Page 96 of The Speed of Lightning
“There in the abbey, her spirit with learning was fed,
Among sisters of wisdom, she bowed her fair head.”
As if hearing some unheard din, Poet’s head snapped up, eyes wide. She rose to her feet, looking around, shoulders heaving with rapid breaths. Terror etched every feature of her face, her eyes shimmering, her lower lip trembling. Still her voice echoed soft and strong, carrying the spirit of Morven through the gathering.
“But the Wolf of Badenoch came, torch in hand,
Flames rising high, consuming the land.
The abbey burned red, smoke curling to the skies,
Little Morven cried out, terror in her eyes.
“Da, save me from the fire!” she called,
But the daughter of Chattan in the blaze was trapped, enthralled.
Her life, like her father’s heart, vanished in the pyre,
But he ran through the smoke, consumed by fire.
The crowd pressed together, clinging to one another, faces white with shock. Men straightened. Women covered their mouths in horror. They waited for the usual bend in the tale, the twist that ballads sometimes made toward joyful resolution. Lightning’s eyes found Rock, who swept a knuckle beneath his eye. It wasn’t coming.
Poet sank to her knees, her arms open and falling limp at her sides, her head bowing in grief. A cry of anguish tearing from her throat before rising with the ballad’s most heartbreaking verse.
“Broken, he howled for his lost lass,
Grief bitter and deep, time could not surpass.
By God and by cross, he swore vengeance to keep,
No rest, no peace, until justice was complete.”
Poet got to her feet, fist raised, her voice burning, mimicking the motions of battle.
“Years slipped by, steady as the tide,
His heart still aflame, with revenge as his guide.
Yet the call of King Dómhnall pulled him from the fight,
And Chattan’s banners fell, undone by royal might.
“Morven…my sweet, bonnie Morven,” he cried,
Her name echoing through glens wide.
Studying her unseen sword, she shook her head in anguish, tossing it at her feet. Two tears slid from her eyes, carrying charcoal down her cheeks.
O hear the rivers o’er hills run red with her name,
And winds of the glen whisper sorrow and shame.
The tale drifted away with the last notes of the flute. No one applauded. People were openly weeping, arms wrapped around each other, and a lump rose in Lightning’s throat. He had often wondered about Rock—his long absences from the Highlands,his crumbling marriage, the way he seemed to love Hector and Leo’s children more than the others. Three years ago it had puzzled him that, out of all the clans in the Isles, a chief from the mainland had agreed without hesitation to join a reckless mission for an island clan. Now he understood. Rock’s only child, just seven summers, had been locked within an abbey the Wolf razed in vengeance after he refused to yield the lands of Chattan.
Cota Liath studied Poet, his gaze narrowed, fingers stroking the point of his beard.
Poet stood before them, holding the crowd in the palm of her hand. She crossed a hand over her breast in the Juran salute and bowed her head.
