Might I love her, by her will I will have her
Steadfast of love, lovely and true
Of my sorrow, she may save me
Joy and bliss would be, ever new for me.
The words seduced him,so true they were to how he wanted to feel--that she was his salvation not his damnation. All too quickly the song ended and she sang the impossible words no more, but continued to hum a bewitchingly captivating melody, flowing from her mouth like the wine from Saintonge, then she paused once, glancing at him over her hound, at ease, still humming, and she gave him the softest of smiles.
The moment was almost more than a mortal man could take.
Around campfires on nights before and after tourneys, there were stories told from knights who travelled the vast and wide, dry deserts of the East, where the battles fought were as much with the hot sun and terrain as with the Infidels. Some had seen with their own eyes men on horseback sink helplessly to their deaths into bottomless holes of sand. At that moment Lyall knew he was lost, and he averted his gaze, afraid of sinking into a place of sand from which he could never escape.
But even staring at the wet straw on the ground, he could not cut the bond between them, the warring in his head, his grand wanting of her--the mere possibility of her, of the brightness and the light, of the promise of redemption. A sudden impulse overcame him to pull her into his arms and lose himself inside of her, but some small bit of conscience stopped him. He dared not take her, not now, not ever, certainly not after she found out his protection was a lie. He sought to be stronger than his drives and wants. He sought the strength of conscience to leave her be.
“Montrose?”
He looked up, startled.
“Wake up,” she said, and threw a handful of soapy mud at him, laughing
Again the sound made his senses jump. Water dripped from the tip of his nose and dropped down to the ground. He watched it, struck dumb. A second later the hound leapt from the trough sending water sloshing everywhere.
“Fergus!” she shouted.
Across from him Glenna sat with her arms out, staring down at her sodden gown, water dripping from her face and glistening in her long dark hair. Meanwhile, the dog eagerly shook himself dry from head to tail several times, and began shaking his legs out as he walked in circles, spreading the water to and fro and sprinkling both them. They sat there, both soaked, squinting a bit because they were still getting pattered by water. Each one looked at the other for enough time to see their situation, andthey began to laugh freely and then lapsed into an awkward moment of silence, both still grinning.
She lifted her chin. “I’m not as wet as you,” she said to him in that imperious way she had, which made him laugh harder.
“Is that a challenge?” he asked.
“Only if you care to make it one,” she said without fear.
He stood then, lifted the half full trough and pinned her with a direct and determined look. She stood her own, until he was too close for her comfort and she laughed and scrambled backwards, holding out her hand. “Nay! Montrose, you do not dare!”
That she would not be intimidated showed her will and strength and stubbornness, qualities he respected in men and in his sister, and he would do no less with Glenna. Still smiling, he turned on his heel toward the backside of the stables where there was the waste channel he had used earlier. After emptying the contents, he put the trough back by the hayforks, rakes, and groom’s tools.
“Come here, you wretched beast.” Glenna was on her knees in the straw, with her comb in hand and half tugging the hound back into a sitting position. “Be still, you. Your fur is all tangled and all your wiggling about will break my comb.”
He grabbed a milking stool and a wad of greasy fleece hanging nearby and joined her. “Here. Sit.” He set down the stool for her. “Wait before you comb him. Let me rub him down with this. The grease in the wool will make the combing easier.” He knelt down and vigorously rubbed the fleece over the hound’s fur and stepped back. “That should help.”
She pulled the comb through easily and looked up at him, clearly surprised.
“My father hired knights from the northern regions. When I was a lad, his sergeant-at- arms showed me how he lined his sheath with raw wool. The grease in the fleece helped to keep his sword protected and made it easier to hone. His woman rubbed a small piece of fleece in her hair to remove the tangles. My mother and sister still do the same.” He leaned back against oneof the stalls, crossing his feet at the ankles and resting his shoulder against a rough-hewn post, lost in his thoughts of another time and place, another dog. He chose not to tell her how he had rubbed Atholl down many times after bathing him, but her hound had brought back the images, as had watching her comb her hair brought back another memory.
“You have a sister?”
“Aye, she is younger than I. You did not ask about my mother. I am surprised you did not seem shocked I had one,” he said dryly. “Instead of being spawned by the Devil or sired by wolves.”
“Not wolves. Banshees in the dark Caledonian Woods.” She laughed at his mock anger. “And how do your sister and mother tolerate you?”
“They do not.”
“Aye,” she nodded, finishing with one side of the hound. “I find that understandable.”
“They worship me,” he countered.
“Be careful when you walk through that door, Montrose…your fat head might not fit.”
