Chapter 15
Freya clapped her hands three times. “The Storyteller accepts your payment.”
The children squealed, bouncing in delight. Arne leapt up. “Can we hear the next story about the Shield? I’ve been dyin’!”
Her stomach dropped. Chuckling, she drifted around Fraser’s crowded longhouse, buying herself time.
Another tale of Calum? She dared not. Perhaps it was wise to end the stories altogether.
But when she saw the eager faces turned up to her, she knew she couldn’t give them up. “I’ll save that story for another day.”
Groans erupted—from children and a few adults. Arne plopped down, arms crossed, scowling. Freya twirled slowly, desperate for inspiration. Her mind was blank.
“What’s the story?” Arne huffed, his freckled face dark with impatience.
Freya prayed silently for rescue.
Tell them about Me.
The words struck her, and with them came memories—creation, the Three-in-One God, the story Calum had whispered to her on their wedding night.
Her voice deepened, rich with the cadence of legend.
“Today I tell you about the most valiant of men. His battles extraordinary, His feats greater than legend, His words…” she wove through the children, brushing her cloak against them, lowering her tone to a hush.
“…inscribed upon the hearts of His people.”
Arne squinted. “Was he a king?”
Freya smiled, miming a crown upon her head. “The King of kings. But His kingdom is not of this world.”
A little girl’s hand shot up. “Does the King know the Shield?”
A chorus of small voices chimed agreement, clamoring for their favorite heroes. Freya grimaced inwardly, then nodded. “Of course the King knows the Shield. The Shield knows how to protect—because the King Himself trained them.”
Arne frowned, puzzled. “I thought the Beithir trained them.”
Giggles rippled through the room, and for a moment she paused, searching for an explanation that they would understand. “Even the Beithir was trained by someone. All things begin somewhere, don’t they? All things trace their existence to one being. The King.”
Archie’s eyes lit. “Like magic?”
She tapped her chin. “No—no magic. More like authority. Power. He is the master over the world, over nature, over sickness, over affliction—even over death.”
Taking a candle from Gavina’s table, she left it burning and blew out the others until only the hearth and the taper shone. Silence fell.
“Because of the King, the blind received sight. The lame walked. And those burdened with shame, those of the lowest of rank, those the world overlooked…” she circled lonely Cora, seated apart from the rest of the children, “…were lifted to places of high honor.”
She gestured right. “Can you make ripples of water?” Little hands fluttered, creating moving waves. She turned left. “Can you make thunder?” Feet pounded the floor. “Aye, I hear the thunder.”
Raising her hands, she stilled them. “This King is no ordinary king. He brings light into darkness. Who will hold a candle?”
She gathered tapers from around the room and placed them in eager little hands. “But dinnae light them—wait for my word.”
Excitement shimmered. Freya drew her hood and began circling lightly on her toes, floating.
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Darkness stretched without end, and the Spirit of God hovered above the waters, above the formless deep.”
She lowered her voice, imagining the weight of the Almighty. “Then God spoke into the void.” She touched her taper to the first child’s, then the flame passed hand to hand until light blossomed round the circle. “Let there be light.”
A soft ooooh swept through the longhouse. Freya smiled, watching the trail of fire spread.
“God saw the light was good. Warm and brilliant, it pushed back the dark. He called the brilliance day, and the cool, steady dark He called night. And so there was evening, and morning—the first day.”
In the glow of twenty flames, the children gazed at their candles, faces alight with wonder. Freya’s heart swelled. This was the kind of tale she longed to tell—not of war or violence, but of beauty and beginnings.
Outside the longhouse, Freya huddled in her cloak beside Fraser and Gavina as children and parents drifted home through the dark.
Fraser rubbed his beard. “A bit awkward to ask you this, but does Tànaiste MacLean still no’ ken that you’re the Storyteller?”
Freya grimaced. “He nearly guessed this evening. There is much that hangs by a single strand.”
Gavina’s eyes narrowed. “Your father’s been worse since you left. If he learns you’ve been the one keeping Calum in high esteem these ten years, he’ll be furious as a wasp. There’s no telling what he might do.”
Fraser scowled. “And you’re still hiding this from your husband? Does he even ken you slipped out tonight?”
It had taken much maneuvering to slide out from underneath the heavy weight of Calum’s arm after he’d taken the milk, but after ten minutes of false starts and stops, she’d managed it. She shook her head.
Fraser drew his mouth to the side, disapproving. “I think he ought to be told. You’ve carried the clan’s support for him all these years. What man would resent that? You dinnae believe he’d turn you over to the king?”
“Tyr seems to think he’s oath-bound. If I knew the way to the king, I’d go myself to end this misery. Keeping it from him is making me ill. He’s been so kind—and I’ve betrayed him.”
Gavina pressed a hand to her brow. “The whole clan knows—even the children. How will you continue to keep this from him? No one goes out of their way to speak to your father. But Calum—everyone is eager to become reacquainted with him.”
Freya hugged herself against the cold. “I dinnae ken.”
The longhouse door creaked open. Beathan MacLean stepped out with his daughter. Sorcha tugged free and pressed into Freya’s cloak. “Can—can you tell us another story about the King next week? How did we all get here? What does He do next?”
Beathan grinned. “Aye, I’d like to hear that one myself.”
Freya froze. She should stop now. Self-preservation demanded it. If her father—or Calum—learned the truth, she would be finished. And yet…the thought of disappointing her children was unthinkable. If she avoided more tales of the Shield, perhaps it would do no harm.
She forced a smile. “Aye, Sorcha.”
As they drifted away, she kissed Gavina’s cheek. “I’d best be going.”
Fraser tweaked one of Freya’s fletters. “If you need help, you’ve mine, lass.”
