Healer

by Linda Windsor

  “That was me, you old fool.” Caden snorted. He stood and stretched. “’Twill be good to rest in my own bed tomorrow. The ground becomes less and less hospitable by the day.” He looked over to where Rhianon piled bracken beneath a clump of birch to soften the rocky bottom beneath their blankets.

  “Marriage has made you soft,” Alyn teased. The youth stuffed the remains of a meat pie, purchased at the last moment before leaving the fair, into his mouth.

  Alyn hadn’t stopped eating since rejoining his clan. With such a constant reminder of his shortcomings, Ronan had sent Daniel with funds enough to purchase food and drink for the Gowrys as a token of goodwill, even though his father, Donal, had declined Ronan’s invitation at the archery meet.

  Had it only been hours ago? It felt like yesterday. With the celebration of Ronan’s new lordship, they all needed sleep.

  “Aye,” Caden replied to Alyn’s charge. “And Rhianon’s restless as a snake on a hot stone. I think I’ll break out a new cask of beer and lift a few mugs with the lads. Mayhaps that will soften the ground, eh?”

  “I’ll join you,” the youngest O’Byrne suggested.

  But Caden held up his hand. “I can handle my heath fruit. You’ve not enough bulk for serious drink.”

  “Then I shall drink accordingly,” Alyn shot back.

  Caden turned to Ronan. “Has your wife a thimble in that bag of hers that our upstart might use for a cup?”

  Ronan chuckled. It was almost like old times, now that Alyn was with them again.

  As his bickering siblings wandered over to where a second campfire had been kindled for the men, Ronan glanced to the wagon, where Brenna had made Tarlach as comfortable as possible.

  Pray. That’s what she told Ronan when he asked what could be done. There were some things that no amount of nature magic could heal. Herbs, stones, hands … they had their limits.

  “It is up to God, if Tarlach is to live or die from this.”

  As Ronan got up to see how Tarlach was faring, Brenna lifted the old man’s lame arm, bending it and stretching it gently. “It helps to get the blood flowing warm,” she explained, reading the question on his face. “Given his cold humor, Dara is making warm tea and heating stones for compresses. We’ll have you snug as a bairn in a blanket,” she told her patient.

  “Hate”—Tarlach dragged in more breath—“this.”

  Brenna gave him a stern look. “Then get better, milord, so you can soon hold your own grandson.”

  It was incentive for Tarlach to recover before. Perhaps it would work again.

  “I’ll make up a bed for us next to the wagon,” Ronan offered. At least he hoped his wife would share it. Given Tarlach’s condition, she might well sleep next to him. Ronan wouldn’t begrudge her charity, but he would miss her closeness. Holding her in his arms completed his world.

  As he worked next to the cart, he listened as Brenna conversed with his father, encouraging him to respond as best he could. How ironic that only a few months ago, Tarlach wanted her dead. Today, he would do anything to please her. Even drink the tea laced with cayenne from the East.

  “How I wish you could tell me about the good times you shared with my father. I’ve heard more of my mother than of Llas,” she said.

  “Hah.” Egan O’Toole meandered to the opposite side of the wagon from Ronan. “Now them were the days, weren’t they, old friend?” he said to Tarlach. “I mind two upstarts joining the Pendragon—he was Prince Aedan in them days, Arthur’s da,” he added. “And the both of ye, hopin’ for land of your own.”

  “You … rr whelp,” Tarlach slurred.

  “Aye, I was a whelp, not yet dry behind the ears … and Dalraida Irish like yourself and the Pendragon.” He glanced at Brenna. “Yer da was Cymri from Caerleon. Hair black as night, like yours. Ye got them loch blue eyes from him and your maither.”

  “I thought you’d be lifting a cup with Caden and the men,” Ronan teased.

  Egan grunted. “I lifted one cup too many last night, and it’s left me with no taste for more. Unlike the time me and your fathers,” he began, referring to Tarlach and Llas, “went to Aedan’s coronation at Dunadd. Mind ye that night, milord?”

  Ronan recalled the tale. And how later the priest Columba predicted that Aedan’s rebellious son Arthur would not follow his father to Dalraida’s throne at Dunadd. Ronan wondered if prophecy had troubled the Pendragon as much as Ronan’s had secretly nagged at him. Not that he could complain about the way his had unfolded. His had brought light into his dark world.

