Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (10 page)

The shield bore a simple design of a single white arrow on a blue field. She had seen that design before, in a dream, carried by a mysterious golden warrior.
Dear God,
she thought. Just as in her dream, she now stood alone on a snow-coated hill to greet warriors, while her kinsmen hunted in the glen below. The golden warrior in the dark blue cloak, with his shield of a single arrow was here too; all he lacked was the magic of the faery realm.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Wait!" she called, running a step or two after him.

He drew rein and turned. "What is it?"

"Your... your shield shows an arrow on a plain field. What does it mean?"

"'Tis for Saint Sebastien," he answered. "An arrow is his symbol, and serves well for mine."

Why would she dream of Sebastien le Bret before she had met him, and why would she have found an arrow in the grass, as if it were an omen? She did not understand what any of it meant. He was not the warrior her clan needed.

"Sebastien," she repeated. "Why your baptismal name? What of your surname, Le Bret? The crests that Norman knights carry on their shields and banners refer to their family names."

"There are many knights," he said, "from Brittany." He circled the horse and cantered away.

Alainna stared after him. The wind whipped at her plaid, stirred her hair. The sunset glowed over snowy grasses, and sparked bronze in the armor of the warriors and the leader who waited for her. Her dream had come to life.

Her heart pounded hard. The golden warrior did exist after all. But he brought destruction, not salvation.

In the glen below, her kinsmen shouted as a stag bounded across their path. They began to chase it, following the dogs. Alainna stood on the hill and watched them, caught in the maze of her thoughts.

Although she did not look at him, she was intensely aware of the Breton knight who waited with his men.

By the time her kinsmen returned after losing the deer, the setting sun cast blue shadows over the hills. Alainna began to walk down the hill toward the men. A white hare scurried across her path to disappear beneath a gorse bush.

She sighed. Clan Laren did not even have a hare to put in their kettle, with so many mouths to feed this evening. A fortunate day had turned unlucky indeed.

Another hare scuttled after the first. Alainna stopped, wondering what stirred them from their hiding places to cross her path. She turned then, and froze all movement.

A few yards from where she stood, a boar emerged from a stand of trees. The small, high-set eyes gleamed, the long snout lifted to reveal yellowed tusks and a black mouth. Mottled brown, huge, and ugly, it appeared agitated, head swinging up and down as if it meant to attack.

The horses on the hill and the hunting dogs in the glen must have disturbed the boar while it foraged among the trees. Alainna knew the animals had uncertain tempers. She stepped cautiously down the slope.

The boar snorted, wagged its long head, and trotted toward her. She began to run, stumbling a little on the steep hill. Crashing noises behind her told her that the boar followed.

They were fast, dangerous, and temperamental animals, she knew, with poor vision but for what lay directly in their path. If she ran a crazed path and got out of its sight, and if she could find a tree to climb, she would be safe until her kinsmen could reach her.

If the beast came near her now, it would swipe its powerful tusks at her ankles, following an instinct to cut prey down at the feet, rendering it helpless to escape.

That horrifying thought gave her renewed strength. She turned and ran past a cluster of gorse bushes, ignoring the stinging needles that pierced her skin through her woolen trews. She began to zigzag in an effort to confuse the boar.

She glanced back, stumbling again, nearly falling, dropping her bow in her haste to get up. The boar swung stubbornly after her, crashing through the gorse. Alainna pushed onward, running through dry bracken toward another group of trees.

Behind her, she heard shouts, barking dogs, and the thunder of hooves, but could spare no more backward glances. The boar's relentless snorting was loud and insistent.

She saw a wide alder tree ahead and ran toward it, reaching for a lower branch. Leaping into the tree's sanctuary, she steadied herself on a thick limb, and glanced down. Without her bow, she had no defense, and clung desperately to the tree.

Seconds later, the beast rammed the trunk, jarring her perch. Her foot slipped with the impact. The boar swiped at her dangling boot. She jerked her leg out of the way and scrambled higher, shaking in terror. The beast slammed into the tree again and again, bellowing its fury.

A movement nearby caught her attention. She glanced up, startled, as a pale horse approached, carrying a rider in steel and indigo. A blue shield with a single arrow gleamed on the saddle. Sebastien le Bret, lance couched under his arm, guided his horse quickly toward the alder where Alainna clung.

Quickly, efficiently, he wheeled sidelong, lifted the lance, and hurled it at the boar. The point sank into the target, and the boar grunted and fell heavily at the base of the tree. The wooden shaft quivered in its flesh.

Alainna stared, stunned, at Sebastien. Her breath burned in her throat and her heart slammed. She could not seem to move her limbs, could not seem to think, her mind emptied by panic. Nor could she shift her gaze from the knight's.

He reined in his sidestepping horse. Men gathered behind him, Highlanders and Normans both. Alainna saw only the knight who rode close to the tree. He turned his mount so that he could lean toward her, and extended an arm, his gaze steady on hers.

Clinging to the branch, she clung to his gaze as well. She felt as if she were drowning and he held the only rope. All else but his eyes, his outstretched hand, faded around her.

"Alainna," he said gently. He moved his fingers, beckoning. "The beast is killed. Come out of the tree."

She nodded stiffly, her panic clearing. She felt foolish. Refusing his hand, she edged along the branch, and paused uncertainly when she saw the dead boar.

