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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Scotland
843 AD

Ablaze in the hearth fire, red and orange flames cast a golden glow across the round hall. Having gnawed the boar bone clean of salty meat, Malcolm tossed it on the feasting board. At his side, the Scot king, Kenneth mac Alpin, sat an empty tankard of ale down with a clank.

Though not as tall as Malcolm, the king was of manly height with a strong yet wiry build. Straight, dark hair hung to his shoulders and framed his face, offset by bright green eyes and firm chin.

Rowdy boast and chuckles of seven plaid-cloaked Pict earls impelled Malcolm to tilt his head back and whisper, "When you are crowned king, what then? How will you tame these wild Picts?"

As if waving away his concerns, Kenneth shook his hand in the smoky air, filled with heady odors of ale and roasting meat. "There is but one way to keep Scots and Picts united, by the very stone which Jacob laid his head when he dreamed of the stairway to heaven." Kenneth's ruddy face glowed with determination.

Once wounded by family betrayal, Malcolm wasn't easily lured by Kenneth's confidence. "You speak of a Scottish custom. 'Twas we Scots who brought the stone from Erin. To this day, the Picts curse us. They would all be happy if we went back to Erin. Why would the earls or any Pict honor Scottish traditions?"

"Ah, Malcolm, they will honor the jewel of destiny. I mean to bring it to Scone and keep it in the heart of Pictavia." Kenneth's green eyes gleamed with promised glory.

At that moment, a hump-backed, wizened bard ran his spotted fingers across the strings of an ancient harp. The Pict earls, having each poured a river of ale down their throats, were as drunk as used up whores. Though they refused to accept a Scot as Eoganan's successor, they didn't hesitate in singing along to a Scottish tune or drinking their fill of Scottish mead.

Malcolm kept his voice low, yet still loud enough for Kenneth to hear over the Picts' slurred, off-key singing. "Ye are a cunning one, Kenneth." Malcolm paused, then in a firm voice asked, "And what of my treasure?" Keeping his tone and facial expression deceptively calm he added, "Will you bear it with you to Scone?"

Kenneth gazed intently at his cousin. "Aye, Malcolm. I will. Near it is, never out of my grasp. I will soon yield it to you."

"When? When will my suffering end?" Malcolm spread his hands apart and leaned closer to Kenneth. "You think I will forgive your betrayal."

"I had no choice. I need you cousin." Kenneth rested his elbow on the table, his palm open in a beseeching gesture. "I mean not to make you suffer, but this is your fate. Did you not dream of a Scot king ruling Caledonia? Alba is more your dream than it is mine."

Malcolm folded his hands together on the table. "Aye, 'tis true. I will serve you well. But I long for the pleasures of the wild."

"I guard your treasure well, my friend. The life you long for will be yours once more."

Malcolm leaned forward. "When will it be so?" His tone sounded more like a dare than a query.

"In time." Kenneth nodded his head toward the earls. "Let us bring this feast to a close, shall we?"

"Aye." Malcolm placed his palm on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "My hand is ready for trouble. Go. Speak to the earls."

Kenneth mac Alpin stood and gestured to the bard to stop harping. Kenneth waited for the earls to cease the horrid off-tune singing. Then he paced the hall. "I was crowned king of Dalriada hence my sire's death, six years ago. But you leaders of the Picts have yet to bestow my rightful crown of King of Caledonia to me."

Drostan, the youngest of the earls, stood. Tall as Malcolm, with a tan complexion, and curly hair black as coal, his deep brown eyes shone with fury. "Kenneth mac Alpin!" Drostan yelled as if calling down from a hill in the highlands. "You say you have a right to rule the Picts. I challenge you. Fight me here and now with swords, to the death. The champion shall be King."

Malcolm scooted his chair back, ready to rise at any startling move Drostan made.

Kenneth didn't take his eyes off the challenger. "Aye, Drostan Mc Galam, let us clash, forthwith, for the kingship of Caledonia."

The oaken walls of the round hall shook with zealous hurrahs of both Scots and Picts. Drostan and Kenneth moved to the center of the crowd and circled each other in a stalking move, like two full-antlered stags ready to fight.

Kenneth looked for his opponent's weakness, as did Malcolm. The Scot was open to a fair fight, but he wouldn't allow Pictish trickery. Kenneth was the best swordsman in Dalriada, next to Malcolm. His cousin could hold his own in a fair match, but so could Drostan. One of them would die this night for the crown of Caledonia. Mayhaps Kenneth?

They made their move. Swords clashed as iron struck iron. They stepped back, then circled each other, vying for position. Drostan stepped forward and thrust. Kenneth parried. Drostan whipped his sword outward. Kenneth was hit. A small cut on his upper shoulder; scarlet blood seeped more than ran.

Drostan attacked again. Kenneth sidestepped and thrust forward, slicing a large cut across his opponent's upper thigh. The Pict let out an audible groin of pain. Blood cascaded down his leg, yet he managed to lunge forward. Lashing out, his blade scraped Kenneth's left cheek. A mere scratch.

The warriors lunged at the same time. Swords clashed and crossed. They back stepped. Circled each other. Thrust. Clashed. Swords still reverberating, they sidestepped then moved in. Once more, hard iron sparked against hard iron.

Though Drostan was injured, he had nicked Kenneth twice, drawing blood.

