so
damnably perfect, his eyes impossibly blue, his mouth slightly
turned up at the corners as if he’d read her secret thoughts,
Brenna feared she might faint dead away.
Breathe, she ordered herself.
Father Michael’s prayer droned on in Latin,
as if he was intent on Christianizing this rite as much as humanly
possible. The heads of all the guests were bowed, and Brenna tried
to follow their example, but she felt Jorand’s eyes on her and had
to look up again.
He flashed his teeth at her and winked.
“... of your own free will?”
Had someone said something? With a start, she
realized she was expected to answer.
“Aye,” Brenna said softly.
“And ye, Jorand.” Brenna heard the slightest
catch in Father Michael’s voice. “Do ye come also into this circle
of your own free will?”
“ Ja.” His voice was deep and strong.
Father Michael presented a jewel-handled
dagger to Brenna. She took it and, after a brief hesitation,
punctured her palm with the sharp tip. Then she handed the weapon
to Jorand. He closed his right fist around the blade and yanked it
through with his other hand without so much as a flinch.
“Join hands,” the priest ordered.
Brenna raised her hand and Jorand pressed his
palm against hers. Their fingers interlocked, blood mingling, as
Father Michael bound a red cord around their wrists.
“With this binding I tie
ye, heart to heart, together as one. With
this knot, ye are joined in sacred union. May God smile upon thee, and bless thee with health and joy.”
The priest pulled the knot
tight. “Let the bride and groom recite the
vow.”
Brenna and Jorand had been
given instruction on the proper wording,
but now the rite suddenly flew right out
of Brenna’s mind. She couldn’t think how to start.
“You are blood of my
blood,” Jorand began, trig gering her
memory.
“And bone of me bone,” Brenna answered.
“I give ye me body, that we
two might be one.” She faltered a bit on
that line, but Jorand’s voice was strong enough for the two of
them.
“Hand in hand, and blood in
blood.” Brenna even managed a tremulous
smile.
“Let this green land witness our love,”
Jorand finished.
A tiny ribbon of red tickled down her wrist.
Was it her blood or his? There was no way to tell.
Father Michael offered them
Communion, placing a small bite of barley
bread on their tongues. “Let this be your
first meal as man and wife. May Christ bless this union and may ye never know hunger.”
The priest raised a chalice of wine. “Let
Christ’s blood be your first drink as man and wife. May ye never
know thirst.”
Brenna sipped the stinging liquid, then
handed it to Jorand, who drank while never taking his eyes from
her. He was playing the role of devoted swain convincingly, she had
to give him that. She blessed him for his thoughtfulness.
Father Michael handed the
dagger to Jorand. “Let this be your first
task as man and wife. Sever all ties with
the past, cut off the bindings of the old, and sweep them
away.”
Jorand—now her husband, she
realized with a start—sliced away the red cord, taking care not
to nick her with the sharp blade. The
binding fell to the earth, but he didn’t
release her hand immediately.
His other hand closed on
her waist and he pulled her to him. Then
his mouth met hers in a soft but not quite
chaste kiss. When he released her, there was fire in his blue eyes only Brenna could
see.
Flutes and pipes sounded
and the crowd erupted in cheers. The
eldest daughter of the house was made a
wife and all Donegal rejoiced with its king.
The merrymaking that had
started in the wee hours of the morning
now began again in earnest.
Chapter Thirteen
Once the ceremony was
finished, Brenna finally spared an eye for the decorations
festooning the yard. Gay pennants embroidered with the
Donegal crest—a sprig of heather on a bed
of green—flapped overhead. Brenna
recognized her sister’s hand in the sprays
of heather affixed to nearly every
damnably perfect, his eyes impossibly blue, his mouth slightly
turned up at the corners as if he’d read her secret thoughts,
Brenna feared she might faint dead away.
Breathe, she ordered herself.
Father Michael’s prayer droned on in Latin,
as if he was intent on Christianizing this rite as much as humanly
possible. The heads of all the guests were bowed, and Brenna tried
to follow their example, but she felt Jorand’s eyes on her and had
to look up again.
He flashed his teeth at her and winked.
“... of your own free will?”
Had someone said something? With a start, she
realized she was expected to answer.
“Aye,” Brenna said softly.
“And ye, Jorand.” Brenna heard the slightest
catch in Father Michael’s voice. “Do ye come also into this circle
of your own free will?”
“ Ja.” His voice was deep and strong.
Father Michael presented a jewel-handled
dagger to Brenna. She took it and, after a brief hesitation,
punctured her palm with the sharp tip. Then she handed the weapon
to Jorand. He closed his right fist around the blade and yanked it
through with his other hand without so much as a flinch.
“Join hands,” the priest ordered.
Brenna raised her hand and Jorand pressed his
palm against hers. Their fingers interlocked, blood mingling, as
Father Michael bound a red cord around their wrists.
“With this binding I tie
ye, heart to heart, together as one. With
this knot, ye are joined in sacred union. May God smile upon thee, and bless thee with health and joy.”
The priest pulled the knot
tight. “Let the bride and groom recite the
vow.”
Brenna and Jorand had been
given instruction on the proper wording,
but now the rite suddenly flew right out
of Brenna’s mind. She couldn’t think how to start.
“You are blood of my
blood,” Jorand began, trig gering her
memory.
“And bone of me bone,” Brenna answered.
“I give ye me body, that we
two might be one.” She faltered a bit on
that line, but Jorand’s voice was strong enough for the two of
them.
“Hand in hand, and blood in
blood.” Brenna even managed a tremulous
smile.
“Let this green land witness our love,”
Jorand finished.
A tiny ribbon of red tickled down her wrist.
Was it her blood or his? There was no way to tell.
Father Michael offered them
Communion, placing a small bite of barley
bread on their tongues. “Let this be your
first meal as man and wife. May Christ bless this union and may ye never know hunger.”
The priest raised a chalice of wine. “Let
Christ’s blood be your first drink as man and wife. May ye never
know thirst.”
Brenna sipped the stinging liquid, then
handed it to Jorand, who drank while never taking his eyes from
her. He was playing the role of devoted swain convincingly, she had
to give him that. She blessed him for his thoughtfulness.
Father Michael handed the
dagger to Jorand. “Let this be your first
task as man and wife. Sever all ties with
the past, cut off the bindings of the old, and sweep them
away.”
Jorand—now her husband, she
realized with a start—sliced away the red cord, taking care not
to nick her with the sharp blade. The
binding fell to the earth, but he didn’t
release her hand immediately.
His other hand closed on
her waist and he pulled her to him. Then
his mouth met hers in a soft but not quite
chaste kiss. When he released her, there was fire in his blue eyes only Brenna could
see.
Flutes and pipes sounded
and the crowd erupted in cheers. The
eldest daughter of the house was made a
wife and all Donegal rejoiced with its king.
The merrymaking that had
started in the wee hours of the morning
now began again in earnest.
Chapter Thirteen
Once the ceremony was
finished, Brenna finally spared an eye for the decorations
festooning the yard. Gay pennants embroidered with the
Donegal crest—a sprig of heather on a bed
of green—flapped overhead. Brenna
recognized her sister’s hand in the sprays
of heather affixed to nearly every
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