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?”
