Becca St.John (20 page)

“You were going to say something, lass. Spit it out.”

Again, that back and forth of her noggin, negating everything, anything.

He looked back at the players, then at her, and slapped the table. “I’ll make a bargain with you.”

“What bargain?” She looked wary. She should, he was trying to shift her from where she thought she should be.

He leaned in close, his voice low. “I’ll bed you tonight, but you have to do something for me.”
Ah, he’d insulted her; too bad
. “Dance with me.” He stood, tugged her to rise. “Come on, dance with me.”

“I don’t feel…” He didn’t let her finish.

“Dance with me,” he ordered, pulling her after him, as he strode to the musicians.

“Dancing music, if you please. Lively and fun dancing music.”

She was shy and awkward when the music started, tried to pull away, but he’d have none of it. This was one of the cures the doctors suggested for his mother, music and dance and singing. He started to sing, making up silly words to go with the music the troubadors played.

She laughed at that, or used her humor as an excuse not to dance, but he rallied the others in the tavern, and the music was good. Very good. Soon, the whole place was lively and laughing, and people were drinking and dancing and having a gay old time trying to help Padraig with his foolish turns of phrase.

They danced until their feet hurt, laughed well past bellyaches. He paid the piper and his men and then, yes, he did, he took her to his bed.

Lady Alissa hadn’t gone to bed yet. She was sitting by the hearth, stroking Brut’s head, studying the young lad who slept beneath the covers. She witnessed the onslaught of the bad dream from the beginning. From the moment of first restlessness, to whimpering, to limbs, weighted down by coverlets, trying to run and then the cries, “Don’t go! Mama!”

That’s when she woke him, probably should have sooner, when Brut had gone to the bedside, whimpering for her to ease the lad’s distress. She had hoped the dream would shift to calm and carry him deeper into sleep. But it hadn’t, it threw him out into wakefulness. At least she was there to catch him.

“Hush, sweet thing.” She pulled him, groggy, barely acknoweldging her, onto her lap. He curled into a protective ball. “Don’t worry, lamb. Everything is going to be fine.”

He looked up then, into her eyes, and she knew he didn’t believe her. That the dream had not dissolved without dumping remnants  for him to remember.

Suddenly, he was like a twist in the weather, pushing and fighting to be free of her hold, of the covers that tangled.

“I don’t need a mama,” he cried, as he wrenched free. “My mama didn’t have a mama.” Then he stormed off, plunking down by the hearth, not even allowing Brut, who followed, nudging him with his nose, to ease his hurt. “I’ll sleep on the floor like a real warrior.”

She’d laugh at his postering, but for the frustration rising in her. “Will you, then?” She disentangled herself from the covers, adjusted the plaid that covered her nightshift.

Despite the long day’s warmth, the chill of the night refused to be ignored, aided by the stubbornness of the stone keep to release its chill. “I don’t suppose you need a cover, great, strong warrior that you are.”

She crossed to the door, opened it, turning on the threshold, pointing at Deian. “You stay there. I’ll be but a moment.” Her destination was not far, she could see her own doorway from there, and continually looked at it, as she spoke with the guard outside Angus’s chamber.

It was obvious Deian had been crying, hard furious tears, when she returned. Every swipe at the evidence done with hard, swift swipes of his arms, his neck so stiff she thought it would crack if it bent. He offered her a red-rimmed glare, daring her to acknowledge his pain.

Pain he’d managed to turn into anger. Fine, then, each had their own way of dealing with trouble. That was his. No doubt it was his mother’s and, yes, the way of his evil father, may the devil take him.

“Are great, grand warriors allowed a story?”

An easy enough question that pushed the poor lad into a quandary. He wanted to hold on to the shell starting to form, while at the same time, he wanted the warmth of companionship of a story.

“The warriors I know,” she told him, “like a good tale, even more than most. That’s why we wrote our ode.”

“That was a poem. Padraig told me so.”

“A poem that told a story. Did you not listen as we created it?”

“You were singing about a black monster and survivors who got away. You used my stories, about our travels, for them.”

“I sang about your mama, Deian, and you, and Padraig.”

