Becca St.John (19 page)

She met his eyes, pulled in by his compassion, almost missed the sweet sound of Deian’s voice, carrying up to the rafters, calling all to listen.

“He’s singing.”

“He’s been singing with her since the day we arrived. That’s their bond.”

They rose to stand at the rail, to look down over the great hall. Lady Alissa sat at the harp, Deian stood by her side, both upon a dias surrounded on three sides by pedestal candles.

Lady Alissa played as Deian sang, “
Tale of my mother, song of our land, never to be forgotten in the heart of our clan.
” And then he sat beside Lady Alissa, who carried on with the tale.

Seonaid faltered, stepped back, but Padraig had her firmly by the arm. “Come here.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close, but she fought him, terrified. How much of her story would be revealed, played out in front of her son, in front of all the Reahs?

“Shhh,” he calmed her, “it’ll be a friendly telling, your son is there. She’d not harm the boy.”

Like a doe faced by hunters with a fawn in the bush, Seonaid wanted to run, to pull all eyes to her, away from Deian. She wanted to flee, so no one would see him, hiding there in plain sight. She looked about, refused to listen, but Padraig moved behind her, his arms crossed at her middle, anchored on the balustrade, holding her up, against him, trapped and held dear in one.

“Please, nooooooo…” Her keen carried across the singing, like a wailing wind. Eyes shifted, looking up as though a ghost were there, overseeing the eerie tale, but Seonaid and Padraig were hidden in the shadows of the balcony.

Although Lady Alissa stopped singing, she continued to strum her harp, on notes sweet and otherworldly. Deian stood, poised, tension strumming through him as though he’d been stretched and tuned as the wire in the harp. He looked to Lady Alissa, then back to the balcony. She nodded and he ran, past the tables, falling in a tangle of dogs rummaging for food, righted himself and shot up the stairway, his feet pounding on the floor above.

The keening stopped. Padraig eased Seonaid back, away from any chance of being seen, pulled her close as the singing began again.

“Mama,” Deian whispered, slowing as he neared, as though afraid of what he would find. “Mama?” He saw the two, in the alcove. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, afraid to move closer.

“No, sweet boy, no, you could never hurt me,” she whispered, and held out her arms, clasping him tight when he hurtled into her embrace. “Never, ever, could you hurt me.” And then, to Padraig, she said, “I’m tired of cryin’.”

“Aye, well,” he chuckled, despite the welling up of his own eyes. “You’ve done enough of it.”

She sniffled, and used the cloth Padraig handed her to wipe her running eyes and nose. Deian eased his frantic grip, but didn’t let go entirely.

“Why haven’t you taken me away with you, Mama? Why are you here, but not with me?”

Seonaid shifted away from Padraig, got down on her knees. “I have to go away, Deian. I thought it would make you sad to see me.”

Deian held her tighter. “I’ve been good, I’m good with the horses. You can take me.”

“Aye,” she pleaded with him to understand, “but you will be happier here with Lady Alissa, with other children. The wilds is no place for a boy to grow up.”

“It is.” Deian’s head bobbed so hard she thought he might break his neck. “Tell her, Padraig. The other boys think I’m the strongest and bravest. That’s what Lady Alissa is singing about. How we traveled-across-the-highlands-and-fought-bad-men-and-how-I-work-with—” he gulped a breath, as he’d been speaking in one long word, “—the-horses-and-saved-you-and-Padraig,” he had to stop, to huff out the last. “From near death. I’m a legend, she says, born of a legend. She says we are like a bird that burns to the ground and comes back beautiful and with special powers for others.”

“You love her.”

“Aye. She gives me sweets.”

Seonaid hiccupped. “Aye, well, that would make me love her, too.”

“But she spends too much time in the keep.”

Seonaid plunked down on the floor with that. “That would be difficult.”

“She tells me I must be a gentleman.” Deian’s face scrunched in disgust. “I’m never goin’ to be a gentleman. I’m goin’ to be a warrior like you, like Padraig!”

“There’s naught wrong with being a gentleman,” Seonaid started to tell him, but he spit.

“There is!” He looked to Padraig. “You’re not a gentleman, are you?”

Padraig shook his head. “I’m like your mama, a warrior.”

“See?” Deian pointed at Padraig. “We’re like you. So we need to go with you.”