  Amazingly, Tarlach rallied with Egan’s tales of youthful escapades and battle fury. Granted, his comments were more oft grunts or one word, but his mind seemed sharp on those times. Just speaking of them relaxed the deeply etched lines on his face.

  “Afore yer maither,” Tarlach said a good while later, exonerating Llas from a dalliance with a Pictish princess that nearly got them skewered with iron.

  After Tarlach finally drifted off to a peaceful sleep, Brenna climbed down from the wagon. “I think your father enjoyed Egan’s tales,” she told Ronan. “I know I did.” She covered a yawn with her hand. “Have you seen Bron?”

  “Over by the warriors, sketching designs on their shields. The wolf is their favorite.”

  For a moment, their gazes locked. Ronan could almost see Faol’s image in Brenna’s mind. Had their time at the fair not been cut short, he might have found a pup—

  “Mine, too,” she said softly. She stepped against him, slipping her arms around his neck. “For it is by the wolf that God sent you to me. It was by Faol’s devotion that I learned unconditional love.”

  Ronan snorted. “I don’t think his love for me was unconditional.”

  “No.” She made a cute noise, half chuckle, half sigh. “But he did save you.”

  Ronan kissed her ear. “You look weary, a stór, and I know I am. How about joining me for a long night’s embrace?”

  “Give me a moment, and I’ll be delighted to. I need to bid Airgid good night and give her some of my fruit from dinner.”

  The horse. How she loved the horse.

  But that was why he loved her. Brenna embodied love.

  While Ronan waited for Brenna, he checked the guard, doubled to make certain the camp was secure. Already Egan and some of his men began to settle about the fire nearest the O’Byrne’s cart. This bit of glen was the safest place to stop along the road to the higher ground of Glenarden, but forest thickened in the distance. It was a perfect cover for anyone bent on mischief … or murder.

  The howl of a wolf penetrated Brenna’s restless slumber. Men crept stealthily through the trees near a moon-glazed ribbon of water. Bloodthirsty renegades all, like their leader. Ah, there he was. Heming crouched like a wolf ready to pounce, his black hair greased slick for battle. Brenna saw him as clearly as she had at yesterday’s tournament. Saw that sinister smile as he said, “My pleasure is yours for all your days.”

  With a gasp, Brenna bolted upright, staring with wide eyes at the figures sleeping peacefully around the campsite. She placed a hand over her pounding heart to keep it housed within her chest.

  “What is it?” Ronan’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword next to him.

  Was it only a dream?

  No. The force of her conviction chased the remaining fog of sleep from her brain.

  “He’s here. Heming … and a score or more of men. In the woods.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Brenna nodded, though she hoped she was wrong.

  Ronan seized her arm. “I want you to crawl under the wagon and into it on the other side.”

  “Aye, my bow is there.”

  “Nay, I’d have you keep down, protect Father.”

  “As you say.” But she’d not hide when her new family was in danger.

  “Do it!”

  As Brenna rolled under the wagon, Ronan crawled toward Egan, who snored loud enough for the men in the woods to hear. But before he could reach the champion, Caden’s voice
carried across the campsite.

  “Going somewhere, Brother?”

  The eerie nature of her brother-in-law’s voice raised the hairs on Brenna’s head as she emerged on the yon side of Tarlach’s cart. The sound was amplified, as if through a hollow reed. And now Caden was standing over Ronan, who was still belly to the ground.

  “We’re under attack.” Ronan started to get up, but Caden pressed the sword to his throat.

  What was wrong with the man?

  “That witch of yours is good … but not as good as mine.” Caden inclined his head toward the woods, where the men Brenna had seen in her dream emerged from cover, along with Rhianon and Keena.

  Brenna reached blindly into the cart where she recalled having stashed her bow. She could easily hit Caden from this distance.

  But Caden’s pride at the way his devious plan was coming together gave Ronan the chance he needed. He knocked Caden’s sword away, plowing into his brother and shoving Caden over the sleeping Egan O’Toole.

  “Glenarden to arms!” Ronan roared. “To arms!”

  Egan was on his feet before Brenna could climb into the cart, but the champion groped at an empty scabbard in bewilderment. Caden’s work, no doubt.

  For the span of a lightning flash, there was deafening silence filled with a thousand thoughts and questions. Then, pandemonium. The attackers rushed the campsite, screaming like banshees. Ronan and Caden locked in hand-to-hand combat on the ground. Egan raced from man to man on the ground, trying to wake them, but to no avail. A few staggered to their feet as though drunk, but most of Glenarden’s warriors would not stir.

