Chapter 23 #3
All he felt at this moment was fury as he frowned down at the document.
Bloody hell. Who did the English-loving King Malcolm think he was crossing?
Hew had written to his kin, singing Lady Carenza’s praises. Had Feiyan said nothing? Had Laird Deirdre failed to intercede with the king on Hew’s behalf?
Or had Malcolm slighted the clan, forgetting it was the Rivenlochs who protected his border?
What milksop of a husband had the child king chosen for his beautiful Carenza?
He scanned the words and let his eye fall on the signature at the bottom. His breath caught.
Laird Deirdre Cameliard of Rivenloch.
It was his aunt’s hand and her seal.
Whatever had been done had been done with her permission.
Then his gaze traveled back up the document.
There were the blows of the hammer. Striking his heart. Over and over and over again.
Gellir.
Gellir.
Gellir.
His cousin. Carenza had been promised to his cousin.
Still there was no pain.
Only cold and hollow death dwelt in his chest.
He let the scroll fall from his fingers.
Carenza was saying something to him. But he was deaf to everything but the clanging of that name upon his armored heart.
Gellir.
Gellir.
Gellir.
He was beyond hurt. Beyond betrayal. Beyond rage. Beyond feeling.
Slowly, as if he moved through muck, he shouldered his axe and pushed through the doors of the great hall.
The sky was black. The clouds hung low. It was raining again. But he felt neither the wet nor the cold.
Anger burned low inside him like a glowing coal.
He strode across the courtyard, through the gates, past the road, over the rain-slick sward, climbing higher and higher, until it seemed he might be swallowed up by the clouds.
There, at the top of the mountain, all his pain and fury sparked to life. He raised his axe and, like a dragon breathing fire, bellowed in rage at the heavens.
An instant later, the god of his ancestors replied, sending down a bolt of lightning to kiss the blade of his axe.
Hew released the weapon just before the wood handle exploded and earth-shaking thunder rumbled down. Current crackled in the air all around him as he staggered back from the snapping whip of Thor.
When the storm receded, Hew was left among the black and smoking shards of his weapon, clinging to the crushed and broken pieces of his heart.
He looked toward Kildunan. He supposed the monastery would serve as his home now until the king found a bride for him. He wouldn’t return to Dunlop. And he didn’t have the stomach to speak to his treacherous Rivenloch kin.
His mouth turned down at the unsavory thought of marriage. He would rather take a vow of chastity than settle for a bride who wasn’t Carenza.
One last bit of mockery awaited him. As he took his first steps toward Kildunan, he found a charred piece of his axe handle at his feet.
The remaining runes said Love conquers…
His words and his laughter were bitter. “Love conquers…nothing.”
He crushed it beneath his heel as he walked toward an uncertain future.
Carenza wept every night.
For her lost love.
For the king’s thoughtless decree.
For the Laird of Rivenloch’s poor judgment.
For the cruel hand of fate.
For Hew, whose heart she’d surely broken, despite the fact that he’d left without a backward glance.
And aye, even for the man she was to marry, for though Sir Gellir might claim her hand, he would never possess her heart.
But weeping upset her father and troubled the clan, so she kept her sorrow to herself.
By day she was kind and sweet, patient and charming.
If the sparkle in her eyes was dimmed by the mist of melancholy, only the animals could tell.
Hamish came to the gate for a scratch when she was near.
The courtyard squirrel shared her litter of kits. And Troye followed her around the keep.
The clan was mostly excited about the Dunlop-Rivenloch union to come. Everyone had heard of Sir Gellir, the tournament champion of Scotland. It was truly an honor to be chosen to be his wife. To carry on his name. To bear his offspring.
She’d been thinking a lot about bearing offspring lately. She’d always kept close track of her courses, and she was supposed to start her menses today.
Naturally, it was also one of Carenza’s busiest days at Dunlop. Easter. After the long period of Lent, almost everyone looked forward to the lavish feast where the Dunlop tables sagged with roasts and pies, eggs and cream, succulent meats and rich custards.
She never let a few aches and pains trouble her. It wouldn’t be the first time she suffered the pangs of her courses while hosting a feast. With any luck, she would start her menses on the morrow, while the clan was recovering from their overindulgence today and she could lie down for a nap.
As she sat down beside her father at supper, she saw a familiar jar beside his platter of simnel cake.
“Is that Kildunan’s honey?”
“Aye.”
“Och, Da,” she teased. “Have ye been squirrelin’ it away?”
She expected him to give her a conspiratorial wink. Instead he said, “Nay. ’Twas an Easter gift from…” He cleared his throat. “From the monastery.”
An awkward silence followed. She could guess who had brought the honey. And the fact Hew hadn’t bothered to say good day to her was disheartening.
She should have let it go. She should have pasted on a smile to appease her father and murmured, “How kind.”
But she was wounded by Hew’s rejection. After all, soon they would be cousins. Now she felt as if she’d lost not only a suitor, but a friend.
So instead she muttered, “He might have lingered long enough to say hello.”
“I told him ye weren’t here.” He spread honey on a slice of simnel cake.
“What?”
He took a bite of cake and shook his head. “There’s no sense in draggin’ out the poor fellow’s torment. Ye’ll be gone in a fortnight anyway.”
Spent in Hew’s company, a fortnight would have been an eternity. Long enough to memorize every inch of his body. Long enough to speak aloud all the hopes and dreams they’d once had for the future. Long enough to make a lifetime worth of memories.
Now her father had stolen even that wee gift from her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She couldn’t blame the laird. He was doing what he thought best. Like culling coos, a quick blow and a sharp knife probably caused the least amount of suffering. But no one ever asked how the coo felt about it.
John the kitchen lad set a trencher of creamy mushroom, leek, and saffron pottage before her. Normally, she would have slurped up the velvety soup with enthusiasm. But today the strong aroma troubled her nose. She pushed the trencher aside.
“Simnel?” her father offered.
She nodded. He carved off a fruity slice for her and placed the honey within her reach.
Bypassing the honey, she nibbled a corner of the cake. But she had little appetite for it.
The next course was roast lamb, which she abhorred. She tried not to guess which spring lamb had been sacrificed as she tucked bits of meat into her napkin to sneak to the hounds later.
None of the subsequent courses appealed to her. Not the rabbit stew. Not the buttered vegetables. Not the capons. Not the cherry custard. Not the gingerbread. And even the fine French wine her father opened for the occasion turned her stomach.
She caught John’s sleeve when he came to remove her untouched gingerbread. “Do we have any pickled eels left in the pantry?”
“I’ll look, m’lady.”
Her father chuckled. “Didn’t get enough pickled eels durin’ Lent?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. She supposed it was silly to crave something most of the clan was sick of, but they were the only thing that seemed worth eating.
That night, she wept again. For herself. For her husband to be. For Hew, whom she’d lost, not only as a suitor, but apparently as a friend.
Her menses didn’t start the next day. Or the next. Or the following week.
By the time she packed for the journey to Darragh and bid her father farewell, there was no doubt in her mind.
Her breasts were sore. Her belly was troubled. And she had an unnatural craving for pickled eels and little else.
Sir Gellir of Rivenloch’s bride-to-be was carrying a child. And it wasn’t his.