Healer

by Linda Windsor

  The saintliest of Briton’s bloodlines assembled here with the kings and queens of Judah, the Davidic descendants from the breach marked by a scarlet cord, the stolen birthright in Genesis—a breach repaired as prophesied by Isaiah centuries before by the marriage of Pharez’s princess and Zarah’s Red Hand prince.

  Martin identified them. Merlin Emrys, Arthur’s great-uncle, stood with his protégés Arthur and Percival. Vivianne, Arthur’s aunt and Lady of the Lake, with her protégés Gwenhyfar and the Angus or Lance of Lothian. There was Gawain, Arthur’s right arm….

  Arthur was so much older than Brenna had thought. At least compared to Lance of Lothian, the Pendragon’s left arm.

  Merlin Emrys tapped his staff on the hard earthen floor. At that moment two men in robes wordlessly lit the lamps hung on the walls. Immediately the scented oil began to offset the inherent must and mold of the stone enclosure. “I call this Council of the Grail to order,” Arthur said after the men in robes left. His voice filled the room—before them, above them, and behind them. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Brenna echoed with them. She’d heard of such meetings, but they were usually reserved for the Holy Isle.

  “Why are we summoned, Merlin?” Arthur asked quietly, the chamber amplifying every sound.

  “Brothers and sisters, warriors and warrior queens, priests and priestesses of the Celtic Church of Christ, the matter of the O’Byrne and Gowrys may not wait until the political court to be held at the week’s end lest there be more bloodshed,” Merlin explained. “This night an assassin tried to take Ronan O’Byrne’s life for the second time, even as the leaders of both clans sought a righteous and peaceful end to this bloodfeud. Thankfully, Brother Martin made me aware of their honorable and peaceful intentions beforehand.”

  Merlin Emrys handed Arthur the arrow he’d fetched from the tree before leaving. “Do not touch its tip,” he warned. “Had the Brother and I not foreseen trouble, this poison-tipped arrow might have found its mark.”

  Brenna grew weak at the knees. Had it so much as nicked Ronan—

  “It is poorly disguised,” Merlin went on, “just like the previous ones that nearly took this young man’s life.” He leaned his staff toward Ronan, casting darts of light about the lusterless stone walls. “But the nature of this poison alarms me far more than its disguise.”

  “A knowledge of nature magic abused by a black soul,” Gwenhyfar remarked upon taking the arrow from Arthur. The queen tossed the arrow to the ground. “Faith, I can feel the darkness.” She crossed herself and held out her hands, palms up. “Take this from me, Father.” She grabbed Arthur’s hands. “And from our king.”

  “Amen,” the gathering chorused together.

  “What of Merlin?” Brenna asked Martin, as Merlin picked it up and wrapped it in the folds of his discarded cloak. “He touched it too.”

  “It is his path to the perpetrator of this deed,” the priest answered. “This is more than a clan war, Brenna. If we cannot find and stop those who abuse such sacred knowledge of creation for their own gain and glory, the church itself is at risk. We all, Christian and pagan alike, shall be washed in the same black water regardless of our fruit.”

  “That,” Merlin addressed them, “is a battle for another day. Tonight we judge Glenarden for its trespasses against their neighbors.”

  Ronan’s muscles tensed even more beneath Brenna’s hand. Had she heard right? They sought to judge Ronan for Tarlach’s misdeeds?

  “Come forward for your father’s sake, sir,” Arthur commanded.

  “’Tis unfair,” Brenna protested beneath her breath to Brother Martin. She started forward with her husband, but Arthur palmed his hand at her. “Alone,” he stipulated, adding more gently for her sake, “for now.” He stood. “Ronan of Glenarden, for a moment I will make you king. Go on, take my chair.”

  Ronan cast down his gaze. “Milord, I cannot—”

  “Take my chair.”

  Brenna gripped Martin’s arm. What could Arthur possibly mean to—

  “Your Majesty,” the Pendragon said, addressing Ronan as he settled on an upholstered cushion with rich, tooled Spanish leather at his back. “I have in my kingdom a chieftain blessed with abundance. His dominance is over all the land he can see, high and low to the western hills, including that of smaller, weaker peoples—a gift from his Pendragon, my father, conquered in the name of Christ for the glory of the God that granted us victory.”

