The Scottish Selkie (3 page)

Her arms fell to her side and she curled her hands into fists. She slammed her foot down on the stone floor of the dark chapel, yelped with pain, then rubbed her ankle. 

The priest stepped back. “Did you harm yourself, child?” 

“No. Neither will I let a Scot harm me. I will not marry this man, Father.” The oaf, Malcolm, looked like he was carved of stone. The brown mop of hair on his head had a strange hint of red and his dark blue eyes were huge, like a cow's.

The scrawny priest's mouth dropped open, which was a sight, for he barely had any chin. “My king, the woman refuses to wed.” 

Kenneth curled his fingers beneath his firm chin. “Yes father, but if she does not marry I shall have to cut off her head.” 

The priest swallowed as he stared at his king. 

Kenneth answered the question in the priest's eyes. “What you heard is true. She tried to slay me as I slept.” 

“Oh,” the priest's eyes went round and he glanced back at Bethoc, “you will wed, m'lady.” 

“Because the church has no love for the Picts,” she spat. She was to have wed Drostan, lean, yet muscular with hair the shade of a raven's wing. He had an arrogant way about him, but he could make her laugh. Bethoc had not loved Drostan, but she would have made him a good wife. She’d wanted to marry him.

“It may be so as the Picts have no love for the church. The King has spoken and I take his word next to God's.” Upon clearing his throat, the priest rushed through the vows in Latin, then nodded at Malcolm. 

“I do,” Malcolm vowed in a flat expressionless tone. 

The priest bobbed his head at Bethoc and she jerked away, turning her back. Ignoring Bethoc's gesture and her silence, the priest pronounced the two handfasted for a year's time. 

Malcolm cocked his head toward Kenneth. “Now, what do I do with her?”

“Feed her.” Kenneth rolled his eyes. “The scrawny chit must be starved. It takes a lot of energy to try to kill a king.” 

“Come, wife.” Malcolm took her arm in his. “Let us go to the hall and break our fast.”

It was as good a time as any to eat. Bethoc shuffled her feet at his side across the stone floor of the chapel and through the short grass toward the long wooden hall. Too sad to pull away, she let Malcolm continue to hold her arm as they entered the feasting hall through the double oaken door carved with Celtic tracery. 

“Lady Bethoc, this is the hall where you will sup.” A puzzled look crossed Malcolm's face, he added, “and rest.” 

Bethoc nearly bit her tongue. “I have to sleep with soldiers?”

“No, it is here, that I have been sleeping, but I forgot I have a wife now.”

Bethoc could tell by the crease on his brow that he was musing this over as he spoke. 

“I have a rath on the other side of the chapel. I never use it, howbeit is mine. You will stay there. With me.” 

As her rising rage renewed her energy, Bethoc yanked her arm from his grasp. “If you mean to have me, think again. You'll never touch me, you Scottish cur.” 

“Scottish cur husband.
Do not forget that my lady wife.” Malcolm’s lips twisted into a cynical grin. “Sit down and break your fast.”

The rumbling of her stomach made Bethoc happy to oblige, but she vowed not to give in to any other demands this fool made. 

She swept her eyes across the round hall, surprised at how truly small it was, crammed with a roughly hewn, long table and two padded benches as well as people to fill them. It was the Picts who had power, the Picts who had wealth. The Scots were nothing. Still, she had not known they were this poor.

As she sat, Malcolm squeezed in next to her on the bench. Bethoc gasped as his elbow brushed against her. Even beneath her tunic, his touch made her skin tingle. She must be mad. “You sit too close. Move over.” 

“We will be much closer tonight.” Malcolm's lips twisted into a smirk. 

Bethoc's palm itched to strike him. Spotting his eating dagger, carelessly laid on the table, she lunged for the blade.

But Malcolm caught her wrist with no more effort than if he’d slapped his hand down to kill a fly. His warm fingers clamped around her like an iron manacle. 

“My dagger.” Malcolm's eyes twinkled with amusement. 

“You took mine. How will I eat?” 

“M'lady, did you fear we Scots had no manners? You have not wed a barbarian. I will gladly cut your meat for you. Do Picts not serve their ladies from their plates?” 

“Yes, but I am not your lady.” 

“No, you are much more. You are my wife.” 

“Ha!” Bethoc crossed her arms against her chest. He wasn't a husband, he was a guard. Well, she would show him. She wasn't a wife; she was a menacing foe. 

A servant girl set a bowl of porridge and a spoon before her. Bethoc dipped the tip the wooden spoon into the lumpy gruel. 

“To be sure, I do not even need to slice your fare.” Malcolm smiled at her as if she was a small child.

Holding the spoon in her hand, Bethoc gave a twist of her wrist and flipped the glob of porridge onto Malcolm's face. The white blob landed on his forehead and dribbled down his nose.

A vengeful chuckle rolled from her mouth. She propped her elbows on the table, cupped her head with her hands, and heaved with laughter. 

Malcolm brushed his hand across his forehead, wiping white mush onto his fingers. Flicking his hand to the side, he shook bits of porridge onto the floor. 

Feeling merry from laughter, she forgot herself and wiped the remnants off his brow. Her fingertips tingled from the contact with his smooth, warm skin. Bethoc peered at her hand in puzzlement. What caused that odd sensation? She glanced up, meeting his gaze, she pondered why she found his moist, brown eyes so fascinating. She couldn't blink or turn away. Absently she wiped her fingers clean on her skirt.

“Best wishes to you, Malcolm,” a gray haired man said as he slapped him on the back. “I hear you will need it. Is this your bride? The wild Pict who tried to kill the king last night?” 

“Yes, that she is.” He turned his gaze back to Bethoc. “M'lady, this is Fergus, King Kenneth's steward.” 

