Chapter One
Western Scotland, early fourteenth century AD
“Grand, Master Finlay! That was just grand,” Chief Anders MacMurtray cried warmly, getting to his feet in respectful enthusiasm. “A magnificent evening’s entertainment ye ha’ given us, worthy o’ the bards o’ old. Truly, ’twas a fortunate day yer travels brought ye to our door.”
Katrin MacMurtray, standing at the rear of the hall where she had listened long to the bard’s tales, shook the magic of them from her head and eyed her father, the chief.
A big man was he, tall, with graying ash-brown hair that had once been the color of her own and gray-blue eyes.
Wide of shoulders but spare of weight, he now looked a bit unsteady on his feet, perhaps from the quantities of ale he had consumed but more likely, so Katrin suspected, from the long journey upon which the bard had taken them all.
Back, far back into the world of Da’s ancestors and her own.
How was it this Finlay, a wandering minstrel who had turned up at their door seemingly by chance, knew so much about their forebears?
Katrin supposed it must be part and parcel of his vocation, and his living, to know and carry these things.
He earned his way by making those whom he entertained feel important, larger than life, the stuff of legends.
He had done a magnificent job of it.
Even she, beyond all else a practical woman who usually spared little time for nonsense or fancy, had got caught up in it all. The grandeur, the heroism. The love. That alone had brought tears to her eyes a few times. Could there ever exist love such as the bard described?
Captivated by the question, she eyed him.
Finlay, the bard. They did not know his last name, if he possessed one.
Such men tended to roam the country far and wide, staying with anyone who would have them for as long as profitable, till the tales and songs ran out, at which time they merely moved on.
They’d hired such visitors before, usually older men, some who traveled on horseback and with their own attendants.
Finlay had arrived alone, his harp—a beautiful instrument in its own right—in a pack on his back along with all his other possessions.
And he was not aged. Rather, he could not be above a score and six years or so.
Tall and slender with a graceful mien. Long, auburn-red hair that he kept braided with silver ornaments woven through the strands.
A face neither handsome nor otherwise, but clever and mobile, that added a certain charm of expression to the stories he told.
A wonderful, mellow singing voice that could be soft as a spring breeze, or angry as a swarm of hornets.
Green eyes. He had the deepest green eyes Katrin had ever seen. Graceful hands on the harp strings, some of the fingers tattooed. And, as she had to admit, a rare talent.
There had been moments this evening when Katrin had been so carried away by the magic he wove that she felt she experienced it, rather than merely listened.
When the glorious notes from his harp had lifted and carried her like a wee boat on the sea.
When she’d almost been able to feel the warmth of a love so strong, not even time could sunder it, and had nearly felt the promise of kisses dropped into the palms of her hands.
Such fancy!
It had been good for Da, though, having the diversion. And quite possibly good for the rest of the clan’s folk also. There had been too much grief of late, with the country torn apart and war flickering all around them like flames that refused to snuff out.
The death of her brother, Geordie, had so wounded Da’s heart, and her own. She should be grateful, aye, to Finlay for showing up and sharing his gift, if only for the distraction of it. Yet there was something about the man…
Perhaps the way those green eyes of his insisted on seeking her out wherever she was in a room, on touching her again and again before drawing in the rest of his audience.
What was his interest in her? She was but the daughter of the house, remarkable only for being far past the age to wed, who saw to the management of her father’s keep and meant naught to a traveling bard.
Perhaps, she thought now as the audience stirred and, emerging from Finlay’s spell, remembered where they were, he merely realized he relied upon her good favor as much as Da’s, for retaining their hospitality.
It must be important to a man who made his living on the move, especially on such a foul, wet night as this one.
For the sea lay restless beyond the rocky shore, and rain crashed down so hard she’d been able to hear it even above the music.
Indeed, at times it had seemed to become part of the story Finlay told, elemental and beyond the expression of words.
Aye, Finlay would be glad of a warm bed this night.
She watched as Da stepped up to the bard, who was situated near the head of the hall.
Katrin had herself wandered the chamber while he sang, seeing to the comfort of their guests, as was her responsibility.
In truth, after the first of Finlay’s tales she had found it difficult to keep still, except at those moments when his playing wove around her so intimately, she forgot herself. Almost—almost—became someone else.
Now she moved forward, exchanging words with the departing clan’s folk in passing. None of them would forget what they’d heard here tonight.
Aye, and when she drew close enough, she could hear that Da continued to praise the bard. Finlay, who stood nearly at a height with the chief, took the accolades humbly, with no signs of conceit.
He merely smiled, and even as Katrin joined the two men, he said in his musical voice, “I am pleased, Chief MacMurtray, if I brought ye some pleasure. ’Tis all the reward I require.”
“Still and all,” Da said, the remnants of the magic Finlay had summoned still visible in his eyes, “I do no’ ken when I ha’ enjoyed aught so well. Ye took me right out o’ mysel’, ye did.”
Finlay’s smile put twin dimples in his cheeks, visible despite the reddish beard that grew there. Not a full beard such as Da or, indeed, Katrin’s late brother had worn, but more a suggestion that it had been over long since he’d employed his razor.
Geordie. She could not let herself think of him. Even though…
Her brother’s death, which occurred in a terrible accident while he was training to fight for a free and independent Scotland, had changed all their lives irreparably.
She had lost her closest friend. Da had lost the pride of his heart.
And the clan now stood without an heir to take up the reins should—God forbid—anything happen to its chief.
She looked the bard in the eyes. Och, indeed, and extraordinary eyes they were now that she got so close a look at them. Green as the fir trees that grew on the rise above the keep.
