Chapter Twenty-One

Mar a 'tarraing mar; fuil losgadh airson fuil.

(Like draws like; blood burns for blood)

— Auld Scots Adage

Challon lifted her up on the black mare, named Goblin—his bride's gift to her. Moffet stood to her right, holding the lead on the restless Pagan, until Julian mounted.

At Tamlyn's right side, he rode upon the prancing destrier. A restless energy possessed the charger, reflecting the same impatience in his master. Whilst Challon had gone to great expense to see the wedding take place in a manner befitting a man once the king's champion, she sensed eagerness, an urgency to have the ceremony over, as if wanting to make sure of his possession of her and Glenrogha.

Challon wore black, though the edge of his surcoat was trimmed with thin gold braid. At his throat was a gold torque, a heavier version of the one she wore. A smile formed her lips as she recalled giving it to him this morn. Her wedding gift to him. The reverence with which he touched it, stroked it, told her just how humbled he was to receive the present for her husband, the new Earl of Glenrogha.

Her eyes glanced down at her black kirtle trimmed in gold braid, designed to match Challon's surcoat. A heavy golden chain, another bride's gift, encircled her waist and hung down to her feet. Worth a king's ransom. It went well with her gold Pict torque and cuff bracelets. Her final present from him was a thin gold circlet, adorned with a large oval of green garnet, fit for a queen. The stone reminded her of Challon's eyes. An exact matching ring of gold sat upon Julian's brow .

Raven told her Julian had designed the wedding gown, down to the smallest details. Such finery was not her way, but she understood his need to strike a statement with the marriage. Challon's lady would only be wed dressed in a manner befitting a princess. Whilst touched by his caring, these beautiful adornments caused her to feel as though she were in the body of another.

She found peace in the coming wedding. The Kenning whispered this was meant to be. Still, so much would change. Rowanne and Raven had helped her dress, and Auld Bessa had been at her elbow reassuring her that she had made the right choice. She wanted Julian Challon. Just looking at him made her body burn, ache with an ever-growing need. Truly, she held no second thoughts. Yet, a good marriage did not mean life would be smooth. The dream of the attack came to her during the night, causing her to cry out in terror. Everything had been so real—arrows flying through the air, horses screaming, Challon commanding his men. She jerked awake crying his name. Her heart had pounded painfully. She shook with bone-deep fear.

Julian had caught her in his strong warrior arms and held her close. He kissed her forehead and then her nose, reassuring her 'twas naught more than a nightmare. She clung to him, allowing his high body heat to chase away the cold dread lodged in her heart. In spite of his comforting, she was terrified she would one day soon lose him.

Mayhap it was the sense of being blessed with this marriage that she feared drawing the ire of the Auld Ones . She loved Julian, but one arrow, or a thrust of a sword, and he could be taken from her.

As they rode out of the fortress, destined for the kirk, Tamlyn spotted a magpie landing on the open gate. Her breath sucked in. One magpie was a foretelling of sorrow. She breathed again as a second one fluttered to sit by the first, then a third. And fourth. The presence of the birds caused the cold bile of unease to rise in the pit of her stomach.

Challon, riding at her side, noticed her dark mood. "What brings forth such a scowl on this joyous morn, my lady?"

She glanced back to the birds, seeing three more had perched alongside the others. "The birds. 'Tis most peculiar for them to roost there. Lore sayeth when they gather in numbers they are foretelling the future. One means sorrow. Two for mirth. Three bring blessings for a wedding. Four be an augury for a coming death." Her words died as the images of the nightmare flooded her mind. Cold dread rushed through her being.

"Only blackbirds with white feathers, naught more, Tamlyn. Likely, similar to the ones that haunt the passes."

"Nay, those be ravens. Magpies have the white markings and are smaller." She stared at the birds sitting in a row. Their heads turned slowly, their eyes following her as she rode passed.

