Chapter Ten
Finlay’s day did not truly begin until he saw Mistress Katrin the next morning.
Even though he woke in his borrowed chamber with the first of dawn’s light trickling in the window, following a mass of confusing dreams, and even though he got up on his feet and dressed himself, it felt as if he did not breathe properly until setting eyes on her.
He hoped he might encounter her in the hallway. Had she not said her chamber was next to her father’s and his own? But nay, she must have been astir far too early for that.
Not till he entered the hall with its morning bustle did he spy her among the other women, laying out the breakfast.
She had her hair plaited into a single thick braid and wore a dull-blue gown with a plain, unembroidered overdress. Indeed, for all her lack of ornamentation, she might have been another of the servants.
But he knew far better. He had seen her in a score of dreams, if in various guises, and she drew him irresistibly. Bent over the hearth, she coaxed the fire before straightening to cast her gaze over the hall as if judging its readiness.
Her gaze met his where he stood in the doorway. Would she come to him? Would she speak? Did she see him, rather than just noticing him standing there?
His heart bounded painfully when she did cross the flagstones to him.
“Master harper. Ye be just in time for breakfast. My father is no’ here yet, but please tak’ a seat at the head table. He may join ye soon enough.”
“Will ye no’ join me?” he asked humbly.
She hesitated, and he felt sure she would refuse. She had many duties. None to him.
To his surprise, she nodded. “Aye, so. Let me fetch our portions.”
He sat at the board, scarcely believing his luck. None of the Gallowglass warriors were present, so they must have risen far earlier. Indeed, he could hear them already drilling, outside.
Katrin came to the table and set a platter in front of him before sitting opposite. Her clear, pale eyes examined him from the beads woven into his hair, to his tunic, to his hands, before she said, “I hope ye slept well.”
There is a spirit in yon room. He did not say so, telling her instead, “I had a wealth o’ strange dreams.”
“Did ye? I sometimes have those also.”
Och, and he took that as a hopeful sign. Do ye dream o’ me?
She smiled, the rueful smile that so often came to her lips. “I do believe those stories ye told ha’ got inside my head. ’Tis as if I see snatches o’ them disguised as dreams. So talented ye are wi’ yer tales and yer tunes, both fair haunt me.”
“I should like to mak’ a tune for ye.” The words were out of him before he could prevent them. When she stared, clearly astonished, he added, “A planxty—for my patron’s daughter. ’Tis often done.”
“Is it?”
“Och, aye, as a mark of gratitude.” How could he tell her it might take a thousand years and every drop of skill he’d ever possessed to make a song worthy of her?
She blinked at him. “I can’t imagine what ye could find to celebrate about me.”
He could.
“But I would be honored.”
“The head o’ the Gallowglass troop has asked me to mak’ them a march.”
“Has he? O’Hanlon?” A new light entered her eyes.
“Aye, so. He has men from the five kingdoms in his group, and they do appreciate a tune.”
“A worthy challenge, I am sure. Marking so much renown. And—and valiance.”
Valiance? Did she prize that, then? In spite of all the past losses and pain, and the promise she’d won from him?
Aye, it had been a long road he’d taken to her side. And looked to prove longer even now. There was irony in it. That his story should end at this place where part of it had begun…
“I am certain,” she said softly, “ye will do a grand job and give them a fine tune. I ha’ never heard anyone play as well as ye do.”
“Thank ye, mistress.”
“As I ha’ said, yer music gets inside my head. Into my heart.” As if startled by her own words, she made to rise. “Ye must excuse me. I have many duties.”
He held her there simply by touching her hand gently where the knuckles lay upon the table, red and raw. “Ha ye hurt yersel’?”
She flushed. “Och, ’tis naught.”
“Those scrapes look sore.” And newly acquired.
“I was but clumsy and rapped mysel’ when I stirred the fire.”
He lifted his brows at her.
She got to her feet. Finlay rose also, in courtesy. “Do no’ allow me to hold ye.” Only, allow me to. In my arms, as long ago. In my heart, as always.
