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“Life is often tragic, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I prefer not to dwell on such things.”
He nodded toward the book. “Is there a story that ends more happily?”
She carefully thumbed through old paper and faded ink. “Here’s one. Not precisely a factual account from Pliny the Elder, but certainly happier than the last tale. It’s about swans.”
While even more whimsical than the selkie tale, the swan story appealed to Euphemia’s seldom-acknowledged fondness for romantic melodrama. She scooted closer to Andrew, lowering her voice to give a more riveting presentation. “Once upon a dark, wintry eve, the son of the Chieftain of Clan Sinclair wandered alone across the snowy moor, playing his lute beneath a full moon.”
“Alone with his lute on a cold night? Poor, sotted lad.”
She frowned and nudged her spectacles higher. “Andrew.”
He tutted. “Some men rally when they’re in their cups. And some… well, some flag. More’s the pity. As a wise man once said, life is tragic.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hush, you cheeky devil. I’m trying to tell a story.”
He motioned with a winding flourish. “Carry on, m’lady.”
“The young man wanders the moors each night, playing songs of longing for his true love fair. She’s the miller’s daughter. Poor, I take it, though the translation may be closer to ‘lowly’. In any event, she is deemed an unacceptable bride for our sad prince, and another is chosen. Unfortunately, his new bride is a Campbell lass.” Euphemia paused. “You understand the significance, yes?”
Andrew’s gaze was fixed upon her. Despite his casual posture, he looked oddly hungry. Oddly intense. “Hated clan. Long rivalry. The match was likely negotiated to settle a feud.”
“Just so.” She returned to the text, ignoring the strange heat in her middle. “On the night before his wedding, the longest night of the year, the prince goes wandering for what he believes to be the last time. He decides to rest beside a loch and plays his lute so sweetly that a swan floating nearby draws closer to listen.”
She leaned forward, noting he seemed even more riveted when she did so. Though, his gaze kept dropping below her chin, for some reason. She glanced down. Well covered, still no drips or stains. Puzzling.
With a mental shrug, she continued her tale. “She asks the prince to play her another tune, and so he does.” She frowned. “One must assume musical requests from wild animals were a routine occurrence.”
His chuckle was low and husky. “Nothing to be alarmed about. Merely the local wildlife stopping by for gossip and biscuits.”
She laughed, beaming her amusement. “Can you imagine?” Her hand settled on her belly. “Oh, biscuits do sound lovely right now.”
His smile faded, his gaze lowering again. He swiped a hand over his mouth and rubbed his nape. “What happens next?”
“The prince agrees. He plays her song after song late into the night. At one point, she asks to meet there again the following evening. But he informs her he is to wed, and thereafter, he is to be sent off to battle.”
“A lovelorn lute player on the battlefield? This does not bode well.”
“You mustn’t let his instrument fool you. He becomes quite a fearsome warrior. Legendary, in fact. Shall I tell you why?”
“I think you must.”
“As it happens, the Campbells break the truce shortly before the wedding takes place. So, the prince’s intended bride never arrives. Our prince seeks out the miller’s daughter, only to find she’s already wed another. Once again in despair, where does he wander? To the loch, of course. The swan is there. They converse for a time, and he sings to her throughout the night. He laments that he must leave for battle the following day. She is so taken with him that she offers to cast a spell: when the night is at its darkest, she’ll bring him home from wherever he’s wandered, so long as he’s willing to battle the gods to be by her side.”
“Battle the gods? A steep demand on such short acquaintance.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “This swan. Was shecompletelynaked?”
“For pity’s sake, Andrew.”
“Very well. Which gods are we contemplating? The Sinclairs are Viking stock, yes? Odin, Thor, Valhalla, and so on? That lot will make mincemeat of our fair prince’s lute, I fear.”
She shook her head. “This refers to the ‘merry dancers’ again. The aurora.”
“Not so merry, I take it.”
“Nor dancers, actually.Na fir-chlisare the ‘nimble men’. In Scottish tradition, they are warrior spirits having a squabble in the heavens, resulting in green, red, and purple lights. The residue of battle, as it were.”
“She wants her prince to join them, eh? Bloodthirsty swan.”
