Chapter Twenty-One
“But Da,” Katrin said, not without a measure of desperation, “ye are being unreasonable. It makes perfectly good sense for me to go.”
They were alone, Katrin and her father, in the small chamber off the great hall that served him as a den, a refuge, and a meeting place.
No refuge now. He had been busy without cease since daybreak, calling up the clan and organizing for departure in a mere matter of days, seeing to more details than even Katrin could number.
She knew all too well he did not want or need her to pester him. But she had not much time. They were to muster in order to meet up with others of Earl Randolph’s forces as they moved south from the Western Highlands.
He waved a hand at her. “Lass, do no’ bother me now.”
“If no’ now, when? List to me. I ha’ been training wi’ Reagan—”
“Reagan?”
“O’Hanlon. He says I am ready.” She set herself. “To go to war.”
That made him stop and stare at her as if seeing her there for the first time. “Wha’?”
Patiently she repeated it all. “Master O’Hanlon has been training me even as—as Geordie did. He says I am better prepared than many o’ the men who shall lay aside their hoes and pick up pikes.”
“Ye be my daughter.”
“Aye, so.” She tipped up her chin. “Ye are going, are ye no’?” That little detail had filtered through to her after they heard out the messenger last night. Da had not marched out since, well, since Geordie had taken up the responsibility and gone in his place.
Da said, “I will go at the head o’ my men.”
“Then I will go wi’ ye. Ye should ha’ one o’ your blood at your side. Da”—her voice caught—“I love ye. That is why I will no’ let ye march off alone, to die for my sake.”
“I love ye also, lass. And that is why I will no’ give my permission for somewhat so daft. I will scarce be alone, will I? Our men and the Gallowglass go wi’ me.”
Fear, deep and terrible, stirred in Katrin’s heart. “Forgive me, Da, but I am twenty and seven years old and do no’ need your permission. I am my own woman.”
“I ken ye be. But lass, if this fight goes badly, as well it might, ye will be the only surviving member o’ this family. Aye? Ye can do yer best for me by staying back. Marry a good man. Carry on the line.”
“Da—I had to stand and watch Geordie go off, no’ to return to me. Do no’ ask me to do the same for ye.”
“’Tis a woman’s fate to stand. ’Tis the way she fights. Now leave off and let me think.”
It felt like getting dashed with a basin of cold water.
Da did not mean to hurt her. To disregard her feelings.
He no doubt felt overwhelmed and, aye, pressed for time, and mayhap a wee bit worried himself that he might not return.
This possibility of battle had been so long promised and so slow in coming.
And to march into England—aye, it was a daunting prospect.
But for her to be swept aside as a mere woman, well, it stung.
She possessed wisdom enough, though, to leave him then. To leave it then. Hands shaking, she went back out into the hall, where there was still a score of tasks to accomplish. Mundane yet necessary things.
The female servants stood in groups talking and expressing their fears. What she must do was go to her chamber. Gather her own things now, while she had the chance. A pack with spare clothing. Things she had borrowed and now appropriated from Geordie, like the padded leather jerkin and light armor.
She must be ready to leave without delay when the others did.
Still, she paused at her chamber door, unable quite to open it. How many more times would she walk through this doorway? She had lived here all her life. Seldom left. Oh, there had been a few trips of short distances to visit relations. Naught approaching a march to England.
She—just like Geordie, like Da—might not return.
The panel beside hers swung open, Geordie’s door. The harper stood there.
They gazed at one another in the gloom and silence of the hallway. Katrin could still hear commotion from the hall, and from outside also. Reagan would be preparing his men there.
“Mistress,” Finlay whispered. His gaze flicked over her swiftly. “Are ye well?”
“Aye.” Nay. She gestured to her chamber. “I must—I must prepare.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
All at once, she needed to speak to someone. He was here.
“Come in. Pray shut the door.”
He followed her into the room, though not far, and stood regarding her. “Your hands are trembling.”
So they were, still. Not just her hands, but in truth her whole body.
She stepped past him and shut the door firmly. Began talking.
“I have to prepare to leave, and I have no’ much time, only a matter o’ days.
I am going wi’ my father. To meet up with Earl Randolph’s forces.
To—to fight. Da has bade me nay, but I shall no’ listen to him.
How can I listen to him? Am I a child that he might order to do as he wishes?
I am seven and twenty. I have a right—a right to mak’ my own choices.
There will be an argument when he learns I mean to accompany him.
No doubt a grand one, and before all the men. But he canna stop me, can he?”
Speaking to Finlay felt almost like talking to herself. But his hands came up and lightly caught her shoulders.
“Wait,” he said. “What is this ye’re saying?”
“I am going wi’ my father when he leaves. For war.”
Finlay’s grasp tightened convulsively before gentling again. He stared into her eyes and she gazed back at him. A thousand thoughts, she saw moving there. As if he would say a hundred things but thought better of each one.
He drew a deep breath. “You wish to be a—a camp follower?”
“Nay. I mean to fight. Like Hulda, in yon story ye told.” Katrin tipped her head to one side. “I am no’ so unlike her, am I?”
