Chapter Five
December 22 1148
The Winter Solstice marked the shortest day and the longest night of the year, when the day descended into darkness and the night grew cold and long. But, from this point forward the days grew longer, and the nights grew shorter. As a dewine, this time was known to her people as the twilight of the year, the time between times. It was a time for rebirth, a time for atonement. Therefore, their Feill Fionnain was little different from her own Yule Sabbat.
To brighten the endless night, Elspeth witnessed a true northern tradition: the lighting of the cruach-theine—the bonfire. Indeed, as Liana had proclaimed, it was the biggest conflagration she ever did see. Enlisting the help of his burliest clansmen, they felled entire trees and arranged them carefully, so that, once lit, the flames shot as high as the pinewoods themselves. Father and firstborn son hoisted the last of the Yule logs, hurling it into the wood stack as though it were no more than a twig, and then each patted the other on the back.
Amidst so much laughter and revelry, it wasn’t long before Elspeth found herself wishing they never had to return to the inevitable problems that awaited them at Aldergh. Alas, Morwen was still out there, scheming, her sisters still needed saving, and England remained in turmoil.
Here, however, in the far northern reaches of Scotia, with Malcom’s family, it was easy to forget so much strife. The mood at Chreagach Mhor was carefree and joyful, with so many smiling faces, except one: All night long, Alex MacKinnon appeared to be glaring at Elspeth from behind one shrub or another. And every time he met her gaze, he scurried away. Elspeth wondered if anyone else had noticed his strange behavior.
At the moment, Malcom stood conversing with his father and friends. All the while, father and son shared winsome glances. For her part, Page flitted here and there, reminiscing with Cora. Beside her, Liana sat recounting tales about Malcom and his family. She told Elspeth about a little girl who would never put on her clothes and a hulking cousin by the name of Broc Ceannfhionn, who always seemed to have fleas. Also, during the course of their discussion, she learned that the braided loaves they’d kneaded and baked yesterday would be passed about tonight, and before taking a wee bite, each of the household must speak aloud one thing they were most grateful for that had transpired during the year.
Elspeth already knew what she would say, and whilst she practiced in her head, one after another, Malcom’s kinsmen were quick to come over and introduce themselves. Eventually, she met every MacKinnon, save Alex, and after a time, Malcom and his father came over, and Iain MacKinnon offered Elspeth yet another hug, squeezing her as vigorously as he dared.
“Malcom tells me ye’re considering staying to birth your bairn.” He pressed a hand to his heart, and continued. “Daughter mine, it would be the most humbling gift of all, and I would cherish the memory. I remember when this bloke was born, like it were yesterday.”
Elspeth eyed her husband, smiling, though she wondered if Malcom intended to make her a scapegoat for their eventual departure. So far as she knew, he didn’t mean to linger any longer than the Yuletide. She would have to speak to him later, because, in truth, she would not mind staying to give birth to their child. Page had already assured her that Glenna was an experienced midwife, and how amazing would it be to have the woman who brought both Malcom and his sire into the world, also bring their babe. And speaking of Glenna: She hurried by, saying, “It’s nearly time for thanks giving! Where is that boy?”
Elspeth spun to face the old woman. “Alex?”
“Aye, lass.” She frowned. “He’s been hiding away, but he knows we’re soon to gather ’bout the Yule fire. I ha’e some words to speak to him afore we do, and I need him to help me carry the loaves.”
“I saw him,” said Liana, with the unreserved glee of one sibling tattling on another. “He’s running aboot here, somewhere, making himself a nuisance… as usual.”
“He’s a wee broody boy,” said Glenna, and then muttered some unintelligible oath.
He’ll grow out of it soon enough,” said his Da. “And sooner yet when he sees the gift Malcom brought him.”
But Glenna hurried away, vowing, “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll be giving his rotten little bottom a guid reason to blush!”
“Tis aboot time!” said Liana.
“Patience,” said her father. “He’ll grow up in due time.”
“Well, I say we begin withoot him,” Liana suggested, and then, “Come on, Elspeth, let’s go get the Yule bread. We’ll carry it together.”