“But I’m going to a convent, Deian.” She hadn’t meant to tell Padraig like this, hadn’t really meant to tell Deian, had only just made up her mind.

“You’re a bloody-minded woman.” Padraig stood up, disgusted. She ignored him.

“But Deian,” she murmured, as she brushed his hair away from his face. “I’m coming back. I will return, as God is my witness, I will return.”

He’d turned to watch Padraig, but shifted his eyes to her. “What’s a convent?”

“A place that swallows women whole and won’t spit them up,” Padraig groused.

Seonaid stood. “Didn’t you say I had to learn to love myself?”

“You do when you’re out there,” he gestured, as though that place was around them. “Away from foolish prying people.”

“I can’t live my life away from people, Padraig.”

“You’re a bloody legend, you can do what you damn well please.”

Deian sat on the floor, kicking with his heel. “I don’t want you to go to a place that swallows women. You aren’t like a lady. You’ll hate it.”

Padraig nodded, in agreement. “He’s right, you know. You aren’t like other women.”

“I doubt the nuns are, either.”

“You think your clan is going to judge you?” he snapped. “Well, the church will do a damn sight worse. They’ll tear you apart.”

“You’re the one who told me I didn’t know how to love myself. Well, I believe God can help me with that.”

“Not locked away, he’s not. You’re aren’t meant to be cloistered. You can’t even stand to be inside a crofter’s cottage for longer than a meal. How are you going to stand being inside four walls, washing floors and dishes and dusting? That’s not you.”

“Och, Mama, you never liked house chores, everyone knows that.”

He was five years old, what did he know?
“I can learn.”

“Learn to be someone you’re not? That’s not what your God wants for you.”

Seonaid narrowed her eyes. “If He’s ‘my’ God and not yours, how can you be knowing this?”

Padraig stood, toe to toe with her. “Because I know you, I know what makes you beautiful, and I’m not talking about your skin or your eyes or your hair.” He flicked her braid off her shoulder. “I mean here…” He tapped at her heart. “You glow from inside when you’re riding the highlands, breathing in the scent of heather, or facing the loch and watching the sun dance on its surface. That’s who you are, how you’re meant to be.” He stomped away. “Not locked in some bloody convent.”

His head came up, he stilled. Seonaid looked beyond him, to the end of the gallery, and saw Lady Alissa watching them. Deian saw her, scrambled to stand. Seonaid expected him to run off but he didn’t, he moved up, leaned against Seonaid, held her hand. Padraig backed up, took Deian’s other hand.

Seonaid knew she should leave the two—now—but couldn’t. Deian’s reaching for her like that, his wee hand in hers, a thing to cherish. So she stood, united even when she knew it was contrary to the picture she wanted to portray. Together, as one, they watched, Seonaid mesmerized, as the woman didn’t so much walk as glide across the distance.

Deian spoke first. “This is my mama, the one you sing about.”

Lady Alissa squatted down, to be on eye level with Deian. “Aye, I rather thought that would be the case.”

“She wants to go to a convent, but that’s a bad place to go.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Lady Alissa’s large brown eyes met Seonaid’s violet ones. “The church has much to offer some. But you three seem a handsome enough family.” She stood before Seonaid. “They’ve not been whole without you.”

Seonaid stiffened, Lady Alissa adjusted the hem of her sleeve. “But I don’t think they mourned you any more than you mourned them. Why would you do that? Why would you break all of your hearts?”

Seonaid pulled free, stepped back.

“God’s given you two hearts, right here, to help build your own. Why would you throw that away?”

“You know nothing!” Seonaid snapped.

“Don’t I, Seonaid MacKay?” Lady Alissa held firm. “If you’d listened earlier, you might have said differently.”

“I don’t need to listen to your song.”

“You do, Mama.” Deian reached for her again, tugging on her hand.

“No.” Seonaid pulled free. “No.” She made to leave, but Deian grabbed her again.

“Don’t leave me, Mama. I don’t want the church to swallow you up.”

It was her turn to kneel, to meet Deian’s eyes. “I do this for you, son. For you, to be free, to not be tainted by me.”

“I want to be tainted.”

Seonaid shook her head, pulled him in, held him against her for one last touch. “I love you. Will always love you. Remember that,” she whispered, as the wisp of a memory floated into her mind, of her mother saying  those same words to her.

