Healer

by Linda Windsor

  “Brenna!” His sob was loud enough to wake the dead in Erin a sea away. “Brenna!” He kissed her face. Her head. Her neck. Again and again. And shook her.

  Caden couldn’t believe what he saw. The ghost of his brother, come back in the flesh, hysterical over the death of a witch he’d hunted a lifetime.

  “Come back to me, Brenna of the Hallowed Hills.”

  Brenna of the Hallowed Hills?

  Ronan was as crazed as Tarlach.

  “At least we know that Ronan was not the wolf,” someone observed dryly from among the horsemen.

  Bewitched, Caden thought. That’s the only explanation. Maybe something to do with the ring on her finger.

  Ronan gently laid her down and raised her hand to his lips, kissing it as though it were some religious relic.

  “She killed herself,” Caden heard himself saying. “Ran over a cliff, rather than be caught. She went crazy when I killed the wolf, but it attacked—”

  Without warning, Ronan shot up from his crouched position and drove what remained of Caden’s breath out of his body. He struck the ground, his elder brother atop him. Instinctively, he fought back, striking Ronan in the jaw, but the blow didn’t faze him. Caden drew up his leg in an attempt to throw Ronan off and the pain that ripped through his groin nearly made him faint. Yet he dare not. Not with the feral look in Ronan’s gaze. Not with the snarling flash of his teeth. His time with the wolf-woman showed in his every mannerism.

  Why didn’t someone try to pull them apart? Ronan was mad, and Caden’s men knew he’d been hurt. Caden swung at Ronan again, blinded by pain. He missed his brother’s face, hitting him squarely in the shoulder. With an agonized cry, Ronan gave way, stumbling backward, favoring it. Having found a weakness, Caden hit him again.

  Where was everyone? What was the matter with them? Not even Tarlach allowed his sons to fight. Matters between him and Ronan were often settled far away from the keep and their father’s eye.

  Ronan rolled away with a grunt and to his feet, shaking his head as if to shake away his obvious pain.

  “Caden!” Heming tossed Caden his sword.

  Caden seized it and gingerly hauled himself upright. He could hardly straighten. Blood ran from his nose down the front of his hunting vest.

  “Use that sword, Brother, because if you do not, I will kill you.” Head lowered, holding his bad shoulder with his free hand, Ronan peered at him as though to run him through with gaze alone.

  “Then come get your due, Brother,” Caden taunted. If Ronan were to die on his sword, best he run into it, because at that moment, Caden could not bear to step forward. Instead he braced as the steam of Ronan’s fury built, heaving breath by heaving breath.

  But Caden didn’t want to kill him. He wanted to find out what had happened to him. He tightened his grip on the handle of the blade. Perhaps he could knock some sense into Ronan with the pommel.

  “Someone stop him, before I have to draw his blood,” Caden shouted to the onlookers. What was the matter with the lot? They were as frozen as a winter lake while Ronan seethed, rocking, ready to charge. Ready to—

  His brother took one step forward and stumbled to a sharp halt, reined in by a woman’s voice. “No, Ronan!”

  Caden turned to see the source of the voice and understood why no one had moved to interfere with his battle. Indeed, he felt the white wash of fear drain blood from his face, his very limbs. The dead had come to life. There could be no other explanation, for surely she’d had no beat in her throat when Caden checked. Yet the wolf-woman struggled to her feet, her long black hair tangled with bits of heather and brush, her gown tattered and stained with blood. The sight rendered Caden as motionless as the rest.

  But not Tarlach. The chieftain trembled visibly, but he took action. “Unleash the hounds,” he ordered. “Kill her. A fine prize to the man who—”

  “Death to the man who listens,” Ronan countered, bellowing even louder.

  But Gillis had already unleashed the wolfhound. It bounded toward the unsteady female, spurred on by his attack command. Before Caden knew what his brother was about, Ronan snatched away Caden’s sword to race to her aid. Yet Caden knew Ronan would not reach the woman in time.

  But someone else did. Out the multitudes stepped Daniel of Gowrys.

  “Cú, to me!” the youth commanded.