Elspeth gave the MacKinnon her pardon, and followed after Malcom’s sister, listening to the girl chatter endlessly all the way back up the hill. “I’ll ne’er wed,” she said, giving Elspeth a saucy glance. “Not till I find myself a mon like my Da. Tell me, true, Elspeth Pendragon, does Malcom ne’er vex ye?”
“Not often,” she said. And then, realizing it wasn’t true, remembering the day they’d met near Llanthony—how very cross he’d made her—she said, “Well, not so much as before.”
Liana linked her arm about Elspeth’s, demanding, “You must tell me everything! Everything! I want to know how you met! And dinna forget a wee detail.”
A mournful reed played somewhere beyond the light of the cruach-theine. This year’s bonfire was bigger than the year before, and it only figured, because, naturally, everything should be bigger and better for Malcom.
Alex kept to himself, brooding, although it wouldn’t have mattered much where he sat, because nobody seemed to care where he was. It was all about Malcom tonight. Proof of that was plain to see. For quite some time, he sat, alone, on one of the logs that hadn’t yet made it into the Yule fire, whittling furiously at a small stick with the knife he’d retrieved from his mother. But, of course, she hadn’t had a clue why he’d put it there beneath the threshold to begin with, and she’d scolded him for leaving his “toys” about—as though his blade were a wee plaything. That galled him, but it galled him far more that his father still wouldn’t allow him spar with aught but a wooden sword. He’d warrant that Malcom had had his own sword by the time he was Alex’s age, and Alex could well imagine father and son sparring like men—much the same as they’d caroused over the lighting of the cruach-theine. That used to be Alex’s job—to put the first torch to the kindling, and he’d watched, full of resentment, as Malcom had accepted the task.
Somehow, Malcom’s witchy wife must be at fault. He wished he could run away—at least until she was gone. None of his strategies were working. Elspeth had but stabbed her foot against his knife, and then stood in the middle of their hall, admiring Alex’s handiwork, all the while bleeding over his mother’s fresh rushes. The iron hadn’t fazed her at all, the holly and the ivy didn’t make her wince, and he was coming to believe that, if she was any sort of witch at all, it was only in the sense that she had bewitched his family, enchanting them one by one. He’d watched while his Da fussed over her, and his minny as well. His sister Liana seemed to have found herself a long-lost friend. And, clearly, his brother was so besotted over the lady, he’d barely noticed Alex’s rancor—and so it was that he was startled when Malcom appeared from nowhere and sat beside him on the overturned log.
“Hello,” said his brother, the tenor of his voice as low and confident as his Da’s.
For a long, awkward moment, Alex sat, tongue-tied. Up close, he could see that Malcom’s face had a long, thin scar. “Hello,” he replied, but he had a difficult time of it, swallowing past the knot that rose in his throat.
Truly, seated beside Malcom Ceann Ràs—hot head as so many of his kinsmen called him—Alex could easily imagine his giant of a brother felling twenty or more men. Mayhap even Fifty. Or a hundred. By the looks of the sword he carried at his side, he must be strong as an ox.
“What are you doing?” Malcom asked.
Alex said, trying to sound fierce, “Making an arrow sharp enough to kill a boar.”
“Aye?”
“Aye,” said Alex, nodding. “I mean to kill one next year.”
Malcom nodded at the wooden shaft in his hand. “With that?”
Alex nodded, though his eyes shifted again to the sword, wondering: Was it the sword he’d used to stab FitzSimon in the back? The story must be true; everyone said so.
Only by chance, when Malcom was seventeen, he’d come across a man in the woods, with an arrow pointed—or so Malcom had thought—at their mother’s head. Naturally, he did the only thing any man could do: he slew the man. It was only afterward that Malcom realized it was Page’s own Da he killed, and the arrow FitzSimon had nocked was intended to slay another man who was holding their mother captive. But that alone shouldn’t be enough to recommend Malcom as any sort of champion, and Alex couldn’t imagine that a brother who was worth his salt could go on so many years, ignoring his kin, and never acknowledging his only brother.