  “Milord, a demon jealousy has consumed my father all these years,” Ronan replied. “I do not excuse his slaughter of my wife’s kin.”

  “No,” Gwenhyfar said to Ronan’s right. “No son raised in the faith by a strong Christian mother would.”

  “And so,” Arthur carried on, “this chieftain continued to oppress the lesser clan, denying them their former landholdings, the only ones arable enough to provide sufficient food for winter stores. Each winter many of them died from starvation, punished for his misdeed, while he and his kin feasted and their servants cast excess to the swine.”

  “It was wrong.” Ronan’s hands clenched white on the claw arms of his chair.

  “And yet that is exactly what you did—” Arthur’s shout was deafening—“Ronan of Glenarden.”

  “Nay, milord, not Ronan,” Brenna blurted out.

  Only Martin’s grip on her held her from rushing to Ronan’s defense. “Quiet,” he ordered, voice hushed with a fierceness she’d never heard from her mentor’s lips before.

  Ronan rocked as though he’d been struck silent by a physical blow.

  They accused him?

  No. He’d honored his father. Who was a madman.

  Tarlach cared for his people. But not the enemy Christ charged him to love.

  And Ronan had gone along with him, because—

  That was the way it was.

  Even as he summoned his excuse, it fell apart. He’d been wrapped up in what he didn’t have, instead of using what he did have for everyone’s good … including his own. He could have stood up to Tarlach—he was the only one who could do so and live—but he hadn’t. While Ronan hadn’t known of the Gowrys desperation, he’d not bothered to find out the reason they continued to fight. Instead, if they raided for cattle, he’d come back at them with stronger forces and taken his cattle back … and more.

  Nay, he’d been too occupied wallowing in Tarlach’s bitterness and guilt. It had so consumed Ronan that there was no room for God beyond meaningless ritual, when obligated.

  “Father God, I am that man,” he said numbly, dropping to his knees from the chair. A sob tore from deep within his chest. He’d done as much wrong as Tarlach … by doing nothing. His sense of nobility and justice were founded on the same.

  Nothing. That was what he’d been. What he was now.

  Ronan looked up at Brenna. “How could you marry me? Better you had let me die as I deserve.” He was unfit to touch the hem of the distraught woman who pulled away from Brother Martin and rushed past Arthur to Ronan’s side.

  Collapsing in a heap of skirts, she gathered Ronan into her arms, shouting for all to hear, “Because God sent you to me broken and showed me how to heal you. Because my life was meaningless and empty, and you gave me purpose and made me whole. The decision was neither yours nor mine, but God’s.”

  She faced the council. “My lieges, I have forgiven this man and even his father for what they did because I believe God has ordained our union, in spite of our flaws, to bring peace and glory to His name. And both Ronan and Tarlach are changed by God’s grace.”

  “This is true, milord,” Brother Martin spoke up. “This woman fought demons with prayer for Tarlach’s soul. He should have died of poison, but he did not.”

  Gwenhyfar stepped forward, smiling down at Brenna. “You are truly your mother’s daughter. Many of our council knew it.”

  “And I am my father’s son,” Ronan managed hoarsely. “Cursed!”

  “Nay, Beloved,” Brenna said, li
fting his face to hers. “You are forgiven.”

  But his beautiful wife was too tenderhearted not to forgive. God, on the other hand—

  “Forgiven,” the gathering repeated. “In the name of the Lamb, by the Father, through the Holy Spirit.”

  The essence of the words spiraled and vibrated around and through Ronan.

  Forgiven.

  Name of the Lamb.

  By the Father.

  Through the Spirit.

  Knots of guilt Ronan did not know existed unraveled, releasing light long constrained. His body grew weightless with its buoyancy, and his skin tingled, as though it glowed for the eyes of the Father alone. The others no longer existed. Not even Brenna. Just Ronan … and the Father. Or rather, the Light that engulfed them. There were no words to express what Ronan felt, only tears wrung from places they could no longer hide.

  At last Arthur burst the ethereal globe surrounding Ronan. “You have been given uncommon grace, Ronan of Glenarden.”

  Once again Ronan became aware of where he was and the presence of the others. Had they seen what he had—that Light like no other on this earth?

