Healer

by Linda Windsor

  Slipping through the hall was easier than he’d anticipated. It teemed with servants preparing for the Pascal celebration—tomorrow, if his sense of time was right. Brother Martin had said he was invited to officiate.

  “You!” Lady Rhianon pointed an imperious finger at Ronan. Clad in apron and kerchief, she jerked it toward a heaping barrow of fresh hay. “Help spread the new threshing. I should hate to choke on dust still floating in the air during supper.”

  Wondering how the old steward Vychan had accepted her takeover, Ronan bowed his head in acknowledgment and walked to the barrow. ’Twould be quite a setback for the imperious Rhianon when Brenna became mistress, especially now that his wife was with child. Brenna had told Ronan the morning after their wedding night that she had conceived. And knowing his new wife as he did, he believed her.

  With an armload of threshing, he worked his way toward the back of the hall, where Tarlach’s bedchamber had been made of an anteroom. The door was closed. After spreading the hay along the wall, Ronan stepped into the chamber. It was dark … and musty. The housekeeping outside had clearly been overlooked in here.

  Ronan couldn’t see a thing. If not for a small lamp on a table and his knowledge of where Tarlach’s bed lay, he’d have been lost indeed. By the time he reached it, his eyes had adjusted more to the dim light. He could make out his father’s sleeping form, curled on its side.

  And it was after midday. Usually by this time, Tarlach would have ridden over the fields with him.

  Alarmed, Ronan touched Tarlach’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Father, the day is half wasted.”

  “Get away.” Tarlach shook off Ronan’s hand. “Leave me die in peace.”

  “Are you ill?” Ronan found his forehead beneath a tangled shock of hair. Save Tarlach’s blinking eyes, his face was all but covered in it.

  With a low growl, Tarlach rolled to his back, the gnarled fist of his good arm drawn. “By the Devil’s own breath, I’ll have you—”

  “Father, it’s Ronan.” Ronan tugged off the hat so that the dim flame on the bedside table illuminated his face.

  Tarlach’s fierceness gave way to a sob. Half fear and half hope, it gurgled in his throat. He shrank into the coverlets.

  “I’m no ghost.” Ronan reached for his trembling hand and squeezed it. “See? Flesh and bone, same as you.”

  The old man tugged Ronan’s hand to his mouth, kissing it over and over, his groans wrenched from his shuddering chest. He rocked like a child. A drooling, distraught child.

  It shook Ronan to the core that the angry, wounded bear Ronan had left behind at Witch’s End was reduced to this. The squalor and stench. The behavior. Had Tarlach gone totally mad?

  Ronan had been prepared to face the bear. Not this.

  He pulled Tarlach upright with the hand his father would not let go. At least his strength survived in that good arm. It felt awkward for Ronan to put his arm around the old man’s sob-racked shoulders, but he did so anyway. Ronan hated Tarlach’s obsession, but not the man who’d made him his pride and joy.

  God, help me. I know not how to deal with this Tarlach.

  Ronan heard no answer. Perhaps one had to know God longer than he for prompt replies. Helpless, he simply held Tarlach in his arms until the tears and sobs were exhausted.

  Had Caden done this? As soon as Ronan thought it, he minded that the door had not been barred.

  Vychan. He was the one who could explain.

  Tenderly, Ronan eased away from Tarlach, though he had to pry away the old man’s crooked fingers from his hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised his father. “I’m only going to send for Vychan. I am not going anywhere.”

  Once free, Ronan donned the hat again and, opening the door, caught the attention of a passing servant. He changed his voice as best he could.

  “Milord calls for Vychan. See to it, woman. Tarlach’s in a mood.”

  The maid gave Ronan a hard look before acknowledging with a disdainful sniff. Clearly the hall staff thought themselves superior to the ones who worked the fields to fill all their bellies.

  Behind him, Tarlach pulled himself upright with a rope affixed to a beam for such purpose and swung his bare legs over the edge of the leather-strapped bed. The effort cost him his breath. He held onto the rope as though he might fall back if he let it go. “Where … have you … been?”

