Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Carenza scratched Troye behind the ear as they stopped in a sunny spot of the rain-washed glen. He had only a wee scar left on his jaw from his violent altercation with Peris, thanks to Dunlop’s new physician, Thomas. Thomas adored animals, to her delight, and could be seen tending to them as often as his human patients.
Since Kildunan didn’t want it bandied about that they’d had a thief in their employ or that anyone had met an untimely death on their watch, the monastery thefts were mostly kept secret. Father James was never privy to the nefarious activities that had taken place at the monastery. The monks, for their part, kept silent. The treasures were quietly returned to their places, and the jewels were added to the monastery coffers to provide for the poor. The physician’s death had been deemed an unfortunate accident, and the abbot declared simply that the prior had gone missing.
Of course, Hew informed her father privately about the investigation, since it centered on Dunlop and their physician. Carenza’s part in solving the crime had to go unremarked. But she supposed that was for the best. Her father would never have approved of her taking such risks to life and limb.
Now that Hew’s work for the abbot was complete, he could be released from Kildunan. And since her father was fond of the Rivenloch warrior, Hew was free to linger at Dunlop for as long as he liked.
Carenza smiled and tossed a stick for Troye. The hound galloped off across the grass toward the crumbled and rotting byre, scattering dewdrops in his wake.
It was so much more convenient having Hew stay at the castle. He was delightful company at supper. Inspiring to watch on the practice field as he battled alongside the Dunlop warriors. A joy with whom she planned to share the spring arrivals of hedgepiglets and fox cubs, squirrel kits and hares.
Best of all, now that Hew no longer had to keep up the fiction of aspiring to the church, he could begin courting her in earnest. He accompanied her to the village each week. Helped her father distribute gifts to the crofters. Rode with her across the countryside, making plans for the expansion of Dunlop once they were wed.
Of course, they still had to tryst in secret. The laird would have been mortified to discover his beloved daughter was not as lily-pure as he imagined.
But now that they’d made the mental commitment, it seemed ludicrous to waste weeks awaiting the king’s permission when they could be enjoying each other’s company.
Thankfully, they found ample opportunity. And soon it would be spring. So Carenza took small expeditions like this one with Troye to discover new locations in nature where she and Hew might eventually sample the wonders of the outdoors—in the crook of a tree, behind a thicket, in a fern-draped cave.
Troye came trotting back with the stick.
“Good lad,” she said, patting his head. Then she turned and tossed it blindly in the other direction.
It didn’t fly far. Hew had stolen up on her. It sailed about five yards to hit him smack in the middle of the chest.
As if that weren’t enough of an insult, Troye lunged at the stick and nearly knocked Hew over.
“Troye!” Carenza scolded.
But she needn’t have fretted. The Viking was as strong and steady as an oak. He was already laughing and scrubbing at the hound’s face in good humor.
“Your da is looking for you,” he said when he could take a breath. “Something about a missive.”
She shrugged. A missive didn’t sound so important. Not when she was alone with the one she loved in a beautiful sun-pierced glen.
“I’m sure it can wait,” she purred.
He arched a chiding brow at her. “Do you think?”
She sidled up to him and walked her fingers slowly up the middle of his leine. “I do. And furthermore, I think I have just the thing to—”
Her words were interrupting by a sharp crack of thunder.
She gasped and clung tight to him.
In the next instant, the heavens opened. Fat drops of rain cascaded down over them.
She shrieked.
He seized her hand and pulled her along with him toward the abandoned byre. Troye dropped his stick and frolicked after them, thinking this was a new game.
By the time they ducked under the moss-covered timbers, they were already soaked. They huddled together at the open side of the byre while Troye ranged back and forth, barking at the rain.
The Laird of Rivenloch wore a Thor’s hammer pendant to show her Viking bloodright. But at the moment, for Hew, the god of thunder seemed like a nemesis.
He hadn’t had a moment alone with Carenza for days. Not since he’d made love to her in the moonlit shadows of the solar at midnight, nearly a sennight ago. And now the storm was conspiring against him, raising its wicked head to hamper his courting.
