Healer

by Linda Windsor

  “Lady Brenna!”

  Across the meadow to the east, making his way through the heather and spring’s bouquet of wildflowers, came Daniel of Gowrys, Cú bounding ahead of him. At a distance, one of the guards assigned to keep him from running off watched.

  Ronan couldn’t say if the Gowrys lad was intrigued by Brenna and the aura of mystery that surrounded her, or simply smitten. Either way, confound his timing.

  “There’s a woman waiting with a crippled boy to see you beside the gate. She’s come down from the uplands.”

  “A Gowrys?” Ronan exclaimed, astonished.

  The young man shrugged. “I’ve ne’er seen her, but she’s nigh worn out from the journey, dragging the boy on her cloak when his leg gave out.”

  The same way Brenna had dragged him to her cave, Ronan recalled.

  Brenna must have had the same thought. “Oh, Ronan, we must hurry. Come along, Airgid.” She nudged the mare’s sides with her heels. “Quickly now.” The gray mare took off at a teeth-jarring trot, Brenna holding onto its mane for dear life.

  “Brenna, wait!” he shouted. At the click of his tongue, Ballach bolted forward and caught up with the smaller steed in six great strides. Ronan reached down from the stallion’s back and caught up the reins his wife had dropped. “Ho, Airgid. Ho.”

  The mare eased back into a walk. Brenna, beet-faced, straightened in the saddle and gave him a sheepish grin. “You must teach me to ride again, it seems.”

  Had Ronan ever been so frightened? He wanted to strangle her. Had Brenna ever been more precious? He wanted to love her as if there were no tomorrow.

  “If you will run ahead,” she said to Daniel, above the heart pounding in Ronan’s ears, “tell the lady I will be there as soon as my mare will carry me to her.”

  “Aye, right away.” The lad gave her a courtly bow and bounded off, dog at his side.

  Ronan tamped down the feelings stampeding through him. “Come along—cautiously—milady.” He handed her Airgid’s reins. “Your people await you.”

  Let God be his witness. He loved her so much it hurt.

  Brenna glanced over her shoulder to check on her new charge, wondering if Bron was as excited to be attending the fair as she. A week ago, the peasant boy now riding in the cart with Tarlach, Rhianon, and their companions had been a penniless cripple with a clubfoot. There were some things even the gifted could not heal, but Brenna did discover a rare artistic talent in the lad. Another way he might help provide for his widowed mother. The wolf he’d drawn on his mother’s cloak with charcoal while they awaited Brenna’s arrival was Faol’s very image. So real Brenna could almost smell his fur, rife with the scent of the sun and forest. And she knew God had provided another way.

  Ronan paid the mother a handsome price for it and it now hung, nicely framed, in their bedchamber. As for Bron, his mother agreed after some persuasion to trust her son to Brenna’s care, at least until after the fair. Upon seeing the lad’s rare talent, the women of Glenarden had scrounged every scrap of cloth to be found for more sketches, that he might sell them at the fair. Some had already set about embroidering those lifelike images he’d given to them for their kindness.

  At first, Rhianon protested the peasant’s company in the cart … until Bron offered to sketch her likeness along the way on one of the precious sheets of vellum that Brenna had secured from the brethren.

  As for Tarlach, the old chieftain was indifferent to the boy. He catnapped along the two-day journey ensconced in his leather chair, which was secured to the cart, while Cú and Daniel walked behind. Tarlach’s stubborn will amazed her. He insisted on attending the fair to show anyone—peer or would-be assassin—that he was still alive and in control of his kingdom.

  Now, ahead of them, stood a fortress of stone and timber belonging to Angus, known in Arthur’s brotherhood of the Round Table as the Lance of Lothian. Perched on the ancient black rock standing sentry over the Firth of Forth, it flew banners of blue and gold on white. Above those, a Red Dragon fluttered unfurled, indicating Arthur was in residence there. Hence, it was Camelot for as long as the Pendragon remained.

  “See how it shines in the sunlight!” Brenna took in Strighlagh’s whitewashed timber and stone fortress high upon its rock pedestal. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

  “Raised in the darkness of a cave, I would think so.” Caden sneered from the brown horse beside her.

