Healer

by Linda Windsor

  A defensive rush shot through him. He tried lifting his head, but for all his effort, it might have been the cornerstone of Glenarden’s hall. Truly God, if there was one, had a wicked sense of humor….

  Ronan must have drifted off, for when he next was aware, the scent of food taunted his eyelids open. At a crude table near the hearth, the woman grimaced over a bowl in which she crushed something with a stone pestle. Her hair, now confined in a long black braid, swung as she worked.

  “I’m hoping I can get some of this boiled venison into you, Adam. That is, if I can crush it fine enough,” she said.

  Ronan moved his eyes only, glancing about the stone cell. But the wolf was not there. So who was Adam?

  “You must get stronger, or you’ll never heal.” She stopped and perused a shelf lined with jars and vials. “The drawing herbs and fever brews have done well by you, but it’s time we strengthen the blood and muscles, lest they wane away.” Her voice faded to a murmur as she read off the names of the medicines capped with linen and wax. “And we can’t have that fine body waste away, now, can we?” she said, peeling back the cloth cap of one jar and measuring a bit of its content. She sprinkled it into the bowl and began grinding again.

  What did she know of his body? Ronan moved a hand beneath the coverlets and found his answer. He was stripped naked as a newborn. Worse, he was too weary to care.

  “I think you’ll like this, Adam,” she said, moving to the hearth, where she dipped out a steaming liquid into the bowl of crushed meat and herbs. “’Tis more palatable than the fever brews.”

  Ronan closed his eyes as she turned to look at him. Had he told her his name was Adam, or did she call him so for obvious reasons? Had he told her anything? Heaven help him, he couldn’t remember.

  Her slipper-clad feet were ever so light on the rug-covered stone floor as she approached. The fire at her back silhouetted long slender legs, shapely as they moved within—

  “Oh!”

  Ronan started with her exclamation of surprise.

  “You’re awake! Praise Father God, my prayers are answered.”

  Too late to feign sleep, Ronan held his tongue as she dropped to her knees and, brushing back the hair from his forehead, planted a kiss there. The firelight danced in the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, but a frown creased her brow.

  “You still have some fever, but this is a wondrous improvement.”

  Ah, it wasn’t affection. Not that he expected any. Ronan licked his dry, cracked lips. Try as he might, he had trouble mustering his voice.

  “At last, you can tell me your name,” she prompted.

  His name. She didn’t know it.

  “Adam?” he ventured hoarsely.

  Her laugh sounded as pure as the silver bell of a priest. “Nay, sir, that’s the name I gave you, what with your being the first man I’d e’er seen in mother nature’s all … and I’d wager Adam was no finer specimen.” A second later her eyes widened, crimson splashing over her face. “Not that I noticed all that much. I only ministered as I was trained, of course.”

  Sassy, yet modest. An appealing contradiction.

  “I … appreciate your candor, milady. And your ministrations.” Were he not in such a wretched state, he might seize upon her embarrassment and ripen her cheeks even more.

  “I pray your forgiveness, sir. I tend to say what I think.” She twisted her loose shift in her fingers. “I fear my social skills are sorely lacking.”

  “I find them refreshing.”

  A smile quivered on her lips, as though she were loath to accept him at his word.

  “Perhaps you can tell me how I came to be in your care and where—” He gestured at his surroundings. A terrible burning pain streaked through his right shoulder from both the back and the front, clashing and threatening to explode from within. Ronan ground his teeth to keep from crying out. “By my father’s breath,” he hissed, “what happened to me?”

  The fog was gone completely now, banished by the blinding white agony.

  “Lie still. You’ve angered your wounds with that sudden movement.”

  His caregiver’s heart-shaped face mirrored concern and her lips—

  He focused on them like a lifeline.

  “You were ambushed by a bowman. I took one arrow from your back and the other went clean through your shoulder.”

  Ambush? Who—

  Ronan blinked, fighting the lightheadedness that felt as though it would lift him off the pallet. The sweet scent of lavender accompanied the sharp breaths he inhaled as the woman leaned over him, cradling his head to her shoulder.

