Claire Delacroix (31 page)

Indeed, there was something all too fine about Kay for him to be born of a mortal - Mhairi imagined he was one of the fey, a Faerie prince come to win her hand within his own. He saw beauty in the small things and took stock of his good fortune at frequent intervals. Aye, Kay might be the man for her.

The truth was that Mhairi could not decide on such slim evidence as she had.

To be sure, this matter of courtship was not without its price, for it had altered the former freedom of her days. She had been accustomed to doing whatsoever she desired, without troubling herself much as to what people thought of that. She found it vexing, once in a while, that those carefree days were gone, at least for the moment.

Aye, Mhairi’s maid now insisted that her hair be braided perfectly before she entered the hall each morn. Of course, she wanted to look her best, especially because Kay would be waiting for her, but the task took a great deal of time when she was restless to begin her day. By the maid’s decree, there was to be no more running barefoot through the grass, or indeed, any running at all.

’Twas not what ladies did. Thus spoke the maid.

Mhairi tried very hard to be a lady, for she was certain that both Kay and Gabriel expected their chosen wife to be one. She wore a circlet and donned stockings and garters each and every day, a change which had been exciting at first but had quickly become an obligation.

There were moments when she longed for the days when she had not had to fret about picking a spouse. In those moments, she could certainly understand Esmeraude’s insistence on a small adventure before becoming a wedded woman.

And in those moments, Mhairi found herself wondering what Finlay was doing.

Only when she could not join him did she realize how important their small missions had been to her. He had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember and though she had until recently taken that for granted, now she missed him. Finlay did not care whether her hair was braided or her circlet straight.

Nay, not he. Mhairi smiled in remembrance of their fishing excursions, when she usually hitched up her skirts to wade into the sea and Finlay quite reliably teased her about her skinny legs. She liked it when they raced to the standing stone, or helped with the milking of the goats. She could milk faster than Finlay could and never failed to let him know it, a jest that had oft resulted in a milk war.

Finlay accepted her as she was, not as she was supposed to be. But then, she was becoming a woman and she supposed that the games of her childhood were better left behind her.

Indeed, she was excited about the tourney that her father had suggested. In this event, Mhairi would see the measure of Gabriel and Kay and her heart thrilled that they would meet in combat for her favor. She was dancing with impatience when her mother summoned her to her chamber on the morning of the festivities.

“Aye,
Maman
?” Mhairi hopped from one foot to the other in her desire to rush down to the field and see the knights. She had donned her best kirtle and had let her maid braid her hair in a most intricate fashion.

Eglantine drew a kirtle from the old chest in her chamber and held it up before herself. She smiled at Mhairi across the width of the chamber. “What do you think of this?”

“’Tis beautiful!” Mhairi had never seen the garment before and she crossed the room to examine the rich embroidery upon the hems and cuffs. “You have never worn this,” she said with certainty.

Eglantine smiled. “It seemed a frippery unfitting for me.”

“But you will wear it this day?”

Eglantine winced and held the dress against herself. “Nay. The bearing of three daughters has thickened my waist too much to show the work to advantage.”

Mhairi was not one to be so readily deterred. “Oh,
Maman
, there are laces at the sides. The chemise matches the kirtle so well that none will guess the truth and the blue will favor you beautifully...”

Her mother bent and kissed her cheek so abruptly that Mhairi was startled to silence. “That is not the real reason that I shall not wear it. ’Twas a gift from your uncle Guillaume, sent after he heard of your birth. He said a new mother needs a luxury to call her own, and though I agreed with him, I chose then to save this garment for you.” She tilted her head and smiled at Mhairi. “I was waiting for a special day. Do you think this to be one?”

“Oh,
Maman
!” Mhairi was awed by the softness of the wool, and the splendor of its emerald hue. She looked more closely at the golden embroidery studded with gems and knew she had never seen a garment more magnificent. “Is this how you dressed in France?”

“Sometimes.” Her mother flicked a fingertip across Mhairi’s nose. “At court, on days of import.”

“Like this one.”

“Aye. You will choose in these next days the man with whom you will spend most of your life, if indeed one of these men lays claim to your heart.”

“I am certain that one will,” Mhairi declared, thinking of the two French knights.

Her mother studied her. “I will not have you pressed to make a choice when you would rather not.”

“I will not,
Maman
.” She spoke so firmly that her mother’s fair brow rose.

“Have you a favored suitor?”

“Two,
Maman
, two whom I am certain I could love with all my heart. The difficulty shall be in the choosing, I know it well.”

Eglantine smiled. “Then I would have you look your best, and this fine garb will show you to advantage.” Her mother laid out a fine chemise and a pair of lacy stockings, then leather slippers dyed a deep green and a golden girdle. She sat on the edge of the bed when she was done, and patted the place next to her. Mhairi sat beside her mother, her gaze trailing to the uncommon finery.

Her mother touched her chin, compelling Mhairi to meet the conviction in her eyes. “You know that I came to this land to grant my daughters the chance to choose their husbands as I could not do for my first nuptials. I also would have you wed for true love, as I did not the second time.”

“You chose Duncan for love.”

“Aye, I did and there is naught with which I can compare this match. Your father has made me more happy than ever I imagined I might be.” She touched Mhairi’s cheek. “And you were wrought of a most happy union.”

Mhairi blushed.

Eglantine smiled thoughtfully, then stroked Mhairi’s hand. “’Twas the strangest thing, for I knew Duncan was different from the first moment we met. My heart seemed to recognize him, though I argued mightily with it in the following weeks and months.”

Mhairi shivered with delight. “As if you were meant to be together, as Esmeraude loves to say.”

