The Scottish Selkie (8 page)

Bethoc flinched from both his nearness and his bluntness. She knew warriors placed themselves in danger every day, but she’d never thought of the perils in such forthright terms. This Scot knew much. Mayhaps he could teach her some things.

Setting an arrow, Bethoc eased back the bow and hit the mark again. Five more times, she shot a bull's eye on each try. “I have never heard tell of any bowman that fired so well,” Bethoc boasted. 

“When a marksman fires that well, there are very few people left alive to tell the tale.” 

“Oh,” Bethoc gulped. “I have never killed anyone. I am not a true warrior.”

“I don't plan to send you into battle, but my life may depend on your skills,” Malcolm said in serious tone. 

“My skills? Why would your life depend on me?”

“You will safeguard my back. You are my wife, are you not?” 

“I am not fighting for you or Kenneth.” Malcolm could never force her to be treacherous to her people, no matter how confused she felt. He was her enemy. Bethoc came to kill his king. Now she felt Kenneth was the only man who could be king of Caledonia. Only because he had slain everyone else. The earls, her father and betrothed included, had given him cause. Still, she could never aid Kenneth in his quest to hold the Pictish throne. 

“I do not care what you say. I shall not fight for Kenneth mac Alpin. The man is a treacherous craven.” 

“I would never ask you to fight for Kenneth.” Malcolm's tone reflected that the notion was pure nonsense. “But you will fight for God, will you not?” 

“What mean you?” 

“Come, I want to show you something.”

Chapter Seven

Quivering with curiosity, Bethoc took off at a springy pace behind Malcolm until he stopped at a small, gray stucco building, which stood alongside the chapel. Two guards stationed at the entrance let him pass.

As Bethoc followed him inside, a tingling feeling, from her head to her bare toes, told her a source of power dwelled within. 

Malcolm walked over to a throne in which a smooth yellow rock lay in the place usually reserved for a plump cushion. To Bethoc it felt as if rays of energy beamed out of the strange stone and filled the dimly lit room with magic. 

“It is the Lia Fail.” Malcolm's voice reverberated with a tone of awe. 

“The Stone of Destiny,” Bethoc whispered reverently. A hot shiver spread through her entire body. She had heard tell of its power, its history. “Be it true? Is it Jacob's pillow?” 

“Yes, in truth,” Malcolm inhaled deeply, “Long ago this stone came to lie in a far away land called Bethel.” 

Bethoc gazed intently into Malcolm's dark blue eyes as she listened. 

“A man named Jacob, disguised as his older brother, tricked his blind father into giving him the elder son's inheritance. In fleeing his older brother's wrath, Jacob wandered into the clearing where this stone lay. Jacob gathered a pile of stones including this one.” Malcolm pointed to the yellow rock. “Then he laid the stones down as a pillow for his head. As he slept, he dreamed of a stairway to heaven.” Malcolm lifted his hands upwards. “The God of all creation called down to Jacob, from the top of the ladder, decreeing his descendents would be as plentiful as dust spread to the four corners of the earth.” Malcolm spread out his arms. 

“When Jacob awoke, he deemed he had lain on the gateway to Heaven. Jacob poured oil on the smaller stones and set them upright as a pillar to mark the holy place. Then he took the large stone with him as a symbol of God's blessing.” 

Bethoc's mouth rounded with wonder and drew in a lengthy breath as Malcolm continued the tale.

“Jacob wed. He came to have many sons and grandsons, but no matter where his family pitched their tent, the stone was always with them. The sacred relic was passed down from his sons to his grandsons to their sons. They called the rock, Jacob's Pillow.” 

“They carried it into Egypt where it stayed until Moses freed the Israelites. Moses took Jacob's pillow with him into the Promised Land. The stone passed through many generations, within the line of Jacob. For many years, the stone stood in the temple in Jerusalem and served as the pedestal of the Ark, which held the Ten Commandments. Then during the reign of the Israelite King, Zedekiah, Babylonians attacked and burned Jerusalem.”

Malcolm's brows arched and he flung his hands outward. “King Zedekiah had imprisoned the prophet Jeremiah for foretelling of this doom, but the Babylonian king freed Jeremiah. The prophet carried all the holy relics out of Jerusalem and hid the ark and tabernacle in a hollow cave then sealed the entrance with rocks so it won’t be found until God reunites the Israelites.” 

“Jeremiah meant to use Jacob's pillow to rebuild the empire of Israel. But Judah lay in waste, and it wasn't safe to go to Babylon or Egypt. So Jeremiah took King Zedekiah's two daughters and the Stone of Destiny to a new land.” 

Bethoc leaned nearer. “He took the stone?” Bethoc's skin tingled as she asked, “Where?” 

Malcolm's eyes twinkled. “Seeking a new homeland, they sailed across the far seas until they came upon an emerald isle. There, on a grassy, pea-green hill called Tara, Zedekiah's eldest daughter, Tea Tephi and Eochaidh of Erin were married and crowned King and Queen as they stood on the Stone of Destiny. Wise and spiritual, the people of Erin grasped the power of the stone.”

Malcolm tilted his head back. “The stone stood at Tara for many generations. It came to be known as the
Lia Fail
, the speaking stone in the language of Erin. The stone chose the high kings by roaring for the rightful leader. Each coronation included blessing the king's future children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, in the manner of Jacob when he blessed his sons afore his death.” Malcolm paused and smiled. 

Bethoc was enthralled in the tale and couldn't wait for more. “How did it come to be here, in Dalriada?”