He ached when she left him, and his gaze followed her helplessly as she moved about the hall.
Not long after, Anders entered the room. He spoke for a moment with his daughter and then, spying Finlay, came to join him.
“Good morn, master harper.”
“Chief MacMurtray.”
A servant brought the man’s breakfast. Katrin had left the hall, which made it easier for Finlay to focus on her father.
“I was hoping for a messenger this morning,” Anders said. “Indeed, a man did arrive, but ’twas no’ from Laird Randolph.” He frowned. “I suppose ’tis too soon for any orders to come down. But,” he sighed, “we are all on tenterhooks.”
“Indeed, the situation is unsettled. Who was the messenger, if I might ask?”
“A man named Culter. He says there ha’ been dispatches from France, and the king is meeting with his advisors.
” King David of Scotland had an agreement with King Phillip of France, to stand with him if required in war against the English.
“I canna think ’twill be long before we do hear the battle call. ”
“Aye, so.”
“And I begin to wonder, Master Finlay”—even though the chief spoke Finlay’s name, he more than half spoke to himself—“wha’ I should do when the fight does come.”
“Ye will send the Gallowglass, will ye no’?”
“Aye, but is that enough? I love my country, Master Finlay. I love it—and my wee portion o’ it—to my very bones. Always, an I determined to fight for wha’ I believe is its due, the right to self-rule. I did march out in the old days, wi’ Bruce. But now…
“Och, I had a braw son to go when I grew too aged. Stout he was, and in my own image. He told me, ‘I will tak’ up the fight, Da, in yer stead.’ For we both believed, aye, in a free Scotland. Now he is gone. Did I do wrong to send him awa’ in service to another?”
He did not speak to Finlay at all now but wrestled with his conscience and his regret.
Finlay answered softly, “If he was the man ye describe, wi’ so true and devoted a heart, I daresay ye could no’ ha’ held him.”
“Ye be right, ye be right. But I canna help but think, had I been there—”
“The life o’ a warrior is a tempestuous thing, Chief MacMurtray, like a storm at sea. Ye may no’ ha’ been able to prevent what happened to him, even had ye been there.”
That made Anders give him a rueful look. “Ye speak as if ye know the life ye describe.”
Finlay remembered. “I do,” he said, “if ye count my stories.”
“Aye, to be sure. Did ye never consider becoming a warrior? Ye ha’ the build for it.”
“I did, and began the training in my youth.” The memories and, indeed, the realizations that had come to him, faster and faster as he grew, had stopped him from completing that training. “Then music called.”
“’Twould be a sin, aye, to waste those hands o’ yours on a sword. A pure waste o’ a God-given talent.” Anders scowled. “And there has been waste enough.”
He hesitated, then said, “D’ye ken my daughter wanted to go off to fight? After Geordie’s death—well, to be truthful even before—she came to me. And after he perished, she said, ‘Da, let me tak’ up his place.’ Ha’ ye ever heard anything more foolish?”
“She possesses a true heart.”
“Aye, so. Is it any more foolish to suppose I should be the one to go, when the king demands, in Geordie’s stead?”
A silence fell. Finlay did not know what to say.
Eventually, Anders answered himself. “I ha’ no heir. My son is dead and gone fro’ me. The closest o’ my cousins also. My daughter—my daughter has no’ yet given me a grandson, and time flies.”
“Would ye be happy to hand over to a grandson?”
“’Tis an old tradition here. As ye did tell in the second o’ yer tales.”
“Aye.” In that instance, the story did attest to the truth.
“Ah, well, time will gi’ us the whole o’ it, as always. If I go off to die, this place will fall into confusion, and how will that serve the king, or Scotland? ’Twould leave my daughter in a terrible fix.”
“So it would.”
“Aye, well, master harper, I did no’ mean to strain yer ear. Only, after those stories, it feels ye ken our history as well as I do. Better, mayhap.”
“I am always happy to listen to ye, Chief MacMurtray.”
“Aye, lad, and I am that glad ye be here. As I say, I would be pleased if ye will stay on till we see what is what.”
“I would be pleased for that also.”