Page 48 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

B radana lay on her back in the bed and stared up at the rafters of the hut, trying to number the days since she’d left Alba. She failed, for her mind had fallen into confusion. It might be ten days. It might be a fortnight. She’d spent so much of the time sleeping, she could not tell.

Sleep had become her refuge and her means of hiding what she felt from Adair. He had done his best to make her feel welcome here. He had taken her and Wen on long treks over the land, sharing his love of this place. He had introduced her to his friends. He had taken her to dinner in the great hall.

She did not feel welcomed. Not by Adair’s father, the chief, and not by his brothers, both of whom she remembered far too well from their visits to Alba.

Alba.

The place haunted her. She dreamed of it at night and thought she was there again, striding over the hills or gazing out at the sea. She longed for the place during the day, even when for the sake of pity she took Wen out on her own and began, aye, to appreciate the beauties of Adair’s land.

She could not let Adair know. Could not tell him how the longing for home beset her, like a sickness. He exerted himself each day working in the field, making a place here for them both. She admired him for that and determined she would support him in it.

But it left her and Wen much alone. Lonely.

Thank the gods for Wen. What would she do without him?

Her nights, at least, were spent in Adair’s arms. They made love often, a bit desperately on her part as she sought that deep connection with him. Sought to belong somehow in this strange land.

She sighed and stirred in the bed. Wen lifted his head from his paws and gazed at her sorrowfully.

Aye, one made sacrifices for those one loved. Wen, confined so often to the new quarters Adair had claimed, knew that.

She must find a purpose here. Continue going out and about, if only for Wen’s sake.

They did make a daily pilgrimage to the training field where Adair worked. It gave her the pleasure of watching him. Of overhearing the gossip of the other young women who also went there.

These young Erin women wanted no part of her. They gazed at her solemnly and made no overtures of friendship. From what little she had overheard, she gathered Adair had long been a favorite among them, and competition had been fierce to see which he would take for a bride. Forba—she who had once occupied herself teaching Adair to play upon the harp—watched her with cool, unfriendly eyes.

In time, they might come to accept her. At least, that was what Adair seemed to think. She did not want to contemplate a future spent here, endless days stretching to years.

And she dreamed of Alba. She wondered how those she’d left there fared. Whether her grandsire’s lands had come under attack or if this bid of hers had saved him. If he lived yet.

“We canna go on like this, Wen.” She sat up, her hair swinging behind her. Adair had run his fingers—beloved fingers—through her hair last night. He had kissed her all over. He had been inside her where he belonged.

But now an endless day stretched ahead of her. Without him.

She got to her feet, and the hound pricked up his ears. She dressed carefully, brushed out her hair, and braided it. She took up her harp from its place in the corner.

It had been days since she’d touched it. Travel and the trip at sea had not been kind to the instrument. Though she’d tried giving Adair a song once or twice, the notes sounded sour and so she’d quit.

“Wen, come.”

She’d heard Gawen MacMurtray’s harper, a man called Caomhán, at practice during her walks each morning, either out in the open at the foot of the brae, or tucked into a corner of the hall. He also played for the company at supper, and when Adair persuaded her to attend, she heard him there.

A man of some talent. And one, so Bradana understood, who had been part of Adair’s circle before he left for Alba.

This being a fine morning, she found him at the foot of the hill with his acolytes around him. Most figures of importance here in Erin seemed to have acolytes. Even Adair.

Some of those now gathered in the grass were young women. A couple of them looked up sharply when Bradana approached and she saw with dismay that one of them was Forba.

Wen ran ahead of Bradana over the green grass, and she paused a moment to gather her courage and take in the scene. Aye, this place was beautiful with its gentle rise and Caomhán’s students in their fine robes looking bright as flowers.

She walked on.

A man of early middle years was Caomhán, with dark brown hair that showed red in the sun, a quick gaze, and clever hands. She had never before spoken directly to him, save for a word of greeting. He glanced up from his student—a young boy surely no more than twelve—and watched carefully as Bradana approached.

“Mistress.” He made to get to his feet.

“Nay, pray, do no’ rise.”

“Wha’ is it ye have there?” His gaze fixed to her harp.

“A clàrsach.”

“One made in Alba?” Aye, they all knew who she was and from whence she’d come.

“Aye. It is no’…no’ as fine as your own.” He played a beautiful instrument, all carved with the twisted figures of animals and leaves.

“Ah, ’tis the voice o’ the instrument that matters.” He had blue eyes, and when he looked at Bradana, they appeared kind. “Do ye play?”

“Aye. But I canna of late. She needs strings. I wondered if ye might help.”

“She?” He smiled. Setting aside the lad’s harp, he got to his feet. “May I?”

Bradana surrendered the harp to his hands. Her most treasured possession besides Wen, it looked small and crude as the man examined it.

“Aye, so, ye are indeed in need of new strings.”

“Can ye provide them? I am sure my husband can pay for your service.”

His smile widened. “Your husband, Adair MacMurtray. He is a good friend o’ mine. I can fit your harp, mistress, and gladly—if ye repay me wi’ a song.”

“Och, I am sure I do no’ play as well as yourself, Master Caomhán.”

He ignored that. Stepping away to a nearby pack, half the contents of which had already been spread on the ground, he fished for supplies.

“I have been to Alba, ye know.”

“Have ye?” Bradana’s heart leaped.

“Indeed, as a young man. A wild sort o’ place, is it no’? But I got some wondrous tunes there.”

“Aye.”

“When there, I did not see any female harpers.”

“’Tis no’ usual,” Bradana admitted. “I had to beg to receive my lessons.”

“Och, so. A determined woman, then.”

Bradana found herself smiling. “I was gey determined about that.”

“Well, we must spread beauty as we can.”

She watched as, with quick and practical motions, he replaced the strings on her little harp.

As he worked, he continued to chatter. “I myself have two children. My son already learns upon the harp. I confess, I would not have thought to teach my daughter also. Mayhap ye can change my mind.”

“’Tis always good to learn.” When he finished stringing her harp, she said, “I thank ye. Adair will be glad of it also. He loves me to play for him.”

“Adair possess an excellent ear and might have made a fine harper, in another life. These new strings will need to stretch out.”

“Aye.”

“But ye owe me a tune, mistress. Why not use my harp?”

“Yours? Och, I could not.”

“Why?”

“It is much larger than mine, and it is so magnificent—”

“The harp canna see itself, and knows only its own voice.” He walked to a nearby rug, where sat his harp in solitary splendor, and took it up. “Please.”

How could she refuse when he had shown her all she’d seen so far of kindness here in Erin?

By now, everyone there watched them, including Forba. Hesitantly, Bradana took a seat on one of the stools and balanced the instrument on her knee. She ran her fingers down the strings and the harp gave voice into the clear, soft air.

It was enough to let the magic take hold, and her doubt fled. She gave them one of the first songs she had learned, finding her way on the strings, adding the embellishments by which it had become her own. She broke then at once into the song she’d made for Adair. The beautiful harp sang for her, and when they finished, there was not a sound.

Not until Caomhán cleared his throat. “I ha’ ne’er heard that last tune.”

“Because it is one o’ my own.”

“Mistress, ye ha’ a wondrous talent. I hope ye will cultivate it well, for it deserves to be passed down to future generations.”

To her child? Hers and Adair’s?

She could not see the future, but of a sudden, she wanted to.