Chapter Six
The mood of the settlement had changed, so Finlay decided when he took his place in the hall that evening.
With the arrival of the Gallowglass troop, the energy had risen along with the noise level.
A squad of tents sprang up in the bailey like rather grubby toadstools and armed men strode everywhere.
He’d had a look outside when he came down from his chamber, that belonging to Mistress Katrin’s brother, and had to admit his heart quickened. Many and many were the stories he carried in his head, more than a few of them about such warriors.
Some of the stories were his own.
But he had chosen differently this time on his ride around the wheel of life, had he not? Chosen as he’d been bidden.
Still and all, something about the clatter of it, the stir and the banked magnificence, caught at him. His very muscles twitched.
Long ago, long, long ago, he had trained as a warrior. A man did not forget.
He had to force himself to go inside, set up his harp, and take his place at the side table where he would sup. Along, so it seemed, with a new guest.
The man, a strapping figure who could be none other than the head of the Gallowglass troop, stood speaking with Anders MacMurtray when Finlay entered.
Finlay knew enough of fighting men to grasp that he had shed much of his weaponry along with his chain mail cotte.
He stood with his arms crossed on his chest speaking to Anders, the torchlight shining on his tawny hair.
Finlay’s attention was snagged when Mistress Katrin entered the hall. She wore blue tonight, undoubtedly her color, and as it always did, his very breath hitched at the sight of her.
Helpless against the feeling, he was. The feeling of wanting her.
Did she not know? Could she not feel this?
A curious sort of woman she was, a blend of the brisk and the impatient, as if with every word and every step she fought inwardly against who she was. She played the role of the dutiful daughter, but it did not quite fit.
He watched as she walked up to her father and his Gallowglass companion, and began speaking to them. Both men nodded at her. Anders went to his place at the head table.
Katrin led the Gallowglass to Finlay’s table.
Last night before beginning to sing and play, he had shared it with a number of Murtray clansmen who had been more than welcoming. The smith and the head man who cared for the ponies, and the healer. Now another place had been laid at the board.
Finlay was to have company.
He stood motionless as Katrin introduced the man, Reagan O’Hanlon. Aye, so, an Irishman, and he looked it, with that indefinable something about him that screamed Ireland. A controlled kind of power he had also, and vitality Finlay could feel.
As Katrin stepped away, O’Hanlon nodded at the occupants of the table in a casual and friendly fashion.
“So ye be the harper,” he said, focusing last on Finlay. “Mistress Katrin did say ye were wondrously gifted.”
That gave Finlay a warm rush. The other occupants of the table jumped in, telling the captain about the stories Finlay had given them, all of which they well remembered.
“Never ha’ I heard the like,” the healer enthused.
“I am sorry I missed it,” O’Hanlon said with a half-smile.
“Whence in Ireland do ye hail?” Finlay asked.
“Meath. Are ye familiar with the green isle?”
“I am, and roamed there in days gone by.”
“Aye, so, I imagine a harper such as yourself covers many a league. But ye be Scots?”
“Aye, I am.”
“As ye may imagine, I have traveled far also,” O’Hanlon said. “Though I do not expect my accolades have been the same as your own.”
Finlay reckoned not.
Anders stood at the head table and spoke in welcome of the Gallowglass, telling his gathered folk of their purpose and the debt he owed to Earl Randolph. The platters began to circulate around the hall.
Finlay’s table companions plied O’Hanlon with questions. Where had he traveled? What sights had he seen? How many battles had he fought?
To which he replied, “Countless.”
Finlay tried to imagine it. Perhaps not so surprisingly, he could. The clash and din of battle. The raw edge of courage in a man’s heart. The determination and the narrowing of sight…
O’Hanlon, calmly eating his supper, did not brag on himself, even though those at the table gave him plenty of room for it. A modest man, mayhap. Or one so confident, he had no need to stoke his own pride. Either that or he had become hardened to the glory of what he did to earn his bread.
For there was a certain amount of glory in it. As a storyteller, Finlay both sensed and appreciated that.
Besides, as a young lad, had he not himself began with training at arms? Before he’d realized that could not possibly be his calling…
What began to bother Finlay as the meal moved along was naught about Master O’Hanlon so much as the realization that when Katrin glanced toward their table, it was to the Gallowglass captain her eyes were drawn.
To be sure, she might well be checking to make certain her guest had all he needed. But it was no such mundane concern Finlay saw in her eyes.
Nay, for there he beheld interest. A measure of fascination.
Aware as he was of Katrin’s every movement, he knew when she rose and began making the rounds of the hall. Felt it when she approached their table.
She had braided her hair this night. It fell over her shoulder in a thick, ashen plait when she bent down. As did her bosom press forward inside her blue gown.
“I trust ye ha’ everything ye need, Master O’Hanlon?”
The Gallowglass looked up. As caught by her pale, clear eyes as was Finlay? For an instant the man looked taken aback, just as Finlay felt.
“Aye, mistress, thank ye.”
Finlay got to his feet and Katrin looked at him, startled. Remembering belatedly that he was also there?
“Excuse me, mistress.”
He went to his place beside the hearth and took up the harp. As always, he felt better with Brada in his hands.
He nodded toward O’Hanlon’s table, where Katrin still stood.
“In honor o’ the chief’s guest, I will gi’ ye some tunes and tales o’ Ireland this night, for yer pleasure.”
With chagrin he saw Katrin slip into the seat he had just left. Opposite the Gallowglass.
But, as he reminded himself, she would be listening to him.
He gave them an old tale indeed of the great warrior, Cuchulain, he who during a grand and terrible battle planted his back against a stone and fought so well that even after he was killed, no enemy dared come near to him. Finlay lost himself in the music. Did he forget the lass who listened?
Not quite.
He had not figured, after winning his way here to her at last, that he would be caught in a competition for her. And he resolved not to be drawn into such. A woman’s heart was her own and must be freely given. Else it was worth naught at all.
The trouble was, this woman’s heart meant his whole world.
The spell he wove in the hall this evening must have been a strong one. For when he finished, when the guests began to leave for their beds and he took up his harp, O’Hanlon came to him.
“I did enjoy that, Master Finlay. Mistress Katrin was not mistaken—ye be a fine harper. I do not know when I have so relished an evening’s entertainment.”
“That is generous praise, Master O’Hanlon.”
“Naught but the truth. I should like to commission fro’ ye a march for our company. Wha’ is yer price?”
“I am at the moment under Chief MacMurtray’s hospitality, and nay price to one o’ his guests.”
“Aye, so, I ha’ a valiant troop who would appreciate a tune in their honor.”
“Would they so? Tell me about them.”
“More than half hail from Ireland. The rest are from Scotland and Wales, and two from Brittany that we picked up along the way. Our man Modur, a Welshman, often sings for us on a march, but a tune o’ our own would be finer still.”
Finlay bowed his head. “I will be honored to provide ye one.”
“Come watch us drill in the morning so ye may get a feel for who we are. The bards I knew back home in Ireland went by feel more than aught else.”
“As do I.” A curious sort of man, this. All warrior, bristling with vital energy, yet with a Celt’s understanding. Even after O’Hanlon walked off, Finlay stood where he was, thinking.
It had been a long while since he’d seen a warrior troop in training. A long while, indeed.