CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
How is it that I miss him so much? Laoghaire mused as she urged her mount to an even faster pace.
Although Galen had departed for the king’s Martinmas council three days ago, she was still morose in the wake of his leave-taking, disheartened by the thought that he might be gone for weeks, if not months.
In an effort not to dwell on that which was out of her control, she’d decided to take a ride, to put Castle Airlie and its noisy bustle far behind her.
The jennet—named Aife after the Celtic goddess who commanded a legion of fierce horsewomen—had just enough spirit to ensure an exhilarating jaunt.
And though Galen deemed it improper for a countess to ride astride that was exactly what Laoghaire was doing, as it gave her greater control over the mare.
As had happened so often in the three days since Galen’s departure, she rekindled their last moments together in her mind’s eye.
Despite the morning having dawned with a chill bite in the air, a large crowd had gathered in the lower bailey.
Vassals and villeins, castle retainers, clusters of children, they had all braved the bracing weather to bid the convoy farewell.
A light snow had begun to fall, which Laoghaire had taken as a good sign.
The English are too weak-willed to battle in the foul weather, she’d thought at the time; thereby ensuring that Galen and his men would not encounter any enemy forces as they made their way to Castle Balloch, the king’s stronghold that was located on the banks of Loch Lomond.
Standing with a bevy of women, she had watched as the entourage slowly made its way toward the castle gates.
Included in the retinue were mounted knights, men-at-arms on foot, pack horses loaded with supplies, and cargo wagons that bore everything from armor and weapons to the casks of French wine and bolts of luxurious fabric that Galen intended to present to the Bruce.
There was also a gaily painted coach that conveyed Melisande Jardin and her mother, Dame Winifred.
Because mother and daughter refused to be separated from one another, the chatelaine had decided to accompany Melisande to Castle Balloch, leaving Coira Guthrie to assume her household duties.
Laoghaire suspected the crafty older woman wanted to personally interview each of the prospective grooms, Galen having kept to his vow to do all in his power to find Melisande a new husband.
“There will be many eligible candidates in attendance at the king’s council,” he had assured her, certain that Melisande would be wed by year’s end.
On that last morning, however, Laoghaire’s thoughts had been elsewhere, focused entirely on the chain-mailed warrior who rode the massive black destrier.
And though they’d previously said their farewells inside the keep, Galen had surprised her by dismounting from the stallion, pulling his nasal helmet off his head, and striding over to where she stood in the crowd of onlookers.
Ignoring the wide-eyed gapes and stunned murmurings, he’d taken her in his arms one last time.
Long moments then passed as they held each other in a tight embrace before he kissed her, sweetly, passionately, his lips hinting at all of the words that had been left unsaid in the weeks leading up to his departure.
When at last Galen released her, she’d been so overcome with emotion that she became tongue-tied.
She wanted to tell Galen that she would miss him, and that she would think of him and pray for him and keep vigil until he returned.
And she especially wanted to tell him to thank the king for commanding their marriage to one another.
But fear rendered her mute, and she’d been unable to give voice to what was in her heart.
By the time she finally reclaimed her wits, it was too late—Galen had already departed.
Charging across the glen—her cloak and unbound hair flying behind her—Laoghaire tried to put the memory from her mind.
It was, however, to no avail, her heart having begun to pound erratically at the mere thought of him.
She wanted Galen so fiercely that it made her chest ache with a strange, unfamiliar sort of yearning.
During the course of the last several weeks, her relationship with Galen had changed so dramatically that it incited a burst of new and untried feelings to be released within her.
Since she first arrived at Castle Airlie, she’d experienced a gamut of emotions: rage, uncertainty, fear, and passion.
But more recently, she’d begun to experience another emotion, one that wrapped around her heart, all sweet and warm.
Curiously enough, it was suffused with both tenderness and ardor, like twin flames burning together in one hearth.
While it was far too soon to know if this newly-minted emotion was love, when she wasn’t with Galen she found herself longing for him, unable to put from her mind the memory of his touch, his kisses, the exquisite joy she felt when he thrust his manhood into her and filled her completely.
