’Tis unlikely that a heartless knave could be capable of so thoughtful a gesture,Laoghaire decided, certain that the choice of maidservant was nothing more than a fortunate coincidence. Galen de Ogilvy’s character was too blemished for niceties.
“Come,” Galen ordered, gesturing to the entryway. “My belly is empty and I have a powerful thirst.”
Their entrance into the great hall was met with a loud fanfare of trumpets, the unexpected burst of sound causing Laoghaire to instinctively flinch. Galen placed his right hand on top of hers, a calming gesture she supposed. But rather than pacify her, the touch of his hand upon her bare skin had the opposite effect, causing an odd sort of warmth to radiate in the area between her hips.
There was no time to reflect on the strange bodily reaction, as Laoghaire soon found herself being divested of her cloak by a servant before she was ushered into a scene unlike any she’d ever before laid eyes upon. The hall was filled to capacity, and everyone present was dressed in their finest apparel, the candlelight playing off the sheen of sumptuous silks and richly luxurious velvets. In a colorful blur, she saw shades of scarlet, peacock blue, and verdulet, many of the garments trimmed in costly fur. It also did not escape her notice that men and women alike wore precious gems that glimmered from chains and brooches, rings and sword hilts.
While the guests were a colorful sight to behold, it was the expansive hall itself that rendered her spellbound, the whitewashed stone walls soaring upward to an impressively timbered roof. On both of the long walls there were clerestory windows, the glass catching the light that emanated from the adjacent minstrels’ gallery. And the central hearth was so vast that she reckoned the largest beast in the forest could easily be roasted within. Opposite that there was a series of monumental tapestries hung upon the wall, each of which depicted a different type of hunting scene that included a stag hunt, a group of nobles engaged in falconry, and the spearing of a wild boar. Indeed, the scenes were so vividly depicted that Laoghaire’s eyes went wide.
Truly, I have never seen anything so marvelous.
Overwhelmed by the dizzying array of sights and sounds and scents, Laoghaire felt as though she’d been magically transported to a strange new world. One that bore no resemblance to the home she knew and loved.
Perhaps sensing her unease, one of her kinsmen suddenly cried out:“Cuimhnich bas Alpein!”
At hearing the MacKinnon war cry, Laoghaire straightened her shoulders, her spine instantly stiffening. In that instant she was reminded that it was for this—the honor of her clan—that she had finally, under great duress, agreed to marry Galen de Ogilvy.
As she and Galen made their way through the throng, the crowd parted like the biblical Red Sea to afford them a wide passage. Where before there had been a loud tumultuous clamor, there was now an almost deafening silence. Although she kept her eyes trained on the high table at the opposite end of the hall, Laoghaire nonetheless caught sight of more than one person whispering behind a raised hand, all eyes in the hall focused upon her.
With each torturous step, it became patently clear that she’d been hurled into a viper’s nest. No doubt there were many in attendance who’d hoped the new Earl of Angus would marrytheirfemale relation. None of them would have wanted him to wed the sister of a Highland laird, of thatshe was certain.
Suddenly sensing a presence directly behind her, Laoghaire glanced over her shoulder and saw that there were two massive wolfhounds—one with a steel-gray coat, the other fawn-colored—following in their wake.
When they finally reached the dais, she was unable to tear her eyes from the canopied baldachin set in the middle of the platform. It was so elaborate in its design, with intricately wrought finials, that Laoghaire thought it fit for a king. From the baldachin there hung a large black cloth emblazoned with a blood-red rampant lion. A sight that she was fast growing to despise. Under the baldachin there were two ornately carved armchairs, each boasting a high back. And though her slightly smaller seat—the countess’s chair—was placed next to the earl’s, Laoghaire knew that she possessed no real power.
I am simply a pawn in a political game. Nothing more than a brood mare.
Despite the fact that Castle Airlie was now her home, Laoghaire recognized only a few faces at the high table: Father Giroldus; Dame Winifred and her daughter, Lady Melisande; and, of course, Diarmid. She assumed that the other guests seated on or in close proximity to the dais were sundry lords and barons, along with their respective ladies; all of whom rose deferentially to their feet when she and Galen stepped onto the platform.
It was only after she and Galen had situated themselves in the two throne-like chairs that everyone in the room then re-seated themselves.
With a raised hand, Galen greeted his guests in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the hall, “Welcome, one and all! I invite you to take your ease.”
No sooner was the salutation given than the minstrels in the gallery immediately began to play a merry tune.
“You may take your ease, as well, lady wife,” Galen said with a bemused expression.
Realizing that she still had Aveline’s bouquet clutched in her hand, Laoghaire set it on the table. Suddenly feeling something nudge against her calf, she peered downward, startled to discover that the gray wolfhound had somehow managed to insinuate itself between her chair and the stool beside her; upon which sat Father Giroldus, the cleric looking none too pleased at the intrusion.
“The gray male is named Tristan, and the fawn bitch is called Iseult,” Galen remarked, having noticed the direction of her gaze.
Laoghaire raised a quizzical brow. “They are named after the legendary lovers?” she inquired, her antipathy for her new husband momentarily forgotten. “I would not have thought a knight, or even an earl, would give such fanciful names to a pair of hunting dogs.”
“The dogs were a gift from a lady.” Galen’s eyes momentarily softened, as though he were recalling a fond memory. “’Twas she who named them, not I.”
Taken aback—having thought him incapable of feeling anything even remotely resembling a heartfelt sentiment—Laoghaire could not help but wonder who the “lady” might be.
Just then, one of the minstrels began to sing for the guests, his dulcet-toned voice reverberating throughout the hall:
Good lady, I thank you for
Your love so true and fine;
I swear I love you more
Than all past loves of mine.
This night, I bow and join my hands
