Page 83 of The Speed of Lightning
“Cù Cogaidh, you cannae leave us to weather Ragnall alone. You cannae go from chieftain to no one. We need you. Ragnall will crush us all to satisfy his greed. Look at what he did to his daughter—that will happen to the rest of us.”
Calum shook his head. “I cannae undo it. I’ve said as much.”
Silence stretched. Bog whined, impatient for home and supper. Calum tossed his dirk into the boat and climbed in. “I’ve got to be going.”
“At least think on it. My father tried sending word to Chief Hector, but Rory’s squire intercepted it and gave it to Ragnall. That’s why Da’s under house arrest, why I’ve got to be cautious.”
Calum looked over his shoulder. “Ragnall’s turned on your father?”
Balder gave a defeated shrug. “It’s why I’m here.”
“What can I do with a bounty on my head?”
Balder dropped into the sand, rubbing his forehead. “I dinnae ken. I was hoping you would.”
Calum gripped his oar, aching to row away, to leave Jura and its burdens behind. His heart beat for Freya, for the fragile life they had built from grief. Yet the chieftain’s vow, the legacy he had abandoned for love, echoed in his mind. He had laid down the title, but not the responsibility. Not entirely. With a heavy breath, he set his jaw.
“I’ll teach you to fight.”
Balder looked up, surprised. “You will?”
“Aye. If you know any strong, trustworthy men willing to train with you, bring them to the auld broch?5 at Crackaig tomorrow night. But be cautious. They must be loyal to the clan itself, no’ to one side or the other. As for the rest—I need time to think, to pray on it.”
The young lad’s hazel eyes cast around at the dark sky as if something was watching. “You’ll pray to the man-God?”
Calum nodded. “Aye. I’ll pray.”
Balder nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Calum dipped his oar into the dark water, the skiff rocking gently. Above, stars pricked the sky like distant watchfires, and he imagined his da among them, waiting. The tide’s rhythm steadied his thoughts and the weight of his calling. Prayer was all he had for now, yet even in the dark he felt the faint stir of resolve. A plan was forming. It was time to act.
Chapter 23
LEALT, JURA - FEBRUARY 2, 1387
What Freya would always remember about the day she married Calum was not the vows, nor the feast at Moy, nor even the company of friends, but the private moment of her first true kiss in his arms—the tender press of his lips carrying the quiet promise of a man who would give her everything. That, she now realized, was what had set his kiss apart from Rory’s. Eyes closed, she clung to the memory: a feather-light flutter, the brush of his mouth, the grounding weight of his body, the touch of capable hands—gentle enough to love her, strong enough to defend her.
The sharp crackle of the fire pulled her back, sparks snapping into the quiet. On the mantle, the night-watch candle had burned low, six hours down, wax pooling at its base. It was nearly time to rise. Though married only a short while, she already knew her husband’s rhythms as if she had known them all her life. He would rise at her stirring at the hearth, walk to the burn to wash in the cold spring, return chilled and handsome, dressed for a day of hunting, and set out the water for her. Thenhe would sit at the table, praying silently through the first hour, his worn prayer book clutched in one hand.
There was no unpredictable temper, no sharp criticisms or complaints. Silent, he read while she moved quietly around him, refilling his caudle,?1 setting out porridge and bannocks. When the bed was made and the floor swept, she joined him at the table, and he took her hand.
Clearing her mind and bowing her head, she summoned the prayer she loved most—the Magnificat—and spoke it over their day. Mary’s words rose within her, radiant and strong, a hymn of wonder at the gifts poured into her life. Like Mary, she too felt transformed, lifted into a new life that brimmed with unexpected blessings.
She belonged to Calum as wife, bound by vow and covenant, by law and coverture. Yet the past three months of belonging to him had somehow set her free. Not even with Týr and Mariota had she truly felt herself. There had been a flicker then, like a pale light edging through the crack of a curtain, but fear kept her hidden. Now, with Calum, she held no fear.
There was safety within their walls, the quiet peace of a still evening. After the hunt with Bog, he always joined her for supper, then washed the crockery himself, insisting she deserved a rest. When the dishes were done, he sat beside her at the fire and asked for a tale.
For him alone, she told the love stories her mother had cherished—the ones she had always kept close. Aengus and Caer Ibormeith, Deirdre of Sorrows, the Mabinogion, Diarmaid and Gráinne, Tristan and Isolde—all tales of steadfast love, fate, and loyalty, even in the face of loss.
The stories wove around them in the fire’s warmth, binding them as she sewed and Calum tended his bow or sharpened his knives. At times she caught him watching her, the hone stilled above the blade, task forgotten.
They rarely spoke of the present. They did not mention why her father now acted as if she no longer existed. They avoided talk of clan matters, of Rory inheriting what Týr had died to preserve. They left unspoken the oceans of grief surrounding them—the loss of family, of friendships, of the missions Calum had devoted himself to for years. Nor did they speak of the Shield, fractured and punished as Dómhnall restructured the council and stripped its members of lands, funds, and honor.
Instead, by the fire, she moved her needle in and out of the cloth, her face calm but her voice alive. With her stories she reminded him of what remained, of what could never be taken away—affection that was taking root in her heart and quietly growing between them.
His love wound around her, firm and unyielding, though he had never spoken the words. It was in the way he sought her out, never tiring of her presence, always finding a moment to be near. It was in the way he urged her to wander freely, befriend whomever she liked, and claim her life without fear. It was in his gentle touch, brushing her hair from her cheek and pressing a lingering kiss to her temple each night. It was in the quiet dignity with which he lived as any other man in the clan, though the noble wolfhound inked upon his body forever marked him as chieftain. But most of all, it was in the choice he had made—sacrificing all, so that she might have everything.
Each morning she woke with the same pressing question on her heart, but today it weighed more heavily than ever. How could she reveal the feelings that had quietly taken root within her? The rhythm of his breath told her he still slept deeply. With tentative hope, she turned to face him.
Despite the February chill he wore only his braies, one arm slung over his eyes. She noticed the sculpted line of his bicep, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the open curve of his right armas if made for her to slip inside, to rest her head in its crook. The longing tugged at her with surprising force.