  “The question remains,” the king said. “What will you do with that grace?”

  Ronan knew the answer. It was what Brenna had been leading him toward all along. But before, he’d gone along with her wishes because he loved and believed in her enough to take a risk. Because he’d begun to search for her God. But now, he knew, his motivation could no longer be to please his wife. It had to be to please her God. Their God. The One who had given him a much undeserved second chance.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ronan was spent by the time he, Brenna, and Alyn, accompanied by Merlin Emrys and his company, returned to Glenarden’s campsite below the great rock. At least Donal of Gowrys and his son returned to their camp with good news—better than the cattle they’d intended to ask for. Ronan had pledged to return their land and provide some of the timber to rebuild the fort on the lake. All this under the protection of the O’Byrne.

  Gowrys never questioned Ronan’s intent, for only a fool would falsely pledge such things before the Pendragon and his esteemed council. Donal had been brought in after Ronan’s trial, and though the Gowrys chief didn’t know all of those present, he knew enough to heave a great sigh of relief once outside the building again.

  “I dinna ken all that aboot our quarrel and the survival of the church,” he confessed, shaking Ronan’s hand before departing. “But the Devil’s had his way long enough.”

  Ahead, the Glenarden scarlet, black, and silver banners marked the clan tents. Ronan didn’t delude himself into thinking a celebration awaited him. He had to convince Caden and Tarlach this was for the best. Yet before Ronan could form the prayer to ask for the strength and wisdom to do this, his beleaguered mind cleared. His body became invigorated … as if God knew his needs before he asked.

  Blessed be!

  Caden sat by the fire, drinking straight from a flagon of Flemish wine. Tarlach had waited up as well and slept in his chair, bent over the plank table with his head cradled on his good arm.

  Just as Ronan opened his mouth to hail them, Alyn launched himself past Ronan and at their middle brother with a roar. Caden jerked up his head, eyes bulging in alarm as Alyn bowled over bench, wine, and his brother. His reflexes dulled by drink, Caden swung the flagon and thankfully missed Alyn’s head. Slipping from Caden’s grip, the cup flew onto the fire, crashing, contents sizzling.

  Before Caden could recover from the impact of his body weight being hurled onto his back, the younger lad sat astride him, knees pinning his shoulders, and boxed his older brother’s ears.

  “Miss me, Brother?” Alyn chortled in delight. The youngest O’Byrne might have lost weight, but he’d not lost his penchant for mischief.

  Ronan rushed between Alyn’s back and the fire as Caden hunched his powerful shoulders, lifting the lighter man in the process. With a swing of his leg, he hooked the off-balance Alyn by the neck and threw him aside. Ronan was there to block the lad from rolling into the bonfire.

  “For the love of your departed mother, are you trying to kill your brother?” Tarlach bellowed, awakened by the turmoil. As he pushed himself up from the table, Vychan rushed to his aid.

  “Which one of us?” Alyn asked, propping himself up on his elbow. His grin was a delight for Ronan to behold after all those months.

  “Aye,” Caden said, climbing to his feet. He brushed the dirt off his tunic. “Which one? As if I didn’t know,” he added beneath his breath.

  But for Alyn, Caden smiled, walking over and hauling the lad to his feet. “Seems the ache in my bones is exchanged for a pain in my—”

  Alyn lifted a cautioning finger. “Ladies present,” he reminded his brother. “Speaking of ladies, where is Rhianon?”

  “Off walking with her nurse. Sure, newborns need less coddling.”

  This was the old Caden, Ronan observed. Belligerent, cross.

  “Well, you young whelp, have you nothing to say to your father?” Tarlach held out his good arm, inviting his youngest into such embrace as the old man had.

  “You were sleeping so soundly, I thought I’d first give you a chance to knock the fog from your brain.” Alyn hugged Tarlach. When the young lad locked his long arms behind the old man and tried to lift him, Ronan was tempted to believe that all was back to normal.

  “Nay, you knocked mine out instead,” Caden teased. The light in his gaze died upon seeing Tarlach make an effort with his invalid hand to gather Ronan’s.

  Instead of taking it, Ronan stepped behind his father and clapped him on the back. “Now you’ve all three sons again.” He extended an arm to Caden. “Join our reunion, Brother. And then we must talk,” he announced. “For I’ve had an audience with Arthur.”