She’d wondered if he’d notice the use of his rightful name, but he was too busy fretting over what she said. “But we didn’t have a black monster.”

“Oh, aye, you did, only your mother protected you from it.”

“No.” The stiffness was gone, he was shaking his head. “I would have known.”

“Oh, aye, that’s why your mama took you from your home. Would you like me to tell you that story, so you’ll know why your mama, bless her poor soul, thinks she should leave you? Why she gave you a new name?”

That caught his attention. His gaze, staring at nothing on the floor, jerked up to meet her eyes. “I know who you are, Deian. Your mama is right. Anyone in the highlands can figure it out if she’s nearby. But to be fair, it was Padraig traveling with you that made it apparent to me.”

“Will you tell me the story?”

“Aye, I will, but can you sit on the bed? The hearth floor might be a grand place for the likes of tough little boys, but ladies need the softness of the bed, and I don’t want to have to shout this story. It’s a private tale.”

“You sing about it.”

“Not all of it.”

“How do you know about it?”

“Ah, well…” She shifted, sniffed, but managed not to tremble. “My cousin was hurt by the black monster. Angus made certain we heard every word spoken about the vile creature, about what he’d done. So we knew, we knew as much as could be known.”

“Did you get your cousin back?”

“No. But the men in our dungeons, the ones you so boldly led our men to, they were the monster’s men. That’s why they are still alive. We hope they will tell us where they’ve taken my beautiful cousin.”

“And help you find the big ship they came from!” His fury was back.

“Aye, and help us find the big ship. We have sailors out looking for them now, and the men on the Isle of Sky and the Isle of Lewis…”

Deian broke in, opening his palm,  showing her the brooch and, in doing so, revealing the red ring that proved how hard he’d held it. “My mama’s mama was from the Isle of Lewis.”

“Yes, sweets, you come from the Isle of Lewis. My cousin was betrothed to a man there, a fine, decent man. He’s searching for her as well.”

And, if her cousin wasn’t found, Alissa would step into the betrothal. Be the bride her cousin was meant to be.

“Shall we begin this telling?” Deian nodded. “Well, there was this lass…”

“My mama!” Deian told her.

“Aye, your mama. Seonaid.”

“My mama’s name is the same as a sea faerie in the Isle of Lewis.”

“Is it now?” Alissa nodded thoughtfully and asked him, “You’re warmer than me, will you cuddle and keep me from getting too cold?” His solemn nod was all she needed to pull him onto her lap, as she continued with her tale.

“Seonaid was a strong and kind young lass, always following her da around until she lost him to a battle. He was a brave and courageous soul who loved his daughter more than anything else, even than the son he had. For his son was angry and mean and used to shove his sister about. The two men would clash violently, one protecting, the other trying to destroy. The older man managed to rein in the younger, for as long as he lived.”

“But he died, the older one, in battle,” Deian whispered, eyes wide.

“Aye.” Alissa brushed the hair from Deian’s forehead. “The son turned into a huge evil monster. He would hide behind a wall of charm, but in the shadows, when others couldn’t see, he would change, grow huge and menacing and swallow up sweetness and innocence. He delighted in it.”

“I would kill him,” Deian promised.

“Aye, well, you’re a good, true warrior. You protect those who need protecting.”

The lad nodded, as if that was the natural course of things. That transforming into evil was the aberration. Please God that it was.

The door opened, Angus stood in the opening. Alissa put her hand up, signalling him to come or go, but not to interrupt. He stepped in, crossed to the bench by the fire.

“Lady Alissa is telling me about the black monster.”

Angus acknowledged him with a nod, but did not interrupt.

“They’ve done as I asked?” Alissa asked the chief.

“Aye. We should hear soon enough.”

“Good.” She turned back to the tyke. “Where were we?”

Deian screwed up his face in menace, struck out, as though he had a sword in his hand and proclaimed, “I would kill the black monster for swallowing the good!”

Thankfully, Deian looked to her for  confirmation of his good deeds and not at Angus, who fought a chuckle.

“That you would,” she told him seriously, “but you must remember, he hid his evil behind a wall of charm. He laughed and danced and was very, very handsome, so none would know of his putrid heart.”

“No one knew?”

