But now… now it was all ruined. Murdo watched the multitude assembling and his heart sank; he could not see how so many people could be fed, let alone feasted. There were not enough cakes and ale in all Orkneyjar to fill them. His stomach rumbled and he abandoned any hope of an adequate meal.
He was still occupied with this grim thought when he heard someone hail his father, and glumly looked around to see who might be joining them at the table. He saw a man he knew-Lord Brusi Maddardson-striding purposefully towards them across the green with his family straggling along in his wake.
Like Lord Ranulf, the Maddardson clan farmed a large estate on the island of Hrolfsey and consequently attended the same councils as Murdo's father. What is more, Murdo's mother and Lady Ragnhild were childhood companions, and had maintained a warm friendship over many years. The lord of Hrolfsey had three sons, the youngest of which was Torf's age, and one daughter, Ragna, who was only a year or two older than Murdo.
Owing to his age, Murdo had never been of interest to the brothers Maddardson, who always preferred the company of Torf and Skuli to the point of excluding Murdo entirely-not that Murdo minded overmuch, for he found the older boys frivolous and loud, interested only in fighting, boasting, and besting one another.
Ah, but Lord Brusi's daughter was as different from her brothers as moonbeams from muck. She was, in Murdo's opinion, the sole saving grace of the entire Maddardson tribe. And this day, with its relentless indignities and insults, he had need of the sweet solace he always felt in her presence. Indeed, but one glance at the golden-haired Ragna approaching across the greensward, and the low dark clouds of despair parted and the sun shone full on Murdo again.
Tall and willowy, and with a fair and shapely form, the smooth-skinned Ragna embodied Murdo's idea of female charm. She possessed a kindly disposition, but was neither overly timid, nor too fastidiously female for Murdo's liking. Intelligent, and with a ready tongue to match, she held her own in any company, and Murdo respected that. To Murdo, her forthright demeanour seemed more boyish than maidenly, and it always struck him anew whenever they met; on those rare occasions, he wondered if it resulted from the fact that she was raised in a family of men, or whether her nature was in some way ordained by her childhood deformity.
The way Murdo heard it, she had been but a toddling babe when Lord Brusi's swineherd, upon hearing a squealing commotion, discovered her lifeless body in a field the pigs were gleaning. Upon driving off a recently-farrowed sow, he scooped up the child and, thinking only to wash away the mud and blood from the little mauled corpse, plunged her into the water trough. The cold shock revived her, whereupon the astonished swineherd ran with the screaming babe all the way back to the house where her wounds were swiftly tended. The damage was done, however; her badly-mangled foot had never straightened, resulting in a stutter-step limp. The horrid gash to her mouth had healed in time, and was not usually noticed until she smiled: the hair-thin scar lifted the corner of her lip slightly, making her appear always somewhat sly and subtly mocking.
None of this mattered to Murdo; he had never considered these flaws to mar her beauty. To him, she was good and kind and smart, and far, far better than her brothers, or his own. Those few and infrequent times when they were together, he always came away with a craving for more – as if a feast had been spread before him and he had received but a single taste.
He looked at her now, dressed in a gown of pale green, with a yellow mantle, and he thought she had never looked so womanly. His heart quickened. He drank in the sight of her, and felt a quiver of joy leap up within him; and the ruin of the day receded.
Then he remembered he was not alone. Murdo's gaze shifted quickly to where Torf, Skuli, and Paul stood, as yet unaware that they were about to be joined by the Maddardson tribe. Good, he thought, and breathed easier; they had not seen her.
Then Torf looked up, saw the approaching clan, and nudged Skuli; Paul turned his gaze to where the others were looking, and Murdo watched beastly grins appear on all three faces. Skuli made a crude gesture with his thumb and fingers, and then all three sniggered obscenely. Murdo, embarrassed beyond words, wished the ground would open and swallow them whole.
For her part, Ragna gazed steadily and placidly ahead, her clear hazel eyes untroubled beneath the delicate arches of her fine brows, her lips neither smiling nor frowning, her elegant features impassive to all that occurred around her. Indeed, it seemed to Murdo that though their feet touched the common turf, Ragna walked in flowered fields far beyond the cathedral's cloistered walls. Obviously, the dull proceedings around her were unworthy of her regard. And why not? Ragna was finer than any mere princess, after all.
Lord Brusi and Lady Ragnhild greeted his parents, and the Lord of Hrolfsey presented his sons to the Lord and Lady of Dyrness. Murdo could not help noticing that the men, lord and sons alike, clutched white cloth crosses. Torf and the others noticed, too, and joined their friends in noisy exultation of their high honour while both lords beamed proudly over their respective broods and pronounced upon the certain success of the pilgrimage. The ladies, meanwhile, exchanged more solemn words; Niamh led Ragnhild aside and the two stood head-to-head, clutching one another's hands and talking earnestly.
Murdo, unable to hear what they said, turned and found himself unexpectedly alone with Ragna. The shock made his poor empty stomach squirm and his hands grew moist.
'Greetings, Master Murdo,' she said, and, oh! her voice was like burned honey, all liquid sweetness and smoke.
Even if she were not a very vision in Murdo's eyes, he would still have found her ravishing for the sound of her voice alone. She had only to speak a single word and the rich, low, luscious tone sparked fire in his deepest heart. If to other ears Ragna's speech seemed a little too hoarse, perhaps, and lacking the natural mellifluence of a well-born maiden, Murdo considered that where other girls twittered, Ragna purred.
'It is a pleasant day, is it not?' Ragna inquired innocently. She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes and Murdo felt the blood rush to his face. His throat tightened, and he could not breathe.
Murdo opened his mouth to reply… only to discover he had misplaced the power of speech and was completely mute.
'I believe we are to observe the feast together,' she continued, unaware of his affliction. 'Or, so it would appear.'
'Very pleasant, indeed, Mistress Ragna.' The response surprised Murdo, who did not recognize the utterance as his own.
She regarded him demurely, and seemed to be expecting him to say something more. 'I have always liked Saint John,' he blurted, and instantly wished he had never been born.
'I like him, too,' Ragna laughed, and the sound drew the sting from his stupidity.
'The feast, I mean,' Murdo hastily corrected. 'It is my favourite feast-day-apart from the Christ Mass, I mean.' Fool! he shrieked inwardly. I mean-I mean… Is that all you can say? Idiot!
'Oh, indeed,' agreed Ragna happily, 'the Feast of Christ is by far the best. But I like Eastertide, too.'
There followed an awkward silence as Murdo struggled desperately to think of something else to say. Ragna rescued him. 'I see you do not carry a cross.'