Chapter Twelve
A certain measure of unease curled throughout the great hall that night.
Finlay felt it as soon as he entered the room and set his harp against one wall.
’Twas as if the arrival of the Gallowglass troop had sparked a different energy—reminded the folks here, perhaps, that war still loomed beyond their jewel of a holding.
Folk seemed restless. They stood in groups and whispered to one another. Anders talked avidly to men Finlay recognized as his advisors. Had he heard from Laird Randolph, then? Nay, not possibly so soon.
Speculation, it must be. An act rarely reassuring to anyone.
O’Hanlon was there and had brought his two officers, the only Gallowglass to be seen. Out of his armor, the man looked larger than ever, his brawny arms crossed, legs planted like tree trunks as he spoke to his men.
Mistress Katrin was there.
Finlay focused on her at once and followed her with his eyes. She appeared discomfited, her hair in some disarray and her color high. She hurried about seeing to details. And she glanced more than once at O’Hanlon where he stood.
Nay. It could not be.
She could not be interested in O’Hanlon. She was his. His. The fierceness of that belief flared inside him, near tearing him apart even though he remained standing still and silent, giving no sign.
Anders gestured to him. “Master harper, ye will honor us by joining me at the head table.”
Och, and he’d meant to sit off on his own. But nay, how could he refuse?
Anders greeted him heartily when he walked up, almost like—well, a relation. The two advisors nodded and drifted off to other tables. A small enough gathering it was this night, but aye, that uneasy mood persisted.
“I hope,” the chief said, motioning Finlay to the place beside him at table, “ye will again play for us this night.”
“As ye wish, Chief MacMurtray. I am at your command.”
Katrin hurried up, gave her father a distracted look, and shot another at Finlay. For an instant, everything in the room seemed to pause, as their eyes met.
“Master Finlay.”
“Mistress.” He half rose.
“I hope ye mean to play for us tonight.”
“Just what I was telling him!” Anders exclaimed.
Finlay, still holding Katrin’s gaze, inclined his head. “If it will please ye.”
“It will please me very much.”
He lived for that, to please her in any way he might. To love her.
His manner, as he knew very well, was not what it should be. He ought to behave with the well-mannered courtliness folk had come to expect from a wandering bard, smile sweetly and produce some gallant words.
All he could do was continue to gaze at her, his thoughts in riot.
“Sit,” she bade him. “The food will be out soon.”
“Ye also, daughter,” MacMurtray bade her. “Ye ha’ been run off yer feet all day long. Did ye think I did no’ notice?”
She subsided onto the bench directly opposite Finlay—praise all the powers—where he could look at her.
Mark the curl in that disordered tress of hair against her cheek.
The scattering of freckles across her nose.
The sweep of brown lashes and the way her bosom rose and fell when she breathed.
This he could do, without seeming to stare.
Anders went on a bit disagreeably, no doubt picking up the prevalent mood. “Ye do too much, Katrin.”
“There is much to do.”
“Let Angus see to the rest o’ it. He is a competent seneschal.”
Katrin settled more resignedly. “Angus is a fine steward but no’ good wi’ details. If I left all to him, we would ha’ cold food and nay pudding.”
“A tragedy to miss the pudding,” Anders said a bit caustically.
“Father, if ye will assign me to woman’s work, ye maun then allow me to do it well.”
For a moment they glared at one another. Finlay could see the resemblance between them. He did not know what Geordie MacMurtray had looked like, though after spending two nights in his chamber, he did know the feel of him. But no doubt he’d had the same strength.
“Daughter,” Anders said again, sounding edgy, “ye are no’ going to begin all that again, are ye? No’ before a guest.”
“If ye mean Master Finlay, he knows more o’ our affairs than we do, I think.”
Anders gave a reluctant laugh. “’Tis so. Ah, here is O’Hanlon. Master O’Hanlon”—he half rose—“pray come sit wi’ us.”
O’Hanlon brought a definite presence to the table. “Ah,” he said, eyeing them, “is this not a choice gathering?”
He took the place beside Katrin. Much more casual were things this night—except for that air of discord. He shot a look at her. “Mistress.”
“Master O’Hanlon.”
Finlay had excellent instincts. They may not be a warrior’s instincts—not anymore—but as an itinerant wanderer seeking his living from those he encountered, he must read those he encountered quickly and well. Besides, he was alive to everything about Katrin.
Much as he might want to, he could not deny that something did lie between these two. Something…
Nay, his heart cried again.
The food began its rounds. They made idle conversation, none of them touching upon the subject that no doubt occupied their minds. The state of the country. When those here would be called up to fight.
Finlay kept mostly silent and indulged in the sheer pleasure of having Katrin so near at hand. Watching the color come and go in her face, the light in her eyes.
No matter, he told himself sternly, that it flashed when she looked or spoke to O’Hanlon.
