“If I knew how I caused it to happen it would be, indeed,” Seerah said. “I was angered with the lout for calling me a wench. ‘Tis all I know. Earlier, when I tried to calm the wounded man's fears, things did na’ go well a'tall. Why, I frightened the poor man half to death."
“Aye,” Lilybet said. “Waking to see what he believed was the angel of death must have been frightening, indeed. However, he did describe you as lovely. Somehow, you must have revealed your true self to him. What was it he said? Oh, aye. Fair and fulsome, and lovely."
“'Twas likely the effects of his fever."
“Nay. ‘Tis your powers. They're strengthening, Seerah. I noticed the way you reacted when Tristan touched you. You experienced a vision."
“I..."
“Come now, tell me of it."
Seerah hesitated. “It was most startling, for as I looked upon the wounded man, Gareth, I felt nothing unusual. When Tristan's body contacted mine I felt—nay I saw ... White light flashed in me mind and suddenly it was as if me spirit had journeyed to a different place in time. I saw a wee bairn in swaddling clothes and somehow, I knew it to be Gareth. I also knew he be na’ Tristan's brother. If only I could have held me amulet, I think..."
“Think, och! Have y'learned nothing? What did you feel, Seerah?"
“Gareth's warmth,” Seerah said. “Also, something strangely familiar, like I knew him from another place in time. I also felt Tristan's energy. Most overwhelming power Tristan has, indeed. So much so, that it causes me worry."
“Why?"
“When he gazed upon Gareth earlier, I experienced Tristan's anguish deep in me soul,” Seerah explained. “But, only for a brief moment, then it was gone. He cares for Gareth deeply, aye. But Tristan also guards his emotions. Except his hostility, that is. It be so fierce, at times, it rattles me bones. But ... I fear him na'. In fact, when I first gazed upon him, I was ... spellbound."
Lilybet nodded and smiled knowingly. “A handsome man he is."
“Och! His looks do na’ matter. Mayhap, he's an accomplished wizard in the art of black magic. Why, he could be blocking me powers, or controlling me thoughts so that I can na’ tell he is truly evil."
Lilybet sighed and shook her head. “If this be true, why has he na’ caused us harm?"
Seerah shrugged. “I can na’ be certain, but I think..."
“Do na’ think, child! Feel. What be in your heart, Seerah?"
“I ... I do na’ know.” Seerah sighed.
Lilybet patted Seerah's hand, then stood. “'Tis been a trying night for us all. You need your rest. Mayhap things will be clearer in the morning light."
“What if the dreams come this night?"
“I will come."
“Aye. But, what of them?” Seerah asked, motioning with her head to the group of men downstairs.
Lilybet smiled and shrugged. “Mayhap, they will come as well."
Seerah groaned and fell back against her bed.
Lilybet chuckled. “Rest you, Seerah. The answers will come in due time.” She turned and exited the room, closing the door behind her.
* * * *
That night, as in the recent past, Seerah's dreams were filled with frightening images of Norse warships and the ensuing battle. When the Lord of Thunder's shadowed image finally appeared, relief washed over her, just like before. Yet, when his image began to fade, something familiar in the depths of his eyes haunted her soul. Next, she saw Tristan and Gareth standing high on a mountain, before a great castle. Then, another man approached. His height and build were similar to Tristan's, but his dark olive complexion and blue eyes were more like Gareth's. The man's thick, silver hair and weathered skin added a distinguished air of maturity to his handsome looks. Unlike the other warriors this man wore his long plaid draped over his shoulder, fastened by a decorative broach, indicating his position as chief or laird of their clan.
The laird had a solemn look about him and his eyes seemed sad, like someone who'd been grieving a tremendous loss for a very long time. Gareth appeared to listen intently to the laird, but Tristan seemed trouble by the discussion; it concerned a plan to retrieve a lost object—a charm.
When the laird uncurled his fingers, revealing something in the palm of his hand, doubt and concern suddenly played across Gareth's face. Tristan, showing no hint of emotion, simply nodded and took his leave. Gareth stood there a moment longer studying the object, a strange glint of recognition seeming to flash in his eyes. His expression softened momentarily as if he was remembering something warm and familiar, but the moment was fleeting. When he finally turned, falling into step behind Tristan, Gareth's brow was tightly knit.