  Insecurity bullied its way into Brenna’s delight. Self-conscious, she glanced from the red tunic and braccae that Dara and the women had made for her to Rhianon’s elegant peony gown.

  “No beauty compares to you, milady.” The look Ronan gave her riddled her to the core. But what a marvelous warmth it was.

  “Aye, but beauty must know its place,” Caden pressed with a pointed look at the bow and quiver of arrows slung across Brenna’s back. “My wife has no fear that her husband can’t protect her.”

  “With a tongue as sharp as well-aimed spit, Rhianon needn’t—”

  “Ronan,” Brenna softly stayed his reply.

  Given any chance, her husband’s middle brother would ruin Ronan’s peace with his barbed remarks. They escaped like steam from a pot about to boil over, Ronan had observed.

  “Caden has every reason to be as proud of Rhianon as you are of me,” Brenna pointed out, pragmatic beneath her husband’s skeptical look. “And each of you for reasons that are as different as Rhianon and I are.”

  She turned to Caden, encountering the glacial sting of his gaze, yet unable to see beyond or through its gray fog.

  Devoid of humanity.

  “I have no fear that Ronan is unable to protect me, Caden.” Brenna forced herself to ignore the chill. “As you said, I was raised in a cave, and this weapon is like a second skin to me when I am in unfamiliar territory. But I will put it away, if it offends you.”

  “Pay him no heed, Brenna,” Ronan spoke up. “I am proud to have you just as you are as wife. That is what makes you extraordinary in an ordinary world.”

  As though bored, Caden kicked the sides of his steed. “I’m riding ahead to secure our place for the tents,” he called over his shoulder.

  Brenna reached across the distance between their mounts and squeezed Ronan’s hand. “I’m grateful I’ve married the stronger man—one who has the courage to turn the other cheek.”

  “Until he presses too far with this jealousy and ambition of his.”

  Ronan’s undertone pierced Brenna with alarm. The prophecy that she would divide the O’Byrne household was happening, and Brenna could see no way around it. Father God, what must I do?

  The answer came clearly: “Let love pull hatred’s teeth.”

  Except that kindness only seems to madden Caden and Rhianon all the more, she argued.

  “Doing right is never wrong.”

  “But for now,” Ronan announced, breaking into her battling thoughts, “I look forward to enjoying the fair with my most extraordinary wife.”

  Once they reached the edge of the nobles’ encampment, Tarlach insisted he be helped upon his horse. Riding straight as his ague-plagued limbs would allow, he passed upward through the menagerie of tents and clan banners to his rightful place of encampment as kin to Strighlagh’s Gwenhyfar and battle lord under Arthur. The reception was warm enough. Several chieftains hailed him as friend, although some seemed more surprised than others to see him up and about, affirming that the rumors of his death had made their mark.

  But even more attention focused on Brenna. She was grateful to have her father-in-law on one side and husband on the other. Even so, she could feel the eyes upon her—some curious, some anxious, but all interested in the prophesied return of the daughter of Joanna and Llas of Gowrys.

  “Where are the Gowrys camped?” Brenna asked Ronan.

  “You’ll see them in Arthur’s court soon enough,” Tarlach grumbled. “Nor will you seek them out, if you’re wise. I forbid it.”

  Aside from asking about her unborn son, this was t
he most her father-in-law had said to her since he’d regained strength.

  “The Gowrys will be camped farther downhill toward the river … where the ground rent costs less.” Ronan pointed to a sea of banners and tents situated alongside the sun-bright curl of water. “Beyond the bridge.”

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me, milord,” Brenna assured Tarlach.

  “’Tisn’t you I’m worried aboot, woman. ’Tis the bairn.”

  Brenna instinctively covered her abdomen. Surely her own clan wouldn’t do anything to threaten her or her child.

  “There’s Caden now!” A jubilant Rhianon waved her handkerchief at her husband.

  Another man joined him on the shoulder of the hill. Brenna studied him—his fine green tunic and brown breeches. Suddenly recognition clicked into place. He’d been with the hunters who had captured her.