The Pict gazed intensely at Kenneth and warned, "Your reign will end before it has begun."

With his sword arm straight and the point held in line with Kenneth's heart, Drostan lunged. The Dalriada king sidestepped, pivoted, and whipped his blade downward. He knocked the sword out of Drostan's grasp.

He looked Drostan in the eye and retorted, "I think not."

Kenneth shifted his weight forward and ran his blade through Drostan's chest. Blood gushed forth. Drostan fell at Kenneth's feet. Dead.

Kenneth held the hilt loosely in his hand and knelt before the still body, fallen on the scarlet soaked floor. At that instant, an earl drew his sword, and leapt onto the banquet table, before jumping to the floor in front of Kenneth.

The Pict lunged at the king. Malcolm leapt forward, his long sword held out straight, piercing the Pict's chest before the man could strike.

Talorc, a stout built Pict with a large moustache, shouted, "Avenge our brothers."

Donald, Kenneth's younger brother, brandished his sword and led the Scot guards into the fray. All the earls rushed forward with swords drawn. Iron clang against iron. Bodies fell. Men groaned with mortal wounds as they hit the crimson stained floor.

Picts moved toward Malcolm with swords ready. He went through everyone one of them, until he fought the last earl standing. When he ran his blade clean through the man's chest, he pulled it out and slowly looked around. Malcolm glanced first at the mac Alpins; by God's mercy Kenneth and Donald still stood. Unharmed, save for cuts at the face and head and minor wounds of arms and legs. Next he took in Kenneth's men, one lay dead and two had serious wounds. But, the Picts having been so outnumbered faired worse. All seven earls lay dead on the feasting hall floor. Too much ale turned a feast of diplomacy into a blood bath.

Kenneth would reign as king of Caledonia. No one was left to dispute his claim to the throne.

Malcolm took a deep breath to quiet the tension which overtook him in the aftermath of the skirmish. He reached for a jug of ale and poured his goblet full. Lifting his glass in the air, in a strong voice he toasted, "Long live Kenneth, King of Dalriada and Caledonia."

Donald raised his goblet high and toasted, "To a united Alba."

"To Alba," Malcolm agreed as Kenneth tossed the golden liquid down his throat.

* * *

Malcolm sat on Kenneth's right and Donald on his brother's left at a board laid with palters of succulent lamb, fish, scallops, and clams.

Donald leaned his ear toward Kenneth as he sliced a slab of mutton with his feasting dagger.

"Malcolm has spent the last days faithfully guarding my kingdom from Pict widows collecting the bodies of their dead," Kenneth sarcastically quipped as he chewed then reached for his tankard of ale.

"Aye. Vengeance lends might to the weakest of warriors." Malcolm defended his zealousness to protect his king. "Women as well," he added as he recalled that his da and Malcolm's father lost their lives at the hands of Picts. He wouldn't let his guard down, not even for a woman.

"Do ye think a woman would attack Kenneth?" Donald's eyebrows shot up.

"I say, little brother, many a woman has attacked me in their passion. Both Scot and Pict maids alike cannot keep their hands off me," Kenneth gibed.

"In truth Malcolm, 'tis best ye guard my brother from these wild Pict women."

"'Tis not that I guard him from the women, I merely mean to get first pickings." Malcolm leaned back in his chair and chuckled along with his cousins.

In his musings Malcolm stared at the floor of the feasting hall. Suddenly, he pictured the wood planks covered in blood, as they were the day of the feast. He blinked his eyes to clear the image in his head and exhaled.

"Are you looking for the hidden trenches set with the sharp blades the earls plunged into? They are said not to be under the floor boards but underneath the benches we sit on." Donald's lips curved into a cynical smirk.

"Aye." Kenneth nodded his head. "'Tis what I do with my enemies. I hold feast and ply them with ale till they are drunk. While they sit at my board, I pull a bolt from under my bench and cast them into pits lined with deadly blades."

"mac Alpin's treason, they call it." Malcolm let out another audible sigh. "Every woman who came to collect their dead, cursed me for it." How people could believe such babble he did not know. Malcolm was weary of it all.

"Let it be." Kenneth waved his hands airily. "The kingdom is mine. 'Tis all that matters."

"To the king of Alba, Dalriada and Caledonia united." Malcolm toasted his sovereign and friend. After gulping half his ale with one swallow, he clanked the goblet on the table.

Kenneth threw his head back and downed his goblet of ale. "I could not have done it without you, Malcolm. I shall reward you greatly. Anything you want, name it and it is yours."

"You know what I want. Give me my skin."

"In good time. I need you till the country is settled. Albeit I will grant any other boon you wish."

"All I treasure is the pelt you hold. I ask for naught more."

"In good time."

Malcolm pushed the tankard of ale aside and stood. He walked to the end of the hall, threw an old moth eaten, plaid bratt on a cushioned bench, and bedded down with the soldiers. He tried to forget Kenneth, his dear cousin, whom he wanted to strangle.

* * *

Kenneth took a full jug of ale into the king's alcove, which had the luxury of a window to let fresh air in, though the opening was cut high and small for defense. He sat on the bed, put his pitcher of ale down, tugged off his boots, and unpinned his bratt from around his shoulders. In naught but his tunic, he laid down on the high, narrow bed, and spread the plaid cloak over him like a blanket. He shut his eyes.

