Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (12 page)

"Giric MacGregor, your foster brother," he said. "Lome MacLaren, the bard, Una his wife. Lulach his brother, with his wife, Beitris. Morag, Isabel, Giorsal, and Margaret, the widows. Niall of the One Hand, Donal the guard, Aenghus the Stammerer, and one not here—Esa of the far hills, widow of a champion called Ruari
Mor.
And seven others, tenants and cousins whom you have not named to me."

Alainna nodded. "You learn quickly. You have a bard's memory, I think." Her eyes sparkled.

"And one more," he continued, "the
toiseach
and Maiden of Kinlochan, with hair the color of new bronze and eyes the color of the sea along the coast of Brittany." His heart gave a slow, bold bound as he spoke.

"Ach." A
tiny smile touched her lips. "I am thinking a seat by the fireside has turned you into a poet after all, Sebastien le Bret."

"Or your
uisge beatha
has," he said, and sipped it.

"Now that may be." She laughed.

"How many more are there in Clan Laren?"

"The old ones," she said, "are all of my people."

He stared at her, sure he had misheard. "These few? Not a child or a young person among them?"

"Not a one. We have had years of war, of sickness and lack. Many have died, many have moved on to live in other parts of the Highlands, with other kin. The old ones and myself are all that are left of Clan Laren."

He frowned. "You have many men at your beck and call now, should you need them."

She glanced at him. "So says the king?"

"So say I," he answered.

She turned her graceful profile to him. "Now name your men to me. Robert de Kerec and Hugo de Valognes I know. They seem to be good friends to you."

"Near as close as brothers, if I had any," he said.

"Who are the others? Bretons all?"

"Some Norman English, some Norman French, some Lowland Scots. Etienne de Barre, Richard de Wicke, Walter of Coldstream, William FitzHugh...." He said their names and told her a little about each man, some of them comrades to him, many still strangers.

He noticed as he spoke that the knights had been drawn into lively conversations with some of the Highlanders, while Giric and Lorne, who spoke both Gaelic and English, helped them to understand one another.

"If only these few remain, your clan has lost much to this feud," he remarked.

"Too many. Sons and brothers and fathers killed in battle, daughters lost to illness or childbirth, or who have left to remarry. Children dead from sickness, or taken away by mothers seeking better lives." She glanced down. "I lost my two brothers two years ago, and my father six months ago."

In the angle of her bowed head, Sebastien glimpsed the vulnerability she tried to hide. He felt an urge to touch her shoulder to offer comfort. "I am sorry," he murmured.

She stared toward the hearth. "I am the last of the chief's blood." He saw tears shine in her eyes. She blinked them away. "I am the youngest of the bloodline of the original father of Clan Laren, the father of the Stone Maiden."

"The Stone Maiden?"

"Tomorrow you will meet her. Tonight there have been enough sad stories." She smiled, a wistful curve. "I want to ask you to read the king's letter."

"Certes, but not here. We need a more private place."

"Lorne is about to begin a story. No one will notice if we leave." She stood, and Sebastien did too.

"I was going to ask you to read the letter tomorrow," she said, looking up at him in the shadows. "I wanted one more night of peace, one more night as the leader of my clan before our future is taken from us."

He watched her. "What changed your mind?"

"Your eyes," she said. "It was the kindness in your eyes. It made me feel as if I could bear hearing the king's message tonight, after all. And I will have to find the courage to face it sooner or later. Let us go outside and talk." She gave him a rueful smile and turned toward the doorway, picking up a pair of shoes from the floor as she left.

A large blue-gray deerhound rose from a spot near the fire and padded after her. Silhouetted in the doorway, she touched the tall dog's head and stepped outside.

Sebastien admired her exit, which had the grace and dignity of a queen out of legend. Then he fetched his cloak, and followed quietly through the shadows.

Chapter 7

Cold night air frosted Alainna's breath as she crossed the yard with Finan beside her, drawing her plaid over her head and shoulders against the chill. Hearing the knight's steps behind her, she stole a glance at Sebastien le Bret.

He had picked up his dark blue cloak as they left the hall, and its folds swirled around his legs as he walked beside her. He matched the darkness somehow, his cloak like midnight, his hair gleaming in the starlight. That stirred the memory of her magical dream of the faery warrior, and she shivered, then rushed ahead.

She walked toward the timber palisade that surrounded the bailey. An earthen incline ringed the inner wall, forming a grass-covered wallwalk. She climbed the slope to its flat top to peer over the spiked ends of the palisade.

Finan stood beside her, a simple, devoted soul, a friend. She rested her hand on his tufted head and looked out over the wall. The loch gleamed dark and sparkling beneath the shadowed mountains. Overhead, the moon shone, a slim curve in a lavender sky.

"'Tis not yet dark, though 'tis late." Sebastien joined her beside the palisade. Although she had to lift on her toes to see a wide view, he simply gazed out.

"The light will stay like this for hours, not fully dark, especially in the spring and summer months."

"'Tis a peaceful sight."

"But it is not a peaceful land." She turned to him. "Have you come to help us regain peace? Or to bring more strife?"

