“Alyn is a fine man,” she conceded, as much to herself as to her father. And brave. When he’d been surrounded a few nights ago, she’d been frantic to save him. The way he’d coddled Fatin, pretending he didn’t care for the wee monkey, was heart melting. And the way he brushed the top of her head, her cheeks, her lips with his own. The way he held her at night, laid his hand over her belly as if to protect her child. The way he tried to anticipate her every need, dry her every tear. Always thinking of her comfort and well-being.
Thoughts of Alyn warmed Kella through and through, where thoughts of Lorne … were becoming as lifeless as he.
“Return his love, child. Life is too short to let even a day slip away,” her father advised.
The inevitable conclusion taking shape in her mind left her stunned. Alyn did love her. And hard as it was to accept, perhaps she’d never stopped loving him as more than a friend. She’d merely given up hope when he’d declared his intention to become a priest.
As for Lorne …
He no longer existed.
Alyn had filled Lorne’s place, given more than he had, though it was by no fault of Lorne’s own. Alyn would raise his child and love it with as close a love to his heavenly Father as could be found in This World. She’d been so caught up in her grief and shame, she hadn’t seen what was before her very eyes or heard what Alyn really said.
“I’ve been a fool, haven’t I, Da?”
Egan reached around her, giving Kella a quick hug with his long arm. “We fill the world, bonnie Kella. We fill the world.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Perhaps God had led Egan to this garden spot, where his head and heart would be healed. Regardless, Alyn gave Him the praise as he and Brisen conferred about the man’s memory loss and what might be done to help, though Egan didn’t seem to mind his infirmity. As for the hermit healer, she looked like a woman in love. Each glance at the big Irishman had been a caress, each mention a fondness. A more unlikely match, given this woman’s formal learning and Egan’s lack of it, was hard to imagine.
“All things are possible.”
That truth continued to become clearer and clearer. Although God was the master of logic and order, He also could bend both to His will. That was a facet of faith Alyn needed to work on. For today, he chose to enjoy God’s blessing, rather than reason it through.
While waiting for Egan and Kella to return, Alyn used a piece of Brisen’s precious parchment and some ink to pen a note to Glenarden, announcing that Egan had been found alive and mostly well. Hopefully, Idwyr would take it back to Bridge of Allan and send it by messenger on to Ronan and Brenna.
Egan and Kella could be heard coming up the path by the time he’d finished the missive and sealed it. Though Brisen withheld her opinion, Egan was insistent that he would not leave the healer. Not for Kella. Not for the grandchild who was to come.
“If I be yer father as ye say, then leave me happy where I am,” he told Kella. “But the two of ye are welcome to visit and bring the babe if ye’re of a mind.”
“I would be delighted to have you visit,” Brisen chimed in. “I so love to coddle little ones.”
Alyn expected Kella to become obstinate, but for some reason, she accepted her father’s unwavering decision without rebellion or tears. Alyn counted that another blessing, though Brisen had explained that some women were more prone to hysteria when carrying a child than otherwise. She’d also assured him that, unless Kella had shown signs of a troubled pregnancy, there was no reason for her not to do anything a healthy young woman could do.
Alyn doubted that included fighting off brigands in the night. He wondered if Kella might consider staying with Egan and Brisen, now that her father had been found. Brisen was surprisingly pleased with his idea of her getting to know more about the man she cared for and his family.
“I’ve a small room I keep for the visiting sick that Kella is welcome to use.”
The healer and Egan accompanied Kella and Alyn back to the riverside. Brisen was anxious to see what exotic imports the mercers had to offer, and where his lady went, Egan followed. She was an enigma to Alyn. Her tableware had demonstrated a taste for finer things that were uncommon to a hermit. It was easy to see how Egan—or any man—might find Brisen enchanting.
Along the way downhill, Brisen brought the idea up of Kella remaining with her and Egan while Alyn carried out his mission for Queen Gwenhyfar. “It might help Egan’s memory return to spend time together,” the lady said. “And I would love to get to know you better, Kella.”