Julian leaned over in the saddle and placed his hand over hers. "'Tis seven birds only. Mayhap, they heard tides the Dragon of Challon weds his beautiful betrothed this morn and wish to witness it. What augury does seven magpies speak?"

"Seven herald a secret that must never be told," she told him. Unsure what they truly forewarned. Did their presence warn her not to tell Challon of her dark dream, of things yet to come? Would he even believe her if she warned him? Oh, she wished she could speak to Evelynour. She would ken their message.

He gave her a soft smile. "Pay it no need, my lady. I make my own luck."

They reined their horses before the church, and Moffet rushed forward to take the leads. Pagan rubbed his muzzle against the mare's neck, murmuring to her. Challon lightly smacked the nose of the randy horse and pushed him back, so he could lift Tamlyn from the sidesaddle.

As Julian set her upon her feet, his eyes locked with hers. The breathless moment spun out long threads, as he seemed to want to speak something of grave import. Her heart swelled as she hoped he might finally say he loved her. Instead, he placed a kiss to her cheek. "You are beautiful. A bride worthy of the Dragon of Challon."

When he saw she was still feeling skittish, his hand lightly circled the side of her neck and gave it a small squeeze. Growing concerned, Challon looked down on her. "Those birds? They still bother you?"

"Unsettled me a wee bit," she admitted.

A cloud passed through his dark green eyes. "Be that all that distresses you? Not having a second think on this marriage?"

She shook her head. "Nay. Truly that does no' plague me. As I spake before, 'tis the will of the Auld Ones ."

"I would wish for acceptance, not resignation." He took her hand and led her to the steps of the ancient kirk. The throngs of people, lining both sides of the road, fell in behind them, following. Malcolm, dressed in his robes of the Culdee, stood on the top step, waiting.

"We bid well-come to Tamlyn and Julian who have come to plight their troth..."

As her uncle began the ceremony, Tamlyn nervously glanced about her. So many people had gathered to witness the union of the Chosen Daughter of Clan Ogilvie to the Black Dragon of Challon, their new lord. Everything around her had a pall of unreality. She trembled as she tried to concentrate on the faces of the people of Glen Shane. Most were vague to her mind, as if she were having trouble focusing on their features.

Though she had convinced Challon there was no need to move the wedding date forward he had still insisted. Through The Kenning, she finally sensed he was simply eager for the ceremony to be done, to put a seal to their bonding. She had asked him to learn to tolerate the ways of her people, so she had to accept his will as well. They reached a compromise, and Malcolm agreed the wedding could take place within a sennight's time.

To her right, in a line behind Julian, stood his brothers, both dressed in the black livery of Challon. After them, came Baron St. Giles, though he wore ramients of greys. 'Twas clear to all the men bore the stamp of Challon.

The days passed in a flurry of activities. With all the preparations, there was barely time to catch a breath. Despite the hectic rush, concern over the continued absence of Lord Ravenhawke had cast a dark note. Challon sent out riders in all directions, but none had seen the handsome black-haired man. At Coinnleir Wood, her cousins admitted sharing a horn of mead with him, but had no idea where he could have gone.

Much to their surprise, early yestermorn, he had shown up at the gates of Glenrogha. His clothing was neat, he was clean. In spite of his pristine condition, he seemed disoriented. When he finally was able to talk coherently, he spun a long tale about being taken and held captive by the Faery Queen. Challon had laughed, thinking his cousin merely made up a story to cover his absence. Tamlyn wondered. All had heard how Thomas of Erceldoune was carried away by the Queen of Elfland, so many of Glenrogha's people cast little doubt on Damian's explanation.

The long, thick lashes lifted and Damian's eyes collided with hers. St. Giles' eyes were green, a trait of Challon, but a grey-green, neither one color nor the other, yet both. Their lightness was emphasized by the trappings of grey clothing he wrapped himself in. The pale gaze seemed to look right through her. The way he stared at her set Tamlyn to unease.

