She reached into the deep pocket to find the dust. Oh thank God! She took a handful out, careful not to drop any. What was the phrase? Taispeáin an solas dom and blew on the dust. The sand ignited and spread through the air, moving at an alarming speed, then flew up and raced against the ceiling, casting light on all below. Brenawyn switched off the lantern to save battery power.
She walked picked her way carefully on the slippery rocks, heading deeper into the earth. She blew on more dust periodically, muttering the same phrase, rewarded with light to further her journey. She hiked through the rocks, scrambling over stalagmites that fell eons ago, Following the twinkling lights, she came to a dead end and looked up to the spiraling lights as they twisted up. Brenawyn put her pack down, knowing what she needed to do if ever she was going to be free. She thought of going back but the steep climb was more than she could bear. She tried the dust anyway, but the lights only went up. She’d be lost forever in these caves if she went back down. She no longer had the man-made trails to judge her whereabouts.
The shaft was tight, little more than a body’s width, and if that were the case, she’d be able to use pressure to keep from falling. There was a coil of nylon rope in the pack, along with a grappling hook and carabiners. She went slowly, wedging her back against the wall before venturing up, more concerned with finding a secure foothold than what was keeping her from falling to her death, broken on the slabs below. The space became tighter as she put her hands on rock covered in light dust that glinted and faded out as she passed. At least she couldn’t frighten herself by looking down. Her fingers and toes ached from gripping. The muscles in her legs and arms screamed. The space was getting smaller, closing in on her. This was no time for claustrophobia. She came to the end of the line, where the reminder of the light clustered in front of her. Now what? She couldn’t go down.
She maneuvered and the hook scraped on the wall. She gripped the handle and took a half swing that was all the space would allow at the point. The rock gave easily, crumbling away, showering her with chunks of limestone. She gave another series of whacks; more chunks fell away. She could feel a breeze and it gave her strength to keep hacking.
It was a long time before she had an opening large enough to pull herself through but when she did, she had no interest in looking to see where she ended up. Somewhere in the vicinity of the caverns, but it was dark, night, and she was so tired. Crawling away from the opening she curled up in a depression behind a fallen log, pillowing her head on her pack before dropping off to sleep.
She came awake in increments, listening to the sounds of the birds and small animals scurry around her. Soon enough she’d have to deal with where she was, but she would keep her eyes closed for just a few more minutes.
What was that?
Brenawyn heard voices whispering. They had seen her. Shit. Time to deal. She opened her eyes and at first didn’t see anyone. “Hello?”
“Och, she’s awake. The sleeping lady’s awake. Da’s got ta be told.” A rustle of leaves and brush, identified the retreating forms of two gawky boys in kilts. “Bide,” the taller told his brother, “we canna lose her.” The younger looked back at Brenawyn, conflicting emotions racing across his face. He obviously wanted to stay to claim whatever bragging rights there were to be had, but he was skeptical, looking at her as if she were a snake. She stood up and took a step towards him, and he shied away. Perhaps she’d be able to get a location from the father when he arrived.
She judged the boy was no danger and sat down on the log. She was in a ravine; a stone bridge spanned the gap above her. She was no expert, and certainly never looked at the structural quality of anything, but didn’t concrete and steel buttresses need to be there for support?
“What’s your name?” she called.
His mouth gaped as he turned his head in the direction of his now absent brother and took a few steps back.
“I won’t hurt you.” She tried to allay his fears, still sitting on the log. “I’m lost. Could you tell me where I am?”
Again, nothing. She gave up. If he wasn’t going to answer her she’d better find someone who would. Perhaps if she went in the direction of the brother she’d run into someone who could give her information. But in the time it took her to swing the pack on her back, she heard a group approach.
“Och laddie, it be too many o’ the auld stories ye be hearin’ around the fire. Be speakin’ ta yer da tonight, I will.”
“I doona need ta confess. Ye’ll see.”
