Page 95 of The Scottish Bride
“This book,” hesaid much later, as he sat dressed only in trews, his feet bare. The wooden chair, a bit worse for the use of it, creaked as he leaned to take a bite of the meat pie. “Tell me about it. I noticed,” he said, pausing to sip wine, “this is not the book Edward seems to expect.”
“I told you it was not.”
“You did,” he admitted, licking his fingers. “I was hungrier than I thought. These verses are poetic, but there are no prophecies here.”
She nibbled an oatcake and took a sip of wine from his cup. “It is an epic poem that he worked on for a long time—the story of Tristan and Iseult—a warrior who fell in love with the young queen of the king he served, his own uncle. And she fell in love with him. It is a tragedy, beautifully told. Thomas put heart and soul into it, I think, for it is deeply told, his version of the story.”
“So this is not a collection of his prophecies about Scotland. And nothing to do with our struggle with England.”
“It is a beautiful, heartbreaking love story. Edward would have no patience for it.”
“He might,” he said, surprising her. “He loved his queen, Isabella, very much. He was inconsolable when she died. They say that was when he began to change for the worse.”
“Then I feel for him. But he does not need to take out his grief on the Scots.”
“True. Tamsin,” he murmured. “It is an old, old tale. I have heard it elsewhere. I even thought of it when I stood in King Edward’s chamber, wondering if I would survive the day that he decided I should find you and get that book. He reminded me of King Mark in the story—wounded and lashing out. A king to beware.”
She tipped her head. “And just like cruel King Mark, who sent out his nephew, the harper Tristan, to fetch the young queen to him—our bitter, cruel King Edward sent out a harper to fetch a lady to him.”
He watched for a moment. “Exactly what I was thinking just now. The king pursues the young lovers in a rage. One challenge after another for those two.”
“Their story ends tragically,” she said quickly. “Our tale will not.”
“It will not.” He broke an oatcake, nibbled, took another swallow of wine. “May I see the book again?”
“Not with those hands,” she laughed. He went to the bath, dipped his hands, rinsed, and dried. Then he turned, splaying clean hands.
Then, as he paged through the book, he returned to the first page and began to read in the voice she so loved, deep and delicious.
“‘I was at Ercildoune, and with Thomas spoke I there,’” he read, “‘and there I heard read in rhyme who Tristan was, andwho was king with crown, and who, there, was as bold a baron as their elders—’”
He looked up. “An epic tale, and naught to do with prophecy.” Closing the book, he gave it to Tamsin, who wrapped it and tied it with the ribbon. Setting it aside, she turned back to him and reached out to touch his jaw. He kissed her fingers.
“I would give the book to my family to keep,” she said. “I can make another copy, perhaps more, to share with others. It could take years to copy those pages again and again, but I want to do it. But this is not a book to help a king wage war.”
“It is a book for kings, my dear—and for knights and ladies, children and households. It is a tale to hear on a winter’s night.”
“A love story, aye. And I would love to hear you read it aloud—to a family one day, perhaps,” she added, feeling shy suddenly.
His smile turned somber. “Tamsin—you know Edward ordered me to fetch the Rhymer’s book, and promised me Dalrinnie if I obeyed. What I have not yet told you,” he went on, “is that he threatened my family if I did not. The fire at Holyoak may have part of that. Edward may have ordered Malise to come after my kin there. If so, I fear that more may come from that quarter.”
“I am so sorry. I did not realize the whole of it.”
“I had not told you the whole of it, unpleasant as it is. My dear lass, you see the world as good and kind, as redeemable, even sorts like Malise and Edward. I admire that. And I wanted you to think the best of me.”
“I do think the best of you.” She came to him, slid her arms around his neck.
He laid his hand over hers. “Would you trust me now?”
“I would. I do. I love you, Liam Seton, more than you know.” She tipped her head toward him and kissed him softly.
“Good, because I am whole in love with you, lass, and never saw it coming.” He took her hands in his. “And if you trust me,then let me ask this. Do Thomas’s prophecies exist as a book somewhere?”
She sighed. “Not quite. He gave me his notes, you see. I have been working on them for some time now, deciphering his scribbles. He wrote on parchment scraps, on cloth, even on oak leaves—wherever he could write something quickly, he did. I have been copying them, making multiple manuscripts, you see. One will not do, for it could be lost or destroyed. A good scribe makes a copy.” She smiled. “I also want to include any of his verses that others might know—ballads, predictions, whatever people remember of him. Someday I mean to give all those pages to Master Bisset to make several copies of his work.”
“A worthy idea. Where are your pages now?”
“Most are at Dalrinnie,” she said. “Malise does not know, and pray God he never discovers them, locked away in a chest.”
