She heard Isla sigh as she laid back down, arm pillowing her head, back turned toward her, and a stockinged foot sticking out of the twisted blankets. She wondered how long they had been married. Catching a glimpse of the red and green plaid after he had disappeared in the tree line, Brenawyn couldn’t hear his footfalls despite the thick layer of leaves and brush on the ground. Now there was a hunter.
What more would constitute a good husband here? Protection—most of which implied physical brawn and intent, ability to provide food—constant attention to animal tracks, making, laying, and checking of traps, hunting larger game and the danger that lay within, then gutting, skinning, and preservation of meat. There was no partnership equality, she knew, but seeing it for herself, how could there be? Even in the best circumstances, these people were eeking out a life for themselves despite almost insurmountable odds. Clearly defined gender roles, something a modern-day woman would scoff at with cries ringing to the hilltops of sex discrimination, but what choice did they have here? Things had to get done. Harvesting, candle-making, baking, dying fabric, sewing, had to be done, too. It was eye-opening to see that this issue wasn’t as black and white as it seemed sitting in twenty-first century society where most things were manufactured and as long as one had enough money or credit, they could purchase said items.
Brenawyn was soft and unfit for life here. Little good would her contemporary thought do her when she couldn’t pull her share of the weight. She knew nothing of gathering and straining honey—which would keep for long periods of time without refrigeration, the making candles, milking a cow, or making butter. She knew how to cook and bake, that was something, but the ingredients didn’t materialize out of a five-pound sack of all-purpose flour, already sifted three times. She thought she remembered reading that oats and barley were the predominant grain in the area, but how to harvest, mill, and grind the grain was lost on her.
A drop in temperature and increase of rainfall a couple of hundred years before made more land unproductive. Inhabitants would have had to make their farms self-sufficient in their production of meat, dairy, grain so they banded together. She saw this reflected in the community. Hunting would call the men away for periods of time. Protection, and a variety of other things that Brenawyn hadn’t even thought of, would be the reason for further absences.
She was surprised with her knowledge of the time period, thanking whatever it was that made her focus on background information to teaching literature. Her students would bellyache about the purpose of knowing such drivel. If they only knew!
The fire was smoored sometime in the early night, but now there was some man attending to it, feeding it kindling to get it going again. Brenawyn’s stomach rumbled and Isla turned over. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, all things considered.” Brenawyn answered thinking back to her dream conversation with Amergin, but she sat up and dug at a rock in the soil, throwing it away in disgust and rubbing the small of her back.
“With any luck, we’ll ha’ fresh rabbit ta break our fast this morn. Tavish went ta walk the trap line.”
Isla got to her feet and brushed her skirts. “Come, my lady, we’ll go take a keek if there are mushrooms ta be had. Let me get my basket.”
They walked in silence, Isla doing all the work, because Brenawyn knew what a dandelion was, and a coneflower, but not too much else. It would speak volumes against her if she picked something that was poisonous. Isla didn’t notice or was too polite to comment but she was amiable company, and of the group Brenawyn felt the least nervous that she’d slip and reveal too much around her. It was probably the micro-focus on those gender roles that took the scary stuff off the table.
“Oh, chanterelles!” Isla scurried over to the tree beyond.
“How can you…”
She held a bright yellow specimen up for Brenawyn’s inspection.
“Oh, I’ve never seen one that color before.”
“They are good with cooked with venison, rabbit, or even squirrel if needs be. Come, help me. Look around. Gather them in yer apron; I’ve only the one basket. Mistress Fordoun will be much pleased by the gift, I tell ye.”
Now that Brenawyn knew what to look for, the yellow of the chanterelles stuck out, whereas before they blended into the spectrum of foliage greens. They shared the space at the trunk’s base with the soft green moss. Kneeling down to pick the first batch she’d noted the similarity in hue, yellow and green blended together from a distance. She brushed the velvety moss and she imagined Alex over her, inside her, on moss just like this. It seemed so long ago but that was only because so much had happened since; it was, in truth, only weeks ago.
