Florie straightened on the cushioned fridstool, one of the few remnants left from the fire, and pressed a hand to her aching back. She shouldn't have remained for so long in one position, especially in her condition. But the work was almost complete, and once the bairn was born she'd likely be too busy for such diversions. Besides, 'twas the best gift she could think of to give Father Conan.
The craftsmen Lord Gilbert had commissioned to rebuild the sanctuary at Mavis's expense had spared no effort to make the otherwise modest church as beautiful as a jeweled crown, with vivid stained-glass windows from Paris, richly painted wood panels from Flanders, and the most stunning glazed enamelware from Majorca for the font and basin.
Now that Princess Mary had been whisked away to France to live with her betrothed, out of the reach of the English army, Scotland might stand a chance of recovering from Hertford's devastating attacks. Lady Mavis could no longer orchestrate his raids, for she'd been stripped of her wealth and exiled to a convent. For the time, at least, the Church at the Crossroads could be rebuilt without fear of vandalism.
The intricate gold cross at the altar Florie had fashioned herself. 'Twas replete with twining vines set with pearl roses and a crown of topaz thorns for the Christ, enameled at the base with the likenesses of the four Evangelists and their symbols—the man, the lion, the ox, and the eagle. Indeed, so cleverly had she crafted the cross that the guildsmen of Selkirk had awarded it the status of masterpiece and welcomed her into the guild as a goldsmith in her own right.
But though Florie was well pleased, she knew such treasures meant nothing to a blind priest. And so she now endeavored to employ her decorative skills to create an embellishment he could appreciate.
Biblical scenes graced the new pillars of the church now, carved in deep relief, scenes of the birth and baptism and resurrection of Christ and figures of all the various saints, with special places of honor for Saint Hubert—the patron saint of hunters; Saint Dunstan—the patron saint of goldsmiths; and Saint Valentine—the patron saint of lovers.
When she ran out of sacred themes, she carved depictions of animals—deer and doves and wolves and lions, roaring and resting and romping in spirals up the posts. And to her gratification, the Father had wept with joy when she guided his fingers gently over the carvings.
But now she worked on the lesser figures at the base of the last pillar, and for this final scene she departed from saints and animals and biblical fare. She squinted as she leaned forward again to put the final touches on the scene. The tall Viking huntsman, his bow over his shoulder, his quiver of arrows upon his back, curved his arms affectionately about his wife's swollen belly. She rested her head back upon his shoulder, gazing lovingly up at his smiling face. At the lovers' feet, forgotten, its pieces scattered, was a hnefatafl board. In the distant background, the lasses of the burgh stopped at their labors to gaze fondly upon the couple, and from between two trees peered mischievous wee Josselin Ancrum.
But the focal point of the scene was the tiny brooch perched over Florie's heart. 'Twas fashioned in the shape of an archer's arrow, an arrow she painstakingly covered now with gold leaf.
"Florie."
She turned toward his voice. Faith, even after all these months, Rane still had the power to make her heart throb when he entered a room. His shirt was open, revealing the golden chain and antlered pendant she'd promised to craft for him. His tawny skin glistened, and though she knew 'twas but perspiration from the spring heat, in her mind's eye he was suddenly a marauding berserker, swimming from his dragon ship onto the English shore, emerging from the sea, naked and golden and dripping. She smiled at him, her eyes dipping languidly, and she thought 'twas a wonder that she could feel such desire for him in her present state.
"I thought I'd find ye here," he said, flashing her a dazzling smile.
"I'm almost finished." Eager now to be done, wondering in the back of her mind how indecent 'twould be to make love to him in their favorite copse of the wood by the light of day, she bent forward again, coaxing the thin sheet of gold onto the wooden arrow.
He walked toward the altar with a frown. "They still haven't scrubbed the bloodstain from the flagstones."
"I told them not to."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I like it. It represents sacrifice. And sanctuary. And it marks the place where I first fell in love with ye."
"Fell in love with me?" he said in mock disbelief, a coy twinkle in his eye. "Ye mean while ye were stabbin' me with your brooch? And jabbin' me with your pointy elbows? And cursin' me for dressin' your wound?"
