Season of the Witch

by Jaid Black

  Niall fell silent. He shrugged dismissively.

  Cainnech sighed. “We’ve been battlin’ the bluidy Vikings since we were old enough tae hold swords.” He lowered his voice, hoping he sounded a bit less gruff. “No’ once have we heard tell of any Viking sorceress. Think ye we would no’ have crossed paths with one afore did such a demon exist?”

  Niall frowned, but relented on a nod. “Mayhap, aye.”

  “There is no ‘mayhap’ aboot it. Believe in what ye see and dinna trust the gossip of fools.”

  “Ye believe in God, yet ye canna see Him.”

  Cainnech’s gray eyes narrowed. His brother knew better than to bring up religion and the church. “Such is debatable,” he bit out, “and well ye ken it.”

  Niall’s gray eyes, so much like Cainnech’s, widened. “Ye stopped believin’ in the priests and the church for a verra good reason,” he reminded him, scowling, “but ye dinna stop believin’ in God.”

  Cainnech’s jaw tightened. “We’ve much tae do,” he said, changing the subject a’purpose. “On the morrow we lay siege tae the castle—witch or no’.” The knighted warlord turned to face his mount. He took a second plaid from the horse’s back and wrapped his upper body in it. The farther north they rode the colder and snowier the elements became. “See tae it that half the men care for every mount and the other half hunt afore we make camp for the eve.”

  “Aye, brother.”

  Cainnech turned to face his younger sibling. He inclined his head. “Yer a damned fine warrior, Niall. When I am laird of Eilean Donnain and baron of her lands, ye will be knighted.” He grunted at his brother’s shocked expression. “Dinna become a wench on me lest I change my mind.”

  Cainnech walked toward the trees to take a piss. The sound of Niall’s laughter coming from behind him forced him to smile despite his surly mood.

  Later that eve, Cainnech sat at one of six fire pits dug out by his men for their makeshift camp. Thirty Highlanders strong they were and more would come if he sent a rider to the clans. The warlord cooked his meat at the crackling fire he shared with his four most trusted warriors—his brother Niall, plus Barclay, Cawley and Kinnon.

  “I canna wait for the morrow tae come,” Cawley said as he roasted his pheasant in the fire. His smile was catching. “Have ye decided what tae name our clan, Cain?”

  “Aye. MacKenzie.”

  His men stilled. Cainnech’s eyebrows rose inquisitively.

  “We’re takin’ the name of yer mum’s sire?” Kinnon asked.

  At twenty and seven, Kinnon was the youngest of Cainnech’s inner circle, but equally skilled to Niall in battling. The laird-to-be might have been biased, but he’d long ago decided ’twas Kinnon’s Celtic bloodline that made him so fierce. Just as Niall and himself, Kinnon possessed the dark hair, height and heavy musculature of a mon descended from Celts, whilst Barclay and Cawley were fairer-haired and a wee bit leaner. Somewhere in Barclay and Cawley’s lines was Pict blood. Not that the Picts hadn’t been fierce—’twas just in a different way.

  Cainnech had been warring all his life and as such was wizened enough to understand that those differences made them an indomitable force. What Celts lacked Picts possessed, whilst Pict weaknesses were Celt strengths.

  “Nay,” Cainnech answered. “My grandfather matters naught. ’Twas my mother who raised Niall and me tae be the men we are and so ’tis my mother our clan will honor.”

  Cawley grinned. “The lot of us are bastards. ’Tis only fitting.”

  “Aye,” Barclay agreed. “On the morrow we shall all be MacKenzies.”

  Kinnon nodded. “And the fiercest of all clans.”

  “And dinna forget the horniest,” Niall piped in.

  The men shared a hearty laugh. Cainnech was well-humored, but too humbled by their easy acceptance of what he had decided afore they’d ridden from Kinghorn Ness to think on much else. What’s more, the pride on Niall’s face matched his own.

  ’Twas Magdelena MacKenzie and no other whose name would become legend.

  * * * * *

  “’Tis still no’ workin’?” Gabhran asked.