She wandered, thinking that if she still heard the camp she was within calling. She became so absorbed in her task that she didn’t notice when that wasn’t the case. Thinking she traveled in a straight line, she tried to backtrack, but neither camp nor Isla came into sight. She retraced her steps and looked for the spots she’d disturbed picking the fungi. She found those immediately but was turned around, there was no way for her to tell which she had picked last. She felt she was going in circles.
“Isla!” she called. The noise disturbed a covey of grouse to her left and startled Brenawyn. Clutching her chest, she called again, “Isla, can you hear me?”
She tied the ends of her apron up into her waistband, a feat in itself because she had to dig under the bodice to fashion an impromptu sack for the mushrooms. She called again, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Isla!” But there was no response.
“Hello, Brenawyn.”
She’d know that intonation anywhere. She spun on her heel to face Liam, armed to the teeth.
“What are you doing here? Didn’t William send you away?”
“Aye, that he did.”
“Knock off the accent, Liam. You never had one when we were together.”
He nodded in acquiescence, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She backed up slowly, a useless reaction because she knew she had nowhere to go. He’d overtake her in mere seconds hindered and restricted by her garments as she was. “What do you want?”
He smiled, “You.” Brenawyn’s heart leapt at the proclamation, and then she remembered. His smile was his lure. It was same smile bestowed on her the night they met, the same smile when he broke her collarbone, the same he gave her right before he kicked her and she fell down the stairs.
“You can’t have me.”
“Untrue. We are no longer in your time. Here, you are my property to do with as I wish.”
“But you told a hall full of people, your people I guess, since you came back here after… that you wanted rid of me.”
“And that was true enough at the time, but you are a means to an end, wife. If only your ability had manifested then. We could have skipped all of this.”
“And what pray tell was that? Faking your death? The memory bindings? The abuse?” With each question, Brenawyn’s voiced grew louder until she “Our son?”
He looked up at that.
“Oh, you didn’t know.”
His voice cracked, “No. I did not. They didn’t tell me.”
“Well, it would have been hard to, wouldn’t it have, since you left me to drive myself to the hospital. Do you know I only made it to the car, fainted behind the wheel from the pain, and the VanBrussels found me,” she ranted, “and called an ambulance?”
He paced, and Brenawyn took several more steps back.
“Did you ever care about me at all?”
“You weren’t hard to live with. Generous, considerate. There were many times I had to remind myself that…”
She put her hands on her waist, “Hmm?”
“That you were an assignment.”
She scoffed, “An assignment.”
“There were a number of potentials and I was given you.”
“Don’t bother to explain. I met Cormac. He explained it all very clearly.” Brenawyn said the disdain dripping from her words.
Liam took ex
ception to this and declared, “Cormac MacBrehon is going to be a god!”
“And what? Take you along with him? Don’t be so naïve, Liam. There’s no room at the top with him.”
“You know nothing…” He stopped mid-sentence, and waved at her middle. “Take that ridiculous apron off. You look pregnant.”
Brenawyn smirked, and untied the apron and the mushrooms tumbled out. She pressed the fabric tight across her abdomen. “Funny that you should say that. It’s really too bad that you can’t see through all these clothes.” She turned in profile to him, “I’ve just started to…”
He was on her before she finished her sentence, his hands around her throat. “You whore! Whose is it?” Pushing her back into a tree.
She was immediately sorry. Sorry that she’d provoked him. She knew what his reaction would be, but she did it anyway. He was dangerous, a loose cannon, and the decision to add fuel to the fire was already made. If she couldn’t hurt him, she could make him angry.
“Alex.”
His hold tightened; Brenawyn clawed at his hands. Blood rose to her face. Eyes bulged. Tongue protruded. He was going to kill her. Here. Now; 600 years in the past.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to wheeze out. She saw spots. It was getter darker.
A large hand grasped his shoulder, but she couldn’t see who it was. Then his hands were off her neck, she crumbled to the bracken choking as air filled her lungs. She felt a sharp pain to the back of her head, and then nothing.