  It wasn’t until they’d moved the table, end to the fire, and settled on benches around it, that Tarlach saw Merlin standing in the shadows. His companions had vanished.

  “Emrys, how long have you been here?” Tarlach demanded of his old friend.

  “Long enough to see joy on your ugly face one more time,” Merlin replied. He moved to the space Ronan made between himself and Tarlach, while Alyn took that yielded to him on their father’s other side by Caden.

  “Faith, I’m hungry enough to eat a full-grown boar by myself,” Alyn declared.

  His eyes rounded with delight when Vychan appeared with two maids bearing platters of cold meat, cheese, and bread. The steward placed a tray with a new flagon of wine and cups for all on the table.

  “Vychan, what can I do?” Brenna asked. She shot an apologetic glance at Merlin. “I’ve been taught many things but am still learning a wife’s duties at the board.”

  “Your duty is at your husband’s side and with the infirm, my dear,” Merlin told her. “We all must act according to our gifts. As I recall, Caden’s lovely bride is most adept at running the household.”

  “Rhianon is no servant of Ronan’s wife,” Caden challenged.

  “She is not,” Emrys answered. “Yet we are all called to be God’s servants, to do whatever our task as if for Him, and in that she excels with her hospitality, milord.”

  If Caden sought to stare Merlin Emrys down, he had second thoughts after a prolonged silence. He took up the cup Vychan served him and downed it straight away. “So, Brother,” he said to Ronan. “What is to be our penance for defending ourselves against our enemy?”

  Merlin answered first. “To make right the wrong committed by Tarlach in the past and by you and your family ever since.”

  “Until I lived with them, I had no idea the Gowrys were in such dire need,” Alyn told them. “Since I have been there, two babes and a childbearing mother have died, too weak from lack of nourishment to survive.” Emotion clouded his voice. “More than one night I went to bed cold and hungry after being given the best they had to offer. It—” he paused and swallowed— “it made me ashamed to be their neighbor.”

  “So what do they ask for
?” Sarcasm dripped from Caden’s voice. “For us to give them food and blankets every winter?”

  “Nay,” Ronan said. “They ask for the return of their lowlands to grow the food and healthy livestock for themselves.”

  Caden slammed his empty cup on the table. “And give them an open door to our prime pastures to pick and choose our cattle at whim?”

  “Llas and I shared pastureland.” A distant look softened the haggard lines of Tarlach’s face. “We alternated with the seasons so that none were overstripped.”

  “It may come to that again, God willing,” Ronan told him. “I hope it does.” And God in Heaven knew Ronan spoke from his heart.

  Tarlach turned to the merlin. “It’s time, isn’t it, old friend?”

  Ronan squeezed Brenna’s hand under the table. Tarlach was at last ready for peace.

  “Aye,” Emrys replied. “That is why I came, to bear witness. He’s ready, acknowledged by the elders.”

  Confusion reined in Ronan’s relief. “What … who is ready? For what?”

  Tarlach called Vychan from where he served Egan O’Toole wine. The champion had taken up a guard position by the laird’s tent on their return. “You and Egan fetch as many of the clan as are in the camp. Tonight I step down as the O’Byrne and hand the lairdship to my firstborn son.”

  Caden thrust up from the table, knocking the bench out from under Alyn. For a moment Ronan thought his middle brother would draw his dining dagger as before, but this time thrust it into Ronan’s heart. Instead, Caden’s fingers wrestled with the silvered hilt, drawing, then shoving it deeper into its sheath. But oh, the daggers of his gaze were well aimed.

  “Call all you will, old man,” Caden hissed through his teeth. “But these eyes will not bear witness. For as sure as I breathe, you bring about the fall of your own house, Tarlach. And no witch’s peace will save it.”

  Images from the night before still played through Ronan’s mind the next morning as he watched Brenna wait in line to pay her fee to enter the archery contest with money she’d received for her herbs and furs earlier. Sleep had been scarce for them both. The clan warriors had assembled in front of the laird’s tent beneath a high moon. When Tarlach presented his case and named Ronan as the Glenarden, not one accepted the old chieftain’s invitation to object. If anything, there was relief. But then, Caden was conspicuously absent.