  “It’s a long story, Father. For now, just know that I am returned, hale and hearty.”

  Hale and hearty enough. The wounds still let him know they were there if he twisted the wrong way or strained overmuch. But his strength had come back. He handled the sword he’d left behind with the field hand well enough.

  “Are you well enough to get up and dress?”

  Tarlach smiled. At least Ronan thought he did behind that matted bush of a beard. “I am now.”

  After a short knock, Vychan let himself into the room. “Milord, you’re up,” he exclaimed, both surprised and pleased, by the sound of it.

  “I want a celebration, Vychan. The biggest we’ve ever had.”

  “Milady Rhianon is working on that as we speak, milord. But she will be pleased to know you are up and attending.”

  Tarlach snorted. “Not the Pascal. There’s the reason.” He gestured to the shadows behind the door where Ronan stood.

  From the look on Vychan’s thin face, Ronan knew the loyal steward had nothing to do with the attack. Pure joy lit upon it. “My lord Ronan!” And then the man grew speechless, a rare occasion in any circumstance, for Vychan always had an opinion.

  “Vychan, it is good to see you again, my friend.” Ronan grasped his arm firmly. Thin, but wiry like the rest of him. “Now tell me, what has happened to my father, that he lies listless in bed after midday?”

  “Your loss, milord. We thought you dead, murdered by the Gowrys.”

  Stunned, Ronan spun to face his father. “You did this to yourself, when Glenarden needed you more than ever?”

  “Your brother was more than eager to take over Glenarden,” Tarlach mumbled.

  “Not to mention her ladyship,” Vychan added, mouth twisted awry.

  “As they should have … under Father’s approval,” Ronan told them.

  “Don’t lecture me, boy. My old heart has been broken,” Tarlach huffed. “And it may take some time for me to gather the pieces. So help me get dressed. I’ve a celebration to plan.”

  “Father, I would rather no one know just yet.”

  “But why, milord?” Vychan asked.

  “Because someone attacked me and left me for dead. Someone whom, I think, rode with us at the Witch’s End.”

  For a moment, Ronan thought Tarlach would sink back on the bed. But as the words penetrated, his jaw took on a familiar set. “Would you recognize him?”

  Ronan’s shoulders dropped. “I was wounded by arrows before he openly attacked me. ’Twas his sword I watched, not his face. But for the interference of a cave hermit, he might have finished me. But the hermit’s dog and keen skill with a bow scared off the villain.”

  Ronan purposely left out Brenna’s identity for the time being—and Faol’s. He still wasn’t sure of Tarlach’s state of mind.

  “You can’t hide in here forever, Son.”

  “Aye, he’s right about that,” Vychan chimed in.

  True. Even if Ronan could stand the stench, he couldn’t remain undetected for long.

  “Then let us keep a sharp eye out for any who seem overly astonished or upset at my resurrection from the dead,” he agreed at last. “Meanwhile, Vychan …”

  “Milord?” the steward replied.

  “Have this pigsty cleaned and aired. And a new mattress. And send a man to see Father bathed and shaven properly.”

  “I’ll see to your father myself.”

  “Do the two of you think I’m deaf?” Tarlach demanded from his bedside. As if to prove himself, he used the rope to pull himself to his feet, but his knees nearly buckled in spite of its support.

  The old man ha
d not lost his fight after all.

  “Nay, Father, just weaker of body from lazing about and,” he added, waving his hand across his nose, “stronger of bouquet.”

  “I’ll have my mustache.”

  “I’ll personally see to it that you do, milord,” Vychan assured him.

  “And tell that woman we’ll sup outside the hall tonight, for there’ll be no room for all who will want to see my son again.”

  “I’ll have the bonfires lit,” Vychan said, “and help milady set up the guest table at the top of the steps for milord’s family and guests.” The steward seized Ronan’s hand, shaking it again and again. “This is a joyous day, to be sure. I’ll have your room restored to you as well.”

  “Perhaps after the Pascal guests have left. I’m not oaf enough to displace Lady Rhianon without warning.”