  “There now, cariad.”

  Dearest. She called him dearest. Now he really wanted to remember.

  “Be still, and it will pass. Breathe deeply and exhale just as hard. Come now. With me.”

  Ronan could feel her cheek against his ear, smooth and warm. Her fingers twined in his hair as she coached him to inhale and exhale fully. He couldn’t discern if it was the distraction of the breathing or the sweetness of her presence that calmed the throbbing, but subside it did. It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. She almost made him forget, drew him to another plane more comfortable and peaceful. A safe place. Perhaps she was a witch.

  “Brenna will take care of you, but you must be still until the wound closes.”

  Nay, an enchantress called Brenna.

  Ambushed. The word snagged his scattered attention once more. Ronan wanted to know more about that as well, but not now. For the moment, he was … at peace.

  Chapter Six

  The news of Ronan’s death traveled quickly. A month to the day later, Gwenhyfar and her court were coming to pay respects to her late cousin Aeda’s family. Glenarden was often a convenient stop along the queen’s wintry journey from Camelot at Carmelide on the Solway to Arthur’s eastern court at Strighlagh. But this time no effort was being spared, especially by Caden’s wife.

  Every tapestry in Glenarden’s hall had been beaten and rehung. Extra pits were fired and freshly hunted game and river fish roasted over them. In the kitchen, the cooks had worked all night baking fresh breads and painting the flatbreads with food dyes. While Glenarden was wealthy by most standards, few royals had sufficient metal or wooden plates to serve more than the lord, his lady, and perhaps a special guest or two. The floral designs on the flatbreads were above and beyond, an effort surely to be noticed by their royal visitors.

  Indeed, Rhianon’s efforts were everywhere, assailing the senses. Despite fresh spring blossoms being weeks yet away, dried heather and fragrant herbs mixed with new rushes on the floors refreshed the winter stale of the keep.

  Caden was prouder of the weapons and war trophies that hung along the sidewalls and from the rafters, marking the military prowess of the O’Byrne clan. And now that the Gowrys had paid for their trespass against his brother, more trophies would adorn the outer stockade. When the royal party approached, there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Glenarden was a proper warlord’s hall.

  Would that Arthur himself were coming, Caden mused, stepping outside. Beyond the cluster of round huts topped with cones of thatch rose the stone and timber walls that protected the inner keep. Banners freshly made or repaired by the women during the long dark season flapped red, black, and silver in the brisk March wind. Along the timber ramparts his men hung the Gowrys’ shields on the walls of the gatehouses as he’d instructed.

  Sorely outnumbered, the Gowrys men had abandoned the fight and fled into the forest to hide with their families. A smile twitched on Caden’s mouth at the thought of his enemies watching with their frightened women and children as the warriors of Glenarden razed their camp, burned the meager shelters constructed around it, and herded off such cattle as were to be found nearby.

  ’Twas penance long overdue. It had taken two weeks for the pass to clear enough for Caden to lead a search party for his late brother’s remains. Likely due to wolves, there’d been nothing left to find except a common rusted sword and the broken shafts
of two arrows, their red and green fletching and paint faded by their melting cover. But not so faint that the evidence didn’t point straight to Ronan’s murderers.

  Caden made his way around the stone base of the keep to the rear of the compound, where the smithy’s shed, the granaries, and stables lay. All was now his—including Ronan’s fine dappled gelding. Here and there children darted about, laughing, challenging each other. Dogs barked and chased after them, scattering chickens about the muddy yard in a squawking frenzy. Above the din came the occasional shrill reprimand from an irate mother.

  Meeting gazes with his servants, Caden returned the nods with one of his own, accepting his due as lord. That’s what he was, except by ceremony. Tarlach had withdrawn to his quarters since Ronan had gone missing. Rarely did the old man come to the hall, even for meals. On the one hand, Caden preferred the freedom at his disposal. But there was a part of him that wanted his father to acknowledge him as the able and rightful heir to Glenarden. It gnawed at Caden like a dog on a tasty bone that such an admission would never happen. Tarlach blamed him for Ronan’s loss.