Seonaid wasn’t certain she’d ever recovered from that.

Yet here she stood, preparing to leave, her gaze, her heart, her soul focused on Deian, as Padraig came up behind her.

“And me?” His question so soft, she turned to the sound, unwilling to miss a single touch of his words on her heart. “I could force you to stay.”

She shook her head. “You’d never do that.”

“I hate you.” Deian pulled her back to him.

“Aye, that’s best.” She reached up, took the brooch from her plaid, pressed it into his hand, curling his fingers around it. “Be brave.” She squeezed his fist before looking to Alissa, “You’ll take care of him, foster him?”

Alissa stood tall. “Why, when he has a mother?”

“Because you’re better for him than she is,” Seonaid responded, as though she weren’t the mother in question.

Alissa shook her head.

“Aye, you are.”

Again, Alissa shook her head, putting it to the lad. “Deian?” she asked.

He looked from one to the other. “I don’t need you!” he shouted at Alissa, “I don’t need anyone.” And he ran, down the gallery, to the stairs, away from choices no boy should ever have to make.

CHAPTER 20 ~ STORIES TOLD

There was a tavern in the village. A modest establishment, as Eriboll was a small community, but large enough for rowdy sailers stopping in the port. A group of young troubadors, who’d been up at the keep earlier, sat around a table, plucking at instruments, intent on what each was doing. Another group rattled cups of dice, sent them rolling across a table to cheers and moans. In the back of the room, two men threw darts.

Along the side wall, a row of trestle tables and settles, their seats deep, backs high, forming a series of cubbyholes. That’s where he found her, head bowed over a tankard clutched in her hands.

He reached the table, drawing her clouded eyes to him. “I didna’ think nuns got drunk in taverns.”

She snorted, half a smile lifting her mouth.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve changed your mind?”

A lift of shoulders was her only reply, though she spoke volumes in the way her eyes drifted to the table, her fingers white in their grip on the drinking vessel. Doubts. The demons that plagued her. Doubts. He wished he could call them to battle, beat them into submission, but they were her doubts, the melancholy her own. No one else could fight that battle.

He settled into the bench across from her, looking at the top of her head, wishing he knew how to break into her mind, switch her thoughts to brighter, lighter things, when her head popped up, eyes narrowed in fierce determination. “You’ll bed me tonight, Padraig.”

“Ho!” He leaned back in his bench, thankful for the high sides and back. This was not a public conversation. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Only two.” She lifted the tankard, befuddled to see it empty. “Hey, you!” she shouted to a serving lass, shoving the vessel high enough to be seen and pointing toward Padraig to ensure he have one, too.

Padraig pushed her arm down. “You don’t know how to drink, Seonaid.”

She snorted. “I don’t know how to do much, it seems.”

He took advantage of his hand on her arm to touch, brushing his thumb along the warm silkiness of her inner wrist. “You know how to do plenty, so what’s got you doubting that?”

“Are you mad?” she asked. “I’ve made a mess of this whole thing.”

“Aye,” he smiled, couldn’t help it, and nodded.

“Don’t.” She swatted his arm away, crossed her own arms at her chest.

“Don’t touch you?” He raised his eyebrows. “But I thought you were ordering me to service you tonight.”

That earned him a profile. She wouldn’t look at him.

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Have you talked to the friar?”

“Before I saw you and Deian.”

“And he thinks you fit for a convent?”

She traced the base of her tankard. “What else am I to do? At least the convent needs me.”

“Not as much as Deian and I do.”

She sucked in her breath, blew it out slowly, focused on the wall of their little hidey-hole. Her mind full of her doubts…or demons…or whatever it was that chased her into her harebrained schemes.

He knew Seonaid, knew her well enough to take notice, as she tucked her chin into her chest, let her hair fall down either side of her face. She was hiding from what she was about to say. The liquor was loosening her tongue. He leaned closer.

“Here you go!” The tavern lass plunked a full tankard down before Padraig, grabbed Seonaid’s empty and filled it with the pitcher she carried. Padraig sorted out coins and paid the lass. By the time he turned back, Seonaid had returned to contemplating the wall of their booth.

Exasperated, he leaned back hard. His mother had been melancholic and he feared, if Seonaid’s spirits weren’t lifted soon, she’d be in that state permanently. It didn’t help that the musicians were fooling with sad, lovesick tunes.