Their coupling that night had been magical. They’d soared through the heavens together, beating the air on silent wings of angels, singing a song only God could hear.
And afterwards, as they’d lain in each other’s arms, gazing up at the jeweled firmament, one of the sparkling stars had happened to break free to streak across the sky like destiny’s messenger.
They’d held their breath. He’d made a wish. And without uttering a word, he’d known. She’d wished for the same thing.
A lifetime together.
He’d written the missives that very night. Sent one to his cousin Feiyan and one to his aunt, Laird Deirdre. He no longer had the patience to wait for King Malcolm. He would obtain permission for the match from the Laird of Rivenloch instead and leave it in her capable hands to secure the king’s approval.
The king could hardly refuse her, after all. The Rivenloch clan was the king’s most powerful border ally. He would wish to keep such valuable vassals happy. And the fact that Dunlop himself was in favor of the match would surely work in everyone’s favor.
But how could Hew explain that he’d fallen truly in love once and for all? Would anyone believe him? The best he could do was describe Carenza.
That had been nigh impossible to do in the space of a missive. Her qualities were infinite. Her beauty was inexpressible. Her character and charm and kindness were limitless. He could have spent a lifetime, writing tome after tome in tribute to Lady Carenza of Dunlop. Yet he dared not waste precious time trying to capture all of her on a single page.
Instead, he settled for a few heartfelt lines. They would have to suffice to convince Laird Deirdre that Carenza was The One. That Hew intended to make her his bride. That he expected the laird to procure the king’s permission for the wedding.
She is beautiful and clever, he wrote, wise and sweet, helpful and generous. She has a gentle nature and a ready smile. A man could hope for no more perfect a wife.
Though it seemed early for a response, Hew couldn’t help but hope that the missive that had arrived for Carenza was an approval of their match. And now he’d have to wait out the storm to find out.
Carenza was not going to let a good storm go to waste. No one would venture out in such a downpour. And until the rain stopped, they were essentially trapped here. Alone. Together. In an isolated, forgotten, abandoned shelter.
“I’m cold.” She shivered and snuggled closer.
“I would build you a fire,” he said, looking askance at the crumbling beams overhead, “but I fear ’twould burn down our shelter.”
She shrugged. “There’s more than one way to get warm.”
His mouth melted then into a sultry grin. “Is that so?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Tell me more.”
She did. She whispered a few suggestions involving the removal of their clothing. Then she murmured something she’d heard about the benefits of lying together, skin to skin. Then she mentioned various practices they might try in order to get their blood pumping more efficiently.
By the time she breathed the last idea into his ear—one about warming him with her mouth—he had picked her up and carried her off to the driest corner of the byre.
He laid out his plaid for a bed and stretched out beside her.
While Troye stared out at the storm and the rain made dull patter on the mossy timbers, they warmed each other in a dozen ways. With massaging fingers. And caressing hands. With tangling limbs. And loving lips. Finally, they merged in a molten mixture of fiery passion and steaming sensuality.
Their bodies joined in sublime bliss as they ascended to a place above the storm, above the clouds, a place where angels dwelt and love conquered all.
And when they fell back to earth, shuddering from their flighty brush with heaven, they clung to each other, holding onto the rapture they’d discovered.
Carenza opened her eyes and gasped at the sight. The rain had slowed now. Drops fell through the sunlight like precious crystals dripped from the dark clouds above. And beyond the trees, a rainbow arced across the sky, shimmering in vivid hues.
“’Tis a sign,” Hew decided.
Carenza agreed. A rainbow was good luck.
It meant the storm was over.
There was smooth sailing ahead.
And hope was on the horizon.
They dressed and returned to the castle, arm in arm. The rainbow followed them all the way home.
But the instant she entered the crowded hall of Dunlop, Carenza sensed something was wrong. She could see it in her father’s face. He looked…uneasy.
Her heart took a sharp dive. She extricated her arm from Hew’s and came forward to greet him.
“Father?”
The laird gave Hew a quick glance, but just as quickly averted his eyes. Then he ushered Carenza aside.
“I need to talk to ye. Alone.”