“It would be good for you to rest awhile as well, Kella,” Alyn pitched in. “You and the baby.”
Kella slowed as though considering her words carefully. “But I am as much in the queen’s service as you. I made the copies of her majesty’s documents.”
“You’re a scribe?” It was Brisen’s turn to be impressed. “Where were you educated?”
“At her aunt’s convent in Ireland,” Alyn informed her. “Kella is fluent in five languages. One wasn’t enough to satisfy her chattering tongue.”
Kella gave Alyn a sharp elbow jab. “I grow so weary of that jest.”
“I’ll say not another word, if you’ll remain with Brisen and your father while I go on to Fortingall.”
“My place,” Kella said, circling his waist with her arm and pressing the curves of her body into his, “is beside you, my husband.”
What little objection Alyn harbored to his wife’s words vanished at the suggestive tone she used.
It was all for show, Alyn reasoned. Kella probably didn’t even realize how tantalizing her nearness, the intimation of her words was. He shook his head to clear it of fanciful notions. The “husband,” the hug, meant nothing, Alyn reasoned. Nothing but a hopelessly smitten priest’s hope.
God, forgive me for all the times I’ve felt disdain at the confessions of love-befuddled fools, for now I know their torment.
“A queen’s scribe and a priest,” Brisen marveled behind them. “You have quite a family, Fi—Egan O’Toole.” She blushed. “I’ll have to get used to your real name.”
“Ye can call me anything ye want, milady.”
Egan lifted Brisen’s hand to his lips while Kella, like her father, continued as though nothing mind shattering had taken place.
“I appreciate your generous offer to make room for me, Lady Brisen … oh!” Kella put her hand to her mouth.
“Just Brisen, dear.”
“I meant no insult,” Kella apologized. “You comport yourself like royalty.”
“Because she’s me queen,” Egan put in. “Or she will be, if she’ll have me.”
Brisen stopped short. “Is that a proposal of marriage when I’ve only just learned your name, sir?”
Egan scratched his head. “I guess it is. After all, we got us a priest.”
Alyn began to demur, not because he objected to the idea, but he anticipated Kella’s objection. “I’m not, that is to say—”
A thunder of horses’ hooves caused the ground beneath their feet to shake. From below where the road ran past, a cacophony of voices rose from the caravan campsite.
Brisen frowned. “That does not bode well.”
Alyn agreed. Something was clearly amiss downhill, although by the time the foursome reached the riverside, nothing remained of the troops who had passed by except a cloud of dust on the horizon.
The merchants and villagers were abuzz with the news the soldiers had left in their wake. King Arthur’s warband had invaded Lothian. Modred was not there, but Arthur had found and arrested Queen Gwenhyfar, who had sought refuge there in Modred’s Din Edyn fortress, for treason.
The vision of the birds played through Alyn’s mind. The eagle had not seized the dove. Gwen had evidently gone willingly to Modred. And the bear’s roar was vicious. Arthur had declared that Gwenhyfar was to be dismembered by horses at the month’s end, unless Modred surrendered himself to save his lover.
“I don’t believe it,” Kella claimed as they made
their way to their campsite. “Gwenhyfar corresponds much with Modred as archbishop of the Grail Church, but they are not lovers. I’d have known.”
Alyn agreed because he was convinced of his cousin’s morality. He could believe in Gwenhyfar’s preference of Modred as Arthur’s successor and as the last archbishop of the Grail Church. But he could not believe that Gwenhyfar had conspired against Arthur or had consorted with Lothian’s king, any more than he could accept that Arthur believed it.
Although there was the High King’s unprovoked rage that morning at the tavern over even the hint of someone committing treason. Arthur had been adamant that, man or woman, the culprit would face the same fate—death. Had he suspected Gwenhyfar of betrayal then? Was that the source of the High King’s pain, that blackness Alyn had summoned the Holy Spirit against?
“Mayhap she went as an emissary to smooth Modred’s ruffled feathers,” Kella suggested. “As both queen and high priestess.”
“Why not tell Arthur then?” Alyn countered.
Kella had one word for him. “Cassian.”