A sound woke Kenneth with a start. Grabbing his sword, he leapt off the bed. Brandishing the long blade, Kenneth glanced at the window. An assassin, perched on the other side of the wall, held a bow, strung with an arrow, aimed at him.

The assassin leapt down. Kenneth whipped his sword toward the window and yelled, "Malcolm, an assassin, a bowman, makes his escape. Capture him."

Malcolm leapt off the bench, rushed outside, and charged across the ground. By the light of the nearly full moon, he spotted the fleeing villain and gained on him. The assassin nearly cost Malcolm all he had sacrificed for. He felt the pull in his legs as he ran faster and faster. Hackles rose on the back of his neck. The smell of dirt and grass, mingled with the moisture in the air, was so strong he could taste it.

The assassin's black cloak, like a huge bat's wings, flapped in the night. Malcolm's heart pounded hard in his chest. He heard the huffiness of his breath as he came upon the villain. Upon grabbing hold of the black bratt, he yanked the man to him, and wrapped his arm around the fiend's neck in an iron hold.

"Make one move, cur and I'll break your neck."

The assassin stilled. Malcolm took a deep breath and let his heartbeat slow as he scanned the land near the castle. Armed men could be hidden in the woods behind Hawthorne and Eildon trees, waiting to attack. He glanced toward the keep, Kenneth's war band galloped toward them. The mounted troops' snorting and neighing horses circled the assassin. Malcolm shoved him to the ground, whipped out his sword, and held the deadly point at the fiend's neck. "Give me your name."

The villain's eyes turned round in shock and he gulped as if he could not find his voice.

Malcolm pushed the point of the blade against his neck until a drop of red blood trickled down. "You craven, tell me your name."

"Bethoc," the would-be assassin said in a horse voice.

Malcolm stared at the man who cowered on the ground at his mercy. His tunic bulged at the wrong place. He had never seen a man's waist taper so. It was like a...woman. Malcolm gasped, pulled the sword away, and stepped back. "'Tis a lass."

"Aye." She took a deep breath and sat up. "A woman sworn to vengeance." Her fingers slid over her head, slipping off the black hood which had hid most of her face. Nut-brown braids were pinned on top of her head.

The black braies and tunic veiled her in the night, but she attempted her crime under a near full moon. Amateur. No hired killer was she.

"I came for Scot blood in vengeance of my sire's blood. He died by mac Alpin's treason." Her green eyes blazed.

"Who is your lord?" Malcolm asked in a coarse tone.

"I have none." She looked him in the eye and stood. Her body was tall and slender. "My betrothed was killed in the massacre along with my da. I am the only one to avenge their deaths."

Her face was a perfect oval and her pale skin looked translucent in her black assassin's attire.

"A female whelp. You nearly killed the King." Malcolm sliced his sword through the air. "Take her to the feasting hall. The king will deliver judgment." He jammed the blade into the sheath belted at his side.

Two soldiers grabbed the captive by each arm and dragged her to the castle.

Malcolm shook his head in disbelief. He had almost killed a young girl, and she nearly killed his king. What madness. How he longed for the sea at that moment. But first he would help Kenneth get what he wanted, a united Alba. He would not leave until the Scots lived in peace and freedom. He reached down, picked up the bow she had dropped, and slowly made his way to the palace.

Long benches were pushed aside and Kenneth took his place on the throne. A crowd of soldiers and servants parted for Malcolm as he strode forward to face his king.

Kenneth's black, green, and blue plaid bratt, wrapped his shoulders and chest as it hung to his knees. The cloak was pinned with a round, gold broach to his checkered tunic. An ancient gold torque banded his neck and his thick red hair hung long and loose.

"Cousin, ye are acquainted with Lady Bethoc." Kenneth pointed his head to the dark-haired Pict who stood before him. Her features were set in a tight scowl.

"Aye, the assassin." Malcolm gazed into fiery green eyes which sparkled with hatred. He handed her bow to Kenneth.

"Ah, So this is the weapon." There was a thin smile on Kenneth's lips as he turned the bow over in his hands. "Charming."

Bethoc spit at him. Guards rushed forward, but Kenneth gestured them to move back. "She cannot kill me with her spittle. As much as she may want to." He let out a scornful laugh.

The girl's face turned red from the taunt. Malcolm knew she was stronger than she looked and barmy as well. Kenneth was mad to rile the lass.

The king noticed Malcolm's expression and pierced him with a trust-me-I-know-what-I am-doing glare. Kenneth leaned forward and in a hushed voice asked him, "What think you of the lady?"

Malcolm folded his arms across his chest. "With rumors of mac Alpin's treason branding you a bloodthirsty tyrant you cannot give proof to the lies by executing a lass mad with grief."

"I ask not what ye say of this matter. What do ye think of her? She is a bonny lass, is she not?"

Malcolm was shocked. Had his cousin taken an interest in this whelp? "Kenneth." He cleared his throat. "The lass tried to slay you. You cannot mean to bed her?"

"I was thinking along those lines, but not for myself." The King flashed a wry grin.

"What say you, Kenneth?" Malcolm reached out one arm, "Kill her?" Then the other, to indicate a second choice, "Pardon her?" Rather than hold back his anger he leaned close to Kenneth's face. "But do not hold her here. She is mad."

"'Tis not wise to kill her." Kenneth leaned back. "Yet, I cannot free her least she make another attempt on my life. I need someone I trust to guard her night and day."