Before Beltaine , he had watched her, but it was with a coveting, a sadness, knowing his feelings weren't returned and could never be. Now...well, she was not sure what she saw in his eyes. A question? Only, Tamlyn had no idea what that question was. Oddly, yestereve he had sought her out and declared himself her champion. The avowal surprised her. Emotions lived within him that had no right to exist. His haunted eyes seemed to speak to her. But what? Regret? Reassurance that all was for the best? Envy?

Her questions were pushed aside, as Julian turned to follow the direction of her eyes.

Malcolm's voice carried for all to hear. "Therefore, if any man can show just cause why these two may not lawfully be joined together by God's Law and the Laws of the Realm, let him now speak, or else forevermore hold his peace."

Julian lifted at warning brow at Damian, who had the grace to lower his eyes to the ground. Turning back, Julian sent her a stare of reproach. A proud man, he would not brook her looking upon another in favor.

At Julian's silent admonishment, Tamlyn quailed inside. 'Twas not seemly for her to be staring so long at another man whilst words of union were being spoken. Lightheaded, the trembling was worsening. Why she was so off kilter, she could not say. In spite of everything against it, she knew in her heart Julian Challon was the man she wanted for her husband. They had already lain together, so this was not virginal jitters. Mayhap it was the finality of how different her existence would be from now on, how she was placing her life into his keeping. She fought against the bubble of panic rising within her.

The words of Malcolm droned on and on, having no form or substance, just a constant hum, and she found it hard to keep her eyes open. She turned her gaze to the beautiful face of Julian, seeking assurance from the man she now bound herself. He glared back at her, his dark green eyes flashing angry fire. At first, she thought it was because he had caught her staring at St. Giles. Then awareness dawned—there was silence, which in turn, only seemed to increase the depth of the earl's ire. Tamlyn felt confused, distressed, edging toward dread. Her chest heaved with trying to draw a breath. She fought to shake this strange whirling in her thoughts, to banish the odd spell possessing her.

Julian's hand squeezed hers hard, sending a message, but it only made her more dazed. Beneath the anger, she saw worry and fear.

"Tamlyn, shall you take Julian, earl of Challon, now earl of Glenrogha, to be your lord and husband? In God's ordinance accept the covenant of the holy estate of matrimony? Shall you obey and serve him, love and honor him in sickness and in health? Forsaking all others, and keep you only unto him, until death do you part?" Malcolm repeated the words, asking for her consent.

She blinked, only just understanding her uncle asked for the response before and the silence had been his waiting for her reply. Her eyes flew wide as she again looked to the man to her right. His mouth pressed into a thin line. Tamlyn comprehended he thought her hesitation defiance. As if she would refuse to plight her troth. 'Twas only confusion, starting with those stupid birds, but he would not understand that now. She opened her mouth to apologize, but immediately stopped, knowing this was not the place.

For the third time, her uncle repeated the sacraments. She swallowed hard. So much rested upon this simple response, so many extremes warring within her. She hated that Julian had come to her as a conqueror, that her lord father faced imprisonment at his hands, yet she would not lie and say she did not want him. Oh, why could the Fates not have woven a beautiful spell? Julian could have accepted her father's invitation and come to the Highlands as an honored guest. They would have been introduced, and the undeniable attraction, their blazing passion would have made the forging of a marriage inevitable. She would have been giddy awaiting the day he claimed her. Instead, he rode into the glen as an invader, claiming all, destroying Castle Kinmarch, and taking her just as he took the fortresses. No wooing, not soft words of desire, just demands. Naught about love.

It finally hit her what was so wrong about this day. He had wanted her with a fierceness that was breathtaking, but did he love her? Could he love her? That worry left her shaken.

Julian's spine straightened as his head tilted back, so black was his anger. His fear. The Kenning whispered clearly, how desperate this man was to hold onto her, to fashion a life that would lead him from the darkness of his soul. He was a prideful, arrogant man. But he needed her. Desperately.