  “That’s that ghost of a huntsman from Gwynedd, no?” Tarlach asked. His forest of a brow knit as he squinted in the midday sun.

  “Aye,” Ronan replied. “Heming, I think.”

  “Ghost?” Brenna questioned.

  “He lurks about as though always stalking. Here a moment, then gone. Not the most sociable sort.”

  As if to demonstrate, the hunter faded into the hubbub of activity in the campsites surrounding Glenarden’s.

  “Heming spends more time in the wood than at court,” Rhianon complained. “Good riddance.”

  Brenna would have thought the Lady Rhianon would have been glad to see someone from her homeland. Certainly she and Keena, who was also from her homeland, were as close as peas in a pod, always whispering in Brenna’s presence as if she weren’t there.

  “When can we go down to the fair?” Brenna asked, watching Caden help his wife down from the cart. For all his strength, he handled her as though she might break. Perhaps Rhianon would be the key to unleashing the goodness suppressed by his jealousy and anger.

  “Now … if you’re not too weary from the morning’s ride.” The mischievous twist of Ronan’s lips said he knew better. “The servants will set up our encampment while we take in the sights.”

  Beaming with excitement, Brenna dismounted from Airgid. “I must pinch myself to believe I am here. And to meet Arthur and”—she edited out Gowrys quickly—“and others I’ve only heard about. Soon as I’ve rubbed down Airgid and watered her, I’ll fetch my skins and medicines.…”

  “Milady, allow the servants to do their jobs,” Ronan chided. “As for your trading, Vychan is most adept at business.”

  “But I need the money from my goods to purchase vellum and supplies for Bron.” Reminded of the boy, she turned to see him standing at her heel, crutch beneath his arm. “And Bron,” she said, ruffling his mop of brown hair, “has trading to do as well.”

  “There will be time to take care of all this business,” Ronan assured them. “Today we shall see what is here and perhaps buy something to eat from the vendors. As soon as the rest of your entourage catches up with us.”

  Brenna followed his pointed look to where Dara, Daniel, and Cú made their way toward them. Her husband was right … about the looking. She’d do well to familiarize herself with the goods and prices as she’d seen Brother Martin do at the small fair near Glenarden. If he were here, her life would be complete joy.

  “Take two men with you,” Tarlach insisted. With Vychan’s help, he eased into his chair, which had been placed under the shade of an oak. His face was flushed from the effort of dismounting, but he seemed otherwise invigorated.

  “I’ll ask O’Toole,” Ronan agreed. A cocky grin claimed his handsome features.

  How Brenna loved it when he smiled, though it was rarely outside the privacy of their bedchamber. It ate at him that his and his father’s would-be assassins were still at large, despite his exhaustive efforts to find them. Hence, they might still be in their midst, though none had a scar from the arrow Brenna had shot through his hand.

  Sharing his son’s rare humor, the old chief’s mouth pulled up on the one good side. “Aye, I’d wager he’s enough, weapons or nay.”

  To keep the peace, no weapons beyond a dining dagger were allowed on the fairgrounds except for trade or competition, but what Egan lacked in weaponry, he made up for in sheer mass.

  After a downhill walk through too many other campsites to count, Brenna’s entourage entered the main street to the makeshift village of merchants from all over Albion and beyond. There were Saxons, Frisians, Franks, Spaniards, Italians, Jews, and Middle Eastern vendors, all plying their goods from buildings, tents, and stalls rented from the landowners. Never had Brenna heard so many languages and accents or seen so many luxuries.

  “Can you imagine the world beyond Albion?” she exclaimed, fingering an Italian silk in awe.

  There was glassware, displayed like the colors of the rainbow, the beautifully crafted ceramics, dye-stuffs for Glenarden’s clothmakers, cotton fibers for armor padding and quilts, leather goods…. Brenna wanted to see and touch them all. Even the armor. Her astonished squeals were only surpassed by Bron, who rode astride Egan’s broad shoulders.

  “Methinks we have two youngsters,” Egan said with a laugh as Brenna tugged him and Bron toward a puppet show on a flat of land cleared for entertainment. “Mayhaps now we might roost long enough to eat. I’m hungry as three horses.”