"You mean to keep her in the dungeon until she dies?"

"Nay. I mean to give you a worthy reward, a bestowal, a beautiful Pict noblewoman for your wife."

"Ye jest?" Malcolm looked hard at Kenneth's face. "What are ye about?" A wife? Nay. He belonged to the sea. He couldn't have a wife. And this one was wild and crazy. "Are ye daft?"

Kenneth shrugged. "She means to murder me. If not beheaded, she needs to be guarded by the one person I can count on."

"God's teeth, but you are given to moon-mad musings. Do not do this."

"She will try to kill me, again. I can see it in her eyes and so can you."

"I will not have it. If you put this on me, I find my pelt and depart this eve. Do not doubt me, cousin."

"So be it, I can do naught but execute her."

"If you will spare her life by wedding her to one of your men." Malcolm reached out his arm. "Marry her to another, not me." He flicked his arm toward his other cousin. "Bequeath her to Donald."

"He cannot tame this one. He has no way with women. Ye know this," Kenneth said dryly.

Donald nodded his head in agreement surely not wanting the wild wench foisted upon him.

"I will not have it," Malcolm said in a firm unbending tone.

Kenneth's eyes pierced and held the girl as he said, "You will die for your attempt on my life."

"I shall kill you first." Her face was set in a vicious expression.

Kenneth pointed his head toward Malcolm. "Take her outside, sever her head, and hang it on the gate as was done to my sire and to yours."

"She is a woman. And I fight for you, I do not murder for you. Choose another man."

Malcolm and Kenneth stared at each other, unblinking, till Kenneth broke the silence. "Donald, take care of this. Sever her head and hang it up for all to see we will have no assassins here. Women or men."

"As you say, my king." Donald grabbed the girl by her arm and pulled her roughly to the door.

Chapter Two

"Halt. Do not kill the lass. I will wed her." Once she was no longer a risk to Kenneth and the kingdom of Alba was safe, Malcolm could return to his real life. His real world. "Kenneth, I accept Bethoc for my wife, but only under the bond of hand fasting. When it is time for me to go my own way then I shall."

The king paused in thought then nodded to Malcolm. "It shall be done."

Bethoc's eyes widened. Her face went pale. "Nay. I will have no Scot for my husband."

"You will have this Scot as husband. It is not your decision. Malcolm, will make sure you do not kill anyone. Trust me." Kenneth leaned back against the oaken throne.

"I would rather die," Bethoc spewed as she lifted her chin in defiance.

"Come m'lady, 'tis not so bad," Malcolm taunted with a light chuckle.

"If she tries to kill you, slay her." Kenneth let out an audible sigh.

Bethoc's teeth clenched and her dark eyebrows shot up, as blazing green eyes stabbed Malcolm with a loathsome threat of a hundred deaths. He almost bit his tongue from laughter at the woman's dramatic expression.

Malcolm glanced askance at his king. "Well, this should be a quaint wedding night."

"You will have to sleep sometime, Scot, and I will kill you then," Bethoc snarled through still clenched teeth.

"Tie her to the bed before you nod off." Kenneth flashed a wry grin.

"I rather like the thought of that." Malcolm smiled in earnest as he envisioned her long, earthy-brown hair fanned out across his bed. Her neck arched as she writhed and screamed in ecstasy of love play. Then Malcolm flinched. What had happened? He was thinking like a human.

Kenneth nodded at his brother, Donald. "Tell the priest to prepare the chapel for a wedding at dawn."

* * *

Bethoc rubbed her hands against her shoulders to ease the bite of the chill, damp chapel. Those addled Scots hadn't even lit enough candles. Bethoc's long hazelnut hair swept from one shoulder to the other as she jerked her head and huffed in frustration. Marry that ogre of a man? Never. Kenneth would be dead if only she'd drawn back the bow, but she could not kill a man in his sleep. Bethoc had never killed anyone.

The oaf, Malcolm, looked like he was carved of stone. The brown mop of hair on his head had a strange hint of red and his dark blue eyes were huge, like a cow's. She was to have wed Drostan, lean, yet muscular with hair the shade of a raven's wing. He had an arrogant way about him, but he could make her laugh. Bethoc had not loved Drostan, but she would have made him a good wife. She had wanted to marry him.

She slammed her foot down on the stone floor of the dark chapel, yelped with pain, then rubbed her ankle.

The priest stepped back. "Did you harm yourself, child?"

"Nay. Neither will I let a Scot harm me. I will not marry this man, Father." Bethoc's hands curled tightly into fists at her side.

The scrawny priest's mouth dropped open, which was a sight, for he barely had any chin. "My king, the woman refuses to wed."

Kenneth curled his fingers beneath his firm chin. "Aye father, but if she does not marry I shall have to cut off her head."

The priest swallowed as he stared at his king.

Kenneth answered the question in the priest's eyes. "What you heard is true. She tried to slay me as I slept."

"Oh," The priest's eyes went round and he glanced back at Bethoc. "Ye will wed, m'lady."

"Because the church has no love for the Picts," she spat.

"It may be so as the Picts have no love for the church. The King has spoken and I take his word next to God's." Upon clearing his throat, the priest rushed through the vows in Latin, then nodded at Malcolm.

"I do," Malcolm vowed in a flat expressionless tone.