An idea sparked. “As a matter of fact, Calum could use help with my papa’s old-line supporters—Grufa, Bjorn, Jarl, their kin. If we could win even one, the rest might follow. Perhaps you could help me decide who to trust?”
Fraser grimaced. “Of that lot? Grufa’s the one. Win him and the rest will fall in. But after today…you’ve a monumental task.”
She considered this. Grufa had always treated her with dignity and respect—not warmth, but civility. Perhaps he would listen. “Thank you, Fraser.”
He glanced at the moon breaking through clouds. “You’d best be off, lass.”
As she walked back down the wooded trail toward the bothy she began to think thoughts that she hoped were being listened to.
The last time Jesus had listened, He’d sent her Calum.
But now, barely a month later, everything was spinning out of control.
She was free of her father’s house—that was a blessing—but how would Calum react when he learned he was wed to the very Storyteller he’d been sent to unmask?
Guilt swelled in her chest. Their vows were sealed in God’s blood, and yet she tricked and schemed still.
A rustle in the heather hedge made her slow. A shadow crouched low, then slipped out of sight. An animal. It must be an animal.
Course correcting away from whatever it was, she hurried around the indirect curving path that took five minutes more to walk toward home.
Wind whistled through the trees, a bluster of leaves loosening from the branches and falling in brittle clicks and crunches, making it impossible to hear if anyone followed her.
When the path bent around the half-sunk boulder she braved a glance over her shoulder. There, treading down the path with quick, resolute steps was a man.
She called to him letting him know she knew he was there. “Heill og sael.”
The man did not stop, nor slow, nor did he answer the viking greeting. Instead she watched as he drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. For an instant she thought it was Murdoch. But as he closed to thirty feet, she saw the truth: black garb, face shadowed beneath a coif.
The man loosed the arrow, aimed straight at her.
Panic seized her. She bolted as the shaft hissed past, splintering against the boulder where she’d stood.
She ran harder, tearing off her cloak, flipping it to its dark lining before dragging it back over herself. Diving into the forest, she ducked beneath bramble and branches, keeping to the cover of the brush.
Pain seared across her thighs, muscles pulling tight with every pounding step.
Thorns snatched at her cloak, branches clawed her skin, but she kept running.
Another arrow pinged near her legs. She could hear him now—the harsh breath, the pounding steps through the leaves.
He would outrun her. He would catch her. He would kill her.
Calum. She needed Calum. But he was drugged with henbane, dead to the world in their bed. Unless—unless the man had already been to the bothy. She had left the door unbarred. The thought sickened her, nearly breaking her stride, but she forced herself on, veering toward Somerled’s cave.
An arrow slammed into the tree beside her.
She dropped, hitting the ground hard, and crawled beneath the gorse concealing the entrance.
Damp earth soaked her leine; thorns tore at her skin.
Fingertips found the edge of the drop, and she slid down—four feet—but landed with a thud she could not silence.
Hands clamped over her mouth, she listened. Footsteps thundered past overhead.
She squeezed her eyes shut, whispering thanks to Jesus in her mind. The hunter hadn’t seen her enter. She waited, heart hammering, until his steps returned—pacing, circling, searching. The bothy lay only two minutes away. She forced herself to wait longer, until silence pressed heavy on the cave.
At last she clawed her way up the rock and slipped back beneath the gorse. She sprinted for the trees’ edge. The clearing yawned before her—twenty yards of open ground.
She sucked in a breath and ran.
Something skittered after her. She burst through the hedge, pounded across the yard, wrenched open the bothy door, and slammed the bolt home behind her.
Bog sprang up, erupting in a flurry of barks. The noise jolted Calum awake and he tumbled from the bed, grasping for his sword, eyes wild until he saw her. He pressed a palm to his chest, dragging in a breath.
“Saints, lass, you scared me half to death.” He squinted a sleep-heavy stare at her. “Where’ve you been?”
“I—” Her mouth worked soundlessly, fear choking her words.
He shook his head. “Still too afraid to relieve yourself in the bothy?”
Freya licked her lips. It wasn’t a lie. She nodded.
“Och, I told you I don’t care about that.
You ought to have lived through staying with David MacKenzie on mission.
Nothing more disconcerting than watching him have a think on the pot in the middle of the night.
I swear tae ye nothing you can do could possibly compare—” he gestured, brawny arms spread wide, the safety of his chest unintentionally held open to her.
Without bothering to wait, she sped into his arms, resting her head upon his bare chest, holding him tight. He was safe. He was here. Dear God, she couldn’t lose him.
His arms tightened around her, and he ran a hand over her hair, pulling a leaf from its lengths. “What’s the matter, lass? You’re shaking.”
She pulled back from him, looking up into his smoke-colored eyes, touching his face, needing to believe he was hale. “I—I—there was—there—”
Her hands clung to him, trembling. Only now did she realize how deep her feelings for him ran. “I th-thought something had happened to you.”
His brows knit. “I’m hale. What happened?”
“I was in the woods. I heard something…and I panicked.”
His gaze swept over her—cloak flipped inside out, leine ripped from toe to hip. His face darkened, murderous. “Who touched you?”
She shook her head fast. “No one. I thought someone was chasing me. I ran, hid in Somerled’s cave. That’s how my leine tore.”
He pulled from her grasp and yanked on his kyrtill. “I’m going to look.”
“You cannae.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She grabbed at him, pleading. “Please, Calum, dinnae leave me. What if something happens to you? My father will come for me—Rory will claim me—and I cannae bear the thought of losing you. Please, stay!”
Eyes wide, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Freya, what happened?”
“I-I went to Lealt, to Gavina and Fraser’s.”
His brow furrowed, lip jutting in confusion. “Why did—”
“Because it’s story night. And I—I am the Storyteller.”