CHAPTER 27
After giving her one more kiss, Rory opened the door, and a flood of women poured through it, led by Grizel. Two of the women carried a wooden tub between them, while several others brought in buckets of steaming water.
“We’ve come to wash your feet,” Grizel announced.
“Wash my feet?” Sybil asked.
“’Tis a Highland wedding tradition,” Rory said.
While the women with buckets filled the tub, others surrounded Sybil, plunked her down on a stool, and began removing her shoes and wool stockings.
The women laughed and made bawdy remarks to Rory as they did the same with him.
“Have you lasses opened the whisky keg early?” he asked.
“Of course we have,” a plump woman with graying hair said. “’Tis no every day we have a chieftain’s wedding to celebrate.”
“Did ye bring a dram for the poor bride?” Sybil asked, stretching her arm out. “I’m begging ye, please.”
That set them all to laughing again. Though she had made a joke of it, she was desperate for a drink to calm her nerves. The women cheered when she leaned her head back and drained the cup.
“She drinks like a Highlander,” one of them said.
Sybil decided this was going well, but then she shrieked when two women grabbed her ankles and rubbed soot from the hearth all over her feet.
“I thought ye were going to wash them,” she said.
“The ash represents the past,” Grizel explained. “Now we wash it away so ye can start the marriage clean and new.”
Sybil liked the idea of that very much. Could it be so simple to wash away her past, to erase the dishonesty that had brought them to this day? She hoped so.
For her wedding day, she would let herself believe it. Someone poured her another dram, and she drank it to help push aside her worries.
The women rubbed ash on Rory’s feet as well. While the women scrubbed her and Rory’s feet in the tub, the younger ones giggled and whispered behind hands, and the older women openly speculated about the likely duration and frequency of what would occur between the bride and groom tonight in this bedchamber.
Sybil met Rory’s gaze, and the sounds of the women’s voices faded. Today they would begin their marriage and a new life together. Nothing that came before should matter.
When the women finished, Rory helped her to her feet. She stood in the tub with her skirts tucked up, facing Rory and surrounded by twenty chattering women.
As they stood staring into each other’s eyes, she felt overwhelmed by how she had gone from feeling despair to such hopefulness for the future. He cupped her neck and started to pull her in for a kiss.
“There will be time for that later, laird!” one of the older women shouted, and pulled on his arm. “Leave her to us now, or there will be no wedding today.”
“I entrust my bride to your good hands.” Rory bowed to the gathered women and winked at Sybil before he went out the door.
For the next hour, the women fussed over her, dabbing lavender scent on her wrists and throat, brushing her hair until it shone. They left the back of her hair loose and wove tiny braids on the sides that they pinned back.
They cooed as they worked. “Lucky lass, thick hair as black as midnight.” “Have ye ever seen eyes that shade of violet?” “Milky skin as smooth as a babe’s bottom.”
The door opened and all the women, including Sybil, sucked in their breath as a tall, bony woman came in carrying a dazzling blue gown.
“’Tis blue for luck, of course. The color will be lovely with your eyes,” the woman said. “The laird asked me to alter it for ye. This is the gown his mother was wed in.”
“Ach, I remember that day well,” Grizel said, wiping a tear. “May you have a marriage as happy as hers.”
“Oh, thank you!” Sybil said. “I could not wish for a lovelier wedding gown.”
“The laird’s mother was a head taller,” the woman who brought it in said. “I did my best, but let’s see how it fits.”
Sybil lifted her arms, and the seamstress dropped the voluminous skirt over her head. A collective sigh went through the women as the silk slid over her skin and fell into place.
The seamstress tugged the laces on the bodice tight, rested her hands on her hips, and leaned back to examine Sybil. “I did a fine job, if I do say so myself. A good thing, too, for the blue color would never outweigh the bad luck of a wedding gown that doesn’t fit.”
“I remember the laird’s mother in that gown,” one of the older women said. “Ach, she was a beauty, tall and fair with red-gold hair. Our chieftain had a fever for her from first sight.”
It was in a man’s nature to feel that way at the beginning. After Rory’s fever cooled, would he regret letting desire cloud his judgment? Even if he never learned of the deception, would he come to resent being tied to a wife who brought nothing but herself to the marriage?
“One last thing for luck.” Grizel stuck a small sprig of white heather in Sybil’s hair. “’Tis early for it to bloom, but I found this bit growing in a corner of the castle garden where it was protected from the wind and cold.”
“A sign of spring to come,” Sybil said. And hope.
One of the women held up a looking glass.
“Oh my, I do look like a bride.” Heaven help her, this really was happening.
“Aye, and a bonny bride ye are,” the woman said. “But where’s your smile gone, lass?”
“If you’re worried about what will happen here tonight,” another woman said, and patted the bed, “I’d be willing to take your place.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” another said, and the women laughed and refilled their cups.
“Every lass is a wee bit nervous on her wedding night.” The woman who spoke this time must have imbibed more than her share, for she was slurring her words. “Another nip will help.”
Sybil took the flask and let the liquid courage burn down her throat.
“No matter what everyone else says,” the woman said, squeezing Sybil’s shoulders, “I think our young laird made a fine choice.”
Before she could drink another long gulp, the women took the flask from her and pushed her toward the door. Sybil paused in the doorway and looked over her shoulder at the women.
“You’ve all been very kind to me,” she said. “Thank you.”
Kind as they were, she wished her sisters were here. She had never imagined she would marry without a single member of her family present.
***
Rory smiled to himself as he dressed in his best saffron shirt and plaid for the ceremony. There could be no changing their course regardless, but his heart was glad that Sybil wanted to be his wife.
