Page 38 of So Close To Heaven
Before the silence could stretch, Ciaran gestured them forward and turned toward the hall doors, drawing them inside.
The doors groaned shut behind them, muting the quiet noise of the bailey. Within, Caeravorn’s great hall opened wide, its vaulted roof lost in shadow above the glow of torch andhearthfire. Rushes softened the flagstone floor, and long trestle tables lined the chamber, benches shoved back for the evening. At the far end, the hearth blazed, flames casting a restless light on the carved stone mantle. Above it hung the ancient Kerr banner, black and bold, its edges frayed from wind and war.
Ciaran led them across the hall, his stride easy, pausing only to exchange a word with a passing servant who nodded and then bowed before scurrying away.
When they reached the high table, Ciaran gestured to the long benches set before it. “I’ve asked for food and drink to be made ready,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the vaulted space. “You’ve ridden hard—sit and be welcome.”
More servants appeared, hurrying to lay trenchers and pitchers along the board, the smell of roasted fowl and fresh bread drifting up as lids were lifted. Ciaran’s green eyes turned briefly to Ivy, who lingered at Alaric’s side as though uncertain of her place.
“Have ye need of aught, lass?” Ciaran asked.
Ivy hesitated, her hazel gaze flicking first to Alaric, as though uncertain if she ought to answer without his leave. He gave a short, silent nod, and only then did she turn back to Ciaran.
“A bed, perhaps,” she said haltingly. Quickly, nervous now, she added, “If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Nae in the least,” Ciaran replied at once, a hand flicking toward a waiting servant. “See her to a chamber, and see it made warm.” Then, more directly to Ivy, he offered, “I’ll have a tray provided anon. Would a bath also be to your liking?”
Her hazel eyes widened, almost childlike in their surprise. “Oh, my God—would it ever!” she blurted, then turned instinctively to Alaric again, as if to share her joy at such an unexpected boon.
Ciaran laughed, the sound easy and unforced. “Then it will be so.” He nodded to the hovering servant, a young, dough-faced lass who smiled pleasantly as she approached Ivy.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” Ivy said, genuinely grateful, before she followed the girl away from the table.
Alaric’s gaze lingered as she crossed the length of the hall, her slight form dwarfed by the soaring walls and heavy beams overhead. At the far end, just before she vanished through the doorway, she turned back. Her eyes found his across the distance, as though she sought only to make certain he was still there.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and not entirely unwelcome. He gave another nod and held her gaze until she slipped from sight.
Ciaran drew out a chair at the far side of the high table himself and once all his guests were seated, dropped onto it with the easy grace of a man at home. He reached for the pitcher of ale and filled a cup, handing it to Alaric, and then filled another for himself before passing the pitcher down the table. “It is guid to see ye within these walls again, my friend. Though I confess, I dinna expect it.”
Alaric took the cup, settling heavily into the chair at his side, his officers crowding in along the board. “Nae did I. Yet the times make wanderers of us all.”
Ciaran’s smile faded. “Aye. And now Wallace is gone, the times grow darker still.”
The words fell into the hall with the weight of stone, and for a moment no one spoke. The fire popped, throwing sparks up the chimney, and Alaric felt again the ache of loss, though his jaw set hard against it.
Alaric let the silence rest only a heartbeat before he broke it with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “In truth, the lass is what brings us here. She canna abide with us, nae any longer as hertime grows near.” He took a long swallow of Kerr’s fine ale and then turned to his friend. “I was hoping she could abide here, bear the child here.”
“So it will be, but God’s bluid, man, I’m left to wonder,” he said, his tone lighter, though his gaze was sharp as ever. “Who is she? Why is she garbed so strangely? And”—his eyes flicked once more toward where Ivy had departed—“have you fathered a bairn since last we met?”
Alaric’s jaw tightened, and his answer came sharper than intended. “We came upon her in the aftermath of a skirmish with the English. Lost, alone. I dinna ken her before then, a fortnight ago.” He shrugged, indicating he knew little else. “The child is nae mine,” he stated emphatically.
The words hung there a moment, with enough finality that even Ciaran let them be. Yet as Alaric lifted his cup again, the taste of the ale seemed less satisfying than before.
Chapter Eleven
The chamber was larger than Ivy had expected, more than twice the size of that nun’s cell she’d been given before. Its thick stone walls caught the glow of a single torch set in an iron sconce. The hearth was cold and dark at first, but the servant girl bustled in without pause, kneeling to coax a flame from kindling laid ready in the grate. Soon the crackle of fire filled the space, smoke curling up through the chimney, warmth spilling into the chill.
The girl was plump-cheeked and round-faced, her brown hair tucked beneath a handkerchief on her head. She spoke softly in words Ivy didn’t understand. More Gaelic, Ivy guessed.
“I’m sorry,” Ivy said with an awkward smile. “I don’t understand.”
The girl pointed at Ivy—specifically and separately at her sweater and leggings—murmured something again, and then made some motion over and over again, with her hands that was not—as far as Ivy knew—the universal sign for anything.
Ivy narrowed her eyes studiously and nodded while she tried to guess what the maid was attempting to say. “Okay, my clothes are different? Yes, I’m sure they must seem very strange.” Again, the maid brushed her hands together, back and forth. “Are you asking what the material is? The sweater’s polyester, I think—though it’s seen better days, obviously.” Ivy shrugged. “The leggings are jersey—cotton, I guess.” As the young girl appeared to become frustrated by Ivy’s poor charade skills, Ivy offered her an apologetic grimace.
The girl sighed and stepped forward, reaching out her hands toward the hem of Ivy’s sweater. Assuming she wanted to touch it, to feel it—it did look very soft, and it was—Ivy allowed this. But the girl didn’t only touch it, she took hold of the hem and began to lift it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ivy argued with a nervous laugh, pushing away the girl’s hands, backing up a step.