The priest bobbed his head at Bethoc and she jerked away, turning her back. Ignoring Bethoc's gesture and her silence, the priest pronounced the two handfasted for a year's time.

Malcolm cocked his head toward Kenneth. "Now, what do I do with her?"

"Feed her." Kenneth flashed a wry smile. "The scrawny chit must be starved. It takes a lot of energy to try to kill a king."

"Come, wife." Malcolm felt so foolish calling her that. "Let us go to the hall and break our fast." It was as good a time as any to eat.

Bethoc's feet shuffled across the stone floor of the chapel and through the short grass toward the long wooden hall. Bethoc wished she were dead. Too sad to pull away, she let Malcolm take her arm in his as they entered the feasting hall through the double oaken door carved with Celtic tracery.

"Lady Bethoc, this is the hall where you will sup." A puzzled look crossed Malcolm's face, then he added, "And sleep."

Bethoc nearly bit her tongue. "I have to sleep with soldiers?"

"Nay, It is here, that I have been sleeping, but I disremember I have a wife now." Bethoc could tell by the crease on his brow that he was musing this over as he spoke. "I have a rath on the other side of the chapel. I never use it, howbeit is mine. You will stay there and sleep there. With me."

Bethoc yanked her arm from his grasp. "If you mean to have me, think again. You'll never touch me, you Scottish cur."

"Scottish cur husband. Do not forget that my lady wife." Malcolm grinned. "Sit ye down and break your fast."

The rumbling of her stomach made Bethoc happy to oblige, but she vowed not to give in to any other demands this joke of a husband made.

Sweeping her eyes across the round hall, Bethoc was surprised how truly small it was. It was the Picts who had power, the Picts who had wealth. The Scots were nothing. Still, she had not known they were this poor. The wooden hall was crammed with a roughly hewn, long table and two padded benches as well as people to fill them.

Malcolm squeezed in next to her on the bench. Bethoc gulped as his elbow brushed against her. Even beneath her tunic, his touch made her skin tingle. She must be mad. "Ye sit too close. Move over."

"We will be much closer tonight." Malcolm's lips twisted into a wicked smirk.

Bethoc's palm itched to strike him. Spotting his eating dagger, carelessly laid on the table, Bethoc lunged for the blade. But Malcolm caught her wrist with no more effort than if he had slapped his hand down to kill a fly. His warm fingers clamped around her like an iron manacle.

"My dagger." Malcolm's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"You took mine. How will I eat?"

"M'lady, did you fear we Scots had no manners? You have not wed a barbarian. I will gladly cut your meat for you. Do Picts not serve their ladies from their plates?"

"Aye, but I am not your lady."

"Nay, you are much more. You are my wife."

A burning rage flashed through Bethoc. He wasn't a husband, he was a guard. Well, she would show him. She wasn't a wife; she was a menacing foe.

A servant girl set a bowl of porridge before her. Bethoc dipped the tip of a wooden spoon into the lumpy gruel.

"To be sure, I do not even need to slice your fare," Malcolm quipped.

Holding the spoon in her hand, Bethoc gave a twist of her wrist and flipped the glob of porridge onto Malcolm's face. The white blob landed on his forehead and dribbled down his nose. One look at him and a vengeful chuckle rolled from her mouth. Bethoc propped her elbows on the table, cupped her head with her hands, and heaved with laughter.

Malcolm brushed his hand across his forehead, wiping white mush onto his fingers. Flicking his hand to the side, he shook bits of porridge onto the floor.

Feeling merry from laughter, she forgot herself and wiped the remnants off his brow. Her fingertips tingled. Bethoc looked at her hand in puzzlement. What caused this odd sensation? Malcolm's gaze held the same fascination. She couldn't blink or turn away.

"Best wishes to ye, Malcolm," a gray haired man said as he slapped him on the back. "I hear ye will need it. Is this yer bride? The wild Pict who tried to kill the king last night?"

"Aye, that she is." He turned his gaze from the burley fellow back to Bethoc, "M'lady, this is Fergus, King Kenneth's steward."

"Fergus." She acknowledged him with a nod of her head. "Indeed, I am this fool's unfortunate bride."

The older man's lips twitched into a half smile. "M'lord Malcolm, will ye not be having a bowl of porridge?"

"Nay." Malcolm let out a warm chortle. "I have had enough of your porridge this day."

Fergus answered with a hardy chuckle.

"It seems his lordship is a man who is hard to please," Bethoc said to the steward.

"Ah." Malcolm grinned at her. "Is this not sweet? Me thinks my bride fears she may not please me this eve, in our nuptial bed."

A tinge of heat crossed Bethoc's cheeks. It was more than anger that caused her face to flush this time.

Malcolm winked. "Ye have nothing to fear. A bonny lass like ye will please me well enough." Wrapping his arm about her shoulder, he pulled her to his broad chest.

Overwhelmed by the smell of ale on his breath and mortified by the guffaws and bawdy jests of the feasters, she tried to push out of his grasp. But he held her in an iron grip.

Malcolm brushed his lips across her ear and whispered, "Eat your porridge."

Bethoc silently shoved spoonful after spoonful in her mouth, swallowing down the thick mush with the sour ale. Her insides turned upside down. But it wasn't from the food, it was from total emptiness. A guttural pain racked her; she fought back the tears threatening to stream forward. Da! Da is dead. He has left me to the Scots.