Tamlyn closed her eyes, allowing the gift to flow through her. He needed her. For now, that would be good enough.

The Culdee again asked for Tamlyn's consent. When he finished, a buzz fluttered through the masses that had come to witness their joining, murmurings as to why Tamlyn withheld her consent.

Opening her eyes, she turned toward him. She offered him a faint smile. Moistening her lips, she spoke up so all would hear. "Aye, I take this man as my lord husband. To honor him above all others, provide comfort, support him in times of troubles, and give him daughters and sons."

Julian slowly turned toward her, startled by the lengthy declaration. He never expected her to make such a clear assent.

"Through my office of Culdee , I bless the joining of this union of Tamlyn and Julian. May hereafter they remain in perfect love and peace together. Before all, I pronounce they be Man and Wife. Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. I n nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti . Amen."

Tamlyn looked up at Julian, as he led her up the remaining steps and into the church. He paused under the arched door and smiled. That smile was like the brightest sunshine, dispelling the shadowy corners of her troubled mind.

???

"Surely you jest?" Julian glared at Malcolm, as the Culdee explained the rites of the second ceremony soon to take place―the pagan one. "I see why you waited 'til just before we depart for the stone circle to illuminate me as to the nature of this ritual—and my part in it."

Outside of the moments before a battle, he had never felt this edgy. His patience was wearing thin. He had not slept the previous night, anticipation of the wedding thrumming through his blood. His troubled mind played tricks, tormenting him with possibilities that might arise and Tamlyn would be taken from him. He wanted the ceremony done, and their vows plighted. Once that was behind him he felt he might breathe again.

The dawning broke, spilling its rose-colored beauty across the hills, and for a moment, the world sighed in tranquil contentment. From that point, things grew more off kilter with each passing heartbeat. Tamlyn had awoken from a dark nightmare. He had held her, assured her that he would protect her and vanquish any troubles. That seemed to bring a measure of calm to her spirit, but the clouded look never left her eyes. He tried to get her to speak of her fears, but she had just shaken her head no; she did not wish to have discourse of unhappy things on a day meant for joy.

Within a short time, her sisters and the crone arrived and shooed him from the chamber, so they could prepare Tamlyn. He had withdrawn to her old chamber on the floor below to ready himself. Destain and Guillaume playfully served as his squires, and proved good company to distract him from his constant fretting over Tamlyn.

Now, he stood in his wedding finery, feeling unsure. His whole life he had known where he was heading and what he intended to accomplish. Never had he experienced this sense of lacking control. He damn well misliked the feeling. Picking up the black leather pouch, he took out the ring he would use for the second ceremony. The crest of Challon. Soon, Tamlyn would be branded as his for the rest of her life.

With that uplifting thought filling his heart, he had left the room. At the far bend in the hall, he pulled up short when he spotted Tamlyn coming down the stairs from the third floor. A fist lodged in his heart as he looked at the vision that was his bride. He felt pride. He felt blessed. Dressed in the gown Raven had sewn for her, she was a sight that humbled him. Her dark gold hair flowing down her back was a striking contrast to the stark black of the kirtle's material. When he remembered to breathe again, he took a step forward, intent upon going to her and telling her how honored he was to have her for his wife.

To his surprise, Damian rushed forward to her, speaking the words of how beautiful she was—the words Julian wanted to say—that was his right to say. His vision turned red as he struggled to control the writhing creature jealousy, had to rein in his spiraling fury as he watched them. Damian turned with his back to him, blocking most of his cousin's words, but there was little need. He knelt before her, making some sort of declaration. Homage?

Tamlyn gave him a smile, yet she appeared puzzled by the action. She glanced up and spotted Julian, standing across the edge of the corridor. The faint smile turned to radiance as their eyes met. The tightness in his chest eased. As he joined them, he asked not for an explanation, but merely informed them that it was time to leave for the church.