Hew nodded. Then he clasped his hands behind him, turning his back and walking away to speak with a group of clansmen drying their plaids near the hearth.
“What is it?” she asked.
“We’ve a missive from the king.”
“The king?”
A dozen horrible thoughts ran through her head.
Had Malcolm ordered the Dunlop clan to fight for the English in Toulouse?
Did he mean to quarter English soldiers at Dunlop castle?
Had he decided her father should take a third wife, perhaps an English noblewoman?
“What does he want?” she asked.
“It seems the Rivenloch clan has been speaking well o’ ye.”
“Me?” She blinked in surprise. “But I’ve never met them.”
“I believe Sir Hew has commended ye to his laird.”
She smiled. That warmed her to her toes.
But melancholy lingered in her father’s eyes.
“Then what’s wrong?” she asked.
“The king has made ye a match.”
A flutter of excitement made her heart flip over. Somehow Hew had managed it. He’d talked his laird and the king into approving their marriage.
“But that’s welcome news,” she gushed, clasping her father’s hand even as he averted his solemn gaze. “Isn’t it?”
Why wasn’t he happy for her? Could it be he was feeling sorry for himself? Did he think she was abandoning him?
“Och, Da,” she chided him, giving his beard a fond tug. “I promise I’ll visit. ’Tisn’t so far, and I’ll have to come to Dunlop to see Hamish and all the—”
He clasped her hand to hush her, pulling it away from his face. She’d never seen him so grim, not since he’d said farewell to her mother.
“Ye should read the missive.” He pulled a scroll from within his plaid. The red seal was already broken, but Carenza could see it had the royal insignia.
With trembling fingers, she took the vellum from him.
At first glance, it seemed an ordinary marriage writ. The beginning paragraph extolled Lady Carenza’s virtues as a wife. Then followed detailed language about property ownership, coin exchange, the dowry price, and the line of inheritance. As she scoured the document, her eye caught on the names of the two parties involved, the Laird of Dunlop and the Laird of Rivenloch. All seemed in order.
But when she got halfway through the text, she saw a name that didn’t belong there.
Gellir.
Gellir of Rivenloch.
She shook her head and reread the passage.
Sir Gellir of Rivenloch, the bridegroom.
Nay. That wasn’t right. It was supposed to be Hew. Sir Hew of Rivenloch. She didn’t even know Gellir. There must be some mistake.
She read on. But every mention of the bridegroom said Gellir. Hew’s name appeared nowhere on the document.
Though she felt an uneasy queasiness in her gut, she couldn’t help but assume it was a mistake. Someone had gotten the cousins’ names mixed up. That was all.
She scrolled down to the bottom of the page. Laird Deirdre of Rivenloch’s signature was affixed to the document. Surely she knew the difference between her son and her nephew. She wouldn’t have accidentally promised the wrong woman to the heir of Rivenloch.
Her heart slowly sank to the bottom of her chest and remained there, as if heavy iron anchored it to the shadowy depths. When she lifted her gaze to her father, for an instant she saw her own bleak hopelessness reflected in his eyes.
But then the cold, hard truth fell over his face like a steel visor.
A laird couldn’t be governed by empathy. A laird’s power depended upon loyalty—his clan’s to him and his to the crown. When it came to strategic alliances, the king knew best. And no amount of begging or negotiating or conniving would change that.
So as painful as it must have been for him to break her heart, her father straightened with pride, praising the king’s wisdom and congratulating Carenza on her successful match.
Carenza felt numb.
By all measures but one, it was a successful match. Gellir was not only from a long line of warriors. He was the tournament champion of all Scotland. Instead of settling for the son of one of the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Carenza was wedding the son of Laird Deirdre herself. And when the Rivenloch clan chose a new laird, the responsibility would almost certainly fall to Gellir, making Carenza both the Lady of Rivenloch and the Lady of Dunlop. Their children would control the combined forces of Lowland and Highland warriors, securing the border for generations to come.
But that one measure—the measure of love—was all that mattered to Carenza. Her throat ached with betrayal, and her chest throbbed with heartbreak. Her eyes welled with hot tears, blurring her vision as she stared wordlessly up at her father.
