And sure of wounding the foe, The angels sound the trumpets alarm. —From “This Little Babe” “The way the carolers tell it, ye’d think the Christ Child was invading the stable. Alone in a world that didna want Him overmuch . . . mayhap He was at that.” —An observation from Nab, fool to the Earl of Glengarry Chapter Twenty-Seven Katherine rolled over in her sleep, conscious only that warmth had fled from her bed. Her hand groped for Will and found only an indented pillow. When she opened her eyes, she saw him standing by one of the arrow slits that served as her chamber’s windows. His dark form was kissed by starlight and faint flickers from the banked fire. The small hairs on his arms and legs were edged with alternating silver or gold. Beautifully formed, he was as still as a statue as he peered through the slit into the night. “Will, come back to bed.” He turned at the sound of her voice. “I canna sleep and didna wish to wake ye with my restlessness.” But he came to her in any case, sliding under the coverlet, bringing the much needed heat of his bare skin back to the bed.