  By then, Ronan would have prepared his family and gone to fetch Brenna. Just the thought of his wife filled him to a completeness he’d never known. As she’d breathed new life into him, Ronan had no doubt that she would do the same to Glenarden.

  Somewhere between This World and the Other World lies a place where the spirit may continue its journey forward or go back. Brenna did not want to go back to where danger and treachery awaited her and the tiny life within her womb. She could not see the child’s spirit, but held it with her own. The joy was tenable, lifting her into a light so brilliant, she could not see. Yet she knew.

  She knew Ealga was there, embracing her and the babe. And there was her mother and father … without form, but surrounding her with all that they were. Their love renewed her, vanquishing her pain and fear. Then gently, firmly, they pushed her back toward the bruised and broken body waiting in This World.

  “You must return, child.”

  That voice. She knew it well. Not that of anyone she’d ever known on This Side, but the still, small voice that had been her companion for as long as she remembered. It was the voice of her Shepherd.

  “Where have you been?” she shouted at Him. “Why did you let this happen to me and my baby?”

  “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.”

  “And Faol? He did nothing wrong but love me.”

  “A gift for a season lives forever in your mind. As for you and your child, you will be safe, for I have plans that you should prosper … and make my people prosper.”

  “No.”

  Never had she spoken so to the Shepherd, but it was too much. More than she could bear.

  But the grasp of This World would not relent, no matter how many times Brenna’s consciousness recoiled from the sharp pain jabbing at her head. Nausea roiled from her belly to her throat. Every joint screamed. And then the agony let her go once more to drift, beyond physical sensation. But this time there was no loving embrace of light, only pain-free darkness. Her soul sank into it. She was back in This World to stay … at least for a season. And it didn’t feel as if her Shepherd had returned with her.

  The gray-marble of smoke hovered over the village before thinning ever upward as Glenarden’s horsemen approached the gatehouse. A banner with pale blue and black colors of Rhianon’s visiting family flew opposite the red, black, and silver of the O’Byrne. The guests from Gwynedd had arrived. A glance at the horizon told Caden there would be time before purple twilight gathered over the western hills to wash away the blood and filth of the hunt for the feasting to follow.

  His procession of triumph, though, would not wait. He had caught the long-sought witchwoman. The pall of the prophecy would lift forever when he presented her to Tarlach. Granted, Caden would have preferred presenting the living, breathing, helpless creature whom Tarlach had feared for so long. Even if his father didn’t recognize Caden as rightful lord of Glenarden, the people would recognize the superstitious old man for the mad soul he was. This was the beginning of a new age for Glenarden.

  But the fall had killed the madwoman. Her breathless, broken body was rolled in a blanket and secured across Ballach’s flank. Behind them followed Caden’s fellow hunters with the fine bucks they’d come upon not long after she’d thrown herself to her death … and a makeshift rack with the trophy wolf skin stretched for proper drying.

  The guards in the gatehouse hailed the approaching hunters and opened the gates to receive them. Caden slowed Ballach. Where was the crowd? Had he not sent runners ahead to let the keep know the men returned, not only with meat for the tables, but a spectacular prize? He’d sworn them to secrecy as to the latter’s nature, of course. Yet, aside from the usual watchmen manning the gate, there were no onlookers to cheer his return.

  Uneasiness pricked at his senses. This was not right.

  “Tell the men to have their weapons ready,” he said to Heming.

  “Aye, something is amiss to be sure,” the Gwynedd man agreed.

  “How goes the day?” Caden shouted to one of the guards. He recognized the man, as well as his companions. “Where is our welcome?”

  “On the inner grounds of the keep, milord. ’Tis a most wondrous day for Glenarden.”

  Well, his father wasn’t dead. Wondrous would hardly be used to describe a clan chief’s death. Yet something clearly had happened.

  “And why is this day so wondrous?” Caden asked, for clearly the oaf was going to shed no more light on the mystery.

  “We are instructed by Milord Tarlach to tell you Glenarden is received of a most welcome and esteemed guest.”

  Tarlach was up and about? No amount of beseeching on Caden’s part had roused the old man from that putrid den of grief. By the gods, what game was the madman about? And before Gwynedd’s guests? Rhianon must be as fitful as a hen in a fox’s teeth at this.