~ ~ ~
Isla heard Brenawyn’s raised voice a distance off. She put the basket down and crept along in the direction of the strammash, not recognizing the other voice speaking with the same discordant accent as the lady. Her instincts told her that Brenawyn was in trouble but having no inkling as to the breadth of it, Isla couldn’t abandon her to get help. Right now, Brenawyn’s sole help lay in her, even if she were only there to witness it. She’d at least have something to report back to Tavish with.
He was going ta be hoppin’ mad and had every right to be. He didn’t say that she wasn’t to take her gathering, but there was no use trying to take that course of reasoning with him. It was implied, and she very well knew it. He took his job seriously; his tasks each received his full attention. She knew that while he told her that he was going to check the traps he was also patrolling the perimeter looking for signs they were being followed. With any luck he had already come upon the ruffian’s trail and was in pursuit.
She was now on her belly inching forward taking cover behind the ferns. She undid the knot and pulled her shawl up over her head to hide the blonde of her hair, making sure the fabric billowed out to hide the white of her blouse. The drab colors blended in with her surroundings and she was as concealed as she could be. She could see the man—Liam McAllister, though it confused her to hear him speak in this manner. It was stilted and awkward; she didn’t know why he would speak thus.
She had been there in the Hall the night that Brenawyn was introduced by Himself. Her appearance was not such a shock, there were travelers that came on a regular basis, the Keep was along a well-traveled road. It wasn’t a shock either, at least to her, that Brenawyn was introduced as the Sleeping Lady. She had been raised with the stories. Her granny told them well up until her last breath on this earth. Isla was over fond of them, and wished they were true. It was exciting to have one of them be real.
What was truly scandalous was standing next to Liam’s wife, Colleen, and hearing her gasp, holding a hand to her mouth, tears streaming, when Liam proclaimed this new woman as his wife! Isla would never have pegged him as a lecher, an adulterer. He was always kind to her, charming and protective in a strictly appropriate way. He was a trusted man in a time when trust, even among family members, was dear. And then to hear him say that he wanted rid of this new woman. She didn’t hear much after that, her attention was diverted by Colleen’s swoon.
While it was true that no one knew what went on between a man and woman in the privacy of their own home, she heard Brenawyn accused him of memory bindings and faking his death. This was not something most people had to deal with. What was a memory binding anyway?
Brenawyn was inching back to where Isla lay. Perhaps, she could, with any luck, be a distraction. Tavish would not like one bit her putting herself in harm’s way, but she had a sense of what was at stake—not that he confided in her ever. His manly sense of obligation would just have to take the insult and as a result she would most likely see the business end of his belt. She couldn’t just sit back and do nothing—not when she felt responsible.
Isla got to her feet as Liam put his hands on Brenawyn’s throat. Brenawyn’s back was to her, and Liam was incensed, his only focus was in choking the life out of her. Brenawyn struggled, her body lifted until she stood on her toes. He was propelling her backward to the next tree, Isla’s tree. The time to strike was now, picking up a tree branch, Isla brandished it like a club. But then there was a hand at her mouth, and an arm around her waist, she dropped the branch in her surprise, and windmilled her legs. She found purchase on the tree, the same which, on the other side Brenawyn was being choked. Isla pushed off, causing her captor to reel back and lose his balance. She rolled off him and swiped under her skirt for the paring knife she held in her garter, thinking of it just now. It wasn’t meant for defense, its purpose was cutting vegetables, taking trimmings, but it was sharp, and would do in close quarters.
The man in question was robed in a voluminous grey, a match for the one Liam wore, a deep cowl covering his head. She pounced on him wielding her knife, pressing it to his throat, she pulled back the hood, and was met with the familiar face of one of her husband’s guardsmen. She released pressure, certain that she was safe and had misread the situation, but he surged up to meet her, pining her arms to her side, his eyes glowing an incandescent red. She head-butted him, breaking his nose, and shoved the knife in his neck. Blood gushed from the nose, but little from the knife wound. He clawed at her still, a wiry strength still in evidence, and decided. She twisted the knife. Now there was blood—plenty of it. He gurgled and spasmed under her, mimicking the act of carnality.