As the laird stood alone, clutching the item in his hand, Seerah centered her energy on his image. A warm flowing essence encompassed her. Then, suddenly, she felt utterly safe and content. When he looked down at the object in his palm, Seerah felt a rush of emotion as the familiar, crescent-moon shape of her amulet came into focus.
* * * *
The sound of heavy footsteps clamoring up the stairs filtered into Seerah's brain, but she ignored the intrusion and snuggled deeper into her bedding.
“Seerah!” Lilybet rushed into the small bedroom.
Seerah's eyes flew open and she sat up, clutching her bed covers to her breasts. “What—what's happened?"
“Be awake, lass, quickly,” Lilybet said. Dashing across the small chamber, she ducked past the earthenware and wood furniture floating in mid-air.
Seerah glanced about her room; all the candles were lit, and flames burned brightly in her small hearth despite the fact that she'd smoored the fire before going to sleep. Thinking that she must still be dreaming, Seerah blinked a second time and then shook her head in an attempt to force herself fully awake. The various objects crashed to the floor with a clatter.
The candles and fire hesitated slightly, before finally extinguishing of their own accord.
“Heavens! Seerah stared, wide-eyed into the sudden darkness.
Lilybet lit a rush light. “You've been dreaming,"
“Indeed,” Seerah replied.
The next sound she heard was the familiar timbre of Marcus’ cantankerous voice, “'Tis a sickness I tell you. You can na’ barge into a young gel's sickroom."
“What in the world...?” Seerah frowned quizzically at Lilybet.
“Cover your hair,” Lilybet said. “Hurry. It be dark enough that he'll not see your face clearly, but he'll not be put off for long."
“He, who?” Seerah asked.
“It sounded like an army attacking a fortress!” Tristan's voice boomed.
“Oh, him!"
With Lilybet's help, Seerah quickly donned the mobcap.
Tristan ducked his head low and entered Seerah's room. He squinted, scowling into the dimly lit chamber like one of the “Queen's Own", searching for infidels. And due to the slanted thatch roof, he had to remain hunched over. “What kind of sickness causes such an uproar?” he demanded.
Under the circumstances he could have easily been described as a menacing giant. To Seerah, however, he looked quite comical, indeed. Lowering her head, she covered her face with her hands and tried to stifle her amusement. Her shoulders shook despite her efforts.
“She suffers ... convulsions,” Lilybet said, using her body to block Tristan's view of Seerah. “Fits, if you will. She still trembles. Poor, dear.” Lilybet forced Seerah back against the bed. “There, there. Try to lie still,” Lilybet soothed, while covertly pinching Seerah on the arm.
Seerah snorted loudly in reply.
Lilybet issued a warning glare, then turned toward Tristan. “So fierce the fits be at times, the entire bed shakes,” Lilybet explained. “It was like that this night. See how she fights me. Why she can hardly breathe."
“She's a healer,” Tristan said.
“Aye, but skilled as she be, she has na’ the knowledge to heal herself.” Lilybet hung her head. “'Tis very sad, indeed."
Seerah's desperate attempt to keep from laughing o
ut loud ended up sounding like a series of moans and whimpers.
When Tristan tried to side-step Lilybet, to get a better look at Seerah, his forehead hit the ceiling beam with a loud thunk. “Blast,” he muttered, grimacing and rubbing the bruised flesh with his hand. “She caused all this damage?” Arching his brow, he glanced around the room.
“Aye.” Lilybet nodded. “Sometimes she walks asleep. The poor dear, she has no control in her slumber."
“She's more trouble than she's worth, if you ask me,” Tristan grumbled and exited the room.
“And, you call me colorful yarns lies?” Marcus whispered, from the open door.
“Aye. You lie very well, Aunt.” Seerah broke into a fit of stifled laughter.
“'Twas na’ lies, but rather the gift of smooth talk granted by this magic stone.” Lilybet pulled a limestone pebble from the pocket in her nightdress. “'Tis been said to grant those who own it with the gift of smooth talk. It came from the village of Blarney. Take it. You may be in need of it one day soon.” She handed the stone to Seerah, then led Marcus back to bed.
* * * *
“The lass suffers an illness. Some sort of fits,” Tristan said. But even as he repeated Lilybet's explanation about Seerah's supposed condition to his men, doubt entered his mind.
