Healer

by Linda Windsor

  “An O’Byrne of the Red Hand,” Tarlach cried out.

  Judah’s twin. The Red Hand of Zarah, father of the Celts, whose offspring married his royal brother Pharez’s descendants and thus preserved the Davidic kings. A new sense of awe washed over Brenna as the bigger picture formed … bigger than a child to bring peace to warring clans. Her son’s father of the Red Hand. Her own of the Arimathean lineage. These were the same holy bloodlines as flowed through the Christ. King, peacemaker, healer, counselor … what was her baby’s destiny? Brenna trembled to think of it.

  Forgetting his disability for the moment, Tarlach threw aside the light coverlet as though to get up. “God be thanked!”

  “Nay, sir!” With Ronan’s help, Brenna kept Tarlach from flinging himself off the bed.

  As Brenna tucked him back in, she asked, “So, milord, will you do as I say and get well so that you may bounce that baby boy on your knee?”

  “I would fetch the moon for you, lassie. Ye ken that.”

  “Here’s the bag,” Vychan announced upon entering the room.

  Beyond the steward, she could hear Rhianon ask Caden from the other room, “Are you certain you want her tending to your father?”

  Brenna would have to deal with their superstition later. For now, a greater task lay ahead of her. “I’ll need water and honey, Dara. And tell the cook to boil eggs, put on beans to mash, and onions, lots of onions. Such foods will offset the effects of the poison.”

  “Aye, milady, right away.”

  “And garlic. I’ll need garlic. And salt.” He’d lost so much body salt through perspiration and water from his digestive tract. If only they were closer to the cave, she’d soak him. “Ronan?”

  “Aye, Love. I’ll not leave your side.”

  “But you must. I’ll need as much water from the hot spring as can possibly be brought down from the mountain. Take as many men and horses as you can.”

  With those words, the door of Brenna’s past life closed behind her. Her refuge would be well known now. No longer could she go back. It was time to go forward. Time to share her gifts … and God’s. With God beside her, what had she to fear?

  Besides ambush and poison, that is.

  Father God, You have brought me safe thus far. I count on Your promise never to leave or forsake me … or mine. In the name of our Savior and Druid Teacher, Jesus Christ, amen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  While Vychan and the family sought to find the source of the poison, Brenna never left Tarlach’s side for the rest of the day and into the next. It was essential to get the poison out of his system by emetics, which she laced with oil, charcoal, and black cohosh. The poor soul retched until he could retch no more. Then they would start again. But his determination to be rid of the venom became a matter of mind over physic.

  “If any sends me earthways,” he gasped weakly, “’twill be the Lord.” Another breath, fiercer this time. “Not a cowardly assassin.”

  This glimpse of Tarlach’s vengeful side couldn’t help but give Brenna second thought. For now, he thought she was his angel, Joanna. But what would happen when he fully came to his senses?

  It didn’t matter. Just as she’d risked her life to save Ronan, she’d do so for Tarlach. Hadn’t she prayed for the chance to heal others as she’d been trained to do? God had answered.

  When all that could be done to expel the poison had been done, Brenna coaxed spoons of beans, mashed with more herbs, into his mouth to absorb or counter what remained in his system. Knowing it was critical that his bodily humors, or fluids, be restored, she instructed Dara to keep the patient covered with towels soaked in saltwater until Ronan could return with the healing waters from her cave. It would also offset the fever.

  Meanwhile, Brenna urged Tarlach continuously to sip watered-down wine. “No more,” Tarlach mumbled, turning his head away from one of the new garnet glass goblets that Rhianon’s visiting parents had given to her. She’d offered it for its alleged property of changing color, should it contain poison.

  Brenna trusted her instincts more. “Would you see your grandson, or nay, sir?”

  “He has the birthmark?” Tarlach rallied.

  “Aye.”

  “I had it. My own father and Ronan did. See?”

  “Aye, I’ve seen,” she replied, staying him from the exertion of exposing his hip. And she had seen. More times than they’d repeated this conversation. “Now take some nourishment.”