When he started to fasten the plaid over his shoulder with his broach, Malcolm shook his head and took it from him.
“Ye must wear this one now.” Malcolm held out a familiar silver broach worked in the image of a stag’s head, the symbol of the chieftain of the MacKenzies.
“Where did ye find it?” Rory narrowed his eyes at him. “This disappeared just like my father’s sword did when he died.”
“I put them away for safekeeping until we had a chieftain worthy of your father and grandfather’s legacy.”
“Ye should have given them to Brian,” Rory said.
“I’d not let them fall into Hector’s hands so long as I have breath in my body,” Malcolm said. “And ye know damned well that’s who would have them now if I hadn’t protected them.”
Rory hated the thought of Hector wearing the broach and sword that had been his father’s most prized possessions. And Malcolm was right. Hector would have used these revered symbols of the chieftainship to help legitimize his claim.
“You were wise to hide them,” Rory said. “I shall try to be worthy of them.”
“I’ve no doubt ye will.” Malcolm was quiet a long moment. “Are ye not being a bit hasty with taking Sybil as your wife before the whole clan?”
“Ye advised me to act decisively, and so I have.”
“That’s what I advised about claiming the chieftainship, not a wife,” Malcolm said. “Ach, you’re as rash about rushing this wedding as your father was about marrying your mother.”
Rory grinned. “I’d say that portends well for our future.”
“That’s what my wife says,” Malcolm said with a long-suffering sigh. “But what about the Grants? They’ll not take this well. Not well at all.”
Malcolm was right about the Grants. But Rory would worry about the Grants and his many other troubles another day.
Today he was celebrating.
***
When Sybil entered the hall, the room fell silent except for the intake of a hundred breaths, including his own. Rory found her beautiful in a filthy gown with her face smudged with mud and her hair in tangles, but she was utterly magnificent as a bride. The rich blue color of the gown matched her eyes, and her shining black hair was set off with his mother’s jeweled silver combs.
The gown shimmered and flowed, making her look like a faery princess as she glided across the room to him. She looked at no one but him, and her smile lifted his heart. He found it hard to believe she was really his.
He took her hands and began his vows.
“I, Rory Ian Fraser MacKenzie, son of Kenneth of the Battle, the 8th of Kintail, and grandson of Alexander the Upright, the 7th of Kintail, take you, Lady Sybil Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of…”
As he recited her name and pedigree, fear flashed in Sybil’s eyes at the realization that every person in the castle now knew who she was. Rory squeezed her hands to reassure her and continued his pledge.
“…to be my wife. Before God and my clan, I promise to protect and keep you and to be a faithful and loyal husband until God shall separate us by death.”
Sybil seemed to pale at the reminder that she was bound to him until death, but she recited her vows to him in a clear voice.
When Rory pulled his dirk, her eyes went wide, and he realized that as a Lowlander she was not familiar with this part. He should have warned her. Praise God she did not scream, for that was just the sort of reaction those who were critical of his choice of a bride expected.
He held her gaze, willing her to trust him, as he turned her right hand over. Sybil did not even flinch as he cut across her palm, leaving a thin line of deep red blood. After drawing the blade across his own palm, he clasped his hand to hers, palm to palm.
As he wound the symbolic strip of linen around their joined hands, he recited the ancient words. He repeated them three times, the number that provided a couple’s bond with magical protection.
“Our blood is joined, and we are one
Our blood is joined, and we are one
Our blood is joined, and we are one.”
As he spoke the words the final time, they seemed to echo inside his head and heart. We are one. One. ONE.
***
The room seemed to spin and blur behind Rory as he wound the linen around their hands and repeated the chant. Sybil kept her gaze locked on his and felt as if there was no one else in the hall at this moment but the two of them. We are one. One. ONE.
When someone cleared his throat, she remembered that Alex stood before them in his priestly robes. The church’s blessing was not required to make a marriage binding, but it did make a marriage more difficult to escape.
“I bless this union in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Alex dipped his thumb in the small bowl of holy water, touched it to Rory’s forehead, and made the sign of the cross. She felt the cool damp of his thumb on her forehead as he did the same to her.
“May your bond never be broken,” Alex said, “and may God bless you with many children.”
The words had barely left Alex’s mouth when Rory raised their joined hands. The hall erupted as everyone shouted, stamped their feet, and raised their fists or weapons in the air. Sybil did not think it could get any louder, but then Rory pulled her into a passionate kiss that made her knees weak and sent the MacKenzies into a frenzy.
When he released her, she felt dazed and happy. She had expected to feel weighed down by the pledge she had just made that bound her for life. Instead, she felt so light she could have floated over the crowd.
The MacKenzies did not let their unease with their laird’s choice of a bride interfere with their celebration. The hall was soon noisy with talk and laughter. The whisky flowed like water as one man after another made a toast.
“Gun cuireadh do chupa thairis le slainte agus sonas.” May your cup overflow with health and happiness.
“Slàinte, sonas agus beairtas!” Health, happiness and wealth!
“Móran làithean dhuit is sìth.” May you be blessed with long life and peace.
Sybil would have had the food served before so many toasts, but this appeared to be the Highland custom. Judging by the increasingly bawdy jokes, she was not the only one feeling a bit tipsy by the time the trestle tables were set up for the wedding feast. At last, Rory led her toward the head table, a signal to everyone to find their seats.
But he halted as something across the room caught his attention. Sybil followed his gaze to a guard who was pushing his way through the crowd of revelers, heading straight for Rory.
“Laird, I apologize for disrupting the festivities,” the guard said when he reached them, “but we have a score of Munro warriors approaching the gate, and they’re armed to the teeth.”