Once during the ceremony, he noticed Damian's gaze remained fixed upon Tamlyn with a mix of sadness and yearning. Worse, her eyes and mind lingered too long on Damian. His cousin had strangely been gone since May Day , and returned nearly silent upon where he'd gone, why he had sent no word. Julian had his men searching for him for days, concerned something had happened to him, with the Scots rebels still on the move in the Highlands. There had been no sign. Since coming back, Damian's eyes continuously followed Tamlyn. They seemed clouded with confusion.

'Twas good the marriage was taking place a sennight sooner. Let Damian affix the reality of their marriage in his mind.

His temper flared at Tamlyn's glancing to his cousin, the rising irritation only kept at bay because her expression seemed questioning, naught more. Still, it troubled him. Damian had advantages in her mind: he was half Scot, blood of Auld Alba, he was not her conqueror, nor had not made prisoner of her lord father. Second thoughts? Would Tamlyn have preferred a union with Damian? His chest burned with fury at that thought.

He told himself she had not danced with Damian around the balefire, had not led him to the apple orchard. Well, mattered not. Their lots were cast. In a few short breaths, he would bind her to him for life. She would be his and no man—kinsman or not—would come between them. This night, when he would take her in their marriage bed, she would be his lady wife, and if the union was blessed, he would plant his seed in her belly. Once the life of a Challon Dragon took root and pulsed within her body, she would feel the brand he placed on her soul.

The day had been long. After the wedding in the morning, his bride and he reigned over the lavish marriage feast. The meal and festivities had lasted the remainder of the day and into the gloaming. Now, as the hour of Compline was well past, he faced honoring Tamlyn's request that they marry by her customs.

"The ritual of the Sword and Ring goes back to the dark times, Lord Challon. The Lord of the Glen ―the willing king-god sacrifice―was offered to the Auld Ones . His fate fell to the Lady to choose. I know you see these things as different, strange, but it was a declaration to our women that they controlled their destiny. Whilst some of this will go against what you were taught, please remember this be of import to Tamlyn."

"So, I am to offer Tamlyn a ring and a sword. She either takes the ring, or uses my sword to lop off my head?" Julian laughed wryly. "I find little humor in the prospects of being a sacrifice—willing or not.

"Tamlyn explained these rituals be just an echo of the Auld Ways . My niece shall no' take your head, Lord Challon. She thinks it too pretty, eh? You offer her the ring and the sword. Tamlyn takes the ring. Then, you drive the sword into the ground by the plaide— "

"Driving swords into the ground has become rather familiar to me of late," Julian remarked dryly.

"'Tis symbolic of plowing the fields—"

"That I comprehend. Then, I take my lady wife before all?" he asked, still skeptical.

"Well, yes...and no. The guard screens you—six men from Challon, seven from Clan Ogilvie—all in armor. Can you scorn our lore as so different when English bedding ceremonies are as intrusive, if no' worse? Weddings of highborn nobility oft end up with the king, a priest and family members from both sides—and even servants—sitting in the bridal chamber. They peek through wooden screens, awaiting the bloody sheet to be tossed from the bed. To me, there be less beauty and meaning to your ways."

"I am a Christian. These strong pagan beliefs are unsettling," Julian admitted. "You as a priest—do these ceremonies not trouble you?"

"You shall learn, Challon, the Scots tend to accept. They accept life as it is, how 'tis meant to be. Why they are accepting of you, eh? In many ways, Christianity still be new to us. The Auld Ways are a part of us since the dawn of time. Change be best served when it comes slowly."

Julian recognized that his willingness to keep their beliefs would provide mortar to strengthen his position here as their new lord. His people would respect him for honoring their customs. Glancing out the stained glass window, he sighed. "The moon has risen. Let us get this over with."

"Take heart, my lord. This shall no' be the ordeal you are imagining." Malcolm patted him on the shoulder and gave him a sly smile.