  “You should have never left your brother alone.” The spiteful words haunted Caden like a demon spirit.

  He mentally shook them off and sought out Ballach, as had been his custom every day since Ronan disappeared. Caden personally tended the steed in order to win his trust.

  “Ho, there, Ballach,” he said, dipping his hand deeply into the grain barrel before approaching the horse, so named for his speckled gray coat. Ballach shivered in spite of Caden’s gentle murmur and warily nuzzled his outstretched hand.

  “There’s more where that came fr—”

  Shouts sounded from the gate towers. The horse jerked away.

  “Easy, laddie,” Caden cajoled. “It sounds like our royal cousin and her court have come to pay their respects to your late master … and to honor your new.”

  Master of Glenarden by birth to his noble Pictish mother as well as by his Dalraidan father, Caden was in no hurry to meet the approaching royal retinue. Wasn’t he as good as the Dux Bellorum, who’d been landless royalty until Aedan left to rule Dalraida and Arthur acquired Gwenhyfar’s lands by marriage? Granted, Glenarden was just a part of Arthur’s Gododdin, but its wealth was enough for Caden, especially since he and Rhianon were both second born. Such as they were left to make do in life without the sanction of God and, in Caden’s case, without even the aid of the man who sired him. He’d been trained as a warrior alone, not a warrior king as Ronan had. Simply put, Caden had been expendable … until now.

  Caden struck a lordly gait toward the main entrance where a herald clad in Camelot’s blue with gold embroidery awaited his permission for the royal party to make its entrance. Arthur had adopted the blue of the Virgin as the color of his court since his trip to the Holy Land. Some said he’d had the image of her painted on his battleshield, although the banner of the Red Dragon still led his troops into battle.

  “Prince of Glenarden, I salute you in the name of High Queen of the Celtic Kingdoms, Her Majesty Gwenhyfar,” a herald announced upon entering the open gates.

  The High Queen of the Celtic Kingdoms by marriage to Arthur, Dux Bellorum, waited for him.

  Caden’s chest swelled at the thought. “Glenarden welcomes Her Majesty and Court,” he said magnanimously. He opened his arms to encompass all he owned … and ruled.

  The flicker of torches around the perimeter of the great hall gave the embroidered figures and beasts on the tapesty by the Glenarden’s table a life of their own. Even Tarlach came out of his self-enforced seclusion, dressed in the red, black, and gray plaid. For an instant, Caden thought the old man was returning to himself, for, though a crippled picture of former gallantry, Tarlach insisted that the queen take his leather chair at the center of the oak plank table.

  But Queen Gwenhyfar would not hear of it. She graciously took one of the cushioned bench seats between Tarlach and Caden, endearing all who watched to her. With luminous green eyes, ever so slightly slanted, she studied the old lord.

  Or was it the fine charcoal lining that gave them their exotic tilt? Caden wondered. Tales of the old ones suggested the Picts had come from the East in the long, long ago. Regardless, the woman’s reputation for beauty could not be exaggerated. She grew lovelier each time he saw her. Merlin Emrys, the uncle of Arthur’s father, Aedan, had done well by Arthur in choosing this Gwenhyfar. In a small way, it had redeemed Aedan, Arthur’s father, for abandoning Manau to rule Dalraida.

  “Do you think she is pleased?” Rhianon whispered. The opposite in coloring from the queen, his wife was a sun maid, golden and resplendent in her best wine-hued gown … and with a fire to match beneath the coverlets.

  “How can she not be, my love? You and Vychan have outdone yourselves.”

  Rhianon and Vychan, Glenarden’s steward, had put aside their silent battle for control of the keep and worked with flawless cohesion. Throughout the sumptuous feast, they continued to communicate with meaningful gazes or nods. The servants performed their assigned tasks like warriors drilled in hospitality.

  And now that the meal was finished, etiquette allowed for the business of the kingdom to be discussed rather than family matters and idle talk. The business of his kingdom.

  “Your father tires,” the queen observed quietly. Although she spoke the same language, Gwenhyfar possessed the same Pictish accent as Caden’s late mother. It put many of her British-born subjects off, even though she was fluent in the language of the Scot and Cymri peoples.

