by Carmen Caine
“Bridget,” began the priest, “allow me to introduce Nathair, Laird of the MacKinnon.”
As warm grey eyes turned to greet Nathair, Ronan relaxed a little. At least she had a smile for his father.
“I am pleased to meet you and to be of service,” she said.
“Thank you, Bridget was it?” Nathair said coldly. His father’s lips settled into a grim line as he crossed his arms and stared at Shoney with disdain. Ronan shot Aidan a puzzled look, but he seemed just as surprised by Nathair’s contemptuous attitude.
“Father Colin, please leave us,” the Mackinnon instructed.
***
Nathair bolted the door after the priest all the while sneering at Shoney. She sucked in a sharp breath as his scorn washed over her. Her anger with Ronan was forgotten, replaced by sudden trepidation. Nathair’s eyes were every bit as amber as Ronan’s, but they narrowed into hateful slits as he slowly moved toward her. Searching the room for amber eyes filled with love, she met Ronan’s gaze and found the comfort she sought. With tilted chin and straight back, she faced Nathair again but this time with a warrior’s courage.
He sneered at her, drawing his sword. Without hesitation, she lunged for the iron poker by the fire place, but as she turned, poker raised at the ready, she realized she was not the one under attack. Instead, Nathair rushed at Ronan. She screamed. Ronan stood unflinching. He did not raise his sword or back away as Nathair’s blade began its swift descent toward his skull.
“No,” she cried and turned away, expecting to hear the gruesome sound of blade cutting flesh and bone, but instead the clang of metal reverberated throughout the room. It was Aidan’s blade that intervened. The laird’s eyes bulged and sweat dripped down his red face as he strained to overcome the warrior protecting his son.
“A witch,” Nathair spat. “You bring a witch to your mother’s deathbed.”
Ronan met her gaze. He looked as surprised as she felt. “How did you know?” he said.
Nathair spun around, keeping his sword aloft. “I know who you are,” he seethed. “You are the Witch of Dervaig like your demon whore mother before you.”
She raised her weapon. The sheer size of her opponent stole her breath. His broad shoulders were only slightly smaller than Ronan’s, and he stood only a hand shorter. Despite her fear, she did not flinch as he advanced. Her only hope rested in her ability to deflect the might of his first assault. She was smaller, quicker, and her weapon lighter. If she could thrust before he was ready to strike again, then she might survive. Her stance was firm, and her arms were steady, but her skills were not to be tested against the chieftain of the MacKinnon. Ronan moved behind his father and, taking hold of the MacKinnon’s arm, he wrenched the sword from his hand. Relief was hers for only a moment as Nathair continued his slow perusal.
The raw aggression on his face sent chills down her spine, causing her to forget she was now the only one still in possession of a weapon. She staggered back against the wall. No sooner did she feel the cold stone of the castle behind her then Nathair’s image disappeared. Ronan and Aidan lunged in front of her, shielding her from harm. Shoulder to shoulder, they formed an impenetrable blockade. Their great muscled frames made her feel as slight and insignificant as a wisp of smoke. Breathless, she leaned her forehead against Ronan’s back. She had expected to face prejudice, but nothing could have prepared her for the expression of naked loathing in Nathair’s eyes.
“Back down, father,” Ronan growled.
“Your father,” Nathair called out to her, ignoring Ronan’s warning, “Alec MacKinnon, was struck on the battlefield at my side. Before he died, he confessed his vile affair with your mother and warned they begot a child of Satan.”
“Enough, Father,” Ronan shouted, but Shoney interrupted him.
“No,” she said from behind their backs. “I would hear what he has to say, Ronan.” Her mother never spoke of her father, and until that moment, Shoney never knew his name.
“She appears to be very familiar with you, boy,” Nathair sneered. “So this is why our fields have gone unplowed. You have been plowing a witch instead.”
Ronan’s shoulders tensed, and the vein at his neck throbbed, but he did as she asked and refrained from speaking.