  Lucia sighed. “Not yet, but it will be soon. Then I can go back to concentrating on getting us to the future instead of spending all my time on this.” She glanced up at Gabhran and smiled. “Your speech has come along remarkably,” she praised him. “I’m very proud of your hard work.”

  Gabhran blushed. “Had they no’ left me behind I never would have learned from ye.”

  “All I did was point the way, my friend. You are the one who put in all the effort.”

  Less than two months had passed by, yet Gabhran had already become the little brother she’d always wanted and never had. She knew the feeling was mutual for the gentle giant definitely looked up to her as an older sister. His towering height and brawn made him appear older than his nineteen years, but his baby face hinted otherwise. Lucia couldn’t wait to take him to the future! Women might not have given him a passing glance in this world, but in her world he was definitely a ten on the hottie scale.

  “Mayhap I should just build a bigger fire,” Gabhran offered.

  Lucia shook her head. “Any bigger and we’ll burn the castle down. I thought my bedroom was cold, but this great hall feels like Antarctica.”

  “Antarctica?”

  Lucia smiled without looking up from her work. She kept forgetting they were from different worlds. “It’s just a very cold place.” She grunted as she tightened a screw with the screwdriver she’d found in her desk. “This place is getting solar heat whether it wants it or not,” she muttered.

  “I dinna ken how this will warm us.”

  “All those panels I made that you attached to the outside this morning? They have been receiving heat from the sun all day.” She tried to keep the explanation as simple as possible even if it wasn’t scientifically accurate. “The panels are able to store that heat like a barrel stores mead.”

  “’Tis fascinating, that.”

  “And when I get this damn thing working,” Lucia bit out as she tightened another screw, “those panels will pour heat into this castle like a barrel pouring mead.”

  “’Twill pour in from the bents ye concocted?”

  “Uh huh. And the word is vents.”

  Gabhran smiled. “Never did I dream such a contraption could be.”

  “You will love the future,” she promised. “I just hope I can get us there before Christmas.” She had already told Gabhran her story so he was well aware of what Christmas was and why she’d dreaded it every year for so long. He gave her a reason to want to celebrate it again. “And we’ll do all the things my family did when I was growing up. Hang stockings over the fireplace, decorate a tree, make—ah ha! Here we go!”

  Lucia grinned as she surged to her feet. Her engineering skills had hit a medieval homerun. “Can you feel it?” she asked Gabhran. “Come stand by this vent with me.”

  The giant teenager—well, man in this world—did as instructed. His blue eyes widened in shock and awe.

  “The castle is big,” Lucia explained, “so it’ll take a while before the rooms are warm.”

  Gabhran was still in a state of amazement. His blue gaze was transfixed on the vents as if waiting to see the sun pour out of them. “How long mayhap?”

  “By morning for sure, hopefully sooner.” Lucia shrugged. “We closed off half the castle, but that still leaves a lot of stone walls to heat.” She brushed the dirt from her hands. “Anyway, I’m going to boil some water, take a bath upstairs, and clean my gowns.”

  “I’ll roast us fish and make another bread. ’Tis tasty, that.”

  Lucia smiled. “That sounds delicious! I’ll meet you back here as soon as I finish my chores.”

  The castle was snuggly warm by the time Lucia finished everything she wanted to accomplish before dinner. Dressed in a more modest (read: less slutty!) medieval gown, she joined Gabhran in the dining hall to eat the meal he’d prepared for them.

  “’Tis
beautiful, ye are,” Gabhran sighed. “Like an angel from heaven, but no’ dead.”

  Lucia blinked. She hoped the gentle giant wasn’t developing a crush on her. He was handsome and kind, but…

  “Gabhran,” she said softly.

  “I ken what yer thinkin’.” He sighed. “I canna help meself. Ye are tae beautiful, Lucia.”

  She could get used to his worshipping ways if she let herself. In this world, at least according to Gabhran, her body type was en vogue. “I’m old enough to be your…”

  “Aye?”

  She frowned. “Your mother’s hotter and much younger friend.”

  “In this world, yer old enough tae be me mum and no’ just her friend.”

  Lucia tore apart a piece of bread. “Thank you for that unwanted reminder.” If she had fangs she would have bared them. “There’s nothing quite like being transported to a world where you’re an old hag when you haven’t even reached your prime in the world you come from!”