Julian stared into the man's amber eyes, so like Tamlyn's, feeling as if his life no longer was in his control.

???

Still dressed in his wedding garb and wearing the golden torque and circlet, Julian felt a jittery tension facing the pagan ceremony, though unsure why. Malcolm had explained it all, and the priest was right, 'twas not so different. In truth, he could not imagine anything worse than having Edward witness his bedding of Tamlyn.

Julian had not visited the huge stone ring that sat high upon Lochshane Tòrr . Oh, he had seen it in the distance. The ring was hard to miss, visible from nearly all points within the glen. As he followed on foot behind Malcolm, up the spiraling path of the hill , he was amazed to see just how large the stones were. A vibration changed the air as he neared them, an almost tangible hum that resonated from the ancient grey stones.

There were two entrances to the oval: one to the south, where Tamlyn would come from, another from the north where Julian now passed. He had seen the magnificent complex of Stonehenge, but this ring seemed older, more primeval―more powerful. The sense he drew from these ancient giants humbled him. Their mocking whispers said they had been here forever and would be here long after he was dust.

Julian trailed seven steps behind Malcolm, who was garbed in a green woolen robe. Seven paces behind him came Guillaume, then Destain, Damian and finally three of his squires―Vincent, Michael and Gervase. In single file, they made an inside circle of the stones, the men taking a position before a sarsen.

The chanting and singing of the merrymakers outside of the ring died down as a great horn was blown. A single bodhrán thumped out a slow, repetitive beat announcing Tamlyn's approach. Her entourage entered from the south. First came, the braw Highlander―the stag-man at the Beltaine rites―carrying a torch. Next came Auld Bessa, then the angelic Evelynour, dress in pale grey and her colorless hair flowing down her back and nearly touching the ground.

His eyes hungrily awaited his lady.

Shimmering in the torchlight, Tamlyn's hair flowed down her back. His circlet upon her brow. She was gowned in a simple white kirtle; Malcom pointed out it was the one Raven had worn for her own marriage within this stone ring only two years before. His bride's gift―the gold girdle― circled her waist. Heavy, the chain swung from side-to-side with each step. Her ornate Pictish torque adorned her graceful neck, and in her hands was a small bouquet of blue violets―a handful of wishes for the future, she had told him. Each part bespoke a thing old and new, something borrowed, and the final touch—the blue flowers. The old was to remind her of the past, her heritage. The new, a promise of life to come. The gown was borrowed from her sister, someone she loved to give her luck. And blue was the color of the Auld Gods . All summoned to give a blessing on their union.

Never was Tamlyn more beautiful. She robbed him of breath and set his heart to thundering. As he looked at her all else faded to grey. He had married the woman once already today, yet despite his Christian rearing, he experienced a hot surge in his blood, eager to make Tamlyn his bride by her ways.

Dressed in gowns of saffron linen, Rowanne and Raven came behind their younger sister. At the interval of seven paces trailed the seven men from Tamlyn's guard. They each stopped before the remaining sarsens, and then were joined by the Scotsman who had danced with Tamlyn at the balefire.

Where the Christian ceremony had been conducted by Malcolm, the pale Evelynour clearly would reign over these rites. She took a position before the small fire lit in a pit close to the south entrance. Bessa took a spot just behind her and to the left, whilst Malcolm moved to her right. Before the ghostly pale woman was a plaide, spread on the ground at her feet.

"We bid good cheer and well-come to all who join us to celebrate the sacred joining of our Tamlyn to Challon, the new lord of Glenrogha," Evelynour intoned in a clear voice.

"Tamlyn, Chosen Daughter of Clan Ogilvie, will you have this man as your lord and husband, by the ancient ways?"

Tamlyn smiled at Julian. This time there was no hesitation in her reply. "Aye, I shall." She took a step forward and handed Evelynour a strip of tartan, the black and green of Glen Shane.