“It seems as though my son has fallen victim to your sorcery. Your beauty is indeed unmatched—like your mother’s.” His voice sounded distant now as if he had moved across the room. “Alec spoke of her unrivalled beauty. I had to see for myself the witch’s spell that could mask the hideous face of the Witch of Dervaig. So I hid out near your window, and at nightfall, after she limped back into her hut, I peered inside. She swept the cloak from her shoulders, and there she stood. Ropes of golden hair danced like Satan’s fire at her hips, and eyes that gleamed like steel swords met my own.”
Shoney jumped as a low wail filled the room, interrupting the laird. Peeking behind Ronan’s arm she noticed Anwen for the first time lying in a large bed the likes of which Shoney had never seen. Shoney took in Anwen’s ashen skin and her raspy breathing and knew she had to act fast, or they would lose her.
“Ronan, I must tend to your mother before it is too late,” she whispered.
He took hold of her hand and held it tightly. She squeezed his to offer her encouragement as his eyes flitted to his mother and then to his father.
“Father, despite what you might think of Bridget, she is a very skilled healer.”
Nathair shook his head. “No. If I am right, you are an instrument of Satan. If I am wrong, you still have a fey look about you, like one of the fair folk. Your hands will not touch my wife.”
“MacKinnon,” Aidan interrupted, “with every due respect, we are losing her. We have exhausted all of our knowledge. She is your last hope. Let the girl try.”
Nathair stared at his wife as she twisted and cried out with pain. His shoulders stooped, and his eyes glazed over with fatigue as the fight left him. It was clear to Shoney he had given up all hope.
“The Lord, Jesus Christ, has forsaken this home. Let the heathen try,” Nathair said as he shuffled toward the
door. Before he left, he turned back and said, “We are damned—all of us.”
Then he was gone.
Shoney did not hesitate one moment after the laird’s departure. “Ronan fetch the women in your mother’s attendance. Aidan put more wood on the fire.” Both men were swift to carry out her bidding. She laid her satchel on the table next to Anwen’s bed and began unpacking the various herbs and potions. She had meadowsweet and chamomile for pain, a mixture of ivy and nettle juice to cure infection, and mugwort oil and quickgrass to heal womanly diseases.
Three women were soon standing before Shoney awaiting her instruction. Ronan introduced her as Bridget and once again the feelings of anger and betrayal returned, but she shrugged them off. She could not allow herself to be distracted. A woman’s life depended on her.
The oldest woman was called Morna, and despite her years, she was beautiful with salted black curls and bright blue eyes, leaving no doubt in Shoney’s mind that she was Aidan’s mother. There was also Flora who was short and slight of build, smaller even than Shoney. Flora’s brow furrowed with worry as she stood wringing her hands. Then there was Una who was close to Shoney in age. She was a striking girl with black curls and wide black eyes, and when she turned to the side, Shoney could tell she was expecting.
“Ladies, let us get to work. Morna, strip off her damp clothing and change her blankets. ‘Tis important she stays warm and dry.”
Shoney passed Una a mug crammed with crushed meadowsweet. “Fill this with boiling water, and allow it to steep for several minutes; then see that she drinks it down. It will ease her pain.”
“Morna, I need to know if Anwen has felt discomfort while relieving herself.”
“It has caused her much pain. In fact, it was her first complaint when she told me she was feeling unwell. We gave her mugwort tea to cleanse her womanly areas, but it has not seemed to have any effect.”
“What must we do, Bridget?”
She blinked for a moment in confusion. She had forgotten that she was Bridget and not Shoney. She glared at Ronan. He gave her the name she chose as her alias when they first met. Only then she had been Bridget MacLean.
“Bridget?” she said with annoyance.
He smiled at her and shrugged. “It suits you, lass.”
Her scowl deepened as she gestured toward the door. “Leave us now,” she said to Aidan, “and take your friend.” She turned her back on the men as she picked up her vile of mugwort oil, but a gentle touch on her shoulder drew her attention. She twisted her head to find Ronan standing behind her.
“Thank you for coming, Shoney,” he whispered.