“Well, when King Fergus left Erin for Caledonia, he brought the Stone of Destiny with him, to crown the Scot kings on it. It is said, except old seers do feign and wizard wits be blind, the Scots in place must reign where they this stone shall find.” 

“What reason have you, to tell me this?” Almost afraid of the answer, but too curious to hold her tongue, she licked her lip, feeling like ale swished about in a goblet.

“You and I have a mission, entrusted with the stone, we carry it from the Dalriada castle to Scone. There in the heart of Caledonia, Kenneth will be crowned on the sacred relic.” 

“You ask for my aid in this?” Bethoc released her pent up breath.

“Yes. You will watch my back and if anything happens to me, the care of the stone will fall to you.” Malcolm's brow creased as if he was lost in secret thoughts. After a long pause he continued. “I know it is a surprise. There is so much you still do not know of what being wed to me means.” 

“You would trust me with such a quest?” Bethoc couldn't take her gaze off the sacred rock. Her skin prickled from the magical energy it thrust into the air. 

“You have a good heart, Bethoc, albeit misguided at times; it is strong and true. You feel the power of the stone. It has already claimed you for it knows you are my mate.” 

“I am Pict. This is a sacred stone of the Scots. Why would it claim me as its guard?” 

“It is my
giest.
Whether it be called a curse or a blessing, the stone chose me as its guardian, as my wife it is your
giest
as well.” Malcolm cocked his head to the side. 

Bethoc felt addled. She rubbed her forehead so hard, her fingers almost dug into her skin. Bethoc was to guard the Stone of Destiny all the way to Scone so Kenneth could be crowned king of the Picts. What had happened to her? She’d come here to kill the King, Kenneth mac Alpin, instead she’d married his champion and protector of the most powerful relic of the Scots, the
Lia Fail
. Something had gone terribly wrong. But she could do nothing about it. The strangest thing was she felt protecting this new united kingdom of Alba was the right thing for her and her people. Had she gone mad as well?

“Touch the stone, Bethoc,” Malcolm gently commanded.

Splaying her fingers over the stone, she let them fall ever so gently on its smooth, yellow surface. Power coursed from the rock into the bone and marrow of her hand. Blazing heat traveled up her arm to her shoulders, into her neck, to the tip of her head, and the prickling roots of her hair. 

“It is a holy relic to be sure.” Bethoc nibbled her lower lip, unable to say anything else, so overcome by the power of the stone.

 “You are part of it now. We will defend the stone well as we bear it to Scone.” 

Even after she withdrew her fingers from the
Lia Fail,
Bethoc's palm tingled. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Wild, hearty, wonderful.” Bethoc clasped her hand to her chest. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

It must have been the energy emitted by the stone, which drew her closer to Malcolm as she stared into his dark, ethereal eyes. Before Bethoc realized it, she’d raised her hands, and her palms rested against his hard chest.

Malcolm bent his head to Bethoc's. His breath blew hot against her lips. Their mouths touched. Bethoc melted against him, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. Her hands squeezed against his hardened biceps. His lips pressed firmly, hungrily upon her mouth, burning with the fiery kiss.

They released their lips but still held each other in a tight embrace, gazing into each other's eyes. 

Malcolm smiled. “Bethoc, would you like to dine with me now?” 

Though she could hardly speak, she managed to squeak out, “Yes.” 

They walked to the hall and partook of a noon repast of hare stew, brown bread, and hard yellow cheese. 

After they both downed a cup of ale, Malcolm asked, “What weapons do you wield Bethoc, beside bow and arrow?”

“I have used the sword in play. My father taught me when I begged him as a child. He trained me with a wooden sword. I have used a real one, but I am no master.”

“Well, if you have basic skills I can teach you to master the sword.” 

“You would school me in sword play?” That seemed odd, considering she’d tried to kill his king. Perhaps he did
trust her.

“I would love to teach you sword play, m'lady.” Malcolm's eyes gleamed, making it impossible to miss the double meaning of his words. 

Bethoc knew her cheeks must be red, and a moist yet fiery sensation arose between her thighs as well. Malcolm’s dark, enthralling eyes called to her, and she could taste his tongue on hers as she remembered their burning kiss. 

“Would you like to learn?” 

“Sword play?” Last night she hated Malcolm, but now she wanted to be with him, near him. What was wrong with her? Had that confounded sacred stone of the Scots cast a spell over her? 

“Yes, let us return to the practice yard.” 

She pushed back the now empty tankard of ale. “It would be my pleasure to best you with any weapon.” Bethoc swung her feet over the bench and stood. 

“Mine as well.” Malcolm rose, grinning boldly. 

Bethoc was always ready for a challenge. Maybe too ready, she chided herself as she followed him out of the hall and across the green to the practice yard. 

* * * *

Malcolm nodded his head toward her discarded shoes. 

Bethoc ignored him, keeping her feet bare.

Malcolm approached Oengus, still hard at work sharpening his sword skills. “Oengus, have you two practice swords we may use?”

The big man nodded and walked toward a small hut used as an armory for practice weapons. He came back carrying two long swords carved of white oak. After handing one each to Bethoc and Malcolm, he gestured to the side of the field. “I think I will make myself comfortable underneath yon Hawthorne tree.” 

The heat of the sun bore down on Bethoc as she faced Malcolm. Holding the hilt with both hands, she wiggled her bare toes into the dirt. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she stepped in, raised the wooden weapon, and swung downward. 

Malcolm didn't have to block it. The blade fell short. “If this sword was made of iron and we stood upon a real battle, you would lay dead.” He flashed a wry grin. “Do not let that happen.” Malcolm took a broad step back and spread his arms for emphasis. “Distance.” In a low tone he said, “Keep perfect distance.”