"Alainna," Sebastien said firmly, "come with me."

Come with me.
His words brought back the memory of her dream, where the golden warrior had held out his hand to her—although she had not been up a tree, shaking like a terrified child—and had said the same words. In the dream, she had known that her life would change—might even end—once she took his hand.

She hesitated. Sebastien reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her toward him. She swung into place behind him, looping her arms around his waist for balance. He urged the horse forward, and her kinsmen ran toward her.

"Alainna girl, are you harmed?" Lome asked. He looked so old, she thought, his long face gone gray with worry, his white hair straggling, his shoulders bowed. But his keen, sky-blue eyes were sharp with concern.

"I am fine," she said. Lome grasped her hand, and nodded thanks to Sebastien. Then he walked past them to kneel beside the fallen boar.

Giric came near them and murmured thanks in Gaelic to Sebastien. While he spoke, he held Alainna's hand, and she smiled down at him. She saw Sebastien cast them a small frown. Lome returned, holding the javelin that he had pulled free. He wiped it clean on his plaid and handed it back to Sebastien, who dropped it into a saddle loop.

"Clan Laren thanks you, sir knight," Lome said in English. "You killed a boar as fierce as the one who took down the mighty champion Diarmuid in ages past. You have saved our beloved girl. We are forever in your debt."

Alainna stared in amazement. She was not surprised to hear formal words of thanks from Lome, but she was startled by his use of English. Lome rarely used the southern tongue, regarding it as inferior to Gaelic. That demonstration of respect went far beyond his words of gratitude.

"'Twas an honor to help the demoiselle," Sebastien said.

"My thanks as well, sirrah," she said, although she would not declare herself indebted forever, as Lorne had done. She swung her leg free to scramble down from the horse.

Sebastien grabbed her arm to help her down, and held her wrist once she stood beside the horse. Even through the thick leather of his glove, she felt the comforting strength of his grip. She pulled away.

"I hope some fresh boar meat will help to make up for the loss of the deer," he said.

"It will," she answered, then stepped back.

"Good meat, and a fine champion to thank for it," Lorne said, smiling. "You and your men are welcome to share our meal at Kinlochan, of course. It was your kill, after all."

"We are grateful for your generosity," Sebastien said. "Some of my men will help you tie up the boar. My lady, I am glad you are safe." He nodded briefly to her, and guided his horse toward his men.

Safe.
The word echoed in her mind as she watched him ride over to speak to his comrades.
Safe.
He could not know how essential safety was to her. No champion, even if he slayed a monster at her feet, could vanquish the fear that haunted her daily—that her clan would disappear forever.

She sighed and passed her hand wearily over her head. Lorne circled an arm around her, and she leaned gratefully into his sinewy embrace. As they walked away, she wondered how truly safe any of them were now that the king had sent Normans to Kinlochan.

Chapter 6

"We would like one of our guests to tell the evening story now that our supper is done," Lorne said from his chair beside the central open hearth. "Sebastien le Bret, tell us a tale from your own country, if you will."

Sebastien took another sip from his cup of ale to cover his surprise. The men and women of the clan, most of whom seemed as elderly as Lorne, looked at Sebastien from their seats around the hearth. His own men, seated on benches alongside two trestle tables, stared at him also.

His impulse was to refuse. He paused. The fire in the circular stone hearth cast a reddish glow that reflected on the waiting faces, and a hot crackle filled the silence.

He glanced around the room, a large chamber that showed solid construction and simple comfort. Kinlochan's main hall was a long, raftered room made of stout timbers, with wooden piers dividing side aisles into bays that flanked the central area. A thick layer of clean dry grasses and flower petals on the floor added a clean fragrance. The planked walls were hung with lengths of wool woven in colorful patterns, and various weapons and large shields studded in bronze were suspended around the upper walls.

Seated on benches and stools were a host of Highlanders, Norman knights, and the squires who had accompanied the king's men. All of them looked expectantly at Sebastien. He cleared his throat, and sipped from his cup once again. He had sometimes told stories to his little son while the child drifted to sleep, but he was no bard, and had no desire to display that lack of ability.

"The gifts of the Scottish storytellers are well known," he finally said. "I would rather hear an authentic Scottish tale told by a true bard."

"It is Highland custom for a guest to tell a tale the first night of his visit," Alainna said in English. She stood beside her great-uncle's chair. "We would like to hear something that is told at hearth-sides in your country."

Sebastien watched her as she spoke, half distracted. Firelight slid over her body, enhancing its supple curves and sheening her long braids to rippling bronze. He had been aware, ever since he had recognized her out on the snowy hill, that she was to become his wife by order of the king. No matter what conflicts he had concerning the marriage, she was a rich prize for a man's bed. His body reacted to the sight of her, and to the sultry sound of her voice.

Soon he would have to tell her why he had come to Kinlochan. He did not relish the moment. None of the Highlanders, he was sure, wanted this marriage.

Nor did he relish explaining that he would leave Kinlochan as soon as possible. Knights with different lords to serve and various holdings to oversee often left their wives and families for months and years at a time. He knew that too well, yet had no choice now but to repeat that again.

He glanced around at a rainbow of smiles, small and large, bright and dim, toothless and full. His own men plainly grinned as if to dare him to accept Lome's request, while the Highlanders looked eagerly toward him. Clearly he had no choice but to oblige.