Bethoc tried to take another swig of ale, but the cup fell from her fingers. Intense trembling overtook her, from her hands to her feet. A cold sweat broke out on her brow. Gritting her teeth, she fought to control herself. Managing to keep her fingers steady enough to pick up the newly filled tankard, she downed another cup of ale. The warmth ignited by the ale eased her tight muscles and sadness vanished in the wake of a storm of anger, which had built up inside. She was better than this. Better than any of these Scots. Bethoc was a Pictish princess. Silently, she swore she would never forget it. She came to Dalriada to get revenge and that she would do.

Bethoc's gaze scanned the wooden board searching amid porridge droppings and spilled ale for Malcolm's eating dagger.

"Does this king of yours, Kenneth, really think we Picts will come to Dalriada to see him crowned?"

"Nay, of course not m'lady." Malcolm grabbed a piece of rock-hard bread and dunked it in the golden ale. "That would be silly. Would it not? My king means to be crowned in Scone, the capitol of Caledonia, 'tis it not?"

"Never." Bethoc spotted the knife fastened to his belt. She made a mental note of where it hung so she could take it when her chance came.

"It is his right. He is king, is he not?"

"Not for long." Bethoc spoke rapidly, not stopping to take a breath. "It matters not that I did not succeed in killing him, another Pict will. He has no right to rule after slaying the seven earls at a banquet of peace. Each Pict sat down to eat and drink. Kenneth pulled a lever, opening trap doors, plunging the earls into pits jammed with stakes, end up. My own Da died like a hare on a skewer."

Malcolm's brows arched. "What say ye? M'lady, look for yourself. See ye any trenches underneath this bench? Any deep pits fixed with stakes to impale Picts?"

The benches were wood and the floor was hard dirt strewn with rushes. "But how?" Bethoc asked out loud in a baffled tone.

"'Twas stubborn cocksureness, not treachery which cost the earls their lives."

"Kenneth demanded the earls name him king of Caledonia. When they refused, his men slew them in cold blood. So, there were no pits? It was still a trap."

Malcolm's lips thinned into a taut frown. "'Twas a fair fight."

"You lie," Bethoc hissed. "How could it have been a fair fight? If it were, all seven earls would still be alive. It would take more than a band of Scots to kill one Pict strong as Drostan or my sire were."

"My lady wife, I speak the truth. Deep in your heart ye know it."

"Liar!"

"Ye wish it were so. It would be easier if your father was slain by Kenneth. Instead he lost his temper and dishonorably attacked a king of both Scot and Pict blood. He died due to his rash action, with no thought for the daughter he left behind."

Bethoc's chest heaved. Nay father, how could ye, she thought to herself. Feeling Malcolm spoke the truth; she couldn't look him in the eye. Bethoc was so weighed down by sadness she couldn't even move. "I hate ye. Ye lying snake of a man. Ye...ye...Scot."

Malcolm grinned. "Ye will have to do better if ye mean to insult me. Call me Scot and I take it as a compliment." Malcolm stood, offering her his hand. "Come Bethoc, let me show ye to your new home, my rath."

Bethoc took his hand and slowly rose, but said nothing. Her world had turned upside down. Kenneth mac Alpin was king of Caledonia. Bethoc's father, Talorc, and Drostan, the man she was betrothed to, lay dead. And she was wed to Kenneth's right hand man. What would happen next?

Bethoc and Malcolm headed outside and walked on, passing wooden buildings, animal pens, the stable, even the stone chapel she had been married in that morn. Bethoc stepped around a mud puddle then spotted a small rath, surrounded by a short stonewall. The yard was overgrown with long grass sprinkled with the bright-yellow blossoms of cowslips and silverweed. The oaken door creaked as Malcolm pushed it open. Bethoc opened her mouth to speak, only to gasp as particles of dust rushed in. She coughed.

Sunlight shone from the window onto the thick coat of gray dust which covered everything. A cupboard across the room stood draped by the largest cobweb she'd ever seen. An overturned wooden table with two broken chairs laid next to it. At least an unmade bed in the corner looked like it had a decent feather mattress.

Mayhaps it looks worse than it is. Dust clogged Bethoc's nose and throat. She shut her eyes then gritted her teeth and blinked her lids open. It is real. Bethoc shuddered.

"Welcome to your new home." Malcolm spread his arms wide as if showing off a king's hillfort.

The scent of mold and dirt clotted the air. It made her angrier. Bethoc cleared her throat, folded her arms, and clutched her elbows. "I'm not living in this pig sty!"

Chapter Three

"Aye, my lady wife. Not only shall ye live in this rath, therewith ye shall clean it." Malcolm walked over to the web-draped cupboard in search of a broom.

Bethoc's face skewed into an expression of utter distaste. "Never."

"Ye need to keep busy." Holding a broom in one hand, he thrust it at her. "Sweep." If he knew it was this filthy, he wouldn't have brought her here. The last time he stepped through that door was before he drowned. Afore his real life begun.

"Ye are mad." Bethoc's lips drew up into a tight pout as she glared at him.

"No doubt, but start sweeping. This rath has to be ready by eventide, so ye best make haste."

"Where are the servants?" Bethoc looked around as if she'd find them hiding.

"Ye will need someone, will ye not?" Malcolm turned to her. "I disremember it takes sweat and toil to live here."

