Chapter 4
Merraid felt sorry for Lady Godit. The lady was obliged to wear a veil over her pockmarked face so as not to offend. She had to guard against suitors who only ingratiated themselves to her for her fortune. All things considered, one would expect her to be a bitter shrew.
But she wasn’t. All through dinner, the lady was polite.
Calm. Reasonable. She made quiet conversation with Gellir and the others and praised the cook’s efforts.
Indeed, if she weren’t quite so past her prime, Merraid considered she might have made a decent match for Gellir. Not perfect, but suitable.
As Merraid served sweetmeats to the diners, she saw Gellir beckon Godit near. He kissed her hand, never once flinching from her pox-scarred flesh. He murmured in words too soft to hear.
Lady Godit nodded.
He took her hand between his own. As he continued to speak, the lady’s shoulders sank.
He reached out then and cupped her cheek through the veil.
She stiffened and looked as if she might pull away.
But he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he spoke more emphatically until she pressed her free hand against her breast, clearly moved by Gellir’s words.
Merraid could guess what he was saying. He was telling her she was beautiful despite her scars. He was insisting she was worthy. He was apologizing for his duty to king and clan that prevented him from offering for her hand. He was telling her the truth.
Merraid’s throat began to clog with emotion. Gellir was truly the embodiment of chivalry. A perfect knight. Whoever finally won his hand in this contest would be a lucky lady indeed.
The meal finished shortly thereafter. But while she helped to clear the tables, she kept thinking about poor Lady Godit, alone at forty-two. Merraid didn’t want to end up like that.
There was plenty of time, she supposed. She was still young.
So was Gellir. Yet he seemed desperate to wed.
Should she worry? Granted, the marriage rules for nobles were much stricter than those for servants. Servants didn’t have to consider wealth or clan alliances or childbearing when they chose a mate.
But Merraid wanted bairns. And a husband she could grow old with. A man who would willingly kiss her hand even when it was wrinkled, the way Gellir had kissed Godit’s.
As she gathered the last of the linens, she wondered where she would find such a man. Then she shook off the thought like crumbs from a tablecloth. There was no time to waste worrying about her own future. Not while Gellir’s was at stake.
She’d been instructed to cut fresh rushes for the mews. Gellir’s next prospect, Lady Margaret, had a passion for hawking. But Merraid knew hawking was not all Lady Margaret had a passion for. She wondered how long it would take Gellir to discover he could never win Margaret’s heart.
An hour later, as Merraid approached the mews with her arms full of rushes, she spied Gellir. He was speaking with Raso the mewskeeper. A big hooded gyrfalcon perched on his gloved knuckles.
“Balachmòr will do ye proud, m’lord,” Raso said. “He’s the oldest, rather tame. But he’s still got a good eye and a healthy appetite.”
“Perfect. I fear I have little experience with falcons.”
“Och,” Raso said, spotting Merraid. “Ye’ve brought the rushes. Good.”
Gellir turned to greet her, explaining, “I spent my youth hacking, not hawking.”
“Ye’ll do fine,” she said, curiously charmed by his humble confession. “Balachmòr is a gentleman.”
The mewskeeper took the rushes from her and entered the shadowy mews to spread them about. Merraid dusted off her skirts.
Gellir stroked the feathers under Balachmòr’s chin. “So what can you tell me about Lady Margaret?”
“She’s…lively.”
“Lively?”
“Aye, and adventurous. She’s loves to hunt and fish.”
Gellir nodded. “What else?”
“Horseback ridin’. Archery. Swimmin’.”
“So I shall have to train hard to keep her happy?”
Merraid gave him a sad smile. “I’m not sure any man could keep her happy.”
“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Tell me what’s wrong with this one. Is she missing an eye? Does she limp? Is she the size of an ox?”
“Nothin’s wrong with her. I just don’t think she’ll be happy with ye.”
He frowned. “I think I’ve been insulted. You don’t think I can keep a woman happy?” He blew gently toward the gyrfalcon’s face, making it shiver.
Merraid knew how the bird felt. She was likewise affected by the soft, warm thrill of Gellir’s breath upon her cheek. Gellir could certainly keep her happy.
“Not this one,” she murmured.
“We shall see.”
Gellir understood shortly after he was introduced to Lady Margaret what Merraid had been trying to tell him.
Laird Dougal and a small company of fellow falconers were waiting with him by the mews when the lady appeared across the courtyard with her retinue. She was a formidable woman with a bold manner.
When she bellowed out and waved wildly, her manner was so broad and boisterous, he was amazed she didn’t startle the peregrine perched on her other hand.