“A fine evening’s entertainment, Master Finlay,” she congratulated him. “But ye will be tired now and eager for yer bed. Let me show ye where ye will sleep.”
“Mistress—Katrin, is it?”
“Aye. Come along wi’ me.” She leaned up and kissed her father’s cheek. “Good night, Da. I hope ye will sleep well.”
“Wi’ all those pictures o’ my ancestors in my head? Och, if I do sleep, I do no’ doubt I will go to dreaming o’ voyages and battles.”
Katrin smiled at him, one of the rare smiles she reserved for those she loved. She hoped his dreams were pleasant. Since word of Geordie’s death had come, since the terrible day his poor body had returned home, he’d had little true rest.
As had she.
“You had best wrap up your harp,” she told Finlay. “I am sorry to say we must go outside to reach yer quarters. Ye can hear the rain.”
Da stepped away to his departing guests. Katrin stood and watched as Finlay wrapped the instrument in an oiled cloth, employing great care.
“’Tis a bonny instrument,” she observed. Carved it was with scrolled lines and leaves, fashioned from a deep, burnished brown wood.
He glanced up from his task, granting her another of those flashing smiles. “She is my greatest treasure.”
“She?”
“I call her Brada. All the most favored harps are granted names, ye ken.”
Such fancy! But Katrin had to admit, the instrument deserved a name. To look at him, she would not think so humble a traveler could boast such an instrument. The rest of his belongings—the frayed pack, the shabby boots, the clothing not fine but worn with a certain flash—did not match it.
“Ye never fashioned such a harp yourself?”
“Och, nay. ’Twas made for me in Ireland.”
“Ye ha’ been to Ireland?” She had not, though she’d always harbored a secret desire to see the place. Especially now, in light of the tales he had told.
“Och, aye. Mistress Katrin, I ha’ been most everywhere in the Celtic world, learning and collecting songs. Erin, Wales, the Isle of Man. Even to Brittany.”
“Aye, so?” That impressed her, though she would not let on. Katrin was a woman who rarely admitted to being impressed by anything. “Well then, if ye ha’ finished bundling the grand harp, follow me.”
“Aye, thank ye.”
They went out into the driving rain, Katrin pulling the hood of her cloak, which she’d retained against the cool damp in the hall, up over her hair. She went swiftly, and Finlay kept up with long strides.
Katrin had a sudden vision of him loping over heather-clad hills on those long legs of his, heading God knew where.
She stopped in front of a low hut and pushed her way in. Lit a candle with dripping hands.
“This is one o’ the huts where we billet our visitors’ attendants,” she explained as he stepped in behind her.
She gazed about. The place suddenly looked too plain for a man of his talents.
A bit doubtfully she said, “I hope ye will be comfortable enough here. ’Tis yours for as long as ye wish to stay. ”
“I shall be more than happy here.” But focused once again on Katrin, he barely spared a glance for the small room.
“If there is aught ye require, ye will come to me.”
“I surely will.”
“Then I hope ye enjoy a good rest.”
“I do no’ doubt it, mistress. Thank ye.”
Carefully, he set down the harp. Began to remove his cloak.
Past time for Katrin to leave. And yet—inexplicably she hung back, watching as with neat movements he shook out the wet garment and hung it from a peg set in the wall.
“Tell me, Master Finlay—”
“Aye?” He turned to face her. Rain glittered like jewels in the red of his hair.
“How is it ye know so much of my family’s history? Or—was the better part o’ all that made up? Grand tales to flatter my father, perhaps.”
“Nay, and nay.” He straightened. “’Twas all the truth I told.”
Katrin felt a thrill. Those stories! Those grand, brave, and wonderful people!
“But how? How could ye know all that?”
His deep-green eyes met hers and the smile touched them like light through a forest.
“’Tis my job to know, mistress. A bard is no’ just a singer. He is a carrier o’ history. A keeper o’ old truths and ancient songs.”
To be sure, he had a magical tongue, did this man. And clever with it. What he claimed might, or might not, be true. He wanted their patronage.
But ah, a part of her, practical or not, wanted to believe. Believe in such a love as that of which he’d told, one that stretched across the ages.
“Ye do no’ remember me, do ye?” Finlay asked suddenly.
That had Katrin swinging back to face him. “Should I?”
A wry smile curled his lips. “Perhaps no’.”
“Ye ha’ never visited here at Murtray before, have ye?”
“I have, long ago. Once when I was but a lad and apprenticed to the bard Caradoc of Snowdon, who taught me how to play. He did bring me here. I ne’er forgot the place.”
“Aye? I regret to say, I do no’ recall. I must ha’ been very young.”
“We both were.” Was there some message in his eyes? But ah, her mind was still half caught in the dreams he’d woven.
“I will let ye sleep.” She turned for the door.
“Thank ye, mistress,” he said again.
Katrin went back out into the rain, still feeling curiously unsettled.
He had given her only half an explanation as to how he knew so many details about her family’s history, things even she had never heard before.
That her ancestors had come from Ireland—well, aye, she had heard hints of that long ago.
That among them had been a great warrior and a prodigal son.
That she carried the blood of a Pictish princess, and aye, well, some Norse blood also.
That showed in the color of her hair. In her height. In her propensity, or so Geordie had claimed, to pick up a sword.
Aye, sometimes her fingers fairly itched for one.
How could Finlay know that?
She was tired, her mind stuffed with stories, and she must give it up for this night, at least, as impossible to know.
She needed her bed.
She might even sleep, if she could chase those dreams away.