The two came around the bend and the woman stopped midstride so the brother walked into her rocking her forward on her feet.
Brenawyn stood up brushing at the wrinkles in her overalls, as if that would help. The woman was petite, with a kerchief holding back her long greying hair. The first real indication that she was in the past was the woman’s dress. She wore a rough woven blouse and skirt under a long apron. She had a cape wrapped around her to guard her against the cold.
“Och, St. Bride save us. T’is the sleeping lady.” She was shaking visibly, “Laddie, go find yer da. Bring him back ta the keep. Go, take yer brother too.”
“Hi, um, I’m Brenawyn McAllister. Could you tell … ”
“No’ the now. Come, ye canna be seen as ye are. T’is indecent.” Rushing to her side, she twirled the cape off her shoulders and onto Brenawyn’s, in one fluid movement, effectively hiding her coveralls. “Come, I’ll slip ye inta the keep, find ye something suitable ta wear, and then ye’ll get yer questions answered.
“But, if you would just...”
“I doona mean ta be discourteous,” she said, looking around at the surrounding shrubbery with suspicion, pinning the ends of the cloth with a silver broach, “but thaur are people who would be frightened and it wouldna bode well for ye.”
Brenawyn had no choice but to trail after her. She was in a different time, and she could have appeared in much less desirable circumstances. She’d follow this woman for the time being, allow her to find appropriate clothing that would help her fit in better, until at least, she opened her mouth and announced that she was from some other place. She was obviously in Scotland or Ireland. She’d never paid any mind to the different dialects, and didn’t know if the distinction would help her now. What could she say about her own place of origin? A woman, her speech and her pronunciations markedly different, traveling alone? Could she ask to see the Merlin? Should she make reference to the Druids? Her first instinct was to reveal nothing until she had a better bead on where and when she was.
The grade of the land became steep, calling for all of her focus to not trip over the folds of the cloak. The woman, who was not even short of breath from the climb, had to turn and wait for her frequently.
“Och, gi’ me the bag. With all yer huffing, ye’ll sure attract the whole clan’s attention.”
Without the bag, it was easier, because it wasn’t pulling her off balance. They gained the edge and Brenawyn held her side, breathing deeply through her mouth, but the woman marched on, figuring Brenawyn to follow now that the ground was even.
She stood at the edge of a stone bridge, the same that spanned the ravine, with guard towers on either side. She saw movement in the shadows of the thin openings, eyes staring down at her. The woman hurried back, took her arm and led her on, beyond the sight of the tower. “I should ha' waited 'til the dark ta bring ye. When we get ta the end o’ the path, hurry, like yer busy at yer tasks, and for all that is holy, keep yer head down. Follow me but not as close as we would be seen walking together. Ye ken, aye?”
“Yes. I can do that. What is your name?”
“Later, lassie. Later.”
They passed through the matching towers, unmanned, and into an open courtyard. Brenawyn passed small structures easily identifiable as stables, smokehouse and a blacksmith’s forge were closest to the gate and furthest away from the main dwelling for ease and probably safety from fire. They passed a large draft horse pulling a cart full of peat as they reached the kitchen. This
was attached to the main keep, the largest building and, it turned out, this was where they were heading.
Without looking back, the woman entered the kitchens. As she entered silence fell as the roomful of women stopped amid their duties, one with her hands still in the dough she was kneading, another taking bread out of the wood oven. A loaf fell in the cinders, showering the skirt of a gape-mouthed girl with embers. This made the women move, slowly at first, the one looking interestedly as the edges of her apron. Eyes wide with the implication, she emitted a small cry and began to pat at the smoldering cloth.
Her escort doubled back gathering Brenawyn and ushering her past the herd, “Back ta yer duties,” she said to the room at large.
