Page 44 of The Speed of Lightning
The sudden peal of bells startled him, and the small gold ring slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the flagstones. It rolled away and he lunged after it, only for Angus to stop it neatly with the toe of his boot. Bending, he picked it up, turning it over in his hand.
“This is some ring. How did you afford it?”
Angus placed it back in his palm. He studied the band himself, the gold widening into a quatrefoil, a pointed stone gleaming at its center. He had never considered its value. “It belonged to Freya. I found it in the pouch of coin she gave me when I left Jura. I could never bring myself to sell it.”
Léo tilted his head, squinting at the inscription. “It’s Latin.Terra vel mari meus es.It means, ‘By land or sea, you are mine.’ Where would she have come by this?”
The rough lettering had a dark, angular cast, the words pressed close together. Calum frowned. “Dinnae ken where it came from or what it means. Is it wrong, d’ye think?”
Hector shook his head. “No’ wrong. Just…unexpected. I’d thought her a woman of limited means.”
Calum slid the ring over the first joint in his finger. “She is. Is it worth something?”
Hector’s brows pinched as though piecing together a riddle. “That’s a diamond, lad. Worth a fair bit more than you’d guess.”
Calum shrugged. “Perhaps someone paid her with it?”
Léo shook his head, unconvinced. “A possibility. But that’s pure gold. What did she do to earn it?”
He squinted again at the little ring. “Embroidery.”
The bells boomed overhead, cutting the question short.
Gabriel ran across the churchyard, pointing toward the road. “Je vois le voiture!”
Coming from the direction of Moy, Calum spotted Hector’s wagon draped in ivy and harvest leaves. Heart pounding as it drew near, he made out the faces of Aileen, Aoife, Cara, Margaret, and Ursula—and there, veiled and seated between his mother and father, was his bride.
The ring lay forgotten on his finger as he stood transfixed, watching the wagon come to rest. Da climbed down first and offered her his arm, steadying her as he guided her up the chapelsteps. She appeared almost unreal, impossibly his, clothed in the red damask gown her father had purchased, now patiently mended and made new. Along her right sleeve ran a wolfhound embroidered in gold thread, the same that marked his own arm, a hinted token of kinship before a single vow was spoken.
Da kissed her cheek before placing her hand into Calum’s. He twined their fingers together, feeling the slight tremble in her grasp.
Father Timothy appeared at the door, beaming as he stepped onto the porch. “Good morning, good morning. A fine day for a wedding.”
Freya leaned toward Calum, her expression faltering as her gaze swept the quiet gathering. He felt the heaviness return, knowing whom she searched for—what she still hoped. Her voice came softly, threaded with disappointment. “My kindred didnae come?”
Calum shook his head. “I’m sorry, lass.” He searched for words to soften the blow. “It’s me he’s angry with.”
Freya nodded, her face assuming the placid quiet it had worn these past few weeks and his heart sank, wishing he could change the circumstances of this day.
Together they turned to Father Timothy.
“Shall we begin?” the priest asked warmly.
Calum set the bag of gold and the ring upon the open book, and their wedding began. He stole glances at her as the words were spoken, disappointed to see none of the light he had imagined for this moment. Where Birdy and Cara had glowed with anticipation, Freya stood pale and still, as if she were standing beside a grave, listening to an internment.
Father Tim asked for Calum’s vow, his confirmation to be joined. Calum looked at Freya feeling as though he had just swallowed a ball of sunlight, happiness bursting in his chest. “Aye.”
Father Tim turned to Freya. “Freya Anna, wilt thou take Calum Bjorg MacLean, here present, for thy lawful wedded husband, according to the rite of the holy church?”
Freya blinked, then asked softly, “What does rite mean?”
The friar’s bushy brows shot up toward his hairline like two caterpillars scrambling for the shelter of a bush, but he answered without hesitation. “A rite is the tradition by which our church expresses faith—in this case, the sacrament of marriage.”
She glanced at the book in his hands. “And what is a sacrament?”
Calum shifted uneasily, but Father Timothy’s voice remained patient. “A sacrament is how God shows His people the extraordinary in the ordinary. Marriage is no mere contract, like a handfast. It is a covenant—a sacred, unbreakable bond. As Christ gave His life for the church, so Calum will give his life and body to you. He will love and protect you. And in return, you will honor and strengthen him with your love.”
Her brow furrowed. “What is a covenant?”
