In the hallof a western chief deep in the Scottish Highlands, a bard sings and plays upon his harp, telling ancient tales of his host’s ancestors. Four tales he has told this night, holding his listeners in thrall.
But now the hour grows late. The ale has flowed, the feast is finished, and Finlay the bard judges that his listeners will soon require their beds.
A long evening of entertainment it has been, during which those gathered have heard of a long-ago, valiant warrior. A third son sent to perform an impossible task. A princess of ancient times with a bold heart. A Viking maiden strong in spirit. Courage and endurance and love so impossible, it can do nothing but exist.
He coaxes from the strings of his harp one last, bright, glittering cascade of notes and sets the instrument aside. The magic that holds the room wavers but does not break. His listeners still watch him with wide eyes.
It matters little what his audience thinks, or even the noble chief. Finlay has told each and every tale this night for the benefit of but one listener—the tall young woman with the ashen-blonde hair who even now blinks and tries to shrug her way from what she has heard.
Can she so free herself? He can only hope not, for the story is not done. The rest of the tale cannot be sung but must be lived out here and now, in present time.
Those of whom he has spoken tonight are not gone. They live on, if in other guises. He is still here, as he has always been, and pledged to one woman alone. If she does not see him and know him for who he is, then no song he ever sings will serve to complete the magic. The wheel of the years will continue to spin, but he fears his heart will never come home.
Chapter One
Western Scotland, early fourteenth century AD
“Grand, Master Finlay!That was just grand,” Chief Anders MacMurtray cried warmly, getting to his feet in respectful enthusiasm. “A magnificent evening’s entertainment ye ha’ given us, worthy o’ the bards o’ old. Truly, ’twas a fortunate day yer travels brought ye to our door.”
Katrin MacMurtray, standing at the rear of the hall where she had listened long to the bard’s tales, shook the magic of them from her head and eyed her father, the chief. A big man was he, tall, with graying ash-brown hair that had once been the color of her own and gray-blue eyes. Wide of shoulders but spare of weight, he now looked a bit unsteady on his feet, perhaps from the quantities of ale he had consumed but more likely, so Katrin suspected, from the long journey upon which the bard had taken them all.
Back, far back into the world of Da’s ancestors and her own.
How was it this Finlay, a wandering minstrel who had turned up at their door seemingly by chance, knew so much about their forebears? Katrin supposed it must be part and parcel of his vocation, and his living, to know and carry these things. He earned his way by making those whom he entertained feel important, larger than life, the stuff of legends.
He had done a magnificent job of it.
Even she, beyond all else a practical woman who usually spared little time for nonsense or fancy, had got caught up in it all. Thegrandeur, the heroism. The love. That alone had brought tears to her eyes a few times. Could there ever exist love such as the bard described?
Captivated by the question, she eyed him. Finlay, the bard. They did not know his last name, if he possessed one. Such men tended to roam the country far and wide, staying with anyone who would have them for as long as profitable, till the tales and songs ran out, at which time they merely moved on.
They’d hired such visitors before, usually older men, some who traveled on horseback and with their own attendants.
Finlay had arrived alone, his harp—a beautiful instrument in its own right—in a pack on his back along with all his other possessions. And he was not aged. Rather, he could not be above a score and six years or so. Tall and slender with a graceful mien. Long, auburn-red hair that he kept braided with silver ornaments woven through the strands. A face neither handsome nor otherwise, but clever and mobile, that added a certain charm of expression to the stories he told. A wonderful, mellow singing voice that could be soft as a spring breeze, or angry as a swarm of hornets.
Green eyes. He had the deepest green eyes Katrin had ever seen. Graceful hands on the harp strings, some of the fingers tattooed. And, as she had to admit, a rare talent.
There had been moments this evening when Katrin had been so carried away by the magic he wove that she felt she experienced it, rather than merely listened. When the glorious notes from his harp had lifted and carried her like a wee boat on the sea. When she’d almost been able to feel the warmth of a love so strong, not even time could sunder it, and had nearly felt the promise of kisses dropped into the palms of her hands.
Such fancy!
It had been good for Da, though, having the diversion. And quite possibly good for the rest of the clan’s folk also. There had been toomuch grief of late, with the country torn apart and war flickering all around them like flames that refused to snuff out.
The death of her brother, Geordie, had so wounded Da’s heart, and her own. She should be grateful, aye, to Finlay for showing up and sharing his gift, if only for the distraction of it. Yet there was something about the man…
Perhaps the way those green eyes of his insisted on seeking her out wherever she was in a room, on touching her again and again before drawing in the rest of his audience. What was his interest in her? She was but the daughter of the house, remarkable only for being far past the age to wed, who saw to the management of her father’s keep and meant naught to a traveling bard.
Perhaps, she thought now as the audience stirred and, emerging from Finlay’s spell, remembered where they were, he merely realized he relied upon her good favor as much as Da’s, for retaining their hospitality.
It must be important to a man who made his living on the move, especially on such a foul, wet night as this one. For the sea lay restless beyond the rocky shore, and rain crashed down so hard she’d been able to hear it even above the music. Indeed, at times it had seemed to become part of the story Finlay told, elemental and beyond the expression of words.
Aye, Finlay would be glad of a warm bed this night.
She watched as Da stepped up to the bard, who was situated near the head of the hall. Katrin had herself wandered the chamber while he sang, seeing to the comfort of their guests, as was her responsibility. In truth, after the first of Finlay’s tales she had found it difficult to keep still, except at those moments when his playing wove around her so intimately, she forgot herself. Almost—almost—became someone else.
Now she moved forward, exchanging words with the departing clan’s folk in passing. None of them would forget what they’d heard here tonight.
Aye, and when she drew close enough, she could hear that Da continued to praise the bard. Finlay, who stood nearly at a height with the chief, took the accolades humbly, with no signs of conceit.