Malcom, so it seemed, had followed his gaze to the sword. He drew it out of its scabbard, turning the tip skyward, so that his large hands gripped the shining silver hilt. “Perchance wouldn’t you rather slay a boar with this?”
Alex’s eyes widened, and then Malcom went on to say, “It belonged to Robert de Bellême.”
Alex’s eyes widened even more. His jaw dropped. “The Devil Bellême?” Even so far north, and so many years later, they’d heard tales of him.
“Aye,” Malcom said. “He offered King Henry this sword as a token of his fealty, but later betrayed Henry, and Henry was forced to imprison him. Thereafter, Henry gave the sword to Stephen, and when he became King, Stephen presented it to me.” He lifted up the sword, his gaze climbing the length of it. “Alas, tis no longer a symbol of Stephen’s affection for me, but it can still wrest the head clean off a boar. I’d warrant you’d need a bit more muscle to try it, but if you practice oft enough, you’ll be sure to do it.”
Mouth still agape, Alex’s eyes lifted to his brother’s face. “For me?”
Malcom nodded and handed over the sword, offering it to Alex, and Alex took it, but Malcom must have anticipated its weight in Alex’s hands, because he very gently guided the sword down so that it’s tip embedded into the soft ground.
A real steel sword!
“I’ll show you how to use it,” Malcom offered, and all Alex’s fury dissipated as he stood, admiring the etchings on the hilt—intricate markings unlike any he’d ever seen.
The blade itself gleamed by the light of the moon, shining with a halo of blue. It must have been carved by a master blacksmith, because the metal was smooth, with nary a mark—as though it remained untried, despite how many battled it had seen.
Very, very carefully, feeling quite important to have been gifted such a venerable gift, Alex carefully slid his fingers across the blade’s edge, feeling its sharpness.
“Truly? All mine?” he asked again, hardly believing it could be true. And then, a soberer thought occurred to him, and he made sure to ask, “An’ ye asked my Da if I can have it, aye?”
Malcom nodded. “I did. Though you’re fortunate, because I didna get my own sword till I was three and ten. You know how father can be.”
“Aye, but I’m only eleven,” Alex said soberly, and Malcom reassured him.
“He said ye were braw enough to wield it.” And then he winked at Alex in a conspiratorial manner. “At any rate, what else could he say when we come bearing gifts?”
Alex laughed happily. He wanted to leap up and down.
Across the field, two burly men were hauling over a large coffer to present to his mother. “Would you like to go see what else we brought?”
Alex nodded, and Malcom, rather than reach down to retrieve the sword, simply asked. “Would you like to leave it here, or d’ ye mind if I wield it one last time? I promise to carry it straight to your bower thereafter, and mount it where’er ye please.”
Alex sorely wished he could carry the sword himself, and just to be certain, he gave it a hefty tug. It wouldn’t budge. Still, he smiled as he released the sword, and said, puffing his chest, “Since it’ll be your last time, you can carry it awhile.” He crossed his arms, nodding magnanimously, and said, “I’ll show you were to put it later.”
Malcom chuckled. “Aye, then brother. Let’s go watch our mother ooh and awe. Shall we?”
Alex nodded as his elder brother hoisted up his brand-new sword so easily and put it back into his scabbard, saying. “I been wanting to know ye so long, and I thank ye kindly for such a hearty welcome.”
Alex’s face flushed hotly, thinking that, the very instant his mother finished opening all her presents, he must hie himself quickly to the manor and undo all his ill-conceived efforts. Side by said, the brothers walked along, Alex swaggering with pride.
“Oh!” exclaimed his mother as they neared. And suddenly, Alex could see why. The coffer was filled to the brim with girly gowns and golden trinkets—all fine gifts, but none so fine as the sword his brother brought him. And he found himself feeling proud to have such a brawny sibling, who could carry the sword of the Devil Bellême on his hip.
Someday, when he was strong enough to wield it himself, he vowed to wield it with honor. He would use it only for good, and in so doing, he would wipe all trace of that Devil Bellême from the memory of the steel. After all, this was turning out to be a fine Yuletide—a very fine Yuletide, indeed.