He scowled once. Briefly. But she could read his expression.
He wanted her to understand this betrothal was a gift. An honor. A reward granted by the king.
To consider it anything less was disgraceful.
To accept it with anything other than gratitude was unseemly.
To welcome it with anything but the utmost enthusiasm was shameful.
As the daughter of the clan, Lady Carenza must proclaim her satisfaction with the king’s choice. She must be thankful for his great care in choosing her bridegroom. She must convince the clan she was delighted with his royal decree.
Yet how could she?
For the first time in her life, Carenza couldn’t mask her feelings. Her control slipped. Her brow crumpled. Her lower lip quivered. Heartache spilled over her eyes and trickled down her cheek.
Her father’s brow darkened, and he swiftly pulled her into the shadows of the buttery before the clan could see her.
She was sure he was going to chastise her. Lady Carenza was supposed to be the clan’s ray of sunshine. Their inspiration. Their joy. She wasn’t supposed to frown or weep, show anger or cause unease.
But he didn’t chide her. He only held her by the shoulders and regarded her with tired, sad eyes.
“I know ye’re fond o’ Hew,” he murmured. “I am as well. And if ’twere in my power to give ye your heart’s desire, I’d do so. Ye know that, aye?”
She nodded. But his kind words only made her sob more.
“But I can tell ye this. Rivenloch is beyond reproach. They’re a clan o’ great integrity and honor. Deep loyalty and courage. If Sir Gellir is half the man that Hew has proved himself to be, ye’ll not be unhappy in this marriage.”
He was wrong. She would never be happy. Not while the one she loved with all her heart was not hers to have and hold.
She would feign to be content. It was what was expected of her. It was what had always been expected of her. She would smile and nod, act gracious and grateful, amplify her small joys and hide her deep disappointments.
But she would never be happy.
As she’d always known, her life was not her own.
For a brief sliver of time, Hew had made her believe she could express her own desires, follow her own dreams, dance to her unique music. He had made her feel as if she were worthy, by virtue of simply being herself.
But now reality buffeted her in the face, waking her from her foolish dreams and reminding her she’d never truly been the free-spirited Carenza Hew adored. From the beginning, she’d been carved into the perfect wooden effigy of the daughter of Dunlop. Beneath her velvet gown, she’d always worn the iron shackles of her station. She’d always borne the terrible weight of the clan on her shoulders. And she always would.
She sniffed back her tears and wiped the tracks from her cheeks. “I’ll need a mo—”
“O’ course.” He turned to go, then returned to lean in close. “Would ye like me to break the news to him?”
She hesitated. His offer was tempting.
Hew would not take the news well. He’d likely explode. Bellow out in anger and fury. Rage against the king’s decree.
Desperation would drive him to do something far more dangerous. He’d look for a way to gainsay the document his own laird had signed. Perhaps challenge the king himself.
Carenza couldn’t let that happen. She and Hew had never been masters of their own fate. They’d denied it for weeks now. Believed they could make their own happily ever after.
But somewhere deep inside, she’d known all along it was just a fantasy. Kings played at chess, and nobles were merely their pawns. She’d only imagined it could be otherwise.
It was cowardly not to tell Hew herself. He deserved to hear the truth from her lips. Even if that truth was but a veiled reflection of what she truly felt.
“Nay, I’ll tell him,” she decided.
She swallowed down the last of her tears and gathered her courage. This would be the most demanding performance she ever pulled off. But everything depended upon it. The fate of her clan. The fate of Rivenloch. And the good will of the king.
Her heart caught once—when she saw Hew laughing and chatting by the fire with her clansmen. He looked so natural with them, they might have been his brothers.
How cold the hearth of Dunlop would be without the Viking warrior of Rivenloch.
She clutched the rolled parchment in her hands.
He glanced at it once when she came up, but said nothing.
It took all her will to maintain a calm expression. But she knew she had to be convincing. With a nod of her head, she beckoned him to follow her. She led him to the quiet alcove at the entrance of the great hall.
“Well?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as he arched a brow at the scroll.
