caelen snarled, his anger at being held from pursuing the raiders clear.
“I saw smoke,” Alex confirmed. “Will he have a large force?” With a quick glance, he tallied their men. Eight.
“A young man, half-dead, brought the tale. He counted no more than twenty.”
Thirty. In Alex’s experience, there were always more than a frightened boy knew. “The odds are against us.”
“Ye waste my time. Do ye suggest we turn back?” Caelen sneered. “Do ye fear Highlanders more than Saracens?”
Alex laughed. “I suggest we split our group and approach from two sides. Charging straight into the enemy camp wastes men and I have no desire to find myself wishing I’d been more cautious.”
Caelen betrayed his roiling fury by yanking on his horse’s reins. The red horse spun about, crouched low on his haunches. Nodding to his men, Caelen sent three men with Alex, taking Rory and two others with himself.
With a salute, Alex and Caelen parted, thundering toward the source of the smoke, haste leaving them no room for stealth.
Undergrowth grew dense as Alex and his party left the widened trail and burrowed deep into the forest. Alex waved the men close, slowing his horse to a sweeping walk.
“Someone must lead. I do not know the way. Bring us to the outskirt
s of the croft, but not a blind rush inside.”
Keeping their pace slow enough to accommodate the heavy underbrush, hooves muffled on the soft earth, carpeted thickly with damp moss and dead leaves, they approached the raided croft.
Shouts and the clang of steel rang out, alerting them to the conflict. In accord, Alex and his men swerved to meet the threat. Within moments, they entered a small clearing, Caelen’s force rousting a group of at least twice as many men from their villainy. A line of men on horseback approached from Alex’s right, swords out, aiming for Caelen’s soldiers.
With a raised hand, Alex held his men back until the riders passed them, then closed in from behind, trapping them neatly and killing the men at the rear of the column before those in the lead knew there was an enemy behind them.
The battle was over minutes later, bodies littering the forest floor. The MacKern men fought well, killing more than twenty soldiers. Caelen’s force suffered one man dead and another who would need care as soon as they returned to Dunfaileas. Alex’s men were unscathed beyond a few minor cuts and likely a few bruises as well.
“We wouldnae have returned to Dunfaileas,” Caelen admitted as Alex rode up. “Ye were right to flank the bastards.”
Alex simply nodded. “It would behoove ye to remember, if MacGillonay—or any other—attacks Dunfaileas, to do as my sister advises ye. She is much better at strategy than I.”
Caelen wiped his forehead and sent Alex a disbelieving look. Alex canted his head. “Do not dismiss her opinions.”
“Laird!” Rory rode up, a lass of perhaps eight summers in his arms. “She was wrapped in a plaide and tied to one of the bastard’s horses. She is too frightened to speak, and I dinnae know how badly she is injured.” His eyes flashed. “MacGillonay will pay for this!”
Caelen and Rory exchanged looks. Sending one of his men to scout the holding, Caelen dismounted. He strode among the fallen men. He nudged one with a boot and the man gasped.
“Where is yer master?” Caelen asked. Alex edged his horse closer. The injured man glared at Caelen.
Alex lifted a small leather bag from a strap over the man’s chest with the tip of his sword. Flipping it into his hand, he emptied the contents with a flourish. Four coins, dull with age, fell into his palm.
“Ye did not get this from the croft ye fired. Who paid ye?”
The dying man spat feebly in Caelen’s direction. Caelen nudged the man again and he groaned, turning his head to the side.
“Speak,” Caelen commanded. “Was it MacGillonay?”
For a moment, the man neither moved nor spoke and Alex wondered if he had passed. With a sudden inhale of breath, the man nodded. Caelen stepped away.
A shout alerted them as the scout returned.
“I spotted MacGillonay on his gray horse on the ridge, heading north. I counted eight, mayhap ten riders with him.”
Caelen mounted his horse and called Alex to follow with a jerk of his head. Smoke drifted through the trees as they approached the croft. A cottage, its thatched roof blackened from the attempt to fire it, sat in the middle of another, larger clearing. A short distance away lay the carcass of a cow, its long-haired hide a dull red hump on the churned ground. Disheveled piles of clothing lay on the ground. Closer inspection revealed a man, woman, and young lad perhaps a year or two younger than the lass they’d rescued.
Alex’s stomach churned.
“See the work of MacGillonay,” Caelen growled.
Alex’s jaw tightened. The feud between MacKern and MacGillonay was real. And his sister was about to wed the MacKern laird. This day, their feud became personal.
Chapter 14
Arbela kicked the small, leather-bound ball across the floor of her bedroom and Toros bounded after it gleefully. He pounced on the toy and snatched it up, working his jaw muscles as he chomped on the firm yet somewhat spongy surface. Losing interest in their game, Arbela faced her aunt.
“Ye heard what Agnes had to say,” she blurted. “Beltane is naught but a pagan ceremony to welcome summer. I still think there are better days on which to perform a Christian wedding.”