Now a tremor passed through him, one she felt. “Nay, ye are no’ unlike her.”
“Was she no’ my ancestress, and a woman in her own right?”
“Katrin. Katrin, Hulda was trained for war.”
She tossed her head. “As am I. Geordie did train me, and I ha’ been working wi’ Reagan since, in the evenings. After supper.”
“I saw ye wi’ him,” Finlay said. “I thought—”
“What did ye think?”
“That, mayhap, ye grew feelings for him.”
“I do ha’ feelings for him. He is a good friend. He and his men will be a vital part o’ this fight. The fight I mean to join.”
Finlay said naught. Katrin stepped away from him, farther into the room. Had Finlay thought she loved the Gallowglass? Then what had he supposed that kiss she’d given him meant?
It meant naught now, she told herself grimly. It might all end here. Her life might end.
“I ha’ much to do,” she said, still to herself more than him.
“If I do no’ pack up my belongings now in readiness, I will no’ be able to join the company when they meet wi’ Earl Randolph’s men on their way south.
And I maun mak’ certain the household will continue to run wi’out me.
I will speak wi’ my father’s seneschal. He it is who should take over. ”
“Would it no’ be better for ye to continue on wi’ that duty? In case war comes to Murtray.” She could hear the desperation in his voice. Just like the other men, he wanted her to stay back.
“Here? ’Twill no’. We are too far north. We march a great distance south to England.” She spun to face him. “I thought better o’ ye, Finlay. I thought ye would understand.”
He did not speak.
“Ye understand the impulses that moved Liadan’s heart when she took up a sword, do ye no’?
Bradana’s agony when she had to stand and watch her man risk himself against their enemies.
The impulses that moved the Caledonian princess, Darlei, to seize responsibility for her own life.
And Hulda—Hulda, a warrior in her own stead. Am I any different?”
“Nay, ye are no’ different.” Emotions now burned in his eyes.
“I ha’ a right. To stand up for myself. More, to stand up for those I love. Can ye imagine—aye, ye must, because ye described it so well—the agony of watching those ye love go off wi’out ye, to die?”
“I can imagine it.”
“’Tis like ye told in yer tales. Life is a wheel. Mine turns now, for me.”
“’Tis a braw and a brave declaration, Katrin. And aye, ’tis yer right to choose. Still and all, I would beg ye—do no’ go.”
He did not wait for an answer. Instead he stepped up and took her in his arms, his grasp hard and compelling, then harder. Before she could draw a breath, his mouth came down upon hers.
Everything went still. For an instant it did, before all that was inside Katrin came to life. Leaping. Glorying. Triumphant.
Was this the gentle harper? The same man she had kissed in the wee boat? Nay, for this time he kissed her, and with passion. She could feel every part of him, body, heart, spirit. He burned. He burned only for her.
That kiss said what words could not. It shook her, claimed her, enlightened her. By the end of it, she clung to him, her one mooring in a sea of time.
His lips traveled from her lips across her cheek to her jaw, shedding fervent kisses.
“Tell me—tell me I did no’ convince ye to do this mad thing wi’ my stories.”
“Mad thing?”’
“It is madness for ye to risk yoursel’. I do understand wha’ drives ye to it, but och, Katrin, ’twill pull the very heart fro’ me.”
“That is how a woman feels. D’ye no’ ken? Every single time.” She reached up and captured his face between her hands. Looked into his eyes. “I canna do that again.”
“Aye, but Katrin, lass, whom d’ye hope to protect by spending yer precious life?”
“My da, mayhap. Mine might be the sword to save him, wi’ Geordie gone.” To her dismay, she felt tears flood her eyes. “This place I love more than my life. You.”
“Me?”
“Your way o’ life. Mayhap your life itself.”
Now she kissed him. Telling, telling him how she cherished all he was. How she would defend it. Bonny, beautiful man.
Her beautiful man.
Impulses came, images flickering behind her eyes. A man, a man who felt like him, in firelight, more than half naked somewhere in the wilds of Alba. Him, wetted down by the rain. Her, opening herself to him completely and him filling her.
Claiming and holding the place she’d kept always for him.
“Ye should leave Murtray,” she told him when she could again speak. “Go now while yet ye can travel, before all this begins. For I ken—aye, I do understand—the cost o’ watching someone off, someone for whom ye care.”
“Care?” He croaked out the word, all he seemed able to say. In truth, he did not need to say more. She could see it all in his eyes. Feel it in his kiss.
Something grave and wonderful connected her and the harper. But…
“Spare yoursel’,” she urged.
“Ye expect me to leave here, no’ knowing—no’ knowing wha’ may become o’ ye?”
“Ye will no’?”
“I canno’.”
“Then…” Katrin spoke softly, her gaze clinging to his. Her heart had never been more certain, nor any choice more assured. “I suppose there is but one thing to be done.”
“What is that?” Finlay asked hoarsely.
A tremendous force gathered inside Katrin and flowed outward. “Before I must go, before we need bid farewell to one another”—mayhap forever—“ye had better spend the night wi’ me.”