Her heart plunged even farther into the miserable mire. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not when she knew she was about to break his heart.
“We knew this day would come,” she said, twisting the scroll in her hands. “We always said our fate was not our own. Isn’t that right?”
She glanced up long enough to see a scowl furrow his brow.
“What has Malcolm done?” he growled.
She had to tame Hew’s ire before it erupted.
“He’s done what is his right to do,” she said with a detachment she didn’t feel. “He’s chosen a husband for me.”
Hew went absolutely silent.
The pulse in her ears was deafening. And her own flippant words sounded as cheap and meaningless as the jangling of a beggar’s bell in a thunderstorm.
“But I want ye to know I’ve truly enjoyed our time together,” she said. “I consider ye a cherished friend. And I will always—”
Hew snatched the scroll out of her hands.
The hammer blow to his heart had not yet landed. He was still numb. Or perhaps he had no heart left to break.
All he felt at this moment was fury as he frowned down at the document.
Bloody hell. Who did the English-loving King Malcolm think he was crossing?
Hew had written to his kin, singing Lady Carenza’s praises. Had Feiyan said nothing? Had Laird Deirdre failed to intercede with the king on Hew’s behalf?
Or had Malcolm slighted the clan, forgetting it was the Rivenlochs who protected his border?
What milksop of a husband had the child king chosen for his beautiful Carenza?
He scanned the words and let his eye fall on the signature at the bottom. His breath caught.
Laird Deirdre Cameliard of Rivenloch.
It was his aunt’s hand and her seal.
Whatever had been done had been done with her permission.
Then his gaze traveled back up the document.
There were the blows of the hammer. Striking his heart. Over and over and over again.
Gellir.
Gellir.
Gellir.
His cousin. Carenza had been promised to his cousin.
Still there was no pain.
Only cold and hollow death dwelt in his chest.
He let the scroll fall from his fingers.
Carenza was saying something to him. But he was deaf to everything but the clanging of that name upon his armored heart.
Gellir.
Gellir.
Gellir.
He was beyond hurt. Beyond betrayal. Beyond rage. Beyond feeling.
Slowly, as if he moved through muck, he shouldered his axe and pushed through the doors of the great hall.
The sky was black. The clouds hung low. It was raining again. But he felt neither the wet nor the cold.
Anger burned low inside him like a glowing coal.
He strode across the courtyard, through the gates, past the road, over the rain-slick sward, climbing higher and higher, until it seemed he might be swallowed up by the clouds.
There, at the top of the mountain, all his pain and fury sparked to life. He raised his axe and, like a dragon breathing fire, bellowed in rage at the heavens.
An instant later, the god of his ancestors replied, sending down a bolt of lightning to kiss the blade of his axe.
Hew released the weapon just before the wood handle exploded and earth-shaking thunder rumbled down. Current crackled in the air all around him as he staggered back from the snapping whip of Thor.
When the storm receded, Hew was left among the black and smoking shards of his weapon, clinging to the crushed and broken pieces of his heart.
He looked toward Kildunan. He supposed the monastery would serve as his home now until the king found a bride for him. He wouldn’t return to Dunlop. And he didn’t have the stomach to speak to his treacherous Rivenloch kin.
His mouth turned down at the unsavory thought of marriage. He would rather take a vow of chastity than settle for a bride who wasn’t Carenza.
One last bit of mockery awaited him. As he took his first steps toward Kildunan, he found a charred piece of his axe handle at his feet.
The remaining runes said Love conquers…
His words and his laughter were bitter. “Love conquers…nothing.”
He crushed it beneath his heel as he walked toward an uncertain future.
Carenza wept every night.
For her lost love.
For the king’s thoughtless decree.
For the Laird of Rivenloch’s poor judgment.
For the cruel hand of fate.
For Hew, whose heart she’d surely broken, despite the fact that he’d left without a backward glance.
And aye, even for the man she was to marry, for though Sir Gellir might claim her hand, he would never possess her heart.
