of her arms and stepped back. “Once more.”
Drawing back with a fluid motion, Bethoc launched the bow. It sailed through the air and flawlessly impaled the scarlet mark.
“Good. Yet you need be perfect to shoot men, Princess. They shoot back.” As Malcolm spoke, his breath seared the shallow of her neck. “One mistake can get you killed.”
Bethoc flinched from both his nearness and his bluntness. She knew warriors placed themselves in danger every day, but she’d never thought of the perils in such forthright terms. This Scot knew much. Mayhaps he could teach her some things.
Setting an arrow, Bethoc eased back the bow and hit the mark again. Five more times, she shot a bull's eye on each try. “I have never heard tell of any bowman that fired so well,” Bethoc boasted.
“When a marksman fires that well, there are very few people left alive to tell the tale.”
“Oh,” Bethoc gulped. “I have never killed anyone. I am not a true warrior.”
“I don't plan to send you into battle, but my life may depend on your skills,” Malcolm said in serious tone.
“My skills? Why would your life depend on me?”
“You will safeguard my back. You are my wife, are you not?”
“I am not fighting for you or Kenneth.” Malcolm could never force her to be treacherous to her people, no matter how confused she felt. He was her enemy. Bethoc came to kill his king. Now she felt Kenneth was the only man who could be king of Caledonia. Only because he had slain everyone else. The earls, her father and betrothed included, had given him cause. Still, she could never aid Kenneth in his quest to hold the Pictish throne.
“I do not care what you say. I shall not fight for Kenneth mac Alpin. The man is a treacherous craven.”
“I would never ask you to fight for Kenneth.” Malcolm's tone reflected that the notion was pure nonsense. “But you will fight for God, will you not?”
“What mean you?”
“Come, I want to show you something.”
Chapter Seven
Quivering with curiosity, Bethoc took off at a springy pace behind Malcolm until he stopped at a small, gray stucco building, which stood alongside the chapel. Two guards stationed at the entrance let him pass.
As Bethoc followed him inside, a tingling feeling, from her head to her bare toes, told her a source of power dwelled within.
Malcolm walked over to a throne in which a smooth yellow rock lay in the place usually reserved for a plump cushion. To Bethoc it felt as if rays of energy beamed out of the strange stone and filled the dimly lit room with magic.
“It is the Lia Fail.” Malcolm's voice reverberated with a tone of awe.
“The Stone of Destiny,” Bethoc whispered reverently. A hot shiver spread through her entire body. She had heard tell of its power, its history. “Be it true? Is it Jacob's pillow?”
“Yes, in truth,” Malcolm inhaled deeply, “Long ago this stone came to lie in a far away land called Bethel.”
Bethoc gazed intently into Malcolm's dark blue eyes as she listened.
“A man named Jacob, disguised as his older brother, tricked his blind father into giving him the elder son's inheritance. In fleeing his older brother's wrath, Jacob wandered into the clearing where this stone lay. Jacob gathered a pile of stones including this one.” Malcolm pointed to the yellow rock. “Then he laid the stones down as a pillow for his head. As he slept, he dreamed of a stairway to heaven.” Malcolm lifted his hands upwards. “The God of all creation called down to Jacob, from the top of the ladder, decreeing his descendents would be as plentiful as dust spread to the four corners of the earth.” Malcolm spread out his arms.
“When Jacob awoke, he deemed he had lain on the gateway to Heaven. Jacob poured oil on the smaller stones and set them upright as a pillar to mark the holy place. Then he took the large stone with him as a symbol of God's blessing.”
Bethoc's mouth rounded with
Drawing back with a fluid motion, Bethoc launched the bow. It sailed through the air and flawlessly impaled the scarlet mark.
“Good. Yet you need be perfect to shoot men, Princess. They shoot back.” As Malcolm spoke, his breath seared the shallow of her neck. “One mistake can get you killed.”
Bethoc flinched from both his nearness and his bluntness. She knew warriors placed themselves in danger every day, but she’d never thought of the perils in such forthright terms. This Scot knew much. Mayhaps he could teach her some things.
Setting an arrow, Bethoc eased back the bow and hit the mark again. Five more times, she shot a bull's eye on each try. “I have never heard tell of any bowman that fired so well,” Bethoc boasted.
“When a marksman fires that well, there are very few people left alive to tell the tale.”
“Oh,” Bethoc gulped. “I have never killed anyone. I am not a true warrior.”
“I don't plan to send you into battle, but my life may depend on your skills,” Malcolm said in serious tone.
“My skills? Why would your life depend on me?”
“You will safeguard my back. You are my wife, are you not?”
“I am not fighting for you or Kenneth.” Malcolm could never force her to be treacherous to her people, no matter how confused she felt. He was her enemy. Bethoc came to kill his king. Now she felt Kenneth was the only man who could be king of Caledonia. Only because he had slain everyone else. The earls, her father and betrothed included, had given him cause. Still, she could never aid Kenneth in his quest to hold the Pictish throne.
“I do not care what you say. I shall not fight for Kenneth mac Alpin. The man is a treacherous craven.”
“I would never ask you to fight for Kenneth.” Malcolm's tone reflected that the notion was pure nonsense. “But you will fight for God, will you not?”
“What mean you?”
“Come, I want to show you something.”
Chapter Seven
Quivering with curiosity, Bethoc took off at a springy pace behind Malcolm until he stopped at a small, gray stucco building, which stood alongside the chapel. Two guards stationed at the entrance let him pass.
As Bethoc followed him inside, a tingling feeling, from her head to her bare toes, told her a source of power dwelled within.
Malcolm walked over to a throne in which a smooth yellow rock lay in the place usually reserved for a plump cushion. To Bethoc it felt as if rays of energy beamed out of the strange stone and filled the dimly lit room with magic.
“It is the Lia Fail.” Malcolm's voice reverberated with a tone of awe.
“The Stone of Destiny,” Bethoc whispered reverently. A hot shiver spread through her entire body. She had heard tell of its power, its history. “Be it true? Is it Jacob's pillow?”
“Yes, in truth,” Malcolm inhaled deeply, “Long ago this stone came to lie in a far away land called Bethel.”
Bethoc gazed intently into Malcolm's dark blue eyes as she listened.
“A man named Jacob, disguised as his older brother, tricked his blind father into giving him the elder son's inheritance. In fleeing his older brother's wrath, Jacob wandered into the clearing where this stone lay. Jacob gathered a pile of stones including this one.” Malcolm pointed to the yellow rock. “Then he laid the stones down as a pillow for his head. As he slept, he dreamed of a stairway to heaven.” Malcolm lifted his hands upwards. “The God of all creation called down to Jacob, from the top of the ladder, decreeing his descendents would be as plentiful as dust spread to the four corners of the earth.” Malcolm spread out his arms.
“When Jacob awoke, he deemed he had lain on the gateway to Heaven. Jacob poured oil on the smaller stones and set them upright as a pillar to mark the holy place. Then he took the large stone with him as a symbol of God's blessing.”
Bethoc's mouth rounded with
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