Evelynour then turned to him. "Julian, Earl Challon, will you take our Tamlyn as lady wife in the ways of the stone, with your men standing and wearing iron? "

"Aye, I shall." He leaned to hand her a swatch of fabric cut from one of his black shirts.

The pale woman took the two pieces of cloth and tied them into a loveknot. Raising her hands over her head, she held it up for all to see. "So be it. Let none raise voice against this sacred union."

The people outside of the circle joined hands and began slowly circling the stones. They hummed a slow haunting melody, as Raven and Rowanne moved to Julian. Already prepared for this part of the ceremony, he knew the two women would undress him as a squire would. Used to servants coming and going, and accustomed to having high born women help him bathe, this part should not have bothered him. Notwithstanding, as they removed his clothing, he felt an unease crawl up his spine―his naked spine.

He presumed this fragment of the ceremony was similar to the bedding rites of the Christian counterpart. The groom and bride were disrobed by the wedding party, and then inspected to see if they were without flaws. Forming his face to show no emotion, he permitted Raven and Rowanne's hand to unlace and untie his clothing until he wore nothing. Evelynour brought forth a folded garment. Tamlyn's sisters slid the black, sleeveless robe over his arms, then up to his shoulders.

He had kept his gaze on Tamlyn the whole time, flashing silent words of retribution for this. As he looked at her amber eyes, drank in her beauty, he found everything about him receded to mute, and he was only vaguely aware of all goings on around them.

Evelynour stepped close to him. She pressed her oily thumb to his forehead, then to his heart. The scent of apples rose up around him, filling his mind.

Malcolm came forward carrying a large green velvet cushion. Upon the pillow were his golden ring and an ornate claymore―the Sword of Glenrogha . "The Lord of the Glen has always by tradition offered the bride a choice. The sword or the ring. Do you come to this place of your choice and of free will?"

"Aye, I so choose." Facing him, the priest passed the pillow to Julian, and then laid the massive claymore across his outstretched arms. Walking the few steps to Tamlyn, Julian held the cushion out to her, the long claymore balanced across his lower arms. "My lady, my bride." Julian swallowed to moisten his throat so he did not crack on the words. "I offer you your heart's desire. I be the willing Lord of the Glen . Do you accept me? Do you reject me?"

Julian stared at her, knowing she would choose the ring. The rite of the Sword and Ring went back to dark times, when a woman could choose the sword. If that were her will, she would ritually kill him, sacrificing the willing king-god to ensure the survival of the clan. He understood the ceremony, even so, it still troubled him that such things had once actually took place, that Tamlyn's roots sprung from such a bloody ground.

Tamlyn watched as Challon knelt before her. She cupped her hand to the curve of his cheek, then leaned forward and kissed his mouth gently. When she pulled back, she held his ring in her palm.

Evelynour stepped to take the gold ring from Tamlyn. Holding it high, she turned in a circle for all to see. She called out, "Our lady has chosen the ring! She takes this man to be hers by the laws and rites of our clan."

Rowanne lifted the sword from his arms, and held it tip down whilst Raven tied a long sash of the Glen Shane tartan around the hilt at the crossguard.

Setting the cushion on the ground beside him, he waited as Evelynour passed his ring through the smoke of the small fire. "The ring be your bond to our lady. Blessings be upon this union with the element of the winds of the North, bestowing gifts of sustenance, fertility and security."

Accepting it, Julian then reached for Tamlyn's hand. "Heart to heart and hand to hand, I plight my troth to you Tamlyn MacShane." He slid the ring onto the first finger of her left hand."

"Bless this union with the element of fire from the South, bestowing passion, love and a happy home. The fire you summon with your bonding, a bond of blood and spirit, will light your way even in the darkest times." Evelynour carried another ring through the smoke again. This time she gave it to Tamlyn.