  Instead of attacking the woman, the dog that had been the boy’s constant companion since his arrival stopped, scattering dirt at the woman’s feet, and bolted toward Daniel. Never without pilfered food, the hostage rewarded Cú with some dried meat.

  “Blessed be,” the wolf-woman whispered. Swaying unsteadily, she started toward the boy and the dog. “You have a gif—”

  “Brenna!”

  The world resumed its right motion. Ronan threw aside the blade and caught this Brenna as her knees gave way. With a grimace, he hauled her into his arms. “Blessed be, God has given you back to me, Wife.”

  “Wife!” Tarlach gasped.

  “Wife?” Caden echoed. Surely this was a dream. A nightmare. Nothing so far-fetched was possible.

  “Tell me this is not so, Son,” their father demanded weakly. Only the astounded silence of the multitude enabled him to be heard. “It cannot be. You know the prophecy. You heard it firsthand. And already you and your brother try to kill each other.”

  Ronan cradled her to his bosom, stubborn as a bear protecting its young. “With a peace beyond your ken,” he reminded Tarlach. “You always leave that part of the prophecy out, Father. And loving her has brought me that, Father. That peace beyond your ken.”

  He lifted her higher, as though to show her to all. “Mark it well,” he shouted. “Brenna of Gowrys is my wife and mother of your grandson. Heir to Glenarden and to Gowrys.”

  “Not as long as I live!” Tarlach struck the table with his fist, but his effort was more than he had strength to carry out. Those who did not see it never heard it. He reached for Ronan as though his life depended on it.

  “Bewitched.” With that garbled sob, Tarlach’s panic-stricken eyes closed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rumors abounded. The wolf-woman had been caught. A dead witch had come to life. Ronan had been bewitched. Now the chief of Glenarden lay on his deathbed.

  Ronan paid the rumors no heed. His father had made his choice—the same superstitious mistake he’d made years earlier. If he was against Brenna, then Tarlach was against Ronan.

  All Ronan cared about at this point was that Brenna was alive.

  If he so much as reflected upon the vision of her lying in the dirt, tattered and white as death itself, his stomach turned so fiercely that he feared fainting. Or a reason-blinded rage stalled his brain. Neither extreme was familiar to Ronan, but then neither was this love he felt for his wife.

  But she breathed, blessed be, though her semiconscious state was fraught with moans each time she moved, or was moved. And she was sick. Wretchedly so. Therein was another change Ronan saw in himself. Before, such things had made him as queasy as the person who was ill. But for Brenna, he would do anything.

  The village midwife had come to his aid as he carried Brenna into the keep. Old Dara had witnessed the scene, saw the dead come to life, yet showed no fear as she gently washed away the dried blood on Brenna’s flesh. There’d been so much. Thankfully, most of it was Faol’s. He’d given his life to save her.

  Caden swore he’d had no choice but to kill the wolf or be killed. He said he’d not harmed Brenna. That the dogs had followed Faol to her. He’d expressed incredulity that she’d tried to save the beast, racing into the savage animal fight without fear and emerging without so much as a scratch when not even Gillis would attempt to interfere. But in her panic to escape Caden and his men, she’d gone over a rocky ledge and plunged three spears’ lengths to yet another ragged protrusion. Far enough to break bones, yet her worst wound was the gash on her head.

  “I thought her dead,” Caden declared to Ronan in defense of the unceremonious transport he’d gi
ven her to Glenarden. “Life did not beat in her throat, nor did she draw breath.”

  The men vouched for his brother’s story. All of it.

  “When I saw the ring, I thought she’d been responsible for your death … er … disappearance,” Caden amended.

  That his brother had been truly threatened by Faol, Ronan was forced to accept. He’d seen firsthand how protective the beast was of Brenna. But it was Caden’s zeal to capture the wolf-witch that Ronan thought responsible for his wife’s near death.

  “Milord,” Dara said, straightening up from the sweet-scented bed that Caden and Rhianon had prepared for her parents in the upstairs master chamber, “if you would send in a servant to help me, I’ll see what injuries lie beneath this rag of a dress and put a clean shift on …” Dara paused before deciding her next words. “Your lady.”

  She chose well. But Ronan was loath to leave Brenna’s side, for even a moment.