The corridor off the kitchen led directly to a steep staircase and Brenawyn was shepparded up. The utilitarian stair led up five flights and out on a walkway on the outside of the building where she looked over the entire picturesque compound and a river beyond. She wasn’t allowed to enjoy it for long, though because the woman steered her to the corner turret. With the jingle of a key ring, she reached around Brenawyn, keeping a steel grip on her arm, to open the door.
Brenawyn stepped into the Spartan apartment. In it was a large bed, stripped down to the bare linen rush mattress, a serviceable desk, and a bookshelf stuffed with tomes and scrolls in a higgly-piggly fashion.
The woman looked abashed at the state of the room, “Please forgive us, lady, I will find the lass responsible for this. Do ye like me ta bring her so ye can exact punishment?”
Brenawyn was confused. “Punishment?”
“Aye, I will order yer rooms ta be made presentable.” She looked around the room with efficiency, mumbling to herself, checking off a mental list of supplies. She went to the empty fireplace, knelt, and in minutes a flame caught on the kindling. She fed it slowly, laying first a pile of thin branches, making sure they caught, and then laid the largest of the split logs across, careful not to smother it.
Brenawyn watched her for a long moment, her back still turned, as she crouched there, absently wiping her hands on her skirt. Brenawyn turned to unpin the broach and the cloak slipped through her fingers to the floor; she was unaccustomed to the weight of the dyed wool. She collected it from the floor, folded it in half, placed it on the end of the bed, and set the broach on top of it.
The woman turned. “Please, allow me ta help ye undress.”
Brenawyn stepped back and laughed, “I can handle it, thank you.”
“I will leave ye then ta make arrangements.” The woman looked back at her and sighed, tears glistening in her eyes before closing the door behind her.
“Wait,” Brenawyn called but the key slid into the rusty lock with a click as it slid home effectively making Brenawyn prisoner. She unzipped her pack, unfolding her garments still damp from the cave. She dragged the two ladder-backed chairs in the room over to the fire and laid the wet clothing over it to dry. She sat on the hearth rug and took off her boots, placing her bare feet as close to the fire as she could stand, the purple polish on her toes a visual reminder that she didn’t belong here. Why did she think that she should come? To what purpose? How was she to find Alexander in a time when any mention of Druid practice, or of Celtic gods would probably be misunderstood as witchcraft?
Assess. What did she know? The two boys, the woman, and those who were in the kitchen knew of her presence. Add to that the guards in the tower—too many, considering by now more people had heard of the bundled stranger. She was locked in this room away from the other residents of the house, five floors up. It might as well be fifty stories up. The likelihood of escape seemed improbable. She’d just have to wait until a chance came her way.
The key rasped in the lock again and the door opened to a barrage of women carrying supplies—piles of linen and down comforters, tapestries, velvets, toiletries. A dozen women, most if not all had been in attendance in the kitchen, shyly dipped their heads and bowed, hurrying to ready the room. The woman who came in last in the line supervised as a brass tub that took four of girls to pull emerged from behind the partial wall. “Aye, and when done with that run ta get water heating on the brazier,” she said.
The room was quickly swept, a feather bed fluffed and placed on top of the rush mattress and covered with linens and comforters. Velvet curtains were hung around the bed and tapestries over the windows to protect against drafts. Only then did the supervisor, Brenawyn’s rescuer, turn to her with a smile on her face.
“I am Mistress Fordoun, I welcome ye ta the Keep.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Brenawyn McAllister.”
She looked askance at Brenawyn but shook her head, “McAllister? Now, that t’is a surprise.” Waving her hand, “No matter, t’is good ta be able ta put a name ta the sleeping lady.”
“The sleeping lady? I think you have me confused … ”
“Aye, the sleeping lady. Were ye not found in the glen sleeping by the fairy mound? Strange clothes. Aye, we’ve been waiting a long time for ye.” She patted her arm, “Himself is out just the now. Messengers ha’ been dispatched. He will return, most like, 'afore a fortnight. Until then, yer every comfort will be seen ta, yer bath will be drawn and clothes set out for ye thaur,” motioning to the bed. A pile of linen undergarments and several layers of what would constitute a dress in the current fashion, made of much richer fabrics than the ones on the women in the room lay over the back of the chair. Her own clothes were suspiciously absent. “Off with yer trews. Ye won’t be needing them.”