“Fits of magic, I'd wager,” Zeth said. “It was haunts and beasties that caused the ruckus, I tell you. Mayhap, goblins as well. They be a mischievous lot."
“Poor, young, gullible Zeth,” Colin said, shaking his head. “'Tis superstitious nonsense, and you should be well rid of it. Six and ten you'll soon be. You ought to be putting such childish notions behind you. Why, the next thing you know, you'll be telling us you've seen fairies, brownies, and goblins in the forest."
“Aye. ‘Tis well past time you grew up, laddie,” Greum said. “Though Gareth and I used to entertain the same silly notions, we quit them long ago. Why, you put too much in stock our laird's fables about the pagan Celts, the Druids, the Shee and their mystic powers."
“They are na’ fables,” Zeth said. “The Laird knows all about the Shee. Once he described to me what a leprechaun looks like. Why, the little man called Marcus be the spitting image of what our laird related. You've all seen the way he brandishes his oak shillelagh. ‘Tis magical and if you be touched by it, cursed forever you'll surely be."
Greum chuckled. “I suppose his pot o’ gold be hidden at the end of a rainbow as well?” “Of course.” Zeth nodded. “And his tiny wife is but a pixie. Her task is to distract any mortal who captures him, before he's forced relinquish his riches."
“What of the wench?” Colin snorted. “Be she fairy, kelpie or imp?"
“She's a witch,” Zeth said.
Colin and Greum chuckled.
“Laugh if you wish,” Zeth whispered, “But, she carries the sorcerer's mark near her right eye. Cast her witch-spell on you, she did, Colin. With but a look, her eyes turned from gray to blue, and you were mesmerized. You know it. We all do."
Colin cleared his throat and scowled at Zeth. “Her eyes be gray."
“Aye, gray,” Greum said, “Quite ordinary and colorless, just like she is. She's but a simple serving girl, nothing more."
“Nay, she's a witch all right,” Zeth said. “Why, if she were a fair and lovely Irish lass, with flowing, bright-red hair ... ‘tis certain I'd be, that she's the enchanted lass our laird sees in his dreams."
“'Tis enough talk on the subject, Zeth,” Tristan said. Lying back against the floor, he cradled his head in his hands and stared aimlessly up toward the ceiling. Silvery moonlight seeped into the room through small openings in the thatched roof.
“What of the witch?” Zeth asked.
Tristan sighed. “I grow weary of such nonsense. The lass is peculiar, I grant you that, but ‘tis most likely due to the queer malady."
“Nay, Tristan,” Zeth said. “Due to her witch-magic, it is. She must wield it with her eyes, somehow. I've seen the way they change color, from gray to blue to green. Aye, she's a witch all right. She cast her spell on Colin she did, and now we're all doomed."
Turning his head, Tristan watched as Colin glanced about the room and shifted against the floor. Greum simply chuckled, then turned on his side and closed his eyes. Tristan frowned into the shadowy darkness. “Try to get some sleep, Zeth. If Gareth be fit we'll leave here at first light."
“If the witch does na’ enchant us while we sleep, that is.” Zeth pulled a small, wooden cross from his pouch and began reciting a prayer.
Tristan simply returned his gaze to roof and tried to assess the situation. So far the journey was proving most frustrating, to say the least. He'd been ready to give up the quest numerous times, but his sense of honor had prevented him from doing so. The choice was not his to make. He'd made a promise to his laird, and Tristan would do his best fulfill that promise, even if had to die trying. The reason was simple. It was his duty.
Unfortunately, Tristan's sense of duty had almost got Gareth killed—and all because of a worthless, nonexistent charm. When Tristan finally closed his eyes, he tried to block all the troublesome distractions of the past weeks from his mind. He breathed deeply, releasing the conflict and tension from his body, and welcomed the much-needed rest he desired.
But his thoughts turned to Seerah. Aye, an unusual lass, to say the least. Although her peculiar combination of boldness and determination implied self-confidence, there also seemed to be something quite vulnerable about her. She was easily the most unappealing, contrary lass he'd ever met, yet Tristan found himself drawn to her, and that troubled him deeply. And what of her eyes? Tristan had seen the way the light made them appear to change from gray to lavender, and then to green just like Zeth had said. But a witch with magical eyes? Indeed!