"I am here as your champion, not as your conqueror."

"You are not the champion I wanted."

"I know," he said quietly. He reached into the leather pouch on his belt and removed a folded parchment, which he offered to her. "The king's letter."

"Be his voice as well as his sword arm. I cannot read."

"Then break the seal yourself, for the king ordered it delivered to you alone."

She took the parchment and slipped a finger between the two dangling strings fused by the seal. Opening the page, she saw neat writing, indecipherable to her. She handed it back to him.

"Can you understand Latin, when spoken?" he asked.

"I can," she said. "Read." Although she stared calmly at the loch and the sky, she clenched her hands in front of her. She guessed what he might say, and dreaded hearing it.

"'William, by God's grace king of Scotland,'" he read in Latin, "'to Lady Alainna of Kinlochan, greetings.'"

His Latin was that of a monk, she thought as he continued, fluid and precise, an art in itself. She closed her eyes and listened. He had the voice of a bard, clear and rich, soothing, although the words he spoke sundered.

"'In the matter of the inheritance of Kinlochan and the welfare of its heiress and subtenants,'" he read, "'be it known to all our subjects that we declare, as is our right, that the said property of Kinlochan, fortress and environs, be given into the care and service of Sir Sebastien le Bret as baron and—'"

Alainna sucked in a breath. "So it is you!"

"Listen to the rest," he said brusquely.

"Say it out plainly, then, instead of in clerkish Latin."

He held out the parchment to her. "Very well. You may want to study this later, or have someone do that for you."

"None of us can read but the priest. Go on."

He drew in a long breath. "Alainna of Kinlochan is to be given in marriage to Sir Sebastien le Bret. There is to be a nuptial contract between them, according to the king's wishes as stated in this writ." He paused and glanced at her.

"Marriage," she repeated softly.

" Aye," he answered. She heard gentleness in his voice. It did not matter if he were kind or cruel, she told herself. He was not the one her clan needed. He was a Norman. The king had not considered her clan's request.

She stared at the loch, her head balanced high on her neck. Her heart beat hard, her limbs shook, her thoughts whirled. The hope and promise of a Celtic warrior to defend her clan and continue their bloodline had been snatched away.

"You told me that you would not come to the Highlands," she said in a wooden tone. "You said that you had no interest in this land, or in a Scottish wife."

He watched her steadily. "Neither of us has a choice in this."

"You do."

"I am obligated by the pledge of my signed contract of knight service to the king. And I owe a debt of gratitude to William of Scotland. To repay that faith, I accepted the responsibility, and the grant."

"And the wife," she snapped.

"And you," he agreed.

She tipped her head downward. "Go on. Tell me what more is in the writ."

"I have been instructed to raise a stone castle here."

"A castle!" she burst out Her hands trembled so much that she joined them into a fisted ball.

"We can discuss the details later, when you feel calmer."

"I am as calm as stone," she said curtly. "What else does the king declare?"

"Minor issues of land measurement, tenants, knight service as my relief fee for the land, and so on. And he directed me to meet with Cormac MacNechtan to judge the man's loyalty to the crown."

"Cormac is a thief and a liar and a murderer. Take that word to the king."

"I am to determine if he has leanings toward rebellion. The king is concerned about this feud between your clans. MacNechtan petitioned the king with a promise of support and a pledge of loyalty if he might have your hand and your property. King William is distrustful of it, as am I."

"At last, a matter we can agree on."

"If he is determined to be disloyal, he is to be stopped by force of arms. That should suit you, at least."

"It does," she said. Finan nosed under her hand, standing between her and the knight. "Tell me," she said. "How can the king give you this property when I paid the relief fee for it? Was the stone cross not enough? He accepted the token. It was all I had to give. I thought the inheritance was secure."

"He could have granted me the land without the marriage," Sebastien said. "He honors the payment of your token by providing you a husband and a protector, as you require."

"This is not what I require!"

"Your people need protection that you cannot provide," he said, a little sharply. "Is it so?"

She looked down and nodded. "It is so."

"The king is your guardian, since you are an unmarried heiress." He paused, and again she nodded, knowing that what he said was true. "The king owns Scottish land, not the people, no matter their rank. He portions it out as he sees fit. Holdings are traditionally passed down in families, but in this case, the king must decide who will best care for the demesne."

"In the crown's interest," she amended.

He inclined his head. "That may be. But all of this is properly done by law and by obligation. There is naught you can do—naught I can do—but comply."

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by all that he had told her. She drew a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure, to master her temper and her fears.

"I expect that you will settle the land with Norman knights, and toss Clan Laren out into the cold. I have heard that has been done by other Normans. Your reputation is not the best."

"My own reputation is impeccable, I believe," he said. "I have no plans to toss anyone out into the cold." Again that calm tone. If he had been sharp with her, if he had displayed his greed, she would have a reason to be angry with him. She wanted desperately to be furious with him, and with the king—and most of all with herself for appealing to the king for royal mercy.

She caught back a sob as despair struck her, swift and keen. Fighting tears, she stood still and silent. The knight watched her, leaning a shoulder against the rampart, his cloak billowing in the breeze.