Bethoc's eyes grew wide. She planted one hand on her cheek, and glared at him as if she thought he was crazy.

Oh, little mistress superior, I could wash that smirk off your face. How he wanted to disclose his secret, to throw her entire reasoning off, and send her into a state of shock. But the fun would have to wait; they needed to get the rath cleaned by tonight.

Bethoc interrupted his thoughts, tapping her little bare foot on the floor.

"I shall find ye a servant." Malcolm pointed at the broom. "Start sweeping."

"I shall sweep if it pleases me."

Malcolm poked his head out the door and called for help. "Oengus."

"This sty you call a rath has fallen into ill repair. In truth, it is little more than a hovel. Cannot your cousin, the king, bequeath to you a more fitting dwelling?"

"What say you? 'Tis a fine home. It was my sire's, and my grandsire's before him. 'Tis a grand rath. Its value would be equal to a herd of 24 cattle."

Clutching the broom in one hand, she placed the other on her hip as she scanned the large, round room. "Scot, ye are daft. Ye would not get one scrawny cow for this hovel. I would not give ye as much as a sack of wheat for it."

Malcolm made a balking sound, but before he could speak, a tall, broad-chested man squeezed through the doorway.

"Lord Malcolm, I did not know ye were trading yer rath. I wish to purchase it. I will give ye a salted pig, if I can move in on the morrow."

"Oengus are ye daft? The rath is worth 24 cows and it is not for sale." Malcolm pointed to Bethoc. "Watch her." He left his bride with Oengus and headed back to Kenneth's stronghold.

* * *

Bethoc took a good look at the man before her. He had a fat face, bright orange hair, and bulging blue eyes. His physique was closer to that of a bear than a man. He could be summed up in two words, big and dumb. But she needed help and he was it. Her gaze fell onto the chairs.

Bethoc folded her arms across her chest. "Oengus, can ye mend wood?"

Oengus flashed an almost toothless grin. "Aye, m'lady. I am skilled at mending." He picked up a chair, looked at it, then set it down. "Come with me, m'lady, as I fetch my tools."

"Nay, ye go on your way. I shall stay in the rath. If I am to sleep here this eve, I have a lot of work to do." With broom in hand Bethoc stared at the dust covered floor, crusted in spots with dried mud.

"Nay. Malcolm told me to guard ye."

Bethoc let go of the broom and it fell with a thud. "Aye, then I shall come."

Walking beside Oengus, Bethoc took in her surroundings. Geese honked and chickens clucked as they pecked the dirt, while children wrapped in bright plaid bratts ran across her path. Oengus ducked into his round hut. Bethoc followed.

His belongings consisted of tools, an old wooden clothing chest, and a rush pallet. A stack of wood set in the center served as his hearth.

With a mallet and an axe in hand he asked, "Ready, m'lady?"

Bethoc nodded and followed him back. "Oengus, have ye known Malcolm long?"

"Aye, all my life," he said as they neared the rath.

As they approached the door Bethoc asked, "How long has he dwelt in this rath?"

"Since he was a wee lad." Oengus opened the door and Bethoc followed him inside. "But he has not been here for many a year." Oengus came to an abrupt stop and cast his eyes downward. "Since his father's death."

"Did his sire die in battle?"

"Aye. In the same fray in which King Alpin was slain. Both men's heads hung on spikes at Scone."

"Oh." Bethoc gulped. Happens, it would be best if she avoided that bit of history. "His father's death must have been hard on him. Mayhaps 'tis why? I mean he seems to fathom my grief. My father was killed by Kenneth mac Alpin's treachery."

"Treachery?" Oengus smiled. "Some fool in the market was saying the hall has trap doors which open to bottomless pits. Such folly." He let out a deep chuckle.

Remembering she had believed the same, Bethoc had never felt so stupid. But that feeling soon turned to anger.

She placed one hand on her hip. "It is plain enough, the hall has no hidden pits, yet seven earls came in peace, were plied with ale, then killed. Death is not the customary end to a royal feast."

Oengus stood still as he gazed at her. "M'lady, I am sad to hear of the loss of yer sire and yer betrothed. But Kenneth did not kill them. They died fighting." He sat down on the dirt floor beside the chairs and began working. "Kenneth and Malcolm are good men. Ye will come to find it so, now that ye live with us Scots."

Never would she think of Kenneth or Malcolm as good. But Bethoc had to put her thoughts of those two aside, and clean this rath if she was to sleep here. A sigh of exasperation escaped her lips as she picked up the broom. Bethoc swept to and fro; the rustling sound of the straw brushing the hard packed floor calmed her. She had been through much in the last days, from attempting to murder the King of Dalriada to marrying a Scot.

She heard footfalls coming up the path.

Malcolm's tall frame filled the doorway. "Fixing the chairs? Good man, Oengus."

"Is the Pictish princess actually sweeping?" Malcolm's brows arched in surprise.

Bethoc wanted to hit him with the broom.

A young girl with blondish red hair followed Malcolm into the rath. He gestured to the lass. "This is Riona, the steward's daughter. She will serve ye in...whatsoever ladies need help with."

The fool, Bethoc thought. The tall handsome fool that she had trouble taking her eyes off. It did not matter. She would soon be rid of him. She glanced at the girl at his side. Freckles dotted her rosy cheeks. She was young mayhap four and ten years with a sweet face. "Merry met, Riona."