  Caden gave Tarlach an embarrassed glance. The old man had nodded off in the midst of his meal, his head tilted ever to the left. “He sleeps more and more since Ronan’s death … as though he’s eager to join my lost brother.”

  “So this recent raid upon the Gowrys was under your leadership alone?”

  At last. Caden nodded, eager for his due recognition. “The shields hung on our outer walls were taken or left behind by the Gowrys men.”

  “Arthur does not question Glenarden’s warrior might,” the queen demured. “You and your men have proven yourselves many times over. Part of the reason for this visit, beyond the loss of your brother, is to seek Glenarden warriors for his next campaign.”

  “I’d like to lead them, your lordship willing,” Egan O’Toole offered. The champion cast an anxious look at Caden.

  “Aye.” Caden turned back to his royal guest. “It goes without saying that Arthur will have what he asks of Glenarden.” But wariness crept along Caden’s spine.

  Over the meal, the queen—as his late mother’s concerned younger cousin—had lamented Ronan’s loss and listened to Tarlach’s ceaseless praise of his lost son. Now the commiserating gentlewoman had vanished. In her place was the warrior queen, who led her troops into battle.

  “Do I detect displeasure in Your Majesty?” Caden asked. “For I can assure you, we do not make war without good cause.”

  Gwenhyfar’s gaze was as hard as the green gem from the East adorning one of her rings. “My lord Arthur simply wishes that such conflicts be brought to us for just resolution. While our kings and chieftains war among themselves, killing each other off, the Saxons and the Miathi wait with bated breath, poised to attack when we’ve weakened or distracted each other.”

  Rhianon bristled at Caden’s side. “My lord had absolute proof that our enemy took Ronan’s life!”

  “Then I would see it.” The demand came not from the queen, but from one of her retinue seated around the central fire on benches. A bent, hooded man in an earthy brown cloak rose from a seat far away from the table of honor to a height nearly a full head taller than most. For all Caden knew, he was no more than a lowly manservant. Unnoticeable—until now.

  Gwenhyfar laughed. “Merlin Emrys, you are ever a surprise to us. Did Arthur not think me capable of speaking on his behalf?”

  Merlin Emrys here in Glenarden? Caden’s astonishment echoed throughout the hall, even among the queen’s retinue.

  “Do come forward, frie
nd,” Gwenhyfar encouraged.

  The merlin took his time in his approach, leaning heavily on a staff, the top of which had been carved out to house a crystal set in a silver cross. Light from the nearest torch struck the crystal stone embedded in the cross and cast beams in a hundred directions, drawing gasps of wonder from many of the onlookers. Caden hadn’t seen it until now, but then Merlin Emrys hadn’t intended to be seen beforehand. He was known as a master of disguise. Some claimed he actually shifted shape. Such was the difference between the minds of the educated noble class and the common folk, many of whom still held to their pagan gods and superstitions.

  Rhianon was no exception. Though educated according to her rank, his bride still kept her favorite goddesses under her pillow, clinging to both the old ways and the new as many were wont to do. Caden himself held to nothing greater than himself and his ability with a sword.

  Merlin tossed back his hood, revealing white hair flowing from the shaved ear-to-ear line of the druidic tonsure so typical of the Celtic Church. Head bowed slightly to the queen, he spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “Milady, you were taught by one of my most illustrious colleagues on the Holy Isle. You are most capable of representing Arthur’s position.”

  Caden wondered if the sage was as old as he looked. Though he was still tall by most standards, his shoulders were the rounded ones of a scholar from time spent over faded manuscripts, charts, and his curious experiments with the elements of nature. Yet he had clear, piercing blue eyes enfolded beneath a high weathered brow. They shifted from Gwenhyfar to Caden.

  “I would like to see the arrows you found, milord.”

  “How could you possibly know about them?” Rhianon demanded, astonished.

  Caden placed a restraining hand on his lady’s thigh beneath the cover of the table. “Clearly someone from Glenarden carried the news to Arthur’s court, milady.”