Alasdair Penhallow groaned softly.
Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.
Various items of note swam sluggishly up to the surface of his dazed consciousness.
He was sitting (more or less) in the laird’s throne-like chair of beautifully carved wood, in his own Great Hall. Squeezed next to him was a voluptuous black-haired lass, dressed only in her chemise, deeply and peacefully asleep, with her head lolled back and a gentle snore issuing from between cherry-red lips. Late-morning sun illuminated the Hall with a cheery intensity that seemed, in his current pained state, to be more than a little incongruous, and possibly even slightly jeering.
All around the Hall—on the floor, in chairs, even atop the long tables—were men and women, sleeping, stretched out, curled up, flat on their backs, sometimes intertwined. Bottles, dishes and goblets, clothing and hats, candles burned down to their wicks, lutes and pipes and drums, all lay scattered without rhyme or reason. Someone—dear God, hopefully not himself—had knocked over one of the massive suits of armor which now lay sprawled by the fireplace in a very undignified way, with a spangled slipper sticking out of the visor.
Alasdair frowned and with an effort turned his aching eyes to the woman with whom he was sharing the laird’s seat. Who in the hell was she? He had no idea. Uncle Duff had invited a lot of people to the celebration he’d organized in honor of his nephew’s thirty-fifth birthday, and they’d brought a lot of people, and by midnight the Great Hall had been literally packed with guests.
Alasdair smiled faintly as the memories came flooding back. A good time had been had by all. The feasting, the singing, the dancing, and more . . .
So now he was thirty-five. He wondered if he should feel a little different. But why would he? A birthday merely represented, in an arbitrary way, the passage of time. Here he was, in the vigorous prime of his life, healthy as a horse, strong as an ox, rich as a king—enjoying an uninterrupted spate of years in which he did exactly as he pleased, whenever and wherever he liked.
Yes, life was good.
Just then, something cold and wet nudged his bare ankle.
Wondering where his shoes had gone, Alasdair looked down to see his wolfhound Cuilean at his feet. Intelligent dark eyes were looking up at him inquiringly, shaggy ears were pricked: a hint, Alasdair knew, that breakfast was long overdue. He reached down a hand to caress that rough head, and as he did so Cuilean sharply turned it, toward an archway leading off toward the kitchens.
Fervently did Alasdair hope it was a servant, bearing a refreshing tankard of ale (or even a silver pot filled to the brim with blisteringly hot coffee), but no, it was Dame Margery, quite possibly the oldest member of the clan, hunched over her gnarled stick and stumping into the Hall. Trailing behind was her little granddaughter Sheila, who viewed the dissolute scene before her with blasé indifference, her expression, distinguished by eyes which seemed to gaze in two different directions at once, seeming more focused on something immaterial and inward—and for that Alasdair could only be thankful, as uneasily he wondered if a seven-year-old really ought to be in the Great Hall at this particular moment.
As Dame Margery drew near, she noisily banged her stick on the marble floor, causing people nearby to stir, moan, rouse. She passed by Uncle Duff, insensate, draped sideways on a chair and his long beard dangling perpendicularly, and muttered audibly, “Ach, the old wastrel!” before turning her piercing and unblinking stare to Alasdair. Finally she stopped before the dais on which the two great chairs—one for the laird, one (long unoccupied) for his lady—stood. Her silence, Alasdair noticed, had a heavy, expectant, rather ominous sort of quality, and he groaned under his breath. He wasn’t in the mood for drama. Still, he was the laird, and one must be polite, so he cleared his throat and said:
“Good day to you, madam.”
“And to you, laird,” she answered with an awful, punctilious politeness. “May I tender my congratulations to you on your birthday.”
“I thank you.”
“I believe I am correct, laird, that as of yesterday you turned thirty-five?”
“Aye, madam.”
“Not thirty-four, laird?”
“Nay, thirty-five, madam.”
“Not married, are you, laird?”
Alasdair looked narrowly at Dame Margery. Had she gone soft in her aged head? Everyone knew he was unmarried and, in fact, happily so. But courteously he replied: “Nay, madam, I’m not.”
“Well then, laird, perhaps you are not aware of the ancient clan decree which dictates that any chieftain of Castle Tadgh who remains unmarried by his thirty-fifth birthday must immediately invite the eligible highborn maidens of the Eight Clans of Killaly to stay within the castle, and within thirty-five days choose one to be his bride?”