  Like a young robin, the chieftain opened his mouth with a trust not shared by the rest of his family. Brenna could well imagine the effort it took, her own stomach recoiling in empathy. Yet patient and healer both did what needed to be done. By all her knowledge, for the poison had had more than its necessary time to take Tarlach to the Other Side, the man shouldn’t be alive, much less have the fortitude to fight so for his life. Truly it was God’s hand and not Brenna’s that was at work here.

  Having sent Dara to rest, Brenna cast a wondering glance to where Vychan and Keena drifted in and out of sleep at their posts by the door. Caden and Rhianon insisted the old woman be present at all times to keep an eye on Brenna. Every morsel or drink that came into the room was checked by Keena’s cherished unicorn’s horn, which she insisted was endowed with the power to keep the chieftain from further harm. Looking more like a narwhal tusk Brenna once saw at a fair, it was said to sweat when it detected something deadly in the nourishment given to Tarlach.

  The precautions were not one-sided. The tangle of who was watching whom would have been amusing, were the situation not so dire. Ronan put Vychan there to protect Brenna, and Brenna made certain Tarlach was not left alone with Rhianon’s old nurse.

  God forgive her if she judged Keena unfairly and spoke idle words of caution to Dara, but Brenna’s intuition was rarely wrong. She exchanged the last of the towels for a freshly dipped one, closing her eyes.

  If I am wrong, Lord, I will plead for her pardon once Tarlach is restored to health.

  “How is he?”

  Brenna started at the sound of Ronan’s voice in the doorway. “You’re home!”

  Feet that had been leaden moments ago suddenly grew light with joy. Wiping wet hands on her shift, she bound toward him before the steward could shake himself from sleep and rise to his feet.

  “You must have traveled the night, milord,” Vychan mumbled.

  The steward was right. Getting to and from the cave was less than a day’s journey, but carrying barrels of water with horse and cart—

  Brenna looked beyond him to where the light of dawn flooded through the open doors of the hall.

  “Don’t ask me to leave you again, milady,” he said, drawing her into the hall and into his arms. “Not even for Father’s sake.”

  Brenna captured his face in her hands. “He is better. In all my days at Avalon, I have never seen such strong will.”

  “It will grow more stubborn as he recovers,” Ronan warned her.

  “Well, this healing water will do wonders to restore his humors.”

  “Then let us hope it only restores his good humor,” he replied dryly, “and that the rest is tossed with the dirty bathwater.”

  Brenna shook her husband’s face in admonishment. “It seems your father isn’t the only one in need of better humor.”

  “There I am, asleep in my new abode,” Brother Martin complained as he rolled a sealed barrel to the door, “and an army of men with empty casks assails me.” With a grunt, he straightened, clutching a stiff back. “All is well?” he asked of Brenna.

  She nodded … after a moment’s hesitation. There was much more than she could say within earshot of Keena, who surely listened. “He is weak, but most determined to survive. Though he may still think I’m my mother.”

  “So I heard. The miracle in Tarlach’s sickroom speeds through the kingdom like a highland wind. Wrestled Tarlach from the brink of death with your own hands, did you?”

  Heavenly Father! Brenna cast her dismayed gaze to the floor. “You know that is not
true. ’Twas God who spared him. But I would speak to you of it, Brother, for it was most terrifying.”

  “Later,” Ronan intervened. “I don’t know which of us is the more weary, but I am taking my wife to bed. After a good rest, the two of you can speak all you wish.”

  Brenna lowered her voice. “I cannot leave Tarlach alone.” She jerked her head toward where Keena feigned sleep.

  Martin shooed her off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t look at me as if I’m still a bairn on the breast,” he said, voice raised for Keena’s benefit. “I think your husband’s idea is a fine one. I will see to Tarlach.”

  “But you’ve been up all night as well,” Brenna said.

  “I, my dear, am not with child.”

  Martin was right, of course.

  “Well enough,” she conceded. “I’ve laid hands on him to balance his complexions and—” She ended with a startled squeak as Ronan swept her off her feet.

  “The priest has tended the sick before, Wife.”

  “Aye, medicine is part of our training,” Martin reminded her.

