Signing lessons continued, as did her own lessons in Gaelic. Whenever a few spare hours presented themselves, Alethia taught Hunter to use his bow while honing her own skill. Malcolm had given Hunter and Tieren wooden swords. The boys could often be found in the lists imitating the adults or engaged in endless mock battles with each other.
And, of course, there were riding lessons. Sometimes she, Malcolm and Elaine rode together. Other times, Lydia, Liam or Robley came along. Hunter often joined them, and Alethia passed on what she learned, even letting him take the reins for short periods of time.
Today, she and Malcolm would ride alone, and he’d promised to show her his favorite boyhood haunt. Thinking about it sent a thrill of anticipation through her. Drawing her cloak closer against the chill, she waited on the steps in front of the keep and looked forward to the exhilaration a good canter through the hills and glens would bring. Traveling through the wilderness surrounding the lake reminded her of hours spent in the bush with her relatives, gathering maple syrup in the early spring, checking their trap lines, hunting and exploring with her cousins.
“Are you ready, lass? The ferry awaits,” Malcolm said behind her.
She jumped at the sound of his voice behind her. “You do that on purpose.”
“Do what?”
His expression of feigned innocence made her laugh. “Sneak up on me like that. I’ve been watching for your return from the lists.”
“I came in through the kitchen.” He held up a burlap sack. “In case we get hungry during our ride. Come, the day is short, and we’ve leagues to explore.”
The stable master had their horses saddled and waiting by the ferry landing on the mainland. Malcolm helped her to mount, then swung up into his saddle in a single fluid motion that never failed to take her breath. “How do you do that? Can you teach me?”
“To become a knight a man must be able to mount his steed in a single motion. The feat takes years to master and requires a great deal of strength. If your mare were moving, you might be able to swing up. I dinna think it could be accomplished otherwise. Have you decided what to call her?” He reached over to pat the mare’s neck as they rode out of the village.
“I’ve narrowed it down to Onizhishiikwe or Wiishkobiikwe. In Anishinaabe, that’s Pretty Lady or Sweet Lady.”
“Ah, Lady it shall be.” He gave her a wry smile. “Am I correct in surmising the Ikwe part of the name is lady?”
“Loosely translated. There isn’t really a word for ‘lady’ in my language. Ikwe means woman, and can be used for lady.”
“How is your name said in your language, True?”
“In my culture a person has more than one name. We have a common name known to all, and then another which is more spiritual in nature, having to do with our character, who we are. Those names are given to us by our holy men and are not shared with everyone. Mine is Madweweshigewiin, ‘She Makes Music.’” His gaze met and held hers with such intensity, her heart took flight.
“’Tis fitting, and it suits you,” he said, his voice husky. “Are you up for a good run? Remember to grip with your knees, and hold on to Ikwe’s mane should you feel the need.”
They allowed the horses to stretch out, galloping to the edge of a forest bordered on either side by hills. Malcolm slowed his mount, coming to a stop at the beginning of a trail. He dismounted and helped her down. “We’ll continue on foot. We are nearly there, and the way is narrow and sometimes steep and overgrown.”
The path led them under a canopy of foliage at the peak of autumn glory. The red berries on the rowans stood out against the pale green-gold of their leaves. The deep russet of the oaks contrasted nicely with the pines, hemlocks and spruce. The trail wound a crooked path through moss-covered stone outcroppings, leading down into a grove of cedars growing on the banks of a small stream. Alethia took a deep breath, relishing the tang of the evergreens mixed with the loamy smell of the woods.
Malcolm tied his gelding’s reins over a low-hanging branch and secured her mare nearby. Taking her hand in his, he led her on a narrow path between two ancient cedars into a clearing. He did not speak, and once she entered the clearing, she understood why.
A spring bubbled up to trickle over stone steps forming a low fountain. Ancient cedars stood like sentinels in each of the cardinal directions around the clearing. Oak and rowans, like foot soldiers, took up their positions of protection behind the evergreens.
A deep stillness and peace permeated the place. Sunlight and shadow played tug-of-war at the edges of the circle, casting patches of gold and hues of the deepest green and indigo. She strained to catch the echoes of timeless magic and spells cast by mystics long-gone from this world. Soft, inviting moss covered the gently rising slopes surrounding the spring, beckoning her to take a moment’s rest against the pillowy green velvet.