Even more amazed when she left her entourage and loped toward them.
Her gown snapped and swirled behind her, and she strode as if she longed to be free of her flapping skirts.
Lively indeed, as Merraid had said. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was as aggressive between the linens. That didn’t necessarily seem a bad thing.
“Sir Gellir?” she called out.
Laird Dougal intercepted her with a small company of his nobles, coming between them at the last instant to make the introduction. “Sir Gellir, I’d like ye to meet Lady Margaret.”
“My pleasure,” the lady said, extending her free hand toward him.
The sudden movement startled Balachmòr. But Gellir managed to keep the gyrfalcon from biting off her fingers. He pulled the bird out of range and clasped the lady’s solid hand in his.
“M’lady?”
She nodded, withdrawing her hand. Then she scanned Dougal’s company. “Where’s Feiyan? Are ye hidin’ your bonnie bride, Dougal?”
His reply was halting. “N-nay. She’s…indisposed.”
Gellir furrowed his brows. Indisposed? He’d seen Feiyan not an hour ago, fighting a Darragh warrior on the practice field. But perhaps, being with child, she tired easily.
“Indisposed?” Lady Margaret’s face fell. “That’s a shame. I was hopin’ to show her my new glove.” She pensively fingered the finely tooled leather beneath her peregrine’s talons. “Perhaps later…when we return?”
Laird Dougal looked pained. “Maybe…next time?”
Her eyes dimmed, but she managed a nod. “Please tell her I hope she’s feelin’ better soon.”
“I will.”
When she lifted her chin again to face Gellir, she was beaming. But her broad smile couldn’t hide the disappointment lingering in her eyes. “Shall we?”
She didn’t wait for permission.
“Lead on,” Laird Dougal said.
They proceeded out of the keep and toward the cliff of the firth, where seabirds were plentiful. Raso the mewskeeper had told him gyrfalcons like Balachmòr liked to hunt for crabs, and peregrines like Margaret’s could take down gulls.
“I must confess,” Gellir confided to Margaret as they crossed the sward, “I know little about falconry.”
She narrowed her eyes at his gyrfalcon. “I know your bird. ’Tis one o’ Feiyan’s favorites. Balachmòr is a sweet old man. He’ll be a good fit.”
Gellir wished he could say as much for Lady Margaret. But if what Merraid had hinted at and what he was beginning to suspect was true, no husband would ever be a good fit for her. Though she dared not reveal her secret, he guessed her preference was for more feminine company.
Gellir wouldn’t breathe a word about it, of course. He was a man of chivalry. He would grant her the same courtesy and kindness he would any prospective bride. Even if he knew he could never be the kind of lover she desired.
She tried. She made a noble effort when they were alone at the cliff’s edge.
“Ye do resemble your cousin a bit,” she told him with a wistful smile, as if attempting to talk herself into caring for him.
“Ach, the Rivenloch curse,” he jested.
“She’s lovely, your cousin,” she protested.
“And ye have the same dark hair…” She turned to study his face.
“The same wry mouth. And your eyes…” Heartache flashed like lightning through her gaze, gone as quickly as it had come.
When she spoke again, her voice was thick with emotion. “Molten silver, like hers.”
Gellir clasped her arm with his free hand. He could see she was trying to convince herself she might grow to like him. He also knew that wouldn’t happen.
“But I’ll never be Feiyan, aye?” he said in soft understanding.
Startled, she stiffened and looked away, her jaw tight. “I don’t know what ye mean.”
“I fear you wear your heart on your sleeve, m’lady,” he chided.
She glanced up briefly and swiftly changed the subject. “Shall we release them now?”
Before he could answer, she loosened the peregrine’s jesses and took off its hood.
He mimicked her actions, freeing his gyrfalcon.
The breeze rising up the cliff’s edge ruffled Balachmòr’s feathers. Then both birds lifted off together to sail into the updraft. In the space of a breath, they had dwindled into tiny specks high above the shore.
“’Tis amazin’, isn’t it…” Margaret said, gazing pensively at her falcon, hovering over the firth, “…the way they soar into the heavens like angels?”
“Mm.”
“Sometimes I wish I could do that,” she murmured. “Leap from the cliff…and just disappear.”
Gellir heard the despair in her voice. Yet there was nothing he could say to make things better. Nobles lived in an unwavering world of inflexible rules. Neither of them could wed for love.
“You and I are pawns in a royal game,” he said. “It seems neither of us is fated to follow our hearts.”
Despite her bravely raised chin, her eyes welled with tears.
While the others were distracted, releasing their falcons, he took her by the shoulder. “Promise me you won’t leap from a cliff.”