  Of course her mentor knew what to do. He must think her addled. But then, in her husband’s embrace, she was. “If you grow weary, send for Dara.”

  “Aye, between Dara, my colleague Brother Michael—” Martin motioned to a young red-haired priest struggling through the door with yet another barrel of water and added with a conspiratorial wink, “and Keena, I’m sure Tarlach will be well attended.”

  The reassurance melted the last wall of resistance to the fatigue Brenna had battled from dawn last to dawn present. As it triumphed through her limbs and laid claim to her brain, she managed one all-encompassing Thank You, Lord, grateful that He had given her the strength and endurance she’d needed for as long as she’d needed it.

  Provision. Grateful that He had spared Tarlach’s life.

  Grace. Grateful for Ronan’s safe return as he carried her through the door of their bedchamber and deposited her in the bed box that had cradled her since she could remember.

  Protection. Grateful to feel his body join hers, as he took her into his arms until they were cozily entwined.

  Peace. Grateful for the bond that held them to each other and to Him.

  Love.

  The day after Ronan’s return from the cave, the hall was filled to the beams with revelry and Glenarden’s bounty. Conspicuously absent was the party from Gwynedd. Once assured that Tarlach would recover, Idwal and Enda took their leave, lest they become burdensome. Or poisoned.

  Regardless of their motivation, Ronan was glad to see them go. Ronan didn’t care to have Glenarden’s dark drama played out before another clan. Bad enough they’d seen his bride brought in like a carcass of meat and the clash between him and his brother, resulting in his father’s brain fit. But the poisoning was a disgrace. Common enough in kingdoms throughout Albion, but an affront to the honor of the clan.

  Who would dare? Ronan scanned the room like a hawk for a mouse, looking for the slightest flicker of guilt in a glance. A difference in behavior. Was the would-be assassin the same who had tried to murder him? If so, Brenna’s suspicions of Keena were unfounded.

  His family stood the most to gain by his and his father’s deaths. He cut a sidewise glance at them. Her work as grand hostess done, Rhianon sat next to Caden at the family board as if her family’s departure had taken away her vigor. As for his brother, there was nothing secretive in his behavior. Caden cared not who saw him drink himself into oblivion. Nor did Caden seem to care if Ronan saw the raw hatred of the gaze that met his. Poison was too cowardly for his middle brother. Face-to-face combat was Caden’s style.

  There simply were no clues leading to the culprit. Or culprits, if Ronan’s attack and Tarlach’s poisoning were not perpetrated by one and the same. If only Ronan or Brenna could recall something distinctive about his would-be murderer. Questions regarding the poisoning revealed that the food had been prepared and served by the usual people in the usual way. Every store had been checked for molds, and mushrooms were examined meticulously. Nothing. It was assumed an accident, though in private Brenna vowed on her gift it was not. She suspected wine tainted with the poison stone.

  “The residue in his cup made my jaws tingle.”

  Ronan reached out and covered his wife’s hand, drawing her smile. He didn’t understand her gift, but he trusted it. “Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?”

  “Twice.”

  If it kindled what Ronan saw in her gaze, he’d tell her a dozen more times before the night was out. But it was true. Even in her plain brown dress and shift, she glowed.

  “I still cannot believe all this.” Brenna motioned toward a group of people seated in a cluster near the hall door. A farmer with a chronic cough. A woman with female ailments. And these were just from among those who’d heard of Tarlach’s miracle.

  Proud as a mother hen with a chick, Martin had done his part in fanning the wind speeding the news along. The secret he’d kept for so many years was out at last. He told to all who’d listen of Brenna’s extensive training at Avalon. How she’d been chosen for it by Merlin Emrys himself when she was of toddling age and assigned to Martin as his ecclesiastical student. But who could wonder at her gift, given her priestly lineage, traceable back to the union of Bran, the Blessed, the first Christian British king, with Anna, daughter of Joseph of Arimathea.

  “Sure as Joseph was a tin man,” Ronan heard Martin say, for it was known throughout Albion that Arimathea was not only a member of Jesus’ family, but that his wealth came from the tin trade between the isles and the East.