Julian waited as Tamlyn took his hand and slid the gold band upon his left first finger. Crafted like the smaller Beltaine ring he wore, it fit as if it had been forged just for him. Tamlyn raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Heart to heart and hand to hand, I plight my troth to you, Julian Challon."

Julian rocked back on his haunches, then leaned to place a kiss to the tops of both of her feet. As he stared at her, he saw how sheer the simple kirtle was. He could see the dark shadow of her woman's mound, the two dark orbs of her areola straining against the fabric. She trembled as he placed both hands on her hips and kissed the dark triangle at the apex of her legs. Next, he kissed her belly, where she would carry his sons. Continuing upward, he pressed his lips in turn to each breast, where she would suckle them. Lastly, he kissed her mouth, not gently, for this ceremony was raw and pagan as these wild Highlands, and that knowledge provoked a pounding response in his blood. He wanted this woman with a force that was terrifying. He suddenly craved to take her, bind her in this primitive manner.

He barely had enough reason left to break the kiss. Rising, he took up the sword and stood with it, tip down, as Rowanne and Raven undressed Tamlyn. They slipped on a robe of the same sleeveless style as his, but hers was in red. The music of the tin pipers and bagpipes rose, but underneath that, Julian heard the tinkling of wind chimes or bells—just as he had in the orchard.

Magic, true magic, rising on the night breeze.

Tamlyn came and took his hand. Turning to face Evelynour, they knelt before her. Behind the witch, Malcolm chanted in words of the dark tongue. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed dried herbs into the fire. An odd green smoke slowly rose filtering around the stones as Evelynour held a golden plate before her. On it were slices of dried apple and two small oatcakes. Julian took the one cake and fed it to Tamlyn. In return for the symbolic offering of succor, she fed him the other one. Next, she fed him the slice of the apple, then received the second slice from his hand.

Evelynour returned with a golden goblet etched with Pictish symbols. She held the cup for Julian to take a sip. Ensuring Tamlyn put her mouth precisely where he had, she offered Tamlyn a drink. "Shall the Lord of the Glen take our Lady of May ?" Evelynour intoned.

Julian's head spun. Either the cake or the drink was drugged—possibly both—laced with some love philter. His groin throbbed painfully and he wanted Tamlyn. Now!

"Oh, aye, I shall take her as my bride." His words came out slowly and slurred.

The greenish smoke strengthened as Raven and Rowanne began to sing. Nothing mattered. All he could see was Tamlyn. Only through force of mind did he recall what he was to do next.

He offered Tamlyn his hand and they rose together. Picking up the sword, he intoned for all to hear, "Let no man touch what is mine!"

His eyes locked with Tamlyn's as he plunged the claymore into the earth next to the plaide . Screams of exaltation split the night as voices rose outside the circle. The thirteen men took a step, spun on the heels to face away from the fire. Each man in armor moved into the space between the upright stones and put their swords tip down, standing guard, thus blocking out the throng of people beyond.

Tamlyn's sisters, the crones, and Malcolm stepped backward until the strange greenish smoke seemed to swallow them.

Oddly, it felt as though Tamlyn and he were alone. He breathed deeply, smelling peat, apple, wild rose, lavender and heather, taking in the aromas so they filled every drop of his blood.

Tamlyn stepped against him, arching her body to his. He lowered his head to meet the kiss, as her hand wrapped around his shaft, already riding high against his stomach.

He muttered against her lips. "You and those cold hands."

"Take me, Challon, fill me with your fire. Make me burn."

He followed her down to the plaide , feeling everything about them die away. There was only Tamlyn and him in the greenish fog. All the trepidations over the ceremony were gone. He felt blessed that Tamlyn had wanted to share this special bonding with him.

The black robe flowed around him with a sentience, cloaking them. Julian kissed her lightly. "Tamlyn…I..." Words failed. He could not begin to express the passion, the emotion flooding him, so he just said, "My wife."

She kissed his throat, then arched against him, receiving his body as he plunged into her, just as he had plunged the sword into the earth.