“There were whispers, from those who worked at their cottage. And sometimes, on the practice field, men would be injured beyond what was fair, but he had a way of smoothing his ways with apologies for accidents and ‘didn’t mean to’ and such.”

“I would have seen.”

“Yes,” Alissa adjusted him in her lap. “But you weren’t even born yet.”

“Where was I?”

“Where we all are before we are born,” Angus said. “Now let’s get back to this story.”

Both lady and lad looked at him as if he’d sprouted from the wall.

“Very well, then,” Lady Alissa intoned. “Let’s get back to the story. You know of the monster, who had once been a man, and you know of his father, who protected the daughter, but the father had died.”

Deian nodded vigorously.

“Well, the daughter went about her chores, but one day, out in the field, the monster flew over, his shadow covering the daughter. They fought a battle so fierce, a warrior two crofts over heard the commotion and raced to save the daughter. She was near death, but despite her heroic efforts, the monster had swallowed her innocence, left her to die.”

“What did the warrior do?” Deian whispered.

“He banned the monster from the land and saw to it that the lass lived.”

All three sat in silence, except for the crack of the fire and the soft snores of Brut.

Deian looked up, his eyes luminous and far too knowing. “The lass was my mama” he acknowledged.

Alissa nodded. “Aye, the lass was your mama. She lived, but held her secret tight. She learned to fight, wore the armor of a warrior, was always prepared to battle the demon, should he ever return.”

“Did he?”

“No, but she feared he would. And then you were there, so she trained even harder to be sure you were never touched by his evil.”

“How did I come to be there?”

Angus snorted. “You keep trying to distract her from the story, lad. Let Lady Alissa finish.”

Deian considered the warrior’s words, then nodded. Alissa continued. “Seonaid grew from a lass to a lady warrior so strong and courageous the whole of the highlands turned her into a legend, to be talked of for all the days of history.”

“Like the faerie Seonaidh?”

“Aye, like the faerie, Seonaidh.”

“And what happened to the monster?” Deian shot Angus a look, as if he expected the man to answer his question, but he didn’t.

“The monster formed a clan of evil. He grew larger and bolder and swallowed up lasses as easily as you swallow water. They destroyed hopes and dreams and tore apart happy families so they were naught but pieces of despair.”

“Did my mama kill him?”

“No, Laird MacKay did, with Padraig by his side. But your mama killed the most insidious member of his band.”

“What does that mean?” Deian asked.

“She killed the worm that had eaten its way inside the clan.”

CHAPTER 21 ~ A NAME IS BUT A NAME

Arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist, Padraig and Seonaid made their way through the town, Tarvos’s reins in Padraig’s hand. Heads together, voices low, speaking of everything and nothing, they worked their way through the chaotic tangle of streets, their path shadowed by the jutting upper floors of tall merchant homes. During the day, the lower portions would be open, with counters open to the street, facing each other below like gossiping neighbors, their upper floors, jutting out over the street like kissing cousins. But tonight the shops were all boarded up, while the owners slept over the street, no gossips to watch the lovers make their way past.

And pass they did, until streets widened, tall homes giving way to walled cottages with gardens, cobbles thinning down to no more than a rutted dirt path. Still they walked on, dwellings separating to more than a shouting distance. They stopped long enough for a kiss and to climb up on Tarvos’s back, swaying with the ride until Padraig turned him, urged him to jump a stone wall. From there, they made their way out to the open lands, sharp stone rises, and long, softer roll of hills.

They didn’t need walls or beds or fancy coverings. They knew how to sleep on the earth, feel the vibration of its power, drink in the blessing of its scent, become as wild as the animals that roamed.

They were both a part of this landscape, born and bred and fed on it the whole of their lives. Padraig had traveled beyond the invisible lines called borders. He knew there was nothing for them beyond this meeting of sky and earth. Nothing.

The highlands. Their home, their heart.

Padraig drew in a deep breath, knowing it would kill him to leave, though he’d do just that, rather than give up the woman he loved. His back warm with the weight of her leaning against him, her head on his shoulder, relaxed but not so much so he thought her asleep. As though to confirm it, she brushed his arm with her cheek, no doubt as hungry to feel as he was.