  As for Brenna saving Tarlach, Ronan was at the least disconcerted by what he’d witnessed that day. Spiritual warfare, Martin insisted. In the absence of a priest, she had fought for Tarlach’s soul with prayer. Only after it had been spared in Jesus’ name had she been able to nurse him back to health.

  “I think once the brethren finish their huts in the glen,” Martin said to Ronan, “we’d best be thinking of adding a hospital.” Which meant Glenarden should provide the materials and what labor or skill the brethren could not.

  “We?” Brenna teased. “It sounds to me as if you are warming to the idea of a bishopric, hermit.”

  Martin shook his head vehemently. “Not for me. I like my solitude. Perhaps Brother Michael here.”

  Michael grew the shade of a beet, a horrid contrast to his carrot red hair. “You honor me more than I deserve. But such a future”—his hawkish face contorted—“would overwhelm me.”

  It was the most Ronan had heard the painfully gaunt young man say since his arrival.

  The elder priest laughed. “I’m sure God will provide. He always does.” He shifted his attention to Brenna. “In the meanwhile, child, do not overtax yourself. Your most important calling for now is that of motherhood. You must avoid contagion at all costs.”

  “Dara has already warned me,” Brenna informed him. “And Ronan.”

  “But this is the child the church has ordained for the peace of your peoples. A generation late,” Martin said, referring to the ill-fated match between Tarlach and Joanna, “but the key, nonetheless. They must become one in blood and faith.”

  The weight of the priest’s words bore down upon Brenna. Covering her flat belly with her hands, she leaned into Ronan as though to draw strength. Ronan felt it too. For if this child were divinely appointed for the task of peace, a great responsibility lay on the babe as well as the parents. A passage of Scripture flashed to Ronan’s mind. That of Simeon as he praised God for being allowed to see the salvation of mankind in the holy babe … and as he was warned of the heartache it would bring his mother.

  Ronan had no illusion that their child was equal to the baby Jesus, but the task ahead of him would be a treacherous one. Albion was as plagued by the worst of mankind as Jerusalem had been.

  “Maybe I should cede Glenarden to Caden and take Brenna and the bairn to Brittany, someplace safe,” he thought aloud. Numerous noble families had abandoned
their ancient lands to the invaders and settled there.

  Brenna looked up at him, shocked. “If this is God’s will, I’ve no mind to run from it and wind up in a whale’s belly.”

  Martin covered his mouth, but the wine he’d just sipped squirted out his nose instead. Even Brother Michael laughed audibly.

  How could Ronan not join them? He drank in the flash of Brenna’s gaze. Prickly. Mischievous. Fearless. She was all of them and more.

  “We are born to this, Beloved. Our blessings multiply by the day,” she told him.

  Would that Ronan had her faith. But while she’d been reared in grace and protection, he’d led a far more worldly life. “Mind the dangers do as well.”

  “Nothing God cannot face with—”

  A commotion at the other end of the hall interrupted them. Ronan stood as the doors burst open, allowing a guard from the gatehouse in.

  Flushed, the man stopped to catch his breath, then shouted, “The O’Toole is returned from the Orkneys campaign! Cennalath, that Saxon-loving Pict, is dead. Long live Arthur!”

  Chapter Twenty

  The incense in Keena’s hut made Rhianon’s head swim. Or was it the bittersweet concoction of wine and herbs she’d taken to enhance communication with the Other World? Rhianon wasn’t certain, but after the miserable attempt to kill Tarlach and tie his demise to Brenna’s appearance, and the departure of her parents fraught with concern rather than filled with praise over her accomplishments, it felt glorious.

  It almost made Rhianon forget her trepidation over reaching out to spirits for help. She was comfortable with her goddesses, but they had failed her. Still Rhianon had not conceived. She’d even tossed her grandmother’s solid gold armband into Ceridwen’s sacred pool to make amends for her infidelity with the other gods. Yet the poison stone they’d put in Tarlach’s wine was as useless as a common fieldstone, not possessed of magic properties as Keena had said.