Brenawyn looked down, her trouble evidently written on her flushed cheeks.
“Och, modest, are ye? Thaur is a screen yonder, undress thaur, and when the bath is ready I will call ye.”
Much to Brenawyn delight, she saw that the screen was moveable and she repositioned it with little effort in front of the tub, went to the bed, carefully unfolded the undergarments and found what she hoped to be the first layer, was it called a shift in this time? She hung it over the top of the screen and then disappeared behind it.
The tub was deep and the water beckoned her with its steamy tendrils. She instructed the last of the girls, who wouldn’t look her in the eye to leave the bucket. The girl, wild eyed, looked up shaking her head, casting looks over her shoulder at the main room that held the formidable Mistress Fordoun. “No, it’s so I can rinse my hair.”
“Miss, let me help ye, please,” she whispered, still casting glances over her shoulder.
Brenawyn didn’t know why, but she had the feeling that it would be worse for the girls if she dismissed all help. “All right.” She knelt by the tub, unzipping the coveralls to her waist, her bra, the only thing she had underneath, another reminder that she was in a different time. The girl wouldn’t know what to make of it. If she asked, it was a short corset designed to push up the breasts. Hopefully, she wouldn’t look too closely at the details, eye hooks, and the maker tag. Jesus, Brenawyn was going to end up burnt at the stake.
The girl didn’t say anything but reached for the pot of lavender scented soap and lathered it in, massaging her scalp and rinsed it with the bucket. Once done, Brenawyn stepped out of her garments and sunk into the tub, oblivious to everything but the still-steaming water. She sighed and closed her eyes.
When the water had finally cooled, she opened her eyes again. The girl was gone. A fluffy length of wool was folded on a chair by the tub, and Brenawyn got out and dried herself off. The noise brought the girl, wide eyed rushing around the screen, “Miss, ye should ha’ called. T’is my job.”
“Relax. I won’t tell,” she said, holding the towel around herself. “What is your name?”
“Me mum calls me Margaret,” she answered in a high-pitched voice, hastily curtsying.
“Margaret,” she said, dropping the towel, “was my mother’s name. Can you help me dress?” This is what was customary, as awkward as it seemed. She needed to fit in, who knew who this girl would speak to after she left, besides she wouldn’t be able to dress herself, after the shift.
An escort came to get her for dinner, a quiet affair with a smattering of people, most of whom she had seen on her arrival. This routine continued for ten days. She spent her days in the tower, at meals someone, usually one of the two boys who initially found her, would come for her, offer an arm, escort her down patiently waiting as she stumbled over her ill-fitting shoes, and be ready to take her again to her chambers afterward, but would not speak to her.
On the eleventh day, early, horns awoke her. She pushed the tapestry aside and looked out the window, but it offered no view of what was happening below. She paced the apartment and when the door opened sometime later, it was to a flush-cheeked girl, eager to be away.
“What is happening? Who has come?”
“My da has come home. He was gone with the baron. They ha’ come home early; they say ta see ye, my lady.”
“Did you miss your father?”
The girl bounced up and down nodding her head, “My da brings me trinkets always.”
“Then you should go to him.”
“But … ”
“No buts, sweetie, go find your father. I expect someone else will come for me.”
She didn’t have to wait long, Mistress Fordoun and her entourage came bustling in with toiletries and arms full of muslin and a gown. They whirled around pulling Brenawyn to her feet but that was all the effort she needed to make, all else was done for her. The shift was whisked off her head and new fine lawn one replaced it. A corset came around her and Brenawyn thought she’d pass out; she couldn’t breathe or sit. “No’ ta worry, my lady, yer going ta be beautiful.”
Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy Page 16