  “I’ll help you, Dara. Brenna is my wife,” he insisted. “Wed before God four days ago.”

  Dara gave him a stern look. “This is woman’s work, milord. On my life, I will look after Lady Brenna. ’Twas her own sainted mother who taught me many things about the childbed.”

  Ronan blinked in surprise. “You were schooled at Glaston?” Dara was but a peasant, uneducated beyond her common knowledge of nature’s secrets.

  “Nay, milord. I was midwife during your birth,” she reminded him, “long before my hair turned the color of dull iron. But for Lady Joanna’s instruction, both you and your mother might have been lost.”

  “I’m sorry, Dara. I’d forgotten.”

  “Worry not, milord. I’ve special cures for the womenfolk. Now do as I say, that your wife might rest clean and comfortable as my herbs will make her, given her condition.”

  Ronan scowled. “But you said you saw no sign of broken bones or internal injuries.”

  The lines furrowing Dara’s shriveled face lifted with her laugh. “Aye, milord, but that doesna change the fact that she’s carryin’ your child. Both mother and bairn have wills of iron, it seems.”

  “You can tell so early?”

  Dara’s humor wavered. “I take the word of milord … for now. Now let me to my work, so that I can see if it’s wishful thinkin’ you’re havin’ or if God has seen fit to fulfill the prophecy. This old head can think of nothin’ short of a blood heir to both clans to settle the madness at last.”

  God. Dare Ronan believe the Creator God was truly with him? It was something he longed for with desperation. He’d need help of the supernatural to offset the superstition and treachery plaguing Glenarden.

  Had he not faltered in his determination to confront Tarlach upon his arrival, Ronan’s announcement might not have been so disastrous. Instead, Ronan had left Tarlach to gather himself properly and gone to bathe and dress in his finery. And in doing so, come face-to-face with Lady Rhianon in the adjoining chamber, now turned chapel from the bower she and Caden shared.

  Such a shriek he’d never heard. Down she went in a dead faint. Had he not been quick on his feet, Rhianon might have crumpled hard upon the floor. Instead he caught her and broke her fall. From that point, the word that Ronan had returned from the dead spread like a wildfire from one end of Glenarden to the other. Its people began to gather in the inner yard to see for themselves. With a hasty change of clothing and a still hysterical Rhianon in her servant Keena’s care, Ronan went straight to assisting Vychan in taking charge, for the party from Gwynedd had arrived.

  The guests.

  Ronan was certain his brother Caden entertained their guests, but he would check on his way to his father’s chamber. Besides, he needed to speak to his people. They deserved an explanation. Or as much of one as Ronan could give them.

  God, You have given me Brenna and spared her for a purpose. I believed her when she said as much. Give me words, for my brain is fraught with worry.

  Ronan descended the steps to the main level of the hall and sent one of the housemaids to Dara. The great room was astir with servants coming and going from the kitchen, but the main of the celebration was still in the courtyard of the keep. Taking advantage of the opportunity to see Tarlach unnoticed, Ronan started for the door to the antechamber, guarded by a servant. On the way he spied the young man who’d stopped Tarlach’s wolfhound from attacking Brenna. The lad was wrestling playfully with the dog.

  “Daniel of Gowrys. The hostage,” Dara had told him.

  Upon seeing Ronan, Daniel’s boyish grin and play with Cú ceased.

  Ronan approached the lad, extending his hand. “I owe you a great deal of thanks, Daniel of Gowrys.”

  Instead of accepting it, Gowrys stared at it as if it oozed with the pox. “Is it true she is Brenna of Gowrys?”

  “Aye. She and her wolf saved my life.”

  “Then she didn’t know who you were.”

  “No, she didn’t. But it was a strange rescue, one that could only have been arranged by God, for nature went against itself.”

  Daniel’s gaze sharpened with interest.

  One person at a time. If that’s what it took, Ronan would repeat the strange story to every man, woman, and child in Glenarden and of the Gowrys. So he did, riveting the young man’s attention with how Faol had risked his life to save Ronan and keep him warm in the snow until it was safe for Brenna to help him.

