But that could take years to unfold. Pragmatic by nature, she knew only a fool would cling to that slender thread.
Gnashing her teeth, Winifred snatched hold of her cloak to keep it from billowing in the wind. As she did so, she caught sight of Father Giroldus leading a donkey from the stables.
“’Tis late in the day to be setting out on a journey,” she said by way of greeting.
The cleric brought the donkey to a halt. “The earl has banished me from the castle,” he snarled, glaring at the keep with red-rimmed eyes.
“But . . . but there is a . . . a storm brewing on the horizon,” she sputtered, stunned by the priest’s shocking announcement. “Surely, the earl—”
“That redheaded witch has the earl so thoroughly in her thrall,” Father Giroldus interjected, “that he is no longer capable of listening to reason.”
“I was just thinking the very same thing,” Winifred murmured.
“Forsooth, the earl would not even allow me to take a horse from the stable. So I am now forced to make my way to St. Dunstan’s abbey with nothing but the clothes on my back and this pitiful donkey. Assuming roadway bandits don’t set upon me,” he griped.
On the verge of pointing out that their Lord Savior once rode upon a donkey, she thought better of it at the last. “Then, I wish you Godspeed,” she said instead.
“And may He also damn the red-haired sorceress to the fire pits of hell,” the priest muttered before he took his leave.
My sentiments exactly,Winifred thought, suddenly inspired.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
How is it that I miss him so much?Laoghaire mused as she urged her mount to an even faster pace.
Although Galen had departed for the king’s Martinmas council three days ago, she was still morose in the wake of his leave-taking, disheartened by the thought that he might be gone for weeks, if not months. In an effort not to dwell on that which was out of her control, she’d decided to take a ride, to put Castle Airlie and its noisy bustle far behind her.
The jennet—named Aife after the Celtic goddess who commanded a legion of fierce horsewomen—had just enough spirit to ensure an exhilarating jaunt. And though Galen deemed it improper for a countess to ride astride that was exactly what Laoghaire was doing, as it gave her greater control over the mare.
As had happened so often in the three days since Galen’s departure, she rekindled their last moments together in her mind’s eye. Despite the morning having dawned with a chill bite in the air, a large crowd had gathered in the lower bailey. Vassals and villeins, castle retainers, clusters of children, they had all braved the bracing weather to bid the convoy farewell. A light snow had begun to fall, which Laoghaire had taken as a good sign.The English are too weak-willed to battle in the foul weather,she’d thought at the time; thereby ensuring that Galen and his men would not encounter any enemy forces as they made their way to Castle Balloch, the king’s stronghold that was located on the banks of Loch Lomond.
Standing with a bevy of women, she had watched as the entourage slowly made its way toward the castle gates. Included in the retinue were mounted knights, men-at-arms on foot, pack horses loaded with supplies, and cargo wagons that bore everything from armor and weapons to the casks of French wine and bolts of luxurious fabric that Galen intended to present to the Bruce. There was also a gaily painted coach that conveyed Melisande Jardin and her mother, Dame Winifred. Because mother and daughter refused to be separated from one another, the châtelaine had decided to accompany Melisande to Castle Balloch, leaving Coira Guthrie to assume her household duties. Laoghaire suspected the crafty older woman wanted to personally interview each of the prospective grooms, Galen having kept to his vow to do all in his power to find Melisande a new husband.
“There will be many eligible candidates in attendance at the king’s council,”he had assured her, certain that Melisande would be wed by year’s end.
On that last morning, however, Laoghaire’s thoughts had been elsewhere, focused entirely on the chain-mailed warrior who rode the massive black destrier. And though they’d previously said their farewells inside the keep, Galen had surprised her by dismounting from the stallion, pulling his nasal helmet off his head, and striding over to where she stood in the crowd of onlookers. Ignoring the wide-eyed gapes and stunned murmurings, he’d taken her in his arms one last time. Long moments then passed as they held each other in a tight embrace before he kissed her, sweetly, passionately, his lips hinting at all of the words that had been left unsaid in the weeks leading up to his departure. When at last Galen released her, she’d been so overcome with emotion that she became tongue-tied. She wanted to tell Galen that she would miss him, and that she would think of him and pray for him and keep vigil until he returned. And she especially wanted to tell him to thank the king for commanding their marriage to one another.
But fear rendered her mute, and she’d been unable to give voice to what was in her heart.
By the time she finally reclaimed her wits, it was too late—Galen had already departed.
Charging across the glen—her cloak and unbound hair flying behind her—Laoghaire tried to put the memory from her mind. It was, however, to no avail, her heart having begun to pound erratically at the mere thought of him. She wanted Galen so fiercely that it made her chest ache with a strange, unfamiliar sort of yearning.
During the course of the last several weeks, her relationship with Galen had changed so dramatically that it incited a burst of new and untried feelings to be released within her. Since she first arrived at Castle Airlie, she’d experienced a gamut of emotions: rage, uncertainty, fear, and passion. But more recently, she’d begun to experience another emotion, one that wrapped around her heart, all sweet and warm. Curiously enough, it was suffused with both tendernessandardor, like twin flames burning together in one hearth.
While it was far too soon to know if this newly-minted emotion was love, when she wasn’t with Galen she found herself longing for him, unable to put from her mind the memory of his touch, his kisses, the exquisite joy she felt when he thrust his manhood into her and filled her completely. At times she worried that this great hunger would prove her undoing, for her life was now so closely woven with Galen’s that she did not know if she would be able to unravel the strands. Or if she would ever want to.
As to whether Galen reciprocated her feelings, she could not begin to speculate. While he took great pleasure in their mating, and made no secret of the fact that he desired her body, so far he’d not so much as hinted at the contents of his heart.
How did I go from hating him to wanting him so desperately?Laoghaire wondered while she slowed the jennet to a more docile gait as they neared the cascading waterfall, the linn having become one of her favorite places to seek quiet respite.
Dismounting, she looped the reins around a tree limb, after which she took a brief moment to nuzzle Aife’s neck. About to make her way to the pool of water, she instead veered toward the ancient Pictish menhir that stood sentry nearby. Admittedly, it was an impulsive act, as though some unseen presence had beckoned her toward the standing stone.
Anchored against the pale gray sky, the stone appeared to have sprouted forth from the earth, imbuing it with the same energies that surged from the waterfall. Coming to a standstill in front of the stone, Laoghaire raised her right hand and slowly traced several of the incised patterns that decorated the stone, the series of intricate knots and swirls meant to convey the waxing and waning of magical forces.
The first time she visited the stone she’d felt a kindred connection to it, the primitive artifact harkening to the ancient Celtic blood that flowed through her veins. This time was no different, Laoghaire suddenly experiencing a strange sort of tension that began at the base of her spine and rose upward toward her skull. Like a serpent raising its head.
Tracing the three leaves of a carved trefoil, she suddenly felt a tingling in her forefinger, where it made contact with the stone. Three was a sacred number that symbolized the unity of all life. Heaven, earth, and mankind. Father, mother, and child.
