Yielding myself to you.
As the minstrel continued to sing, Laoghaire noticed the way in which Lady Melisande Jardin—seated at the end of the high table beside Diarmid—stared longingly at Galen; who, in turn, glared with a tightly clenched jaw at the mellifluent minstrel.
In that instant, Laoghaire surmised the identity of Galen’s mysterious “lady,” certain it could be none other than the beautiful, blonde-haired Melisande.
As the wedding feast finally reached its denouement, Galen sat sprawled in his seigneurial chair, his legs stretched beneath the table. He dangled one arm while he absently petted Iseult, the wolfhound lounging at his feet. He’d only agreed to the lavish feast because it was his duty as the new earl to celebrate his nuptials by serving gluttonous amounts of food, accompanied by merry revelry. Fortunately, on account of the political turmoil in Scotland—the king once again in hiding—the traditional week-long celebration would not take place.
Come the morrow, I will bid my guests safe passage and Godspeed. And be glad to see the backs of them.
Having grown weary of listening to the minstrels sing their endless tunes about fair ladies and chivalrous knights, Galen stifled a yawn as he peered down the rows of tables that were set perpendicular to the dais. Each guest was seated according to rank, with those closest to the high table being of greater status. One’s place within the social and political hierarchy not only determined whereone sat, but whether one’s arse rested upon an armless chair, a stool, or a common bench. It also dictated whether one ate upon a plate of gold or pewter or a trencher made of bread.
It does not seem so very long ago that I was one of those young, ambitious knights seated at the end of the trestle table, my only possessions being a well-honed sword and a swift horse.
Now he was lord of the castle, a position that he owed entirely to his uncle. An unusually hale man given his advanced age, his uncle had gone to sleep one night, never again to awaken. And though glad-hearted by his good turn of fortune—inheriting the earldom an unexpected boon—Galen had been as stunned as anyone by Hugh de Ogilvy’s sudden demise.
At hearing yet another trumpet fanfare—this time signaling the entrance of the last grand subtlety—Galen didn’t even bother to feign interest. For several hours now he’d endured numerous such blasts, each marking the entrance of a new dish, the feast having commenced with a boar’s head, before concluding with roasted eels and lampreys.
None of which made the least impression on my new countess.
Irritated by that fact, Galen spared a quick glance at his bride. Over the course of the hours’ long banquet, Laoghaire had not so much as uttered a word, barely touching the food on her golden plate. Despite her air of utter disinterest—he would even go so far as to call it outright disdain—Galen sensed the barely contained fury that seethed from her. That the redheaded beauty hated him, there was little doubt.
But then, her likes and dislikes matter naught to me.
All that he required from his bride was fulfillment of the marriage duty. As Laoghaire MacKinnon’s new lord and master, it was his duty to get her with child. And, in turn, it was her duty to bear him a son, preferably more than one. Although he wasn’t averse to having a daughter or two; female progeny could always be used to make advantageous alliances.
As his thoughts continued to wander, Galen suddenly recalled the warm smile that earlier lit up Laoghaire’s face when she’d thanked Aveline for the bouquet of forget-me-nots. In that memorable moment, it was as though his bride had been magically transformed.
Will she ever smile at me in such a winsome manner?
God’s teeth! What need have I of the wench’s smile?he fumed in the next instant, annoyed that he would even entertain so foolish a thought.
Reaching for his wine goblet, Galen watched as the evening’s final subtlety was carried to the high table by his young squire, Piers Burnett. At a glance, he could see that the magnificent confection had been fashioned in the shape of a rampant lion. As an added extravagance, it had even been dyed a vivid shade of red.
“Voila! La pièce de résistance est arrive!” Galen announced, only because it was expected of him to show a measure of interest.
While everyone in the great hall expressed glowing admiration for the masterful creation, Laoghaire stared at it, stone-faced.
Vexed with her reaction, Galen turned to his bride and said, “This feast has been planned for your enjoyment, yet throughout the whole of it, you have appeared displeased.”
“Aye, I am displeased,” Laoghaire answered, finally deigning to speak. “I came here to wed one man, yet find myself married to another.”
“You cannot mean to say that you would have preferred to wed my uncle?” Galen retorted, taking exception to her remark. “The man was three score and six, with thinning hair, a wrinkled visage, and flaccid appendages. Any other woman would be delighted to discover that instead of bedding an ancient relic, she was to have a strong, potent man between her thighs.”
Rather than reply, Laoghaire glared at him, her blue eyes narrowing with a blistering rage.
“Does being made a countess mean so little to you?” he goaded. “I hail from an old and noble family. You should be honored to—”
“Ye hail from an oldNormanfamily,” Laoghaire said over the top of his voice, spitting out the word “Norman” as though it were a mouthful of sour milk. “Yer family and those like ye connived to seize control of the Lowlands, so that ye could then rule the whole of Scotland. Even now, after being here for nearly two centuries, ye still speak in the French tongue.”
“Why should we not speak French? It is our heritage.”
“Do ye not know the meaning of the word Scotland?” Without giving him a chance to reply, Laoghaire continued and said, “It means the land of the Scots. Not the land of the Normans. It makes me think that ye are only Scottish when it suits ye.”
“God’s blood, but you’re a joyless scold,” Galen muttered under his breath, regretting his attempt to converse with her.
As his squire deferentially backed away from the high table—Piers having been privy to the acid exchange—the young man appeared visibly flustered. Clearly, the squire was intimidated by the castle’s new mistress. Not only did Galen’s statuesque bride tower over a good many of the guests, Piers included, but she possessed a fearsome, wild beauty. Given her great height and luxurious red mane of hair, Laoghaire MacKinnon clearly descended from the Vikings, that fierce race of Norsemen who conquered the Western Isles of Scotland long centuries ago.
God willing, my redheaded Valkyrie will give me strong sons and beautiful daughters.
