Page 1 of The Handfasting
Chapter 1
The Highlands
Yuletide 1199
Ysenda hated Yuletide.
All around her, the clan celebrated with feasting and cheering. Lively merrymaking filled the great hall. Laughter and music echoed from the rafters.
Yet she frowned into her half-drained wooden cup.
Her loathing had nothing to do with the supper. Who could complain about the sumptuous food gracing the table each night of Yule? Tonight there were succulent boar’s head, smoked mutton, roast venison, rabbit pottage, cockles, hazelnuts, cheese, and endless cups of winter ale.
She didn’t even mind the drunken revelry that inevitably followed. Raucous songs chased away the gloom. Lusty lads grabbed at giggling lasses. The music of pipes, harp, and tambors filled the air. Boisterous dancing encouraged the return of the sun after the solstice.
The boughs of holly decking the hall looked admittedly festive. So did the ivy draping the great hearth. Mistletoe hung in all the doorways for good luck. Luminous tallow candles set about the room made the rough wood beams of the keep look warm and welcoming.
For once, despite being crowded elbow-to-elbow into the keep, no one in the clan was bickering. Everyone was freshly-scrubbed, smiling, and dressed in their best finery.
Even Ysenda had made an effort. She’d bathed in lavender-scented water. She’d washed her long linen leine until it was as white as the snow outside. Atop that, she wore her best gown of soft gray wool. Flowing around her waist and across her breast was an arisaid of pale gray plaid, pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch. Her normally unruly chestnut hair was harnessed by two narrow braids at the crown, tied at the back with a ribbon, and lightly scented with more lavender.
She felt bonnie…almost as bonnie as her sister.
“Caimbeul!” From across the hall, over the top of his bellowing friends, one of the many piss-drunk ruffians snagged a squirming lass by the arm and called out to Ysenda’s older brother. “Caimbeul! Why don’t ye come dance with Tilda here?”
Ysenda stiffened as Tilda pulled away with a horrified blush. Everyone laughed.
Thatwas why she hated Yuletide.
Beside her, Caimbeul grinned at their jest. But Ysenda knew he was dying inside. He wanted so much to fit in, to be like them.
Most of the time, he could pretend he was. Most of the time, Ysenda forgot he was different. When the two of them were alone, he seemed as well-made and fit as any man.
It was only when they were forced to make a public appearance, like at Yuletide—seated beside their sister and father as if nothing were wrong—that his difference was made painfully clear.
Once the crowd gathered and the ale was flowing, the taunts and the laughter began. And to Ysenda’s dishonor, their father, Laird Gille, did nothing to prevent the mockery.
Why would he? The laird had disowned his deformed son at first sight. Indeed, the only reason he’d let the boy live was because Caimbeul had been six months old when the laird came home from his travels to lay eyes upon him. Ysenda’s fierce mother, descended from the infamous Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, had threatened the laird’s life if he touched one hair on her precious son’s head.
Beside her, Caimbeul sighed and lowered his half-eaten oatcake. Ysenda followed his gaze. A group of wee lads played beside the hearth. In imitation of their older brothers, they were making fun of Caimbeul’s distinctive hobble.
Her grip tightened on her eating dagger as she muttered, “Those sheep-swivin’ brats. What do they think they’re doin’?”
He gave her a sad, forgiving chuckle. “They’re only bairns, Ysenda. They don’t know any better.”
“Oh, I’d be glad to teach them,” she said between her teeth. “Maybe I’ll spit them and roast them slowly o’er the Yuletide fire.”
That made him smile. “Ach, ye sound like our ma.”
“’Tis disrespectful,” she insisted. “Ye’re the son o’ the laird.”
In fact, he was theonlyson of the laird. The firstborn. He should be the heir to the clan. But he might as well be invisible. His presence was expected at holiday feasts when the extended clan filled the hall. He was allowed to sit beside Ysenda when the laird flanked himself with his daughters. But Laird Gille paid him no heed. There might as well have been a mile-high wall between Caimbeul and his father.
Still, it was insensitive of Ysenda to remind him of that. She instantly regretted her words.
To make amends and lighten the mood again, she gave Caimbeul a conspiratorial wink. Then, when their father wasn’t looking, she used her dagger to steal a slice of roast boar from the laird’s trencher, dropping it onto Caimbeul’s.
Caimbeul grinned and dug in.