  Food. “I forgot.” Brenna glanced at the sun, surprised to see it had moved several more degrees westward than it had been when they arrived.

  “I’m still not hungry,” Bron protested, and Egan slid him down to his feet.

  “Speak for yourself,” Daniel of Gowrys teased, handing the boy his crutch. Both strangers in Glenarden, the two had become best of friends since Bron’s arrival. Daniel had given his word to Ronan that he’d not try to escape and, having saved Brenna by calling down Tarlach’s wolfhound and with the champion Egan as watchdog, that was enough. “Cú, stay with Bron.”

  “And you, Bron, stay here with the ladies,” Egan said. “Ronan and I’ll be along with food directly.”

  As the menfolk set off in the direction of a row of food vendors, Dara hauled a light blanket out of the sack she’d carried slung over her back and spread it on the ground. “To tell the truth, I forgot food meself,” she admitted. “I canna mind when I last came to the big fair … and so much to see.”

  “I have to say, now that we’ve settled,” Brenna confided, “the scents excite my stomach as yon puppets do a certain lad I know.”

  “May I move closer so’s I can hear?” Bron asked. At Brenna’s nod, the boy eased his way closer to the stage, a curtained cart with a window where the puppets performed. Obedient, Cú inched forward behind him.

  “I canna believe the change in that beast since young Daniel came. Same as its master …” Dara paused. “Well, the whole lot of us,” she continued, warming Brenna in her approval. “’Tis the prophecy to be sure.”

  “Nay, ’tis God’s love. Words and efforts are vain without it.”

  Brenna turned to watch the show, but her mind wasn’t on it. Father God, they place too much credit with me. Expect me to work miracles. Help me turn their thoughts from me to You.

  “Brenna of Gowrys?”

  Father God, more for miracles?

  “Aye?” Brenna looked up to see three men gathered round her. The one who spoke was a bear of a man, draped with a brat of faded red and green.

  “Father, save us,” Dara gasped as two of them hauled Brenna to her feet. “’Tis the Gowrys!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Dara didn’t wait for God’s intervention. The midwife launched herself at the leg of one of the men and bit for all she was worth with the few teeth she had.

  With a startled curse, the Gowrys clansman shook the older woman free, kicking at her when she tried to bite him again.

  “Stop it, all of you,” Brenna protested, tugging as her captors lifted her free of the ground.

  “Bring her along,” the leader ordered.

  They’d taken leave of their
senses to abduct her here in the midst of a field of witnesses … although none of the shocked onlookers seemed inclined to intervene.

  “If you are my kinsmen, I demand you put me down.”

  They did, although Brenna wasn’t sure if it was her authority that stopped them in their tracks or the gray wolfhound that leapt into their path, snarling lowly.

  “Gentlemen, I assure you, one of you will not shake Cú off so easily, if you persist in this indignation.”

  “Caw, he even looks like Tarlach—gray and evil,” one of the men remarked, hand easing for his dining dagger.

  “Lord Ronan!” Dara screamed. Brenna turned in time to see Ronan parting the thick crowd between the food vendors’ stalls like a raging bull.

  “Act as gentlemen, or it will go badly for you,” she warned them, for Egan O’Toole was on her husband’s heels and him just as beetled-red mad.

  At their leader’s nod, the men lowered their arms to their sides.

  “Bow and kiss my hand, Donal of Gowrys,” Brenna ordered one of the men.

  With his coal black hair and blue eyes, the older version of Daniel cocked his brow in astonishment.

  “And nothing will be said, right, Dara?” Brenna asked.

  “His bleedin’ leg will tell enough.” Dara gave the man a defiant sniff.

  Fear stabbed at Brenna, despite her bravado, as a seething Donal of Gowrys bent over, head low, and kissed Brenna’s hand. “So it’s true you’re with them of your own accord?”

  They were but a breath, a word from bloodshed.

  “Aye, and now I’m with you both,” she emphasized. Brenna turned away and held up her hands in feigned exasperation.

  “Then get me my boy back,” she heard Donal growl.

  She had seconds. Just seconds.

  “Ronan, where is the food?” Brenna called out in a bright voice. “We’ve guests.”