But weeping upset her father and troubled the clan, so she kept her sorrow to herself. By day she was kind and sweet, patient and charming. If the sparkle in her eyes was dimmed by the mist of melancholy, only the animals could tell. Hamish came to the gate for a scratch when she was near. The courtyard squirrel shared her litter of kits. And Troye followed her around the keep.
The clan was mostly excited about the Dunlop-Rivenloch union to come. Everyone had heard of Sir Gellir, the tournament champion of Scotland. It was truly an honor to be chosen to be his wife. To carry on his name. To bear his offspring.
She’d been thinking a lot about bearing offspring lately. She’d always kept close track of her courses, and she was supposed to start her menses today.
Naturally, it was also one of Carenza’s busiest days at Dunlop. Easter. After the long period of Lent, almost everyone looked forward to the lavish feast where the Dunlop tables sagged with roasts and pies, eggs and cream, succulent meats and rich custards.
She never let a few aches and pains trouble her. It wouldn’t be the first time she suffered the pangs of her courses while hosting a feast. With any luck, she would start her menses on the morrow, while the clan was recovering from their overindulgence today and she could lie down for a nap.
As she sat down beside her father at supper, she saw a familiar jar beside his platter of simnel cake.
“Is that Kildunan’s honey?”
“Aye.”
“Och, Da,” she teased. “Have ye been squirrelin’ it away?”
She expected him to give her a conspiratorial wink. Instead he said, “Nay. ’Twas an Easter gift from…” He cleared his throat. “From the monastery.”
An awkward silence followed. She could guess who had brought the honey. And the fact Hew hadn’t bothered to say good day to her was disheartening.
She should have let it go. She should have pasted on a smile to appease her father and murmured, “How kind.”
But she was wounded by Hew’s rejection. After all, soon they would be cousins. Now she felt as if she’d lost not only a suitor, but a friend.
So instead she muttered, “He might have lingered long enough to say hello.”
“I told him ye weren’t here.” He spread honey on a slice of simnel cake.
“What?”
He took a bite of cake and shook his head. “There’s no sense in draggin’ out the poor fellow’s torment. Ye’ll be gone in a fortnight anyway.”
Spent in Hew’s company, a fortnight would have been an eternity. Long enough to memorize every inch of his body. Long enough to speak aloud all the hopes and dreams they’d once had for the future. Long enough to make a lifetime worth of memories.
Now her father had stolen even that wee gift from her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She couldn’t blame the laird. He was doing what he thought best. Like culling coos, a quick blow and a sharp knife probably caused the least amount of suffering. But no one ever asked how the coo felt about it.
John the kitchen lad set a trencher of creamy mushroom, leek, and saffron pottage before her. Normally, she would have slurped up the velvety soup with enthusiasm. But today the strong aroma troubled her nose. She pushed the trencher aside.
“Simnel?” her father offered.
She nodded. He carved off a fruity slice for her and placed the honey within her reach.
Bypassing the honey, she nibbled a corner of the cake. But she had little appetite for it.
The next course was roast lamb, which she abhorred. She tried not to guess which spring lamb had been sacrificed as she tucked bits of meat into her napkin to sneak to the hounds later.
None of the subsequent courses appealed to her. Not the rabbit stew. Not the buttered vegetables. Not the capons. Not the cherry custard. Not the gingerbread. And even the fine French wine her father opened for the occasion turned her stomach.
She caught John’s sleeve when he came to remove her untouched gingerbread. “Do we have any pickled eels left in the pantry?”
“I’ll look, m’lady.”
Her father chuckled. “Didn’t get enough pickled eels durin’ Lent?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. She supposed it was silly to crave something most of the clan was sick of, but they were the only thing that seemed worth eating.
That night, she wept again. For herself. For her husband to be. For Hew, whom she’d lost, not only as a suitor, but apparently as a friend.
Her menses didn’t start the next day. Or the next. Or the following week.
By the time she packed for the journey to Darragh and bid her father farewell, there was no doubt in her mind.
Her breasts were sore. Her belly was troubled. And she had an unnatural craving for pickled eels and little else.
Sir Gellir of Rivenloch’s bride-to-be was carrying a child. And it wasn’t his.