Read Online Highlander's Sword by Amanda Forester - Free Book Online

struck a lively tune, and before long, the men began spirited attempts at dancing. For partners, they grabbed their wives or unmarried lasses or one another, and soon the rushes were flying. Chaumont was swarmed by interested lasses, and he promised to oblige each of them in a dance of whatever sort they were most interested. MacLaren watched grimly while Chaumont danced with polished perfection. Taking a short break from his partners, Chaumont sat by MacLaren, the absence of a certain lady looming large.
       "No need to sulk in your drink. Come, dance, do whatever you please. There are more than enough bonnie lasses for us all."
       "I warrant ye feel different, but there be some problems bedding a wench canna solve," grumbled MacLaren.
       "That may be true, my friend," Chaumont replied with a sly smile, "but it fails more agreeably than most."
       The corners of MacLaren's mouth twitched again. "Go, my friend, let me no' keep ye from yer quarry."
       Before Chaumont could find another partner, the musicians took a break, and folks began to wander outside. MacLaren walked from the banquet hall, thinking about his mother's necklace still in his sporran. What a fool he had been to think he had anything that cold-hearted wench wanted.
       Outside in the courtyard, the large bonfire was lit with a great whoosh of light and heat. The priest said prayers to St. John, requesting blessings for the coming harvest. Others brought cattle to walk sunwise around the fire to bring good luck and prosperity. After the circling, some of the spryer young men took to jumping over the flames.
    "What on earth are they doing?" Chaumont asked.
       "Heathen ritual," muttered an old man at his side. "They jump o'er the flame as a sacrifice to the gods. Ought no' be done!" The man tottered off to complain to the priest as another young buck braved the flames to the appreciative gasp of the crowd and squeals of delight from the young females. Not to be outdone, some of MacLaren's men joined in the jumping.
       "It seems to me this fire jumping has more to do with winning favor from the lasses than any heathen gods," said Chaumont to MacLaren with a wry smile. "And a brave thing to do, wearing a skirt."
       "'Tis called a kilt," MacLaren answered in a growl.
       "Whatever you call it, with naught underneath, 'tis a good way to get your bollocks burnt."
       A tall, thin man with long silver hair walked toward the fire, people moving out of his way.
       "Please tell us a story," begged a child.
       "And what story would ye have me tell?" asked the man with a slow smile.
       "The ghost!" exclaimed several children at once.
       "Ah, the ghost. They say a lone figure in a hooded cloak, riding a pale horse, has been seen roaming these woods in the wee hours o' the night." At the sound of the storyteller's rich voice, people moved to hear him, the elderly given spaces on benches placed around the fire. The silver-haired bard paused, waiting for people to settle. The fire popped, sending a cascade of orange sparks high into the night sky, the dancing flames casting flickering shadows on the stone walls of the bailey. A hush fell over the crowd.
       "Our good King Robert Bruce," began the storyteller, "after winning freedom from the tyranny o' the English, was no' long to enjoy his victory. His success was no' wi'out sacrifice, and having met much hardship fighting for the freedom o' the Scots, he took sick in his later years. Realizing he would no' recover from his illness, he repented the sins of his youth and fervently wished he had been able to go to the Holy Land to make war upon the Saracens as penance for his actions. Thereby, he requested his closest friend and strongest warrior, the Good Lord James Douglas, to carry his heart to Jerusalem.
       "Thus, after the death of Bruce at Cardoss, his heart was taken from his body, and being embalmed, was placed in a silver case and worn around the neck o' the