"M'lady, how can I serve ye?" The girl curtsied.

"Mayhaps ye can dampen a rag and wipe down the cupboard."

Riona rushed to the task.

Malcolm stepped up to Bethoc. "I can hardly believe it. The floor is clean."

Grasping the broom, Bethoc held her arm out to the side and stared at him. She didn't want to say anything. She wanted to take the broomstick and knock that smirk off his face.

"Aye. I've swept, Riona's dusting, Oengus is mending your chairs, what work are you to do on your home?"

"It looks like there is naught for me to do." Malcolm spun around. "Ye three have it well in hand." With a tilt of his chin he smirked. "I shall go and see how I can serve Kenneth."

"I thought ye were to guard me at all times."

"The task is taken care of sweetling." Malcolm flashed a wide, aggravating smile, then nodded at Oengus. "Remember what I said. 'Tis all right to kill her."

"Aye," the burly fellow answered in a serious tone.

"Have a jolly time," Bethoc sarcastically called out to Malcolm.

"Aye and ye as well," Malcolm retorted as he headed out the door.

* * *

Knowing that Kenneth would want some type of report on what the would-be assassin was up to, Malcolm went to the hall.

The king and his brother sat at a table scattered with pieces of vellum, discussing the new kingdom of Alba. A bottle of ink and a writing quill were set off to Kenneth's side, a pitcher of ale and a few tankards at Donald's right.

Kenneth leisurely stretched his long legs out on the bench. "Malcolm, how do ye fair as a wedded man?"

"The pictish princess has not killed me yet."

The king's green eyes grew openly amused. "Not yet?"

"She has not even tried." Malcolm grinned as he plopped down beside Kenneth.

"Well, I am sure she will remedy that this eventide." Donald took a gulp of ale.

"Aye. It should make for an interesting wedding night." Malcolm picked up a cup and pitcher and poured a drink.

"Ye shall love every minute of it." The king flashed a toothy grin.

"'Tis true, Kenneth. I will. Save for the day they now call mac Alpin's treason, 'tis the first time I have not been bored since I returned."

"I am glad. I know 'tis hard for ye." Donald stood and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't know what else to say. "I know ye need to speak to Malcolm, I will see to the men." Donald bid his cousin and brother good day.

Kenneth leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his fisted hand. "I have set a task for ye. I bestow on ye the sacred duty of delivering the Stone of Destiny, from Dalriada to Scone." He raised his arm off the table and curled his fingers into the shape of a rock. "Malcolm, I will be crowned upon that stone."

Malcolm was speechless. The La Fail which Fergus himself brought from Ireland. The very stone Jacob laid his head on. The most precious relic in the whole of the world would be entrusted to him. "Kenneth, I do not know what to say. I will not fail ye."

"This I know. Father Degnan said the stone chose ye as its guardian. It is said otherworld relics are drawn to creatures of the fey."

They stared into each other's eyes. They played together as children and fought together in battle as men. Though he had been forced by Kenneth to leave his other life, Malcolm's first desire, his first dream, was of a united Alba. Now he would forever be part of that dream as the man who bore the La Fail to Scone.

Kenneth picked up his tankard and made a toast, "To Alba."

Malcolm lifted his glass high, "Alba." He poured the golden liquid down his throat. If only his father had lived to see this day. Malcolm took another deep gulp and turned to Kenneth. "'Tis something I have been wanting to ask ye. Did my sire know I survived the drowning through the magic of old? Did he know I dwelt in the sea with my new kind?"

"Aye. Happy he was that ye still lived." Kenneth shrugged. "Albeit in a different form."

"'Tis good." Malcolm's throat tightened. "I miss him."

"Ye have served me well, Malcolm. At great sacrifice to your own freedom. It does not go unnoticed." Kenneth patted Malcolm heartily on the back.

Embarrassed but pleased, he nodded and changed the subject. "My bride is cleaning the rath." Malcolm let out an audible sigh. "It will be strange to no longer sleep in the hall."

"Aye, but I think ye will enjoy her company better than that of snoring soldiers." Kenneth's eyes sparkled with a glint of humor.

"Aye, I do not think I will be sleeping enough this eve to do any snoring."

"Ye had best not, yon vixen will slay ye in your sleep for sure."

"Aye, I mean to keep an eye on her." He would do that. Bethoc's creamy skin was a comely contrast to her long, dark mane which shined like a seal's pelt. Her almond shaped eyes glistened like a hundred tiny shards of emeralds. A man, even a beast, could loose his soul in the depths of her gaze. And those soft, ample lips, a tempting raspberry hue--Malcolm could kiss those lips forever and a day. The woman was sheer beauty. Like the moon at night, her essence was both ethereal and wild. Malcolm could not help but keep an eye on his new wife.

A servant girl bowed. "M'lord King, Cook asked if ye want stag or boar for the feast?"

"Both, Mave." Kenneth flashed Malcolm a toothy grin. "The servants are preparing your wedding feast. It will be the grandest banquet ever held at Dalriada."

"Kenneth, the last thing I wanted was a bride. Yet I am sure it will be a fitting feast."

"Malcolm, I could give that woman to no other man but you. Serve me well by keeping the Pict Princess out of mischief, but take your pleasure of her as well."

Malcolm felt a ripple of excitement at the image those words conjured. "She does appear tempting."

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