Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (32 page)

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.

He closed his eyes and knew that he would do his utmost to protect these people, to preserve their lives and their way of life. He could not let them falter.

Alainna began her song again. Sebastien bowed his head and stepped back from the door. Her voice drifted out, as pure and beautiful as the snowflakes that swirled around him as he walked away.

Chapter 20

"Ach Morag dear, did you scrub the stone dust from her hair?" Una said. She turned away from the glowing brazier with a length of warmed linen toweling draped in her hands. "Did you use that lavender soap, the fine soft stuff from the summer market, that came from France?"

"I did, and I did," Morag said efficiently, and dumped a bucket of warm water over Alainna's head. As the suds cascaded over her, Alainna ducked her face into her upraised knees.

Her kinswomen had hardly given her a moment to speak or even to bathe herself in the past hour. They had hastened her from her workshop, where she had been working since long before dawn, unable to sleep. Led to her bedchamber by her unlikely handmaidens, she had been all but tossed into a tub of hot water and vigorously scrubbed as if she were a child.

"Morag used all the soap," Beitris grumbled, picking up the empty clay pot. "And the last of the dried rose petals too."

"A bride deserves the best on the day of her marriage," Esa said from her seat on the edge of the bed, where she was busy with a needle, thread, and Alainna's dark blue woolen gown. "And a Christmas Eve wedding will bring great fortune." She smiled.

"Handfasted." Alainna sputtered as more water flowed over her head. "We are to be handfasted, not wed. I am not a bride."

"Oh, you are," Morag said. "You are. I have watched you and your Sebastien. There is more between you two than a king's order, I swear it."

"There is only a mutual need to obey," Alainna said. "Neither of us want this."

"If that man does not want you, then I am blind," Beitris said. "And if you do not want him, then you are blind."

"Indeed," Una agreed, and Esa laughed.

"And since the handfasting lasts a year and a day, we can have a full wedding next Christmas Day," Beitris said. "Oh! It will bring the best luck ever, for the entire clan!"

Alainna frowned as Morag squeezed the water from the length of her hair. "There," Morag said. "Why would you go without sleep the night before your wedding to carve those stones? Your hair was full of stone dust and chips. And you are so tired that you have purple shadows under your eyes."

"I have a lot of work to do."

"And a lot of dreaming about that fine husband you will marry today," Beitris said, smiling.

"It is only a handfasting," Alainna insisted.

"Whatever it is, we must hurry. There is so much to do," Una said. "Esa is repairing the tear in the embroidered hem of your beautiful gown. It would be bad luck to wear something worn or imperfect today. And our clan cannot afford any poor omens. Christmas brings extra blessings this year for all." Una beamed as she held up the linen sheet for her.

Alainna rose from the water and wrapped the sheet around herself. She stepped out and dried off, and rubbed her hair with another piece of linen.

"Handfasting is as good as a wedding in my opinion," Beitris said. "Lulach and I were handfasted for our first year. It was a fine start for us, and will be for you."

"Perhaps we do not want a fine start," Alainna said. She lifted her arms as Morag tugged a soft, lightweight linen chemise over her head. She dropped the damp toweling on the floor and kicked it aside, sitting on a low stool to pull on the woolen hose that Una handed her.

"Tcha!" Una shook her head, hands on her hips. "Just accept the marriage. Everyone else has."

"Sebastien tells me to accept it too," she answered, tying ribbons above her knees to keep the hose in place.

"He is wise as well as handsome and brave, and you should listen to him," Esa said. "He will be a good husband."

"He may not be a husband at all," Alainna answered. "He means to leave me and go back to Brittany as soon as he can."

Una gasped. "He cannot leave you before the year and a day of the handfasting is over! Surely you told him that."

"I did not know it myself. What do you mean?" She stood, lifting her arms to slip into the brown woolen tunic that Una handed her. Morag turned her by the shoulders and began to work the tangles from her wet hair.