Isla was shaking now, never having killed before. What if she’d misread the situation? That he didn’t mean any mischief? That he was just trying to keep her quiet so he could get her out?
Desperate, breathless, end-of-life choking sounds brought her back to the present. Isla got to her feet, not thinking, but someone new snatched her hair painfully propelling her forward. He held her at arm’s length and his grasped the roots at the base of her skull, so she couldn’t turn. They rounded the tree, and she saw the light go out in Brenawyn’s eyes, as the man behind her grabbed Liam’s shoulder.
“T’is enough. We’ll take both o’ them. We cannae leave her behind.”
“Kill her.”
“And make her death the reason for Tavish’s holy war against us? Nay. If she’s no’ here then there will be cause ta track us. In that time we’ll be away.”
“He’ll follow.”
“Aye. That he will, but he is a calculating man.”
“Formidable.”
“Predictable. Ye doonae want ta see someone like him when he thinks he’s got nothing ta lose.”
Chapter 18
Brenawyn awoke to find herself gagged and hog-tied, jostling along in the back of a covered wagon filled with rotting hay. It was night, but she could see the forms of two hooded men on horses bringing up the rear. Her restraints were tight, whoever had tied them knew what they were doing, and the knots were probably similarly set. While she could not possibly stand, she was able to shift positions and that was when she felt behind her and found another set of hands, likewise bound.
She moved enough to turn and saw the back of Isla’s head.
She grunted through the gag. No response. She grunted again, louder this time. No response. Isla’s hands were still warm and pliant so at least she was alive. Brenawyn rolled on her hands and her legs hit into the prone fo
rm of the woman, waking her with a start.
Isla struggled and emitted a gagging sound trying to rid herself of the cloth stuffed in her mouth. Brenawyn tried to ease her panic but only succeeded in leaning against the woman’s back hoping to convey calm. It worked, and in moments Brenawyn felt her relax.
A bit more struggle and Isla was facing her in the tight enclosure. They were a little worse for wear, but whole, and all they could do was wait.
Brenawyn stopped fighting the movement of the cart and laid her head back down; she was much more comfortable though each bump in the road sent a painful shot of pins and needles down the arm and leg she was lying on. Her shoulder hurt from being kept in that position, and her legs cramped.
Isla fared no better.
The wagon came to an eventual stop and one of the hooded men climbed in toting a knife in his teeth. He hooked his arm behind Brenawyn’s knees and yank her to the edge of the cart bed. She grunted as she received yet another jolt of pain from her bound extremities.
“Change o’ plan, whore, we must depart the road now, and if ye give us any trouble, t’is yer companion that will feel the pain. Dae ye understand my meaning?”
Brenawyn nodded understanding, and the man sawed at the ropes behind her. The relief she felt when the fibers gave way was short-lived. Her legs couldn’t hold her weight and she went crashing to the ground, grunting as new waves of pain wracked her body.
“If ye no’ shut yer gob I’ll tie ye back up.”
She nodded as she sat up stretching her legs in front of her, massaging the muscles to aid in relief with one hand while trying to free her mouth with the other. She managed to get the cloth out of her mouth, but it hung around her neck. She could breath, but the absence of the gag made her gulp in air. They haven’t killed me, so there must be a reason they’re keeping me alive.
Another guard was stationed to watch Brenawyn, and Isla was brought out and released from her bonds. Isla was not so subdued though; she sprang up as soon as she was freed, causing the original guard to tackle her to the ground. Brenawyn moved to help but her guard clamped an arm around her waist and a hand over her mouth. She bit him and tasted blood before he snatched back his hand, clouting her on the head enough for her vision to swim. The guard across the way clamped onto Isla’s thigh and forced them open underneath him. The tone of Isla’s grunts changed to panic as she tried desperately to get away from him.
Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Page 11