Eglantine nodded with affection, then sobered. “There is no guarantee, Mhairi, that whatever regard you feel will be returned, or even that a match wrought of love will be happy to the end of your days. But I think ’tis better to begin thus, and I think you will know the man best for you if you listen to your heart.”

“What of the tourney?”

“’Tis a way for you to see what manner of men have come before you and no more than that. Men and bards place much faith in the outcome of such tests of valor.” Her mother leaned closer and dropped her voice to a fierce whisper as she held Mhairi’s gaze. “But if the winner does not compel your heart to sing, Mhairi, then know that I shall support whatsoever choice you make. I shall even support your choice if ’tis none of these men, and I shall do so until my dying breath.”

Her mother’s determination made Mhairi feel loved as naught else could. “Thank you,
Maman
!” The two embraced tightly, then Eglantine touched the wondrous kirtle with a fingertip.

“Shall we see whether it fits?”

* * *

It seemed to Mhairi that the entire village hummed with excitement. Duncan escorted her to the tent pitched upon the field while the villagers watched and whispered. The kirtle seemed to make her taller, as if she walked upon air, and she had the heady knowledge that she looked the best that ever she had.

A tent was set up for them to watch the tourneys. ’Twas an old silk striped tent which had seen finer days, and she knew ’twas a relic of her mother’s life in France. ’Twas still uncommonly fine and the fringe around the roof was most splendid to Mhairi’s thinking, even if ’twas not in perfect condition any longer. There were two other smaller tents of the same vintage pitched on either side of it, all three open on the side facing the designated tourney field.

Duncan had had his great chair carried out from the hall and led her to it. Those already gathered under the tents stood for her arrival, as if she were the queen herself.

“Queen for the day,” Duncan teased as she was seated, his eyes sparkling when she laughed.

Duncan sat on one side of her and Eglantine on the other. Her half-sister Alienor and her husband, Iain, sat beside Eglantine. A local chieftain, the father of Alasdair, was seated beside Duncan, then a variety of influential villagers and local men clustered behind them all. The perimeter of the field was thick with onlookers to both the left and the right of the tent. All were garbed in their finest and clearly anxious for the festivities to begin.

“’Tis up to you,” Duncan whispered.

Mhairi stood up and all fell silent. She clapped her hands and gestured to the horses and men gathered on the far side of the field. “Let the tourneys begin!” she cried and the crowd cheered.

The cook from their own household - who had a booming voice - stepped forward, his chest puffed with importance. “My lady,” he said to Mhairi, bowing deeply. “May I introduce the competitors?”

Mhairi inclined her head, then exchanged an excited smile with her mother before she looked to the field again. A pair of boys in bright garb had joined the cook, and she saw that they juggled apples for the amusement of all.

“First upon the field is Douglas MacBain of Moray!” bellowed the cook.

Douglas crossed the field on foot, brandishing his sword. He wore a yellow chemise that fell to his knees. A length of patterned wool was wrapped around his waist. His leather jerkin was laced in the front, his hair was loose, and he carried a round shield.

The crowd roared at the sight of him.

“A valiant warrior, Douglas fought on the side of Angus MacSorley in the battle two years past betwixt the two sons of Somerled for supremacy. Not only is he proven in battle, but Douglas offers his bride a cottage near his family home in Inverness, two goats, and enough wealth to see her in comfort.”

The crowd shouted approval as Douglas strode toward Mhairi.

“Inverness!” Eglantine whispered disapprovingly beneath her breath. “Why so far?”

“Because he is a mercenary and unwelcome in closer quarters,” Duncan retorted at similar volume. The pair looked at each other over her head and Mhairi knew they wished that they had not been so indiscreet in her presence.

“Not that our opinions should affect your choice,” Eglantine said quickly.

Mhairi smiled. “I do not like him, at any rate.”

Douglas, unaware of this conversation, bowed deeply before Mhairi. She smiled but granted him no other token of her favor, and his displeasure was more than clear as he walked away.

“Alasdair MacInnes is next...” The cook managed to say no more before his voice was drowned out by the cheers of the assembly.

’Twas clear that Alasdair was the popular favorite. His father straightened with pride as Alasdair advanced onto the field. He rode a horse, though rather less expertly than Mhairi herself could ride, and was otherwise dressed much as Douglas.

Alasdair looked more somber today, Mhairi noted, and her heart skipped a little when he halted, bowed, then winked at her. Perhaps he did have Duncan’s blend of practicality and mischievousness.

“The son of the chieftain of Clan MacInnes, Alasdair is heir to a powerful ancient legacy, for as we all know, the blood of Celtic kings runs in his veins. His bride will know no labor of her own hands, for she will live in splendor.”

“The splendor of Alasdair’s father’s house,” someone noted wryly in the back of the tent. “Not any luxury gained by his own labors.”

The father pivoted, seeking the speaker. “Who spoke thus? ’Tis a fine matter to leave a legacy for one’s own son!”

“Not if it means that he is never expected to be a man!” ’Twas a loyal comrade of Duncan’s who spoke, a battle-hardened man. “Douglas is a better candidate, for he is proven in matters of war.”

“Aye?” retorted the father. “We shall see who is the better man today, for this is the only proof that counts!”

Duncan intervened then, calming the men with a few quiet words. By the time the men had settled and Mhairi looked back to the field, Alasdair had stepped away to join Douglas to one side. She clasped her hands together in delight as a prancing stallion stepped into view.

“Gabriel de Mornay joins us from Normandy, his credentials most impressive,” the cook announced. “Be warned, other competitors, that he has won at tourney in Champagne and also in Languedoc, and he has pledged his winnings of last season and the next two to purchase the abode of his lady’s choice.”

“If he lives through those seasons,” Eglantine amended dryly. Mhairi ignored her mother, so enthralled was she by the knight before her.