Page 6 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

T he weather cleared, turning warm and bonny, the gods breathing gently over the land. Autumn, when it turned fine this way, was Deathan’s favorite time of year. He went out often hunting with his friends or just tramping the land in an effort to escape what lay at home.

Life in the keep had become intolerable.

He knew too much, that was the problem. Knew that the Caledonian princess was due to arrive at any time, depending on the weather and other vagaries of travel.

She came with her father—a king, apparently, in his own right.

With Mother so ill, Da called upon his seneschal to make preparations, and he, a man called Farchan, promptly turned the place on its head.

Deathan could not help but keep an eye on his brother, who continued to be moody and irascible, apt to quarrel with Da—or indeed, with anyone—at any time.

Deathan noticed now how often Rohr met with the lass, Caragh, seemingly by chance. She would stop by wherever he worked, usually in company with one of her friends, and they would exchange fervent, hushed words.

Once, the lass went away weeping.

As well she might. Soon enough, her condition must show, and she would not be able to name the father—a man who, indeed, waited by the day for the arrival of a woman destined to marry him.

Destiny, so it seemed, was a terrible hard thing. Better, so Deathan decided, to live a quiet, ordinary life. To escape the notice of the gods entirely.

To be an unimportant second son.

The only person who seemed excited by the news of approaching events was Mother. Deathan stopped in to see her one morning before making his first round of the guard, to find her propped up on her bolsters, her face shining.

So long had it been since he’d seen her so, with a light in her eyes and some color in her face, that it put a check in his step as he crossed the floor to her bed.

Half the life had gone out of their world since she’d been confined to her bed. And watching her fade away had become a constant, mortal wound.

Now she reached for his hand even as he sat down beside her.

“Och, Deathan, is it no’ exciting? I am to have a new daughter. And a princess!”

“Aye so.” Deathan could not keep from smiling.

“What d’ye think she will be like? A Caledonian, aye—but verra grand, no doubt. D’ye think she will be beautiful?”

“Mayhap.” Deathan tried to picture the woman and failed. Most the Caledonians he’d seen had been male, and many of those either rushing at him with blades in their hands, or lying dead or dying.

“Only imagine.” Mother plucked at his fingers. “My descendants half Caledonian. Deathan, our world is changing.”

“It is.” He could only agree.

“’Tis a new land, this. One where enemies become blood kin.” She spoke in the manner of a seer, almost. Was she so close to death that she could see beyond to what would come?

“I maun get up,” she declared, “and help wi’ the preparations. For such honored guests, all must be ready.”

“Mam, nay. I believe all is in hand already. Everyone has been engaged in seeing to it.”

“Aye, but the lady o’ the house should stand to greet them when they arrive.” She blinked her mild blue eyes at him. “I am still the lady o’ the house.”

“To be sure, ye are,” Deathan reassured her with a clench of the heart.

“But this woman, this princess, will tak’ my place.” Mother’s gaze held Deathan’s persistently. “Once I am gone. Ye must see I ha’ to be there to greet her. To guide her.”

“Mam…” Deathan’s throat closed so he could say no more.

“I want to be there at yer father’s side when she arrives. Help me up.”

Panic joined the grief in Deathan’s heart. “Mam, I do no’ think—” She had not been on her feet for more days than he could count.

“Ye do no’ suppose me strong enough.”

He did not. He kept from saying so. “Mam, I am certain your new daughter, when she arrives, will be more than pleased to come and greet ye here.” If she had half a heart, she would.

“Aye so.” Mother eased back against the bolsters, defeated. “And ye will come and tell me what she looks like, as soon as the party arrives, will ye no’? Every detail.”

“Every detail,” he agreed, and kissed her soft cheek.

He recalled that conversation later in the afternoon when the men on watch from the walls called out that a rider approached. Another messenger, he proved to be.

This one, unlike the previous from the king, proved to be a Caledonian.

He came swiftly, riding as one with his pony, his hair and the animal’s tail both flying. Deathan, on the walls at the time, hurried down and so proved to be the first of the family to make contact.

The man was young, surely near Deathan’s own age, and he was a sight. Long brown hair flowed about him in a cloud, and he stood—by the time Deathan reached him, having dismounted—heavily armed. Armed and covered with tattoos.

Moreover, he had an arrogant tilt to his chin and eyed the guard with what might have been measured hostility.

They eyed him back the same way, even though by then everyone in the clan knew what was to transpire. Caledonians in their midst.

Indeed, the news had spread like wildfire.

“I come from King Caerdoc,” he declared in heavily accented Gaelic, his bright-hazel gaze settling on Deathan. “The wedding party approaches.”

Wedding party.

“Aye so,” Deathan said, his thoughts racing. “We stand ready to receive them.”

The messenger’s gaze flicked over him with some interest, warrior to warrior. In days not so long since, they might have met on the battlefield.

Now they were supposed to be countrymen.

“How far off is the party?”

“They follow me closely and will be here before sundown. Are you MacMurtray?”

“I am one o’ them. Herve MacMurtray’s son.”

The messenger’s eyebrows twitched. “The bridegroom?”

“Nay, I am his brother. Let one o’ us tak’ yer pony and care for him. And pray, let me offer ye our hospitality.”

The man bared his teeth. “No one touches the pony but me. And I will ride back to inform King Caerdoc that you expect him.”

“Very well so.” Deathan shifted as Da came up to join him. “This,” he told the messenger, “is Chief MacMurtray. Da, the party grows near.”

The Caledonian inclined his head to Da in a lordly fashion. “Kind Caerdoc sends his greetings. He escorts his daughter in accordance with the MacAlpin’s decree.”

Heavily accented the man’s Gaelic might be, but Deathan stood impressed all the same. He would not be able to communicate in the Caledonian tongue. Yet his people called these savages.

Would the princess also speak their tongue? How difficult for Rohr, if she did not.

Da turned to Deathan. “Go and fetch your brother. He maun be here when his guests arrive. And ye, Master…?”

“Urfet.” The messenger bared his teeth again. “I am cousin to the king.”

“Aye so. Let me escort ye to our hall.”

“Da, he wishes to ride back to his company.”

Da looked uncomfortable. “’Tis no’ necessary, that. We will welcome them in.” He flapped a hand at Deathan. “Go. Go.”

Deathan had no idea where to find Rohr. Given the way news flew about the place, he might reasonably expect Rohr to find him. He longed to go back up on the walls so he might catch a first glimpse of the party. Of the princess.

Only so he could inform Mother, of course.

He found Rohr just emerging from the midden. His brother looked green around the gills and had a hand pressed to his stomach.

Presumably he had already heard the news.

“Ye maun come at once,” Deathan told him. “The party approaches.”

“Already?” So Rohr had not heard. His apparent nerves stemmed from anticipation.

That gave Deathan pause. Bold and unflappable, his older brother tended to be. Near impossible to shake.

He stood shaken now.

“Come along,” Rohr said disagreeably, taking out his ire, as so often, on the nearest target. “The nightmare begins.”