  “And for it, his skin hangs like a trophy.” Daniel jerked his head to where it hung on its drying frame next to the elegant hunting tapestry adorning the wall. Another wave of rage broke over Ronan at the sight. With a smothered oath, he strode over to the wolfskin and took it down. He’d not have Brenna see it day after day. Not like this.

  “Will you do her another kindness, Daniel?” When the youth didn’t answer, Ronan explained. “I would not have my wife reminded so cruelly of her loss … our loss.”

  It surprised Ronan to hear himself admit the wolf had worked its way into his heart as well. But for Faol—

  “Will you take it to the tanner’s shed and ask the man to keep it for me?”

  “He won’t listen to the likes of—” The lad broke off as Ronan withdrew his money pouch and retrieved two coins, ancient and Roman, but of value nonetheless.

  “One for each of you,” he said, handing them over.

  “And what do you think you’re doing with that?” a belligerent voice boomed from the hall entrance. Caden staggered inside, then recovered himself. “I made the kill. It belongs to me.”

  “That wolf belonged to us—my wife and I. The sight of it would pain her.” Ronan would not waver on this. “Given the damage you’ve done, giving up the hide is the least you can do.”

  “You are only lord by a thread, Brother, so tread lightly.”

  “And until our father or kinsmen elect you, that thread still holds. ’Tis you who’d best tread lightly.”

  “My wife wishes our bedchamber returned to her parents and then to us.” Caden’s hand rested on the dagger sheathed at his waist. Drinking increased his aggressive and impulsive nature.

  “Better we remain closer to Tarlach, so you shall have it,” Ronan conceded. Sleeping in the master chamber didn’t matter a whit to him. What Ronan wanted to do was finish the fight Brenna had interrupted. “After my wife is well enough to move.”

  “Can you not carry her to the antechamber?”

  “Can your wife’s relatives not sleep there?”

  The questions spurred the men closer, step by step.

  “They are our guests.”

  “Your reckless chase put my bride in that room.”

  “You married our sworn enemy.”

  “She saved my life.” Ronan could smell the wine on Caden’s breath. It wouldn’t do to push him further. But questions burned amidst his anger and frustration. “After I was abandoned by you and left for dead, Brother.”

  Ronan anticipated Caden’s flashpoint and seized his wrist as he went for the dagger, staying it.

  “I thought you’d returned to the keep,” Caden
grated out through clenched teeth.

  Faces nearly touching, pure muscle to muscle, each held his own. The dagger rocked between them.

  “You took my place readily.” Ronan stepped forward, forcing Caden to brace himself with a backward step. A wince grazed his younger brother’s face. Sweat began to film on his brow as it did on Ronan’s.

  “Avenged … your death,” Caden pointed out through the strain.

  How many times they had played at this, two bulls with locked horns, neither giving. They’d beat each other bloody, return to the keep, and swear to Tarlach they’d fallen.

  “Your drink has impaired your brain, Brother.” Faith, his wounds were beginning to halt his breath. “I … will … not … yield … on the wolfskin … or my wife’s … welfare.”

  Ronan threw his entire weight into Caden. Caden’s stance broke. He stumbled and caught himself against the wall, cursing all that didn’t curse back. The confrontation, combined with a wolfhound’s excited bark, stopped the servants scurrying about in their tracks.

  Ronan kept his eyes on Caden but shouted over his shoulder, “Carry on. We have guests to attend to. My brother and I are agreed that Glenarden’s hospitality comes first, are we not?” he asked Caden.

  “It is all we are agreed upon, Brother.” Caden held up his fingers, as though rolling wool between them. “By a thread, Brother. By a thread.”

  This was far from over.

  Ronan relaxed only slightly as Caden tore away and staggered out through the kitchen.

  “I’d be watching my back, if I were you, sir,” Daniel said, his blue eyes dark with warning. “Least when I’m locked up at night, mine’s covered.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brenna drifted in and out of pain, as if her brain were trying to break free of her skull, rendering her helpless as a babe. She had no choice but to trust the tea her wizened caregiver offered her. But it felt right. None of Brenna’s innate alarms sounded when something passed her lips that could cause harm. There was no check in her spirit. No tingling in her jaw muscles. No palpable draining of strength. If only her mind were as keen as her other senses. And her guilt.