  “I dinna mean tae hurt yer tender emotions,” Gabhran said quickly. “And marriages happen all betimes here a’tween a young mon and an older woman.”

  Lucia sighed at her own ridiculousness. “I’m behaving like the very women I loathe in the future.” Her grin was lopsided. “I shouldn’t have overreacted. Sorry for that.”

  “’Tis I who am sorry.”

  She waved that away. “Don’t be. Besides, my emotions aren’t very tender.”

  Gabhran smiled. “So ye are no’ mad with me?”

  “Of course not. And never fear, my friend, because there are women much more beautiful than me in the future.”

  Gabhran’s eyes widened. “Aye? I dinna think ’twas possible.”

  Yep. She could definitely get used to these ego boosts. “Perhaps not much more beautiful, but definitely gorgeous.”

  His gaze took on a dreamy quality. She would have teased him a bit if she weren’t so hungry.

  Eventually Gabhran’s head returned from the clouds and back to his stomach. They chatted about random subjects as they ate their meal together. At a wooden table long and solid enough to easily seat three dozen people, she supposed they looked like two ants on a log from an aerial perspective.

  “What if we canna get tae yer future?” Gabhran asked as he broke off another piece of bread.

  Lucia’s head shot up. Her green eyes rounded. “I…” The thought had crossed her mind more than a few times. “I’ve been trying not to think about it,” she said quietly. “The idea of being stuck here frightens me.”

  “Mayhap ye should start tae consider it. Every time we say the words from yer book we dinna go anywhere. Mayhap this is the place we are both meant tae be.”

  Lucia briefly closed her eyes at his words. That thought was too terrifying to accept.

  “’Tis no’ so bad here.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Unless we are raided by the king a Scotland or the king a Norsemen. Then we like as naught will be tortured and slaughtered, our heads put upon pikes outside yon walls.”

  Lucia frowned. “If we ever do make it to the future I guarantee nobody will hire you to work as a crisis counselor for a suicide hotline.”

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind.” She sighed as she absently ran a hand through her long, curly tresses. Maybe this was how God was taking her to heaven to be reunited with her family. If so, she could only pray the torture part was left out of the deal. “I cannot deny the possibility that you might be right.”

  “I will defend ye tae the death, yet I am but one mon.”

  “Gabhran, no offense, but you aren’t making me feel better. Tell me everything will be okay! Lie to me!”

  “Ye wish me tae lie?”

  “Yes! For the love of God, yes!”

  His expression was one of genuine confusion. Lucia softened her tone.

  “Perhaps lie isn’t the correct word. All I’m saying is, you’re scaring me. It would help if you focused on the fact that we may never get raided, tortured, murdered and our heads placed on pikes.”

  His lips formed an O. “I ken yer meanin’,” Gabhran confirmed. He reached across the table and patted her hand like a father calming a young child. His tone was reminiscent of Mrs. Doubtfire telling a sweet bedtime story. “If we are raided, mayhap we will no’ be tortured. Like as naught ’twill be a swift death for ye because yer a wench.”

  “Thank you,” Lucia drolly replied. “For a minute there I was feeling hopeless.”

  Gabhran nodded, apparently not able to differentiate sarcasm from honesty. “Ye are verra welcome.” He let go of her hand. “So I was thinkin’ mayhap we should prepare tae celebrate yer Christmas here. That way nae matter where in time we be, ’tis a Christmas awaiting us.”

  That idea perked her up. She instantly felt less maudlin. All these years she’d avoided the holiday like the plague and now, because of her faithful friend, she was eager to experience it through his eyes. Gabhran had never known Christmas existed for apparently the holiday was yet to be invented. “I love it,” Lucia replied. “It’s a great idea.” She splayed her hands. “I don’t know how to knit, but I should have two stockings somewhere in my box of costumes that’ll work.”

  “We dinna have gifts tae put in them, but we can concoct a great feast!” His eyes lit up. “I will find a tree on the morrow at first light.”

  “And I’ll figure out a way to decorate it!”

