He shot her a grim look. “I will never sell the family papers.” He opened a silk packet. “I believe these are the pages your uncle translated.”
“Oh, they’re beautiful,” she gasped as she saw the loose vellum sheets. By the calligraphy and the ink color, she could see they were very old.
“I thought you might like them.” She looked at his quiet smile. “Two of the pages are attributed to a writer that scholars call the Dundrennan Poet.”
He edged out a parchment page that was tattered at its edges, the parchment foxed with pale-brown stains. Neat text rows filled the page and crowded into the margins. The light-brown ink letters had the distinctive round, controlled elegance of old Celtic script.
“I have heard of the Dundrennan Poet. He wrote verses about battles and also wrote about some historical Celtic heroes as well as mythic,” she said. “I have seen Uncle Walter’s translations. But it is fascinating to see the original pages.”
“There are two—here, and part of the third. Not much remains from that time period. I believe he wrote in the sixth century.”
“Two or three pages only makes them more valuable.” She dared not touch the pages, wishing she had the cotton gloves she used in the museum for handling precious things. In addition to the beautifully consistent lettering, the page contained larger initials that divided sections, intricately illuminated in dark and colored inks. Swirling tails and finials transformed into vines and animal heads in a style that was delicate and yet sure.
“Family tradition says the poet was one of the first lairds of Dundrennan. The estate is that old. My ancestors have been here going back ages. So I will never give these up.”
“Of course you must not.” She peered closer, examining a line of phrases. “The language looks like Old Irish. My uncle feels that Scots Gaelic had not yet developed at that date. I see Latin phrases mixed in too, which indicates a Christian education.Thank you for showing me these. They must be so special to your family.”
“And to you. Take your time examining them.”
She nodded, leaning closer to look at the contents of the box. Her shoulder brushed his arm as he opened another packet, spreading the silk so she could see some of the loose pages. A few pages were covered in columns of tiny words, cramped but neat.
“This is an ancient register of households, I think,” he said.
“My uncle worked with this document too. It is like a muster roll, listing warriors able to fight for some Pictish king or another. Look here.” She traced her finger down the page without touching the vellum. “Isn’t this your ancestor? Aedan mac Brudei.”
“I heard he was mentioned here, but I had not seen it. That Aedan was a bit of a mystery. A warrior who settled in the area of Dundrennan with his people. They became Clan MacBride. Aedan is a family name.”
“So you said. If this is a sixth-century document also, then he may have been of the Dal Riata tribe that settled in this region of Scotland. We know too little about the early Scots, but many came from Ireland and settled here.”
“What are those notations in the margin? Some clerk’s afterthought?”
“Uncle Walter mentioned the roster had marginalia that he could not decipher. He thought the lines might have been added by a later hand.” Christina shrugged. “Marginal notes often occur in old manuscripts. Writing surfaces were scarce, so pages already in books were used for notes if necessary. A book owner might jot something down in an old book—for example, how many cows went to market that month, or how many cheeses were produced that season.”
“Perhaps the margin has a list of Pictish cheeses.”
She laughed. “It could be! I’d love to study it more closely.”
“Whenever you like.”
At his glance, she blushed, looking away to protect her fervent feelings that were so strong today, especially near him. “This is such a treasure,” she said. “Thank you.”
“No need. If the rain continues, you can translate treasures instead of going about digging them up.” He rewrapped the pages, and she tied the ribbons. Aedan replaced the cases in the cabinet and locked the narrow doors. Then he held out the little key.
She stood beside him in the wedge of space behind the door. “Oh, I cannot.”
“Nonsense. Take the key.” He pressed the bit of iron into her palm, let go.
“Thank you.” Her gaze held his, skimmed away. “The folio is extraordinary. No wonder Sir Edgar wants it for the museum.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “He wants more than the folios. He offered a blanket sum for the collection. Father refused. Since then, so have I.”
“Edgar is impressed with the entire Dundrennan collection. If you ever want to part with some of it, I am sure he would give you a good price.”
“I do not mind sharing some of these things one day with a good collection. But I will not give them to Edgar.”
“He is a superb scholar, and a museum director.”
“He is a sly snake.”
