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as well as approaching enemies. With so few men left in the clan, she often provided an extra set of hands and eyes during hunts. While the hounds took down the deer with their powerful jaws, and her kinsmen followed up the kill, Alainna stood guard.
A thin crust of snow crunched beneath her boots, and the wind swept over the slope. She was glad that she had worn male clothing that day; the versatile wrapped and belted plaid, layered shirts, and the woolen trews beneath were warm and snug against the bitter cold. She loosened the long pin that held the plaid on her left shoulder, and pulled the gathering over her head as a shield from the wind.
The thunderous noise rumbled behind her, louder this time. She glanced toward the hilltop. The setting sun threw pink streaks across the sky, and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes against the brilliance. Then she gasped in astonishment.
A group of horsemen appeared on the hill crest like a host of bright angels, their cloaks winging out, their shields shining in the late sun. As they skimmed the hilltop, their leader paused to wave at the others, and they drew to a halt.
Even at this distance, she saw that they rode tall, fine-blooded horses, carried good weapons and elongated shields, and wore quality armor and fur-lined cloaks. Few Lowland knights and fewer Highland men could afford such horses or armor.
Normans. Her heart thudded heavily. She had been dreading their arrival for weeks. Normans rarely traveled into the Highlands except on royal business, and although many of them had Lowland properties, none so far held land in the north.
She climbed toward the hilltop. The king must have sent them to Kinlochan, she thought. If the king had made his decision, her land, her future, and the welfare of her clan now hung in the balance.
Two knights split away from the rest and rode toward her, both hooded and cloaked over their chain mail, one on a dappled gray horse, the other riding a beautiful horse the color of rich cream. She wondered if the Breton, Sir Sebastien, was one of them, but she could not see their faces.
The dogs' furious barking drew her attention back to the glen. The deer, sensitive to new sound and movement, had scattered, some of them leaping over the net. Alainna cried out in dismay to see the deer, pursued for hours, lost so easily. She realized that her kinsmen, trying to corner the deer once again, had not yet noticed the knights on the hill.
Temper sparking, she strode toward the knights, hardly caring who they were. Those deer had been essential to the welfare of her clan. She stood before the riders, fisting a hand on her hip, the other hand gripping her upright bow.
"Be gone from here!" she shouted. "You ruin our hunt!" She spoke in Gaelic without thinking, then realized that the knights would speak English or French. If Sebastien le Bret was among them, let him translate, she thought sourly.
"Ho, lad! Good day to you!" The knight on the dappled horse waved and pushed back his cloak hood. He was a large man with blunt, pleasant features, a face reddened with cold, and hair the color of brass. "Tell us the way to Kinlochan!" As she expected, he spoke English.
Her heart slammed hard. "Be gone!" she shouted again in Gaelic, waving her arm. She had seen him weeks ago, guarding the king beside Sebastien le Bret. She looked at the other knight.
She knew him then, even hooded, knew the wide set of his shoulders, the length and power of his mail-encased legs. A delicate shiver went through her, neither cold nor fear, stirred by the memory of steady gray eyes, and a pair of strong arms that had lifted her in a church.
Sebastien le Bret dropped back the hood of his fur-lined blue cloak, worn over the dark green surcoat she recognized from the first time she had seen him. Chain mail framed a face whose striking planes and steel gray eyes were familiar. His brows drew together as he looked at her.
"Have we met before?" he asked in Gaelic.
She gave him a
A thin crust of snow crunched beneath her boots, and the wind swept over the slope. She was glad that she had worn male clothing that day; the versatile wrapped and belted plaid, layered shirts, and the woolen trews beneath were warm and snug against the bitter cold. She loosened the long pin that held the plaid on her left shoulder, and pulled the gathering over her head as a shield from the wind.
The thunderous noise rumbled behind her, louder this time. She glanced toward the hilltop. The setting sun threw pink streaks across the sky, and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes against the brilliance. Then she gasped in astonishment.
A group of horsemen appeared on the hill crest like a host of bright angels, their cloaks winging out, their shields shining in the late sun. As they skimmed the hilltop, their leader paused to wave at the others, and they drew to a halt.
Even at this distance, she saw that they rode tall, fine-blooded horses, carried good weapons and elongated shields, and wore quality armor and fur-lined cloaks. Few Lowland knights and fewer Highland men could afford such horses or armor.
Normans. Her heart thudded heavily. She had been dreading their arrival for weeks. Normans rarely traveled into the Highlands except on royal business, and although many of them had Lowland properties, none so far held land in the north.
She climbed toward the hilltop. The king must have sent them to Kinlochan, she thought. If the king had made his decision, her land, her future, and the welfare of her clan now hung in the balance.
Two knights split away from the rest and rode toward her, both hooded and cloaked over their chain mail, one on a dappled gray horse, the other riding a beautiful horse the color of rich cream. She wondered if the Breton, Sir Sebastien, was one of them, but she could not see their faces.
The dogs' furious barking drew her attention back to the glen. The deer, sensitive to new sound and movement, had scattered, some of them leaping over the net. Alainna cried out in dismay to see the deer, pursued for hours, lost so easily. She realized that her kinsmen, trying to corner the deer once again, had not yet noticed the knights on the hill.
Temper sparking, she strode toward the knights, hardly caring who they were. Those deer had been essential to the welfare of her clan. She stood before the riders, fisting a hand on her hip, the other hand gripping her upright bow.
"Be gone from here!" she shouted. "You ruin our hunt!" She spoke in Gaelic without thinking, then realized that the knights would speak English or French. If Sebastien le Bret was among them, let him translate, she thought sourly.
"Ho, lad! Good day to you!" The knight on the dappled horse waved and pushed back his cloak hood. He was a large man with blunt, pleasant features, a face reddened with cold, and hair the color of brass. "Tell us the way to Kinlochan!" As she expected, he spoke English.
Her heart slammed hard. "Be gone!" she shouted again in Gaelic, waving her arm. She had seen him weeks ago, guarding the king beside Sebastien le Bret. She looked at the other knight.
She knew him then, even hooded, knew the wide set of his shoulders, the length and power of his mail-encased legs. A delicate shiver went through her, neither cold nor fear, stirred by the memory of steady gray eyes, and a pair of strong arms that had lifted her in a church.
Sebastien le Bret dropped back the hood of his fur-lined blue cloak, worn over the dark green surcoat she recognized from the first time she had seen him. Chain mail framed a face whose striking planes and steel gray eyes were familiar. His brows drew together as he looked at her.
"Have we met before?" he asked in Gaelic.
She gave him a
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