Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (6 page)

"Modest, sir, for a paragon among knights, renowned as a fighter of strength and spirit," the king said. "Exactly what Lady Alainna has requested. And you speak some Gaelic." He continued to smile. "That should please the lady."

"It may not, sire," Sebastien murmured. Alainna felt the tension grow thick in the air.

"But your presence at Kinlochan, with a garrison of men, would please me greatly," the king said.

Alainna gasped. "My clan could not accept Norman knights at Kinlochan, sire."

The king looked at her. The resoluteness in his eyes made her hesitate. She knew that King William was not a cruel ruler, but he could be swift and decisive. To refuse was treasonous.

"We shall speak later, Sebastien. Lady Alainna." The king motioned for the chamberlain to call the next petitioner.

Sir Sebastien circled his strong grip around her arm and guided her away. She twisted to look back. "Sire—" she began.

"Be silent," Sebastien hissed.

"He means to give you my lands!"

"He can give me only what I accept," he said sharply. "Come this way. Sir," he said to Giric, "I will send a page to fetch your horses."

"The horses are in a stable in the town," Giric said. "I will fetch them myself. Alainna?"

"I... I will wait in the abbey," she told her foster brother in Gaelic. "I want to see the stonework before we leave. Giric, I cannot wed a Norman," she added frantically.

"Be calm. Go now, and I will meet you at the abbey."

"Allow me to escort you to the abbey, my lady," the knight said. "The stonework is very beautiful. Come this way." His Gaelic was cool and polite.

He guided them through the crowd. Alainna lifted her head proudly, but her heart beat a pattern of panic.

* * *

Moments later, panic gave way to anger. It fueled her tread, tightened her mouth, clouded her eyes with tears. She blinked as she followed the knight up the sloping path that led away from the tower. Dunfermline Abbey crowned the top of the hill, golden stone and twin towers gleaming in the sun.

She walked so fast that she tripped on the embroidered hem of her dark blue skirt, and had to stop. Autumn leaves cluttered the gown's long train. Grabbing a fistful of the soft woolen fabric, she shook it with more temper than grace.

"Easy, my lady." The knight bent to brush at the leaves. "You will ruin your gown."

She smoothed her skirt more gently. Although she rarely wore the gown of midnight blue wool with its embroidered hem of golden thread, it was the most exquisite garment she had ever owned. "My kinfolk said wearing this would help my plea in court," she grumbled. "'Twas useless."

"A pretty plea, nonetheless," he said, "and a pretty gown."

She sent him a sour look. His smile was fleeting but genuine. Warm. She looked away and adjusted her plaid
arisaid
draped over her shoulders and belted at the waist.

"That patterned cloth is a fine weave," he said.

"'Twas made by a kinswoman," she said. "She weaves good woolen plaids, warm and lightweight and much sought after. We are accustomed to simple clothing in the Highlands, but we are not the savages you think, sirrah. My father had this gown made for me in Glasgow. He thought to see me wed in it. Instead, I wore it to pay homage for his lands," she added sadly.

"Your father would have been proud of you this day," he murmured in Gaelic. His quick use of that language felt comforting, like a caress. For a moment she softened toward him. Then she turned abruptly to resume walking.

"Not many Normans speak Gaelic," she said.

"I took the time to learn it. When I act on behalf of the crown, it is useful. Your English is well spoken."

"My father insisted that my brothers and I learn it, so our priest taught us. Father Padruig says most foreigners think Gaelic is harsh and barbaric. But it is the tongue of bards and poets. It is like music."

"When some speak it," he murmured, "it is indeed."

She felt the heat of a blush. "I have never conversed with a privileged knight before, in English or in Gaelic."

"Not so privileged as you might think, my lady."

She frowned, puzzled. His armor and weapon were costly, and his dark green surcoat was trimmed in silver thread. He radiated confidence, authority, intelligence, and controlled power. Norman privilege was in his very blood. "My foster brother and I heard that the king's foreign honor guard is highly regarded at court and favored by the king."

"We were assigned to the Scottish court by our liege lord, Duke Conan of Brittany. 'Tis an honor to serve King William."

"Is that chivalric humility, sirrah? I have heard of the vows of virtue that foreign knights take."

"We try to honor our knightly vows. Though few would call me humble, my lady," he said wryly.

She tipped her head to look at him with curiosity. "When the king spoke of sending you to Kinlochan, you showed courtesy, but you grew tense, as if you were much displeased. Or was it merely your eagerness to obtain Scottish land that made you grip my arm so quick and hard?"

He narrowed his eyes, the scarred brow tugging down. His irises were gray and cool, but she saw a hot spark there. "The king made no true offer to me. You fret over naught."

"I do not fret," she snapped. Her frustrations and fears, stoked by her audience with the king, kept her temper close to the surface. "But I will have much to fret about if he sends you—or any of your comrades—there!"

"There is no king's writ on this yet. Be calm."

"I have been calm, and for naught. Now I must wait while the king chooses me a Norman husband. My kinfolk expect a Celtic hero to save our clan! Now I must tell them that I failed!"

"You tried your best. If the king sends men there, he does it to ensure peace."

"Peace! There will be more war if he sends Normans!"

"You did ask for the king's assistance," he reminded her.

"In what my clan wants, not in what he wants!"

"He thinks of Scotland. You think of Clan Laren."

"What else should I think of?" she demanded, glaring at him.

"You are wondrous full of argument," he commented. "'Tis good we go to church. Prayer might cool that Highland ardor."

She sent him a fuming look and walked on. He strode beside her. After a while, she glanced sidelong at him. Despite her resentment, she wanted to know more about him, especially if the king thought him suited to her and to Kinlochan.