When the meal finished, he rose and took his place at his harp. He gave them an old tale—not a family one this time—of Tristan and Isolde, a love that refused to waver or die. Then he played some of his oldest songs, the ones his fingers knew so well.
When he looked at Katrin, he had the satisfaction of seeing that she sat with her eyes closed, absorbing his music, no longer seeming aware of O’Hanlon, whose scarred hand rested near hers on the table.
Surely, surely, Finlay promised himself, it would come about as it was meant to be. O’Hanlon was but an obstacle, a stumbling block in their path as, in the past, there had been so very many.
Not until he stopped playing did Katrin rise and begin circling the hall again, seeing to their guests. Anders, O’Hanlon, and all the company applauded Finlay heartily.
He took up his harp and left.
Once in his chamber—Geordie’s chamber—a sudden longing seized him. He wanted to go out into the darkness, stand above the sea and hear its hiss and thump, like the heartbeat of the world.
He wanted her there beside him. Where was she now?
If she failed to remember, if she did not come to him, how was he to tell her what they had been to each other? What they might be.
He slept but poorly there in his haunted bed. Not until the night moved toward morning did he fall into a deep sleep, and likewise into a dream.
No ordinary dream was it, for he found himself transported to another place, that of his previous dreaming. Into a different time. A different him.
He saw again the green swath of turf spread out before him, the sweet sweep of the hill, the settlement below with the lazy smoke from fires rising into the soft air.
He came climbing down the hill from the wilder places, his body obedient yet hurting in joint and limb.
Aged, he was, and no longer the lithe warrior.
Every wound he had ever taken now told in sinew and bone.
But none of that mattered. He’d found more of the leaves to brew for her fever—the ones the healer had failed to search out. She would become well, once she had a draught of this inside her.
The dream flickered and altered in the way they did. He found himself inside a dim hut with night gathered all around. The fretful dance of a low fire at his back, and a cup of the brewed herbs in his hand.
He knelt beside a sleeping bench, having hunkered down there on his reluctant knees. Upon the bench lay a woman.
An aged woman she was, her once-golden hair turned to white, flowing loose over the skins that made her bolster. Her face bore a fine network of wrinkles, and her hands, folded upon the cover, looked frail. Naught but skin over bone.
The most beautiful woman in all the world, to him.
“Liadan,” he said to her. “Alanna. My love.”
She stirred and opened her eyes to him. Opened her spirit to him. For each time she looked at him, she did precisely that. Faded blue her eyes were, that saw him, as ever, to his very soul.
“I have more of the draught,” he told her. “Will ye drink?”
“I am tired, Ardahl. So tired.”
“Only drink.”
“I canna.”
“For me.”
She leaned up obediently—would she not do anything for him?—and he helped her raise her head enough to sip the draught. Naught to the weight of her. Desperation and terror seized his heart.
“There now. Ye must rest and grow well.”
She gazed at him, and even before her lips moved, he knew her thoughts.
“Ardahl, I am frightened.”
So was he. More than when he’d ridden to battle in his chariot. More than when the druids had passed sentence upon him. This, this he could not face.
She whispered, “I fear I must go from ye.”
“Nay. Nay, ye will not.” With great emphasis he added, “Ye will drink the rest of your draught and ye will grow strong again.”
She merely gazed at him with the deepest of regret.
Two lovely daughters and three stout sons, she had given him. He would have to summon them shortly—if he believed what he saw in her eyes. But this moment, this moment must be for them alone.
As every moment had been.
“I am frightened to go ahead o’ ye alone.” Her thin fingers tightened on his. “I do not know how to live—or to be dead—without ye.”
“Nor I, without ye.”
She gave him a weary smile. “I fear we must now find out.”
“Nay, Liadan, stay wi’ me.” He begged now. “Stay wi’ me.”
“I am so tired.” It came on a sigh. “If love could keep me—”
“If love could keep ye, we would be together forever.”
He took both her hands in his, lifted them one by one and planted kisses in the palms. Fervent kisses. He kissed each corner of her mouth, both cheeks in turn. He planted a last kiss on her brow. The skin of her forehead burned like fire, consuming the very spirit he adored.
“Liadan, I must go call our children.”
“Not yet. Hold me. Ardahl, will ye hold me?”
He crawled onto the sleeping bench with her, his old limbs protesting, and gathered her into his arms. Never had he known the meaning of unbearable till now.
“Ye will not leave me?” she beseeched him.
“Never.” It was she who was leaving him.
“Ye will follow after me?”
“I will find ye. Always.”
There came no response, only a whisper in his heart.
Finlay awoke to the cold dawn, his face wet with tears, his heart raw.
Love and devotion, joy and loss, all of it possessed him. All of it rode upon the turn of the wheel.
All of it carried in his blood.