“Ronan,” she said impatiently, “I will do everything in my power to save her. Now go, please. We will call you if we have need.”
“The meadowsweet tea is brewing, Bridget.”
Shoney smiled at Una. “Good. Now wait just a few minutes before you administer it. Flora, I need you to fetch me a large head of cabbage and be swift.”
Shoney had a hunch that the tiny lady could move quickly, and she did not disappoint. She darted from the room with yellow hair flowing behind her, reminding Shoney of the little Yellowhammer birds that whizzed by her window in the morning.
“Morna, mugwort oil is much stronger than the tea and will penetrate her whole body, which just might do the trick, but first her pain needs to be eased. How is the tea, Una?” Shoney asked.
“’Tis ready,” she replied.
Una knelt beside Anwen’s pallet and tried to lift her head, but Anwen was writhing and shaking, making it impossible for Una to feed her the drink.
“Right,” Morna said. “Step aside for a moment, Una. Bridget and I will hold her down.”
Shoney helped Morna steady Anwen’s head and each held down a thrashing arm as Una gently poured the tea down her throat. Before long, Anwen was asleep.
“She burns so hot,” Morna whispered as she stroked Anwen’s face.
“Give her the oil. We must stop the infection,” Shoney said.
Just then the door flew open and flora stood gasping and waving a head of cabbage. “I found one,” she cried and rushed to Anwen’s side.
Shoney took hold of the cabbage and told the women to turn Anwen on her stomach. Then she pulled off several of the biggest leaves and arranged them over her lower back. Next she positioned a long piece of dressing over the leaves and instructed the women to help her turn Anwen back over. After laying several more cabbage leaves across Anwen’s stomach, she firmly tied the dressing in place so that the leaves pressed into her skin.
“The cabbage will draw out the illness,” Shoney said.
She worked through the night with Morna, Una, and Flora at her side. The women never faltered or complained of fatigue. They listened carefully to her instructions and performed each tasked as asked. For so long she had been without the companionship of women, and now she was exchanging knowledge and sharing in the struggle to revive a woman who carried the spirit and hope of the clan.
She looked at the pale, peaceful face. She had lessened Anwen’s pain, for she slept now without tremors or tears, but her fever was still very high. She worried that even if the mugwort oil rid Anwen of the infection, she had burned too hot for too long. If she did recover in body, her mind still may be lost.
Having exhausted all medicinal remedies, Shoney turned her mind to the great women of her descent. She prayed for them to come sit by Anwen’s side and expel the darkness possessing her body.
“Ladies, come sit with me and join hands.” None questioned Shoney. They sat together on the bed, forming a circle around Anwen.
“You are her kinfolk, her sisters in life. She needs to know you are here. She needs to know she is not alone in the dark.”
“Would you have us pray?” Morna asked.
“I would have you sing, Morna. She will hear your song.”
It was Una who crooned the first fragile note, and one by one the other women joined in until their voices combined into one ethereal sound.
Hail to thee, thou new moon,
Guiding jewel of gentleness.
I am bending to thee my knee,
I am offering thee my love.
I am bending to thee my knee,
I am giving thee my hand,
I am lifting to thee mine eye,
O new moon of the seasons.
Thou queen-maiden of guidance,
Thou queen-maiden of good fortune,
Thou queen-maiden my beloved,
Thou new moon of the seasons. †
Shoney closed her eyes as the song washed over her. It was as fragile and airy as moonlight. She decided then and there that she was not so different from the Gaelic women who surrounded her. They too were born of the land and the sky.
Shoney knelt by Anwen’s side as the haunting music continued. She pressed her lips to her forehead. It still burned with heat. Shoney gently stroked her cheek and studied her peaceful face. At first glance, Ronan seemed to resemble only his father with the same golden brown hair and bright amber eyes. But she could see now the shape and set of his eyes were from his mother.