Ice formed along Alyn’s spine. Had Arthur fallen into that dark pit of madness and paranoia again? Or had he been pushed into it by Cassian, who had no use for Gwenhyfar or her church?
While Alyn yet wrestled with that grim possibility, the news grew worse. After Arthur pronounced Gwenhyfar’s fate, the men of Errol rebelled. Led by Elkmar, they abducted the Roman priest Cassian from under the High King’s nose, stalemating Arthur on Modred and the queen’s behalf. The men were now on their way to where Modred met with King Drust and the Pictish chieftains to garner their support for Lothian.
“Drust mustn’t ally with either Modred or Arthur!” Brisen echoed Alyn’s very thoughts.
“Aye,” he agreed. “A battle of champions at the most is appropriate. The Cymri and Pictish leaders must allow Modred and Arthur to settle their personal dispute without the blood of others. And while I don’t condone treason or kidnapping, Cassian’s abduction gains my cousin time that cooler heads might work to resolve this by diplomacy.”
Brisen’s brow lifted. “Queen Gwenhyfar is your cousin?”
“Aye, my mother’s first cousin, actually.”
Kella crossed her arms, indignant. “I’m glad the Perthshiremen abducted that conniving Cassian.”
Alyn wanted to put a finger to his wife’s lips, but it was too late. “Say no more, for ears are everywhere,” he warned. “Let us take neither side but God’s, good wife,” he said in a louder voice. “These acts of war must be unraveled before the pattern is set.”
Alyn rubbed his temples where his head had begun to ache. Not another vision, he prayed in silence. No bewildering birds. They’d told him nothing until after the fact.
“You are right, young priest.” Brisen took Egan by the arm. “I must go to Fortingall with these young people, beloved. I’ll be here at daybreak,” she informed Alyn.
What could a reclusive healer possibly …
Brisen read the question before Alyn could voice it. “I have Drust’s ear,” she said. “I have tended his household for years.”
“Ye’ll not be goin’ anywhere without me,” Egan declared with characteristic belligerence.
Brisen caressed his broad jaw. “I’d hoped you’d say that.”
The giant’s indignation melted into an oafish grin that remained through their good-byes and even as he followed Brisen toward the hill path.
“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways.”
No, Lord, they are not, Alyn mused. The words of Isaiah faded as he watched the mismatched pair disappear up the wooded rise. Sometimes he wondered why he even tried to understand God. At the moment he felt like a babe, thrust into a role meant for wise men.
Do those two even have transport?
That was, Alyn realized even as he thought it, the least of his concerns.
So, too, was the fact that Idwyr and his Miathi escort had also departed. A merchant from Frisia whose tent was set up near Alyn and Kella’s wagon said the wizard and his Miathi left when they’d heard news that Modred’s troops were mustering at Gododdin’s borders.
“But he put a spell round dere,” the merchant said. “A funny leetle dance and den de bones, dere on de vagon seat.”
“He is a witan, no?” the man’s wife, a plump Frau with thick braided hair, asked.
“Very like the Saxon wizards, yes,” Alyn replied. Except the Celtic druids were allowed to ride stallions and fight in battle.
Idwyr had left a human finger bone, likely from his necklace. Another of undetermined origin had been laid out on the wagon bench atop it in the form of a cross. The crazy old man probably called on Jesus as well. And meant it, Alyn had no doubt. Idwyr’s heart was leaning toward Jesus, but there was a lot more understanding that had to go with it to make it right.
Alyn couldn’t blame the Miathi for leaving. While the merchants planned on getting on the road at dawn, hoping to move north before fighting broke out in the borderlands as clans took sides, Idwyr’s men rode home for the battle. This was what their people had been waiting for. A chance to invade and take back lands lost more than a generation ago.
The false bottom of the wagon containing the genealogies had not been disturbed, nor had his locked alchemy box been forced open. But it had been moved, perhaps in a curious attempt to see what it contained.