"You must be heir to some great lord to earn such favor from a king," she said. "Is your family French or English Norman?"

A fierce glint flickered in his eyes. "Not all men succeed through birth. Some achieve through merit and prowess. And determination." His tone was curt. "I was raised in Brittany and spent years in England, if you will know. I am Breton, rather than Norman from Normandy, or Norman English." He paused. "And I am no one's heir."

"A younger son come to Scotland to acquire land and status and wealth, then. I suppose you think the Scots to be simple barbarians."

"Not all Scots," he drawled, glancing at her.

Lifting the hem of her gown, she walked faster. The knight strode beside her steadily despite chain mail and broadsword, as easily as if he could climb Highland hills in twice the armor.

"You have the look of the Norse, tall and fair, as do your comrades," she said. "Are you related, you three? Are your kin descended from Vikings, like some Highland families?"

"So many questions," he said. "We are not related. The knights of the Breton honor guard are matched for size and fair coloring. And there may be Norse blood in me. I do not know for certain."

She blinked in surprise. Every Highlander she knew could recount his or her heritage. "I suppose Normans do not keep so careful a memory of their family lineage as do the Gaels."

"Bretons and Normans are proud of their lines of descent," he said. "And proud of the worth of their surnames."

She glanced at him, startled. He smiled politely, but a fleeting spark in his eyes belied that coolness.

He was like a wild cat sunning on a rock, she thought suddenly—calm on the surface, taut power beneath. He would be ferocious if provoked. Yet she saw kindness in his gaze, and in the gentle curve of his upper lip.

They reached the grassy courtyard that fronted the west entrance of the church. Twin towers soared above oak doors framed by stone arches and slender pillars. Alainna did not see Giric. The abbey grounds were deserted but for a few black-robed Benedictines who walked there.

She mounted the steps to look at the carvings on the column capitals. The knight joined her. "A beautiful abbey," he said.

"Yet it must seem humble compared to cathedrals in France and England. I hear they are like miracles of stone and glass."

"This place has strength and simplicity. I prefer that to showy grandeur."

"'Tis similar in design to Durham Cathedral in England. Some of the stonecarvers who worked at Durham came here too."

"You know the abbey history well for one who is not local."

"My father's cousin made carvings here twenty years ago. He was a stonemason," she explained. "I have long wanted to see his work here." She touched a column. "He told me that Dunfermline has become a pilgrimage shrine because our beloved Queen Margaret is buried here. She was so good a soul that many Scots believe she should be declared a saint."

"I have said a few prayers to her myself. She has become a patron for the poor and the lost." He reached out to touch the stone too, his hand large and strong, dusted with golden hairs.

"You are here in Scotland to gain land from Scots." She turned away. "I doubt our Queen Margaret would consider you poor and lost."

"You share your temper with me easily enough. Will you not share your saintly queen as well?"

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant. You think little of Normans."

"'Tis not that," she said, "exactly."

"Ah," he said. "And what exactly is it?" He rested his hand on the stone, his gaze winter cool, the small scar pale where it slashed through his left eyebrow.

A blush heated her cheeks, and she looked away. "I know that the Normans have helped Scotland and our kings in the past, and the Scottish crown values Normans for their military strength. But they bring too much change to Scotland."

"And you do not want to wed with one."

"I do not," she agreed.

"Your clan might benefit from such a union."

"Never."

"You are a stubborn girl, I think," he mused.

"I am. I have to be so, for the sake of my people. I cannot watch my clan be disbanded and destroyed."

"And you fear that a Norman husband would do that. Why?"

"I know he would." She drew her fingers over the grainy texture of the sandstone. "Normans would destroy our legacy, our history, our very name, and make it their own."

"This Highland enemy of yours is more likely to do that than a Norman."

"And I will not wed either one."

A wry smile played at his mouth. "You make that clear enough," he said. "Lady, I am not a Scottish subject. I am not obligated to accept a grant from King William if he offers one to me."

She blinked. "You would refuse Kinlochan?"

"I have other plans," he said quietly.

She felt relief, but also a surprising disappointment. Of course she wanted him to refuse, she told herself. Yet she felt curious about him, drawn to his strength, to his wit, and his keen, kind gaze.

She caught her breath as she realized that he resembled the faery warrior in her dream. How ironic that a Norman would match that perfect warrior—ironic, disturbing, and unthinkable.

Handsome blond warriors were common, she told herself.

"The king will offer you Kinlochan," she said sharply. "No Norman would refuse such a gift. You are an ambitious sort, eager to foster your fortunes on Scottish soil."

He leaned toward her. "My ambitions do not include marrying a hot-tempered Highland girl and settling on some remote mountain to fight her war. I will leave that to your Celtic paragon, wherever he may be."

She blinked, stunned. He stared at her, nearly nose to nose, his arm buttressing the stone jamb, his hand just above hers. She would not tilt back, refusing to yield even that much. They breathed in tandem and watched one another.

She had rarely seen eyes of so clear a gray, or sparking so with anger. Her eyes surely matched his for flash and fire just then. She lowered her brows in a scowl to make certain of it.

"You must not accept the grant if it is offered you."

"Is that a warning?" he asked softly.

"It is." Her heart thudded. She could not take her gaze from his. She sensed his powerful will, as strong—even stronger—than her own. The feeling was odd and exciting.

"I do not do well with warnings," he said in a low voice. "I have a habit of going against them."

"Celtic clans do not want Normans among them," she said. "The barbarians of the Highlands attack anyone who attempts to take their land. It is why the Highlands have so few Norman settlers, while the Lowlands are filling with them. Rein in your greed and your ambition."