dark rose? No’ that I think a rose is the right sort o‘ plant, thorny as it is. How about thistle?”
“Do no‘ even joke about that,” Lilanthe said with a little shudder. “No’ even Iain of Arran calls himself the Thistle, it brings back such dreadful memories. That’s a name Margrit o‘ Arran took to the grave with her, thank Eà.”
“True enough,” Niall said soberly. “I’d forgotten Margrit NicFóghnan was called the Thistle. Indeed, that would be a sorry name to give such a bonny lass. I suppose we should be serious about this. A name is a serious thing, one carries it all one’s life. Are there no names ye like, lass?”
“Ken no names,” she answered.
“That makes things harder,” Niall said. “Do ye ken any names to do with horses, leannan ? A woman that rides a winged horse should have a name that suits. Is there a girlie form o‘ Ahearn? That means laird o’ the horses and was a true naming indeed.”
“I do no‘ think so,” Lilanthe said, frowning. “And we canna call her Ahearn, or any derivative, for it is a name that belongs to the MacAhern clan.”
“How about Rhiannon?” Lewen said quietly. They turned to him, surprised, having almost forgotten he was there, he had been so silent. “From the auld story, ye ken the one,” he said. “She rides past the king and he is so smitten with her beauty that he sends his cavaliers galloping after her, to bring her back to him. But she rides so swiftly none can catch her. The king cannot forget her, and so day after day he returns to the same place in the forest, hoping to see her again. At last she gallops past and he pursues her. But not even his great war-charger can catch up with her, and so he calls out to her, telling her he has fallen in love with her. So she turns and reins in her horse, and lets him come near, and he makes her his wife.”
“Aye,” Niall said slowly. “I remember that tale. Rhiannon.” He turned to the girl. She was gazing now at Lewen. Her face had softened, her mouth curving just enough for the elusive dimple to crease her cheek. “Do ye like that name, lassie?” Niall asked gruffly.
“Rhee-ann-an.” She spoke the name slowly, haltingly, tasting the syllables on her tongue. “She rides so swiftly none can catch her. Aye, I like. Rhee-ann-an.”
“Rhiannon it is, then,” Lilanthe said. Lewen caught the slight restraint in her voice and looked up at her. She smiled at him ruefully and tousled his curly brown hair, then stroked it back away from his brow. “It’s a lovely name, my lad, and well thought of. Why do ye no‘ all go and tend the horses now so Rhiannon can get her clothes for me to wash? Then ye can go round the farm with your father one more time and be saying your farewells.”
Lewen nodded, overcome by an unexpected wave of homesickness. Eà alone knew when he would be able to come back to Kingarth again. His eyes were suddenly hot and he had to swallow a lump in his throat.
“Go on, laddie,” Lilanthe said lovingly. “Take your time. It’s going to take a while to get Rhiannon clean, that’s for sure!”
The Jongleurs
It was early afternoon when Meriel came skipping out to find her brother and father, who were busy grooming Lewen’s big grey, Argent. The stallion was standing with one leg relaxed, his eyes half-closed in bliss, but as soon as he heard Meriel’s quick footsteps, his ears went back and he lifted his top lip to smell the air suspiciously.
“Give over!” Lewen said affectionately, pushing the stallion with his shoulder. “Ye should ken Merry’s step by now.”
“We’re ready!” Meriel cried. “Gracious me, what a job! It was like trying to wash a litter o‘ piglets, the squealing and squirming we’ve had. My arms ache from hauling so much water, and then I had to mop up the floor, which looked like the floor o’ the byre, it was so wet and muddy. And it took a whole bottle o‘ Mam’s liquid soapwort to wash her hair, and then it
“Do no‘ even joke about that,” Lilanthe said with a little shudder. “No’ even Iain of Arran calls himself the Thistle, it brings back such dreadful memories. That’s a name Margrit o‘ Arran took to the grave with her, thank Eà.”
“True enough,” Niall said soberly. “I’d forgotten Margrit NicFóghnan was called the Thistle. Indeed, that would be a sorry name to give such a bonny lass. I suppose we should be serious about this. A name is a serious thing, one carries it all one’s life. Are there no names ye like, lass?”
“Ken no names,” she answered.
“That makes things harder,” Niall said. “Do ye ken any names to do with horses, leannan ? A woman that rides a winged horse should have a name that suits. Is there a girlie form o‘ Ahearn? That means laird o’ the horses and was a true naming indeed.”
“I do no‘ think so,” Lilanthe said, frowning. “And we canna call her Ahearn, or any derivative, for it is a name that belongs to the MacAhern clan.”
“How about Rhiannon?” Lewen said quietly. They turned to him, surprised, having almost forgotten he was there, he had been so silent. “From the auld story, ye ken the one,” he said. “She rides past the king and he is so smitten with her beauty that he sends his cavaliers galloping after her, to bring her back to him. But she rides so swiftly none can catch her. The king cannot forget her, and so day after day he returns to the same place in the forest, hoping to see her again. At last she gallops past and he pursues her. But not even his great war-charger can catch up with her, and so he calls out to her, telling her he has fallen in love with her. So she turns and reins in her horse, and lets him come near, and he makes her his wife.”
“Aye,” Niall said slowly. “I remember that tale. Rhiannon.” He turned to the girl. She was gazing now at Lewen. Her face had softened, her mouth curving just enough for the elusive dimple to crease her cheek. “Do ye like that name, lassie?” Niall asked gruffly.
“Rhee-ann-an.” She spoke the name slowly, haltingly, tasting the syllables on her tongue. “She rides so swiftly none can catch her. Aye, I like. Rhee-ann-an.”
“Rhiannon it is, then,” Lilanthe said. Lewen caught the slight restraint in her voice and looked up at her. She smiled at him ruefully and tousled his curly brown hair, then stroked it back away from his brow. “It’s a lovely name, my lad, and well thought of. Why do ye no‘ all go and tend the horses now so Rhiannon can get her clothes for me to wash? Then ye can go round the farm with your father one more time and be saying your farewells.”
Lewen nodded, overcome by an unexpected wave of homesickness. Eà alone knew when he would be able to come back to Kingarth again. His eyes were suddenly hot and he had to swallow a lump in his throat.
“Go on, laddie,” Lilanthe said lovingly. “Take your time. It’s going to take a while to get Rhiannon clean, that’s for sure!”
The Jongleurs
It was early afternoon when Meriel came skipping out to find her brother and father, who were busy grooming Lewen’s big grey, Argent. The stallion was standing with one leg relaxed, his eyes half-closed in bliss, but as soon as he heard Meriel’s quick footsteps, his ears went back and he lifted his top lip to smell the air suspiciously.
“Give over!” Lewen said affectionately, pushing the stallion with his shoulder. “Ye should ken Merry’s step by now.”
“We’re ready!” Meriel cried. “Gracious me, what a job! It was like trying to wash a litter o‘ piglets, the squealing and squirming we’ve had. My arms ache from hauling so much water, and then I had to mop up the floor, which looked like the floor o’ the byre, it was so wet and muddy. And it took a whole bottle o‘ Mam’s liquid soapwort to wash her hair, and then it
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