Alyn made rounds about the caravan and spent the rest of the afternoon in the village while Kella, under the watchful eye of their Frisian neighbors, set about preparing a fresh hot meal over the fire. Her father’s daughter when it came to living in the wild, she roasted a salmon purchased from one of the local fishermen who’d profited from the unusually large gathering of customers encamped at the foot of the knock.
As darkness cloaked the land that evening and Alyn and Kella shared the delicious fish and a loaf of bread Alyn bought from the village baker, only nature remained unaffected by the grim news. The usual sound of merry camaraderie in the riverside encampment was suppressed, but the stars sparkled like jewels in the midnight velvet canvas of the sky. Night birds and insects chorused in a soothing lullaby as if to reassure Alyn that God was still in charge. He even suggested good weather on the morrow.
“Do you think the Angus had a hand in Cassian’s kidnapping?” Kella asked.
The question startled Alyn from his focus on all that was still well in the world and plunged his mind into yet another quagmire of conflicting loyalties. The Angus was sworn protector of the queen and pledged militarily to Arthur.
“Nay,” he replied. He wondered more about Lorne’s loyalties, but let that dead dog lie. “Only Perthshire men have abandoned Arthur, thus far. But I do not envy his position. Nor ours, for that matter,” he reflected aloud. “My brothers’ and mine.”
“Oh!” Kella hadn’t thought that far ahead. As Gwen’s kin, yet oathsworn to the High King, the O’Byrnes would be forced to choose whom they would serve as well.
But was ever there a more perfect rose than the worried purse of Kella’s lips? ’Twas enough to take a man’s mind off the world gone mad and think of other things. Like the way she’d been acting. Warmer. Implying an intimacy not there.
“My place is beside you … my husband.”
Had he not known she still harbored feelings for Lorne, Alyn would have sworn the sentiment behind the word had been real.
“Caden’s in the worst position,” she observed later over the delicious meal. Her brow furrowed beneath renegade wisps of hair that spiraled about it. “What if he is forced to fight oathsworn for King Modred, while Ronan—”
“Let us pray it doesn’t come to that.”
Alyn intended to pray. With all his fervor. All night. For the sake of all Alba, not one side or the other. For words to disarm outrage and restore reason. And for relief from this relentless longing.
Chapter Twenty-two
After seeing to the best-fed and groomed cart horse in Crief, Alyn returned to the wagon whe
re Kella was readying for the night.
“What on earth is this?” she exclaimed, tossing out a stick that she found inside the bedroll. “How did that get in here?”
Alyn picked it up and grinned. “Idwyr,” he told her. “It’s in one language you can’t speak.”
“I don’t want anything he leaves behind in my bed,” Kella said with a shudder from beneath the tarp they put up each night to keep the dampness away.
Holding the stick closer to the firelight, Alyn made out the symbols of the druidic ogham carved on it. Had Kella not missed the fire when she tossed it out of the wagon bed, Alyn wouldn’t have seen it. Though it had been a while since he’d studied the old writing form, he made out enough to bring a smile to his worry-thinned lips.
Safe … friend … true … Word. His signature I was the only Roman letter the old wizard had used.
“If all heads were as cool as that crazy old fox, there is hope for us after all,” Alyn murmured to himself. He feared the next time they met, it would be on opposite sides of the conflict.
Father, forbid I take either side but Yours.
Each had valid grievances against the other. Perhaps God would enable him to point out the planks in the eyes of Modred and Arthur without losing his own head in the process.
True … Word.
Aye, Idwyr had the key. Stay true and use the Word to diffuse the situation. Both leaders claimed to uphold it. Though that seemed as impossible as …
As finding Egan alive?
Modred wouldn’t act right away. He had Cassian, Alyn reasoned, so Gwenhyfar was safe for now. Arthur made no decision without his Roman bishop, nor would he risk sending his warband this far into Pictish territory until he knew who stood with him. Each leader would line up his enemies, perhaps wait until after the summer harvest, so that they went to war fully supplied with men and food. So there was time for heads to cool, unless skirmishes escalated into battles, and battles into—
“Alyn,” Kella called from the cart, “aren’t you coming to bed?”
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