  Unless Arthur had come to Glenarden. That had to be it. They had a royal visitor.

  “Enter straight and proud, men,” Caden called over his shoulder. “It seems we have an honored and unexpected guest to welcome.”

  The village beyond the stockade enclosure was all but abandoned. A few dogs frolicked unchecked, driving fowl up to the low-hanging thatch of the rooftops. Ballach strained at the rein, eager to return to the stable and a handsome helping of grain. Struck with an anticipation of a different sort, Caden allowed the steed to break into a slow canter.

  Because of his maternal connections to nobility, he’d grown accustomed to Queen Gwenhyfar’s visits, but Arthur had never been to Glenarden.

  Ahead, the great hall rose in its stone and timber majesty above a skirt of tents, set up by Gwynedd’s entourage. Rhianon had insisted on preparing the master bedchamber for her parents, while the rest of the visitors would sleep either in the hall or in their tents. But if Arthur were here, new arrangements would have to be made.

  And given the massive spread of people, that was surely the case. The Pendragon himself, Dux Bellorum of Britain … Caden’s guest. Pride swelled in Caden’s chest, leaving hardly room for breath.

  The crowd parted to allow Caden and his men to ride straight toward the steps, where a banquet table had been set. Here and there amidst the carpet of people, the smoke of bonfires wafted up, indicating the festivities were expected to continue well into the spring evening.

  Caden reined in Ballach. Where was Arthur’s banner of the Red Dragon?

  “Welcome home, Son.” Definitely not at death’s door, Tarlach shoved himself to his feet behind the board table. He was not without trembling and leaned heavily on the board before him. Still, his great mustache had been trimmed, hanging like an oxbow on an otherwise clean-shaven face, and his silver-gold hair had been combed and braided. Next to him, the seat of honor stood empty.

  The bench Caden usually shared with Rhianon was empty as well. But then, she might be busy. Perhaps even washing the guests’ feet, as was only fit hospitality.

  Caden nodded to his father-in-law, Idwal, and his wife, Enda. “I bid my Gwynedd family welcome.”

  Idwal and his lady nodded stiffly, both shifting uncomfortable gazes from Tarlach to Caden. Perhaps his father had insulted them?

  �
�We have a great shuprise this day,” Tarlach informed him.

  No. Tarlach was not going to steal his moment.

  “As have we, Father,” Caden announced. Not even Arthur would take this from him.

  Caden slid to the ground from Ballach’s back. Pain burned in his overstretched groin muscles, but he hid it. Instead, he worked loose the knots securing the body of the witchwoman. After heaving her over his shoulder, he approached the steps of the keep, his limp slight. At their bottom, he unrolled the blanket, depositing the lifeless body at the bottom of the steps before the head table.

  “Behold, Father, the wolf-woman … the witch you’ve feared all these years. Brenna of Gowrys!”

  A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. The closest onlookers took a step back as one. The old chief blanched, pale as the still figure on the ground. Clutching at his chest, Tarlach sank into his chair, shaken to the core at the sight of the still and bloodied corpse.

  Suddenly everyone was talking, staring, pointing. Caden stood proudly over his prize, taking his due recognition. Like Beowulf over Grendel, like Jason with the Golden Fleece, like—

  “What … have … you … done?”

  The words that rose above and quelled the cacophony came at Caden like the roar of the beasts of old. No war cry Caden had ever heard compared to their rage … and lust for blood.

  The urge to race toward Ballach and his sword stopped as though hitting a mountain wall at the sight of his eldest brother, dressed in the finest red, black, and gray brat and embroidered linen tunic—the one that Tarlach refused to give to Caden.

  Ronan! Caden blinked in disbelief, unable to move. But Ronan is dead.

  At least Ronan had the pallor of the dead. His eldest brother stood equally frozen, not by the sight of Caden, but by that of the body of the woman lying at his feet. Then with an unearthly howl of rage—or agony—Ronan came down the steps in two bounds. Caden stepped back, bracing himself, but instead of attacking him, Ronan gathered the wolf-woman up in his arms.