She grinned and returned to her work. "I do not have pointy elbows."
He chuckled, and as she worked he ambled about her, circling the pillar to inspect the menagerie of beasts and saints and people she'd carved upon them. "These are amazin'."
His praise made her blush with pleasure. She pressed the gold leaf over the arrow tip, trimming it carefully to preserve the remnants of precious gold, and glanced up at Rane. He carried a wrapped parcel. "So what did Lord Gilbert give ye?" She'd almost forgotten. The lord had summoned Rane to the tower house to give him a gift in honor of their firstborn.
He smiled, that secretive, mischievous smile she'd come to both adore and be wary of, and then he held forth the package.
She put away her tools and took the parcel upon her lap, or what was left of her lap. "What is it?" she asked, untying the cord that bound the thing.
But he only grinned, crossing his arms over his chest like a conquering hero.
When she first spied the gleam of gold, she was surprised. Why would the lord give Rane a gift of gold when he was married to a goldsmith? But as she unwrapped the lovers' cup, the breath caught in her chest.
'Twas an exquisite piece. Yet there was something familiar about the work, the intricate designs about the rim, the cabochon rubies around the base, the style of the figures circling the bowl of the cup.
She studied them more closely. On one side was carved a perfect rendering of Rane with a deer slung across his shoulder and Florie cradling an aquamanile of gold in her arm. Lord Gilbert's crest figured subtly into the tower house in the background.
But, to her amazement, on the other side of the cup was a reproduction of her goldsmith shop in Stirling, and standing hand in hand were the figures of her parents, her foster father with his once proud stature, her mother with her shy beauty.
'Twas impossible. Who could know…?
And then she saw the stamp at the bottom. Her foster father's mark.
Her heart stuttered. "How came ye…"
She lifted her eyes, and suddenly 'twas as if the figure on the cup had come to life. There he was, walking toward her through the nave, with Wat shuffling behind him. His beard was trimmed, his eyes clear, his jaw held rigid to keep his chin from trembling with emotion.
"Father?"
She hadn't seen him sober since her mother died, hadn't heard from him since she'd left long months ago for Selkirk. Yet here he was, strong and hale and as handsome as she remembered from her childhood. And curse her frail condition, seeing him thus brought instant tears to her eyes.
Rane softly explained, "Lord Gilbert said to tell ye that he owed your foster father a debt, that bringin' him to Selkirk and carin' for him was the least he could do to repay him for guardin' his dearest possession for so long."
Florie saw her foster father's eyes were filled too as he left Wat and came forward to take her hand, helping her up from the fridstool. Too moved for words, he tucked her arm beneath his own and then, with a sniffle, escorted her toward the altar.
"I hear this altar cross is somethin' to behold," he said. "A masterpiece, I'm told."
A sob caught in her throat, and she could hardly speak. "'Tis not as expert as…as my father's work."
"Nae, your talents were always far superior," he told, "and your eye far more ingenious." He indicated the detailing at the feet of the Christ. "Ah! See how ye've used tiny rubies here to represent the blood o' Christ. Brilliant."
He continued in his praises, but Florie couldn't absorb them all. Her heart was too full of love and hope and joy. As he rambled on, his arm was for once steady and supportive beneath hers.
Even Wat ventured forward to admire her work, mumbling in contrition, "I'm sorry I couldn't save your goods, m'lady."
Her foster father explained. "Wat limped home after thieves ransacked the cart." He clapped Wat on the shoulder. "He was lucky to escape with his life."
Florie nodded. "That's all right, Wat. 'Twas only gold." The bairn stirred within her, and she absently rubbed her belly. "I've somethin' much more valuable now."
The poor child, she thought, smiling—'twas already restless. 'Twas likely a boy, then, who'd no doubt share the Viking curse of his father.
She turned to glance at her irresistible husband. He gave her an endearing crooked grin and a seductive wink. Her breath quickened and her heart melted as she let her eyes roam over the magnificent Scots archer who'd hunted and tamed her, the gentle Norseman who'd claimed her body and touched her soul, a man more precious than all the gold in the world.
THE END