Tristan forced all thoughts of her out of his mind.
When he finally drifted off to sleep, however, strange images of Seerah plagued his slumber; in his dreams, Seerah was a beautiful, shapely, dark-haired lass with startling blue-green eyes. She dressed in a billowing, white gossamer gown like an angel—nay, a provocative enchantress with the power to defeat evil forces.
Much to Tristan's dismay, he realized the evil she sought to conquer was him.
* * * *
In the wee hours of dawn, when the sun was just beginning to rise and the heavy mist still hung low about the heather and peat covered bogs, Gareth stirred. Tristan rose immediately and stood by Gareth's side. “Gareth? Be you awake, lad? Do you know who I am?"
“Aye.” Shifting his weight, Gareth winced. “If na’ for me guardian angel, mayhap I'd be gazing upon St. Columba's halo instead of your dour face, though."
“'Twas me own sword, na’ the grace of dead saints or the wings of angels that came to you're aid,” Tristan grumbled.
“Guardian angels and dead saints?” Greum said as he rose. “What manner of talk is this so early in the morn'?"
“Gareth's awake,” Tristan said.
Greum chuckled. “So I see. And, praising the angels already? He must be feeling fit, indeed."
Zeth and Colin joined the others.
“From the look of his arm,” Colin said. “He'll be cursing the devil soon enough."
“Mayhap.” Gareth propped himself up on his good elbow, then grimaced. “But, for now I'll thank God and His angel for their tender mercy."
“'Tis na’ the work of God,” Zeth said. “Nor angels. But witches I tell you."
Gareth laughed. “Witches? Nay, Zeth. ‘Twas one of God's own guardian angels who kept me from death's door. A fair lovely she was too. Why, I fear I must confess me lustful thoughts about her to Father McKinnan, at the abbey, when we return home. Aye, it must surely be a sin to desire such a blessed creature."
“I see the draught wore off,” Seerah said. “But you still need your rest, Gareth."
Tristan jerked his head in the direction of her voice and found her standing near the stairs, smiling sweetly. As he assessed her unbecoming appearance, once again vivid memories of the se
ductive enchantress from his dreams flooded his mind. Nay, there was nothing about the peculiar lass standing before him that could possibly be linked with the bewitching, dark-haired lass he'd trifled with in the deep realms of slumber. With a low, disapproving grunt, he scoffed at his own overactive imagination.
“And, top o’ the mornin’ to the lot o’ you as well.” Seerah glared at the gaping group of men.
Aye, she was the same saucy wench from the previous night, but Tristan couldn't help noticing something different and almost radiant about her. Narrowing his gaze, he wondered what truly lurked beneath Seerah's drab shell. Then he grunted, again, at the curious possibility.
Seerah huffed and walked past Tristan. “I see you've no knack for pleasantries in the morn. ‘Tis really no surprise, though. Gareth, you're going to be fine, but you should lie back afore you pull the stitches from your arm."
Tristan remained silent, scrutinizing her.
Zeth clutched his cross to his chest and Colin shifted his feet. Greum simply chuckled.
Gareth frowned at Tristan. “Who's the—"
“She's the witch,” Zeth whispered.
“Aye. A smart man you are, Zeth.” Seerah sashayed across the room toward him. “A witch I am, indeed. And, powerful too. Why, if you cause me any trouble I'll turn you into a toad.” She wiggled her fingers at him.
Eyes wide, Zeth swallowed hard and fumbled with his cross.
Greum laughed heartily and slapped Zeth on the back. “'Tis plain to see she's teasing you, laddie. She only cast spells on Colin, right big brother?"
“Uh ... Aye.” Colin chuckled, but his strained laughter sounded forced as his eyes darted from Seerah to Greum.
Tristan shook his head dismally and lowered his gaze.
“Who's the saucy wench, Tristan?” Gareth said.
Covering his eyes with his hand, Tristan groaned.
Seerah walked back across the room, and stood by Gareth's side. “I'll forgive your bad manners because of your injury. But, as I told the rest of your companions last night, me name is Seerah, na’ saucy, nor wench.” She shoved Gareth backward.
Gareth fell back with a thud, then winced. “Uuuh! What the..."
Dreamweaver Page 10