At times she worried that this great hunger would prove her undoing, for her life was now so closely woven with Galen’s that she did not know if she would be able to unravel the strands. Or if she would ever want to.
As to whether Galen reciprocated her feelings, she could not begin to speculate. While he took great pleasure in their mating, and made no secret of the fact that he desired her body, so far he’d not so much as hinted at the contents of his heart.
How did I go from hating him to wanting him so desperately? Laoghaire wondered while she slowed the jennet to a more docile gait as they neared the cascading waterfall, the linn having become one of her favorite places to seek quiet respite.
Dismounting, she looped the reins around a tree limb, after which she took a brief moment to nuzzle Aife’s neck.
About to make her way to the pool of water, she instead veered toward the ancient Pictish menhir that stood sentry nearby.
Admittedly, it was an impulsive act, as though some unseen presence had beckoned her toward the standing stone.
Anchored against the pale gray sky, the stone appeared to have sprouted forth from the earth, imbuing it with the same energies that surged from the waterfall.
Coming to a standstill in front of the stone, Laoghaire raised her right hand and slowly traced several of the incised patterns that decorated the stone, the series of intricate knots and swirls meant to convey the waxing and waning of magical forces.
The first time she visited the stone she’d felt a kindred connection to it, the primitive artifact harkening to the ancient Celtic blood that flowed through her veins.
This time was no different, Laoghaire suddenly experiencing a strange sort of tension that began at the base of her spine and rose upward toward her skull. Like a serpent raising its head.
Tracing the three leaves of a carved trefoil, she suddenly felt a tingling in her forefinger, where it made contact with the stone. Three was a sacred number that symbolized the unity of all life. Heaven, earth, and mankind. Father, mother, and child.
And past, present, and future.
Just then, the wind seemed to moan aloud as it blew through the grove, rustling dried leaves in its wake.
Without thinking, she reached up with her free hand and grasped the gloine nan Druidh, the circular blue stone that she always wore around her neck.
No sooner had she taken hold of the amulet than she sensed a shift, the menhir suddenly surrounded with a white, pulsating light that caused the ancient stone to glow in an otherworldly manner.
That same light began to swirl, mimicking the patterns carved on the standing stone.
“Part wide the veil,” she murmured. “That I might see the unknowable.”
Within moments, like dissipating tendrils of mist, the strange white light pulled away from the menhir, enabling Laoghaire to peer into the very depths of the ancient monument.
Clutching the gloine nan Druidh in a white-knuckled grip, she was astounded to see the image of a young, dark-haired lad, the boy no more than ten years of age.
The child was huddled in a corner, his knees bent, his head bowed, his entire body racked with great, noisy sobs.
When the child raised his head, Laoghaire could see that he possessed a pair of hauntingly familiar pewter-gray eyes.
’Tis Galen! she realized, with no small measure of shock.
Before she could decipher the meaning of the vision, the scene gave way to another image, this one of a young, strapping adolescent astride a horse, who was engaged in charging a quintain with a lance.
After that, the images on the stone began to appear and fade so rapidly Laoghaire could barely register what she was seeing.
Galen standing on the field of battle surrounded by hundreds of slain soldiers. Charging the lists at a tournament. Sitting at a trestle table in a crowded great hall. Leading the raid on her brother’s castle. Departing from Castle Airlie with his entourage.
This last image caused Laoghaire to gasp aloud, the vision unfolding exactly as it had three mornings ago.
Again, she had no time to ponder the vision’s significance as another scene began to appear.
Now she was able to see Galen engaged in single combat with an unknown foe.
Seizing the advantage, the opponent hurled Galen to his feet.
He hit the ground with such force that his sword was knocked from his hand.
Sprawled on his back, weaponless, Galen suddenly turned his head and peered directly at Laoghaire, as though he could see her standing in front of the menhir.
Holding her gaze, he mouthed the words, “Forgive me.”
In the next instant, the opponent’s sword swung through the air, the blade aimed directly at Galen’s exposed neck.
“No!” Laoghaire screamed, horrified.