“Fergus.” She acknowledged him with a nod of her head. “Indeed, I am this fool's unfortunate bride.” 

The older man's lips twitched into a half smile. “M'lord Malcolm, will you not be having a bowl of porridge?” 

“No.” Malcolm let out a chortle. “I have had enough of your porridge this day.” 

“It seems his lordship is a man who is hard to please.” Bethoc flashed a sour grin.

 “Ah,” Malcolm tilted his head toward Fergus, “Is this not sweet?” He looked at Bethoc. “Me thinks my bride fears she may not please me this eve, in our nuptial bed.” 

A tinge of heat crossed Bethoc's cheeks. It was more than anger that caused her face to flush this time.

Malcolm winked. “You have nothing to fear. A bonny lass like you will please me well enough.” Wrapping his arm about her shoulder, he pulled her to his broad chest. 

Overwhelmed by the smell of ale on his breath and mortified by the guffaws and bawdy jests of the feasters, she tried to push out of his grasp. But he held her in an iron grip.

Malcolm brushed his lips across her ear and whispered, “Eat your porridge.” 

Bethoc shoved spoonful after spoonful in her mouth, swallowing down the thick mush with the sour ale. Her insides turned upside down, not from the food, but from total emptiness. A guttural pain racked her; she fought back the tears threatening to stream forward.
Da! Da is dead
.
He has left me to the Scots. 

She tried to take another swig of ale, but the cup fell from her fingers. Intense trembling overtook her, from her hands to her feet. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Gritting her teeth, she fought to control herself. Managing to keep her fingers steady enough to pick up the newly filled tankard, she downed another cup of ale. The warmth ignited by the ale eased her tight muscles and sadness vanished in the wake of a storm of anger, which had built up inside.

As a Pictish princess, Bethoc knew she was better than this, better than any of these Scots. Silently, she swore she would never forget it. She came to Dalriada to get revenge and she would. She scanned the wooden board searching amid porridge droppings and spilled ale for Malcolm's eating dagger. 

“Does this king of yours, Kenneth, really think we Picts will come to Dalriada to see him crowned?” 

“No, of course not m'lady.” Malcolm grabbed a piece of rock-hard bread and dunked it in the golden ale. “That would be silly. Would it not? My king means to be crowned in Scone, the capitol of Caledonia, ‘tis it not?” 

“Never.” Bethoc spotted the knife fastened to his belt. She made a mental note of where it hung so she could take it when her chance came. 

“It is his right. He is king, is he not?”

“Not for long.” Bethoc spoke rapidly, not stopping to take a breath. “It matters not that I did not succeed in killing him, another Pict will. He has no right to rule after slaying the seven earls at a banquet of peace. Each Pict sat down to eat and drink. Kenneth pulled a lever, opening trap doors, plunging the earls into pits jammed with stakes, end up. My own Da died like a hare on a skewer.” 

Malcolm's brows arched. “What say you? M'lady, see you any trenches underneath this bench? Any deep pits fixed with stakes to impale Picts?”

She saw wood benches and a hard dirt floor strewn with rushes. “But how?” Bethoc asked out loud in a baffled tone.

“Stubborn cocksureness, not treachery cost the earls their lives.” 

“Kenneth demanded the earls name him king of Caledonia. When they refused, his men slew them in cold blood.” She tilted her chin in the air. “So, there were no pits?” She leaned close to Malcolm. “It was still a trap.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “A fair fight.” 

“You lie,” Bethoc hissed. “How could it have been a just fight? If so, all seven earls would still live. It would take more than a band of Scots to kill one Pict as strong as Drostan or my sire.” 

“My lady wife, I speak the truth. Deep in your heart you know it.” 

“Liar!” 

“You wish it were so. It would be easier for you to deal with his death if your father was slain by Kenneth. Instead, he lost his temper and dishonorably attacked a king of both Scot and Pict blood. He died due to his rash action, with no thought for the daughter he left behind.” 

“I hate you.” Bethoc's chest heaved. ”You lying snake of a man. You ... you ... Scot.” Afraid Malcolm may have spoken the truth, she couldn't look him in the eye. Weighed down by sadness, she couldn't even move.

“You will have to do better if you mean to insult me. Call me Scot and I take it as a compliment.” Malcolm stood, offering her his hand. “Come Bethoc, let me show you to your new home, my rath.”

Bethoc took his hand and slowly rose, but said nothing. Her world had turned upside down. Kenneth mac Alpin reigned as king of Caledonia. Bethoc's father, Talorc, and Drostan, the man she’d been betrothed to, lay dead. And she was wed to Kenneth's right hand man. What would happen next? 

Bethoc and Malcolm headed outside and walked on, passing wooden buildings, animal pens, the stable, even the stone chapel she’d been married in that morn. She skirted a mud puddle, then spotted a small rath, surrounded by a short stonewall encasing a yard overgrown with knee high grass and sprinkled with the bright yellow blossoms of cowslips and silverweed. The oaken door creaked as Malcolm pushed it open. Bethoc opened her mouth to speak, only to gasp as particles of dust rushed in. She coughed. 

Sunlight shone from the window onto the thick coat of gray dust which covered everything. A cupboard across the room stood draped by the largest cobweb she'd ever seen. An overturned wooden table with two broken chairs lay next to it. At least an unmade bed in the corner looked like it had a decent feather mattress. 

Mayhaps it looks worse than it is.
Dust clogged Bethoc's nose and throat. She shut her eyes then gritted her teeth and blinked her lids open.
It is real
. Bethoc shuddered. 

“Welcome to your new home.” Malcolm spread his arms wide as if showing off a king's hillfort. 

The scent of mold and dirt clotted the air. Bethoc cleared her throat, folded her arms, and clutched her elbows. “I'm not living in this pig sty!”