Mort brushed the crumbs from his hands and stretched out. The afternoon dragged by. She regretted her harsh decision to leave Andrew’s whistle behind because of the memory it would stir. Being at those men’s mercy was not something she wanted to remember.
Mort’s loud snoring grated against her patience and his words echoed in her heart. She was a good daughter and would never shame her father or her clan. He wanted her to take her vows. Vows that would make her spend her life alone with no one to love.
Tonight, though, she was not secluded. Tonight she was here. Tonight she was surrounded by new and exciting things and would take full advantage of her situation. She wished Mort would take her back to the market.
The sun finally began to set in the distance. The sound of carts being closed up drifted to her. They were led into a wide circle in preparation for the impending festivities. One by one, lights appeared out of the dusk, hung from the cart posts, all adding to the magical feel of the evening. The fireflies came out in force to twinkle among the heather and tall grass that grew across the meadow beyond.
“It sounds as if the evening’s entertainment has begun.”
“It does.” She twisted her hands in her lap, struggling to tap down her excitement.
“Do you wish to join them?” The sounds of music drifted to them.
Brighit took a deep breath, not wishing to betray her enthusiasm. “Yes. I believe I do.”
Mort’s knowing expression, however, assured her she had not been successful. He stood, extending his hand. “Then let us be off.”
The scene was indeed surreal. After her days stuffed inside a carriage, afraid to speak, afraid to look askance, afraid to listen to the conversations around her, she was being escorted with great care into a gathering that promised her frivolous entertainment and her heart soared.
Vendors were transformed from unbending purveyors to easygoing participants, even changing into more festive outfits for the occasion. Musical instruments appeared from carts and wagons and several vessels of libations were generously being passed from person to person.
The mead went down smoothly and Brighit enjoyed the sweet warmth spreading through her limbs. For this night, she would relax and enjoy her surroundings. Her time with Ivan was over. She was safe with Mort. He would never let any evil befall her. Nor would Peter.
The stringed instrument was a surprise. It was played by the ebony man. His parrot squawked in its cage. She stood off to the side. The man’s deep voice resonated through her. He sang in a language she didn’t know, but with enough passion that she knew it was a song about love. When he finished his song, the silence hung there. Then the listeners in the small area broke into spontaneous applause. He bowed.
“Wonderful.” Brighit joined the clapping with enthusiasm. “That was beautiful.”
The man tipped his head in her direction.
“He has a mighty voice,” Mort said, taking Brighit’s attention away from the entertainer.
“Oh, he does! My brother has the voice of an angel as well.”
The memory squeezed at her heart but she set it aside. Music meant celebration. Tonight was a celebration of her freedom.
“My fair lady.” The tall, dark man stepped up beside her, bowing at the waist. With a suddenly coy expression, he handed her a large, blue flower. “A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady.”
“Oh.” Brighit took the flower to her face to fully appreciate its heavenly scent. “It is lovely.”
“You put the flower to shame with your beauty. It blushes to be in your presence.”
Brighit couldn’t hold back her pleasure at the compliment, her smile widening even more.
Dancing started behind him, both whistle and drum beginning a lively tune.
He raised his eyebrows, offering her his arm. “May I have the pleasure of your company for this dance?”
Brighit gasped in pleasure. “Oh, ye—
“This lady is spoken for.” Peter stepped up from behind and gave his back to the man. His eyes were overly bright and a smile played across his lips. Extending his own hand toward her, he asked, “Brighit?”
The string player dropped his head in acquiescence and backed away but brought his hand to his heart as if injured. “Of course.”
Brighit’s breath ceased at the touch of Peter’s firm fingers on her hand. She gladly allowed him to lead her into the dance. The effect of the mead increased her awareness of his long length beside her, his handsome face smiling down at her. This was her celebration of freedom and this handsome man was her love.
One dance led into another. The sweat trickled down her back. She couldn’t even try to curtail the smile on her face. To and fro she danced, her hands lightly held by Peter. They sashayed up the line and back, pressing toward each other, then retreating. The whistle and drum were quickly joined by the string player. When they passed him in the circle, he smiled at her. No bad feelings.
The full moon rose in the sky as the night progressed. A few men appeared among the dancers with masks covering their faces and hay tucked inside their shirts. They were the Mischief Makers. They darted along the dancers, stopping to steal kisses from the ladies and making mock challenges to the men. All laughed in good fun.