  Lucia was getting caught up in Gabhran’s enthusiasm. “It’s a shame we don’t have time to make each other gifts—and there’s certainly nowhere to buy any!—but this’ll be fun.”

  “I could go intae the village and barter if ye want.”

  She blinked. “What village?”

  “Ye dinna see all the cottages o’er yon walls?”

  Her pulse climbed. “No. Which walls?!”

  “The far ones. Ye can see beyond them and intae the village from the battlements.”

  “I must have been too absorbed in our work to notice,” she muttered. Lucia shook her head. “But don’t go barter anything. I don’t want to call attention to us. Especially not until we know if they mean to harm us.”

  “Harm us? Nay.” Gabhran’s look was confused. “Ye be their lady.”

  Lucia had no idea what he was talking about. She was…huh?

  “I been tae the village three times afore. They ask aboot ye and are curious tae see ye.”

  This was definitely not a development she’d anticipated or wanted. “They know I’m here?” she breathed out.

  “Aye.”

  “How?”

  “When ye drove away the former laird, his men told the villagers why they were fleein’.”

  Lucia wet her lips. “So they think I’m a Viking sorceress?”

  “Aye. The Great and Powerful Viking of Oz.”

  Oh fuck. “I see.”

  Gabhran inclined his head. “Laird Adaidh was no’ a kind or fair master tae the people he ruled so the villagers are proud tae belong tae ye. Witch or no’.”

  She blinked several times in rapid succession. This was a lot to absorb.

  “Ye will have tae meet them when the new year comes for they will approach the castle tae pay yer tax.”

  “I have a tax?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Aye. Some pay in coin and some pay in goods. Ye dinna have a tax in yer future?”

  She snorted at that. One could but dream. “What am I supposed to give them in exchange for the tax?”

  Gabhran stared at her like she was a simpleton. Just as well, Lucia supposed, because she was feeling like one.

  “Ye let them live on yer land.”

  “That’s it?!”

  “Aye.”

  That hardly seemed fair. This wasn’t even her land. Apparently medieval taxes were the equivalent of modern extortion.

  “I’ll have to give them something better than that, but I’m too sleepy to decide what and how at this moment.” Lucia stood up, causing Gabhran to rise. “Let’s get some sleep.” She smiled. “We have more
to do tomorrow than I thought.”

  Chapter Three

  December 20, 1265 A.D.

  Lucia must have slept hard the night prior for she awoke to the sun searing into her bedroom despite the heavy curtain covering the large hole that was basically a window without glass and a pane. She sat up on a yawn, stretched like a cat, and prepared to see to her morning ablutions.

  Five minutes later, her face was washed, her teeth were brushed—she had no idea what she’d do when her toothpaste was gone!—and her hair was cascading down her back and around her shoulders into perfect, golden ringlets. The usual medieval gowns she wore were still drying so she donned a costume she hoped wouldn’t give Gabhran a huge hard-on.

  “I shouldn’t wear this,” Lucia muttered to herself. Turquoise, ankle-length, and curve hugging, the costume was definitely on the risqué side. She remembered purchasing it one Halloween to dress up like a sexy vampire temptress of lore. Without the fangs and makeup of the undead, she supposed it could pass for medieval, albeit brothel-esque, Viking fashion. “I am the Great and Powerful Viking of Oz,” she said without humor.

  Lucia glanced in the one and only mirror she’d brought with her to the distant past. The crisscross top portion of the gown didn’t allow for a bra. Without a playpen to put the twins in, her cleavage was not only spilling out, but her nipples stabbed right through the shimmery satin fabric. She frowned. There was no way she could parade around in this number in front of the virginal giant. She’d simply have to wear the same gown she’d worn yesterday.

  A deafening sound pierced the air, shocking Lucia. She yelped as she turned toward the window’s heavy curtain. Whatever the sound was, it had come from the other side of it.

  “Surrender yerself, Viking wench!” a deep voice boomed. “If ye dinna surrender tae me the soonest I will show yer soldier no mercy!”

  Her soldier? Lucia’s heart rate soared until it threatened to beat out of her chest. Whoever was down there had obviously taken poor Gabhran as prisoner. Not sweet, gentle Gabhran! She felt sick to her stomach.