For the first time in many hours Shoney thought of Ronan. She pictured him pacing the hallway or racing across the moors on his horse as he tried to outrun his grief. He put his faith in her abilities and his beloved mother’s life in her hands. But as she looked at Anwen lying there, she could not help but see her own mother’s face during her final hours. She was just as frail as Brethia had been and her breathing was as shallow.
“Mother of all,” Shoney whispered, “let her live.”
Chapter 18
“Unlock this door,” Nathair shouted. “God’s blood, I’ve been a fool.” He pounded again on the door.
“I am coming.” Shoney unbolted the door and stepped out of the way as it slammed open. Nathair’s eyes went first to the bed, which was empty.
“What have you done with her?” Nathair grabbed Shoney. She winced as his fingers bit into her arms. “Where is my wife, witch?” He shouted.
“Nathair,” called a quiet voice by the window, “we owe that young woman my life. So kindly unhand her.” Nathair released Shoney and turned to stare at Anwen who was sitting up in a chair by the large stone hearth.
“Are you real,” he whispered.
“I am no ghost, my love,” she smiled.
Nathair rushed to her seat and knelt, placing his head in her lap. “I thought I had lost you. I was mad with grief.”
He kissed her hands. Then he stood and cradled her in his arms. Despite Nathair’s cruelty, Shoney smiled as she watched their reunion. It was clear the chieftain and his lady were very much in love. He carried her over to the bed and laid her down.
“Rest more, my love. I must go find Ronan and tell him of your recovery. He suffers.” Nathair kissed her lips. Then he started toward the door.
“Nathair,” Anwen called.
He stopped and turned, “Yes, my love?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Anwen nodded her head in Shoney’s direction.
“You have said naught to Bridget.”
Nathair expelled a long breath. Then he turned and looked at Shoney. They stared at each for a long moment before he said a hurried thank you and departed.
Shoney was suddenly very nervous. If Nathair had gone to find Ronan, then at any moment he would walk through the door, but she was in no condition to face him. She was exhausted and vulnerable. She did not have the strength to resist him. He would stand in the doorframe, their eyes would meet, and she would say goodbye to Shoney forever and surrender herself to his arms as Bridget. She had to leave that instant.
“I am so tired, Morna.
I must go and rest,” Shoney said weakly.
“Of course you are, my dear.” Morna put her arm around Shoney’s waist and addressed the other women. “We should all take our leave and rest. Bridget, you will stay with me until a hut is readied for you.”
“You should hurry if you want to escape the wave of visitors sailing this way.” Anwen smiled and winked at Shoney. She blushed in response, feeling certain Anwen somehow knew exactly why she was fleeing.
“Let their visit be brief. ‘Tis essential you rest,” Shoney advised. Then she kissed Anwen’s forehead and left with the other women.
They hurried together down the circular stone stairwell leading to the hall. Upon hearing some commotion outside the main entrance, Morna directed them all to a small side door. “Come, ladies. They will want to celebrate, and right now the only dancing I want to be doing is in my dreams.”
“There will be a dance tonight to be sure,” Una smiled, “and you, my dear Bridget, will need all the rest you can get.”
“I do not understand,” Shoney said.
“Tonight,” Morna said, smiling, “the entire clan will pay homage to you.”
“Look at her face, Morna. Why ‘tis as green as a cut of fresh peat. Whatever is the matter Bridget?”
Shoney did not know who spoke. Her head was spinning, a dance in her honor. She had watched the clan revelries from a distance and always wished she could join, but in her daydreams she was always herself—Shoney. Tonight she was supposed to be Bridget MacLeod from the Isle of Skye, late of Iona when she had never before left Mull. Surely, the clan would see through their deception.
“Enough chatter, ladies. Let us get her home. She looks as if she might faint,” Morna put her arm around Shoney’s waist and guided her through the courtyard, passed the gate, and into the village.
News had spread of Anwen’s recovery. People gave warm greetings and cheers as they passed. Morna, Una, and Flora gracefully returned every good wish, but they never slowed their pace or offered introductions. Shoney felt like she was in Aidan’s sail boat again, only this time the village was the sea and the ladies were the waves propelling her forward.