Zora sighed and rose to her feet, graceful despite her age and the swollen joints the cold, damp weather had exacerbated. “Ye concern yourself overmuch with these things, Arbela. There are rituals and feasts the world over to celebrate and mark the seasons of the year.” She strolled to the hearth and sank onto the cushion placed there. Closing her eyes, she lingered near the warmth of the fire.
“I agree people often set their planting and such to these ceremonies,” Arbela pursued the subject. “I simply do not agree a Christian wedding should have pagan rituals attached to it.”
“What is it ye find objectionable to Beltane—aside from its origins?”
Arbela became thoughtful. “There is the belief that passing through fire—or in most cases, between two bonfires—protects against evil.”
“Fire has always been deemed to have purifying powers. Even John the Baptizer spoke of our Lord as one who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire.”
Arbela abandoned that argument, knowing her aunt’s knowledge of the Holy Bible far exceeded hers. “Aunt Zora, am I creating too much of a mountain of this?”
Zora opened her eyes, fine lines marking the years on either side of her tilted brows. “My daughter—and yes, that is how I think of ye—these are the things men fight over. Whose religion is better, what can and cannot be done. I find women to be much more practical. Does it truly matter so much what names we utter if our children are not fed? If ye notice, God puts up with the nonsense of men, and gives His rewards in plentiful crops and strong children—which are both under the care of women.”
Arbela sank into the chair next to her aunt.
“Have ye thought much on the symbolism behind the rituals we follow in wedding ceremonies?” Zora asked.
Arbela shook her head.
“In Armenia, attendants stand behind the bride and groom, bearing candles or torches. Do ye know why?”
A grin bloomed on Arbela’s face. “To keep either from backing out of the ceremony?” she ventured.
Zora smiled. “Nae. ’Tis to ward off evil. Even in our enlightened age, this is still done. The veil placed over the couple has the same symbolic virtue. The belief is that it will keep evil eyes from viewing the bride and groom whilst the priest gives his blessing.”
“It seems all religions seek to keep their people from evil, no matter the ritual performed.”
“That is truth, my child. I do not believe one should offer blood sacrifices, but wearing a veil or a symbolic use of fire does no harm.”
“And I am aware many marriages are simple exchanges of intent, neither said before witnesses nor accompanied by a ceremony.”
“Most weddings do not include a priest,” Zora agreed. “Indeed, the church has little to do with the marriage vows unless a priest is present and blesses the couple. For a young woman of your station, marriage is more a business transaction than a Christian sacrament.”
Arbela frowned. “Aye. MacKern stands to gain much from this marriage.”
“Ye will as well, Arbela,” Zora chided gently. “Ye will have a home, your own family. Caelen MacKern is a man well-liked here, and he has a strong, commanding presence. He is very pleasing to look upon, with a firm body and well-cut features to draw a young girl’s eye. Ye could do far worse.”
“I am grateful he is in good standing with those who know him,” Arbela replied, carefully skirting Zora’s remark of Caelen’s physical attributes. “It puzzles me that he is so aloof with his son.”
Zora gave a delicate shrug. “It could be he does not wish to attach himself to the child as young as he is. Many children do not grow to adulthood. Or, mayhap he only acts as his father did, and does not know how to behave differently.”
“But he brought Bram here to ensure MacGillonay did not kidnap the child whilst he was away. That would suggest he cares for him.”
“It would. As ye will so
on have the boy’s care, what difference does it make? In a couple of years, Bram’s training will be in others’ hands, as I believe fostering is common here.”
Disappointment flooded Arbela’s chest. “I will miss him,” she murmured.
“There will be other children,” Zora reassured her.
Arbela sent her a startled look. “I am not certain—” There was no way to broach the subject of her and Caelen’s intent to lead separate lives. She knew her aunt would never approve of such an agreement, and she did not wish to enter an argument.
Zora’s eyes twinkled. “Ye do know the symbolism of the orange blossom?”
Arbela shook her head again. “They are beautiful and smell wonderful. Though I scarcely believe they could grow in Scotland, as cold as it is.”
“They are one of the few plants that both blossoms and produces fruit on its branches at the same time. Therefore, when a bride weaves her bridal crown of fragrant orange blossoms, it is said to confer fruitfulness on the union.”
“I am afraid, no matter the rituals performed or the symbols invoked, orange blossoms will have no effect on this marriage.”
“Do not fear,” Zora soothed. “My own barrenness should not concern ye. There is no reason ye should not find yourself with child before many months have passed. Do not forget twins are common in our family.”
She leaned forward and patted Arbela’s hand.
“Twins!”
* * *
Bram stared at the small leather-bound box then lifted his incredulous gaze to Arbela. “This is for me?”
His voice squeaked slightly and a lump rose in Arbela’s throat. “Aye. ’Tis a gift, though I hope ye will share.” The laird’s solar was silent, anticipating the lad’s reaction. Zora had deemed it fit for Arbela to greet Bram—and his father—in private before the wedding, and Arbela was grateful to not have a crowd surround her as Bram opened his gift.
Bram nodded as he fumbled with the silver clasp holding the two halves of the box closed. Freeing the latch, he opened the box, revealing a flat surface of alternating black and red inlaid wooden squares arrayed in a checkered pattern.