  Could not stir.

  It wasn’t Caden’s handiwork this time, Brenna knew, but that of the crone dancing amongst the attacking hoard, her gnarled cane raised over her head in triumph.

  Without second thought, Brenna strung her bow and nocked an arrow.

  One of the charging Saxons dropped, felled by Brenna’s first shot. Beside her, Tarlach struggled to get up. “Mm … axesh.”

  She loosed another arrow, striking a second man in the knee before she rummaged for the old chieftain’s axe.

  Ronan and Caden separated, each with swords recovered and ready.

  “Hold!” Caden’s shout halted the charge, but his gaze never left that of his brother. “Circle them. Spare any who sleep.”

  The villains closed in on where no more than a handful of Glenarden’s warriors crawled in confusion. And in their midst stood Egan and Ronan back to back, Egan brandishing a sword recovered from the overzealous, hence careless, assailant lying still nearby.

  “Drop your bow, Brenna, or I’ll set my wolves upon the sleeping men and all will die. As for you, old man”—Caden glared at Tarlach—“your threat to us has long passed.”

  With a growl of outrage, Tarlach tried to raise his axe, but it tumbled from his weak grip to his feet. The sob that gurgled in the old man’s throat as he sank to his knees tore at Brenna. Reluctant, she tossed her bow to the ground.

  “You and Egan as well, Brother,” Caden ordered. “Put down your weapons.”

  “You betray your own clan? Your own blood?” Incredulity vied with contempt in Ronan’s charge. As much as Caden had rebelled against him, he still didn’t want to believe his brother capable of such betrayal.

  “Actually, Ronan, we’ve spared our men,” Rhianon said with a feline drawl. “If they don’t wake up, we won’t have to kill them.” She batted her eyes at Ronan in such a way as to make Brenna’s blood boil. “Unless you resist. Then we’ll kill them one by one until your swords are handed over.”

  Reaching down, Rhianon slashed the neck of one of the men, a warrior trying to fly in his madness. His lifeblood spraying her skirts, he collapsed in death’s throe.

  To think Brenna had been glad to have this woman as a sister. “If there is a witch among us, it is not I,” she declared. “You abuse God’s gifts, nature’s properties, for dark and devious ends, Rhianon. But this will return to you. As you sow, so shall you reap.”

  “Is that a vision, milady?” Rhianon jeered.

  Brenna shook her head. “Nay, nor my promise, but God’s Word.”

  “Nay, nor my promise, but God’s Word,” Keena mimicked. She peered over Rhianon’s shoulder at Brenna. “What a shame you’ll take credit for my handiwork”—she spat out the word—“healer. Miracle worker.”

  “What madness do you speak of, woman?” Ronan demanded. He’d yet to drop his sword.

  “Our warriors will believe me when I tell them that your witchwoman put a spell on them so that her clan could slay you and our father,” Caden replied.

  Brenna shivered involuntarily from the icy indifference in his voice.

  “Though I’m not far from the truth,” he added. “Brenna has bewitched you and Father.”

  “Caden,” Brenna pleaded, “this is not your doing. You are the one bewitched.”

  Why hadn’t she seen it before?

  She had. His gaze had been as soulless as a glass cup for some time. Brenna had learned of such things, but never seen the like. But, like Ronan, she hadn’t wanted to believe the worst in Caden.

  “We’re both bewitched, aren’t we, darling?” Rhianon snaked her arm about Caden’s waist, cooing, “By love.”

  Caden groaned, submissive as a dog to a belly rub, as she tripped playful fingers up his muscled arm, reveling in her control.

  “Only my brave, strong husband is going to save me. Yours will die.” A perfect rose of a pout formed on Rhianon’s lips. “Sadly, so will you.”

  Suddenly her crone spun about and pointed to Heming. “Go on, laddie, what are ye waiting for? Claim your prize.”

  Heming gave Ronan a gloating look. “No one to save you now, Glenarden,” he said in contempt. “Not wolf, nor merlin … ” He cut his gaze to Brenna. “Nor witch.”

  “It was you,” Brenna declared. Why hadn’t she listened to her instincts?

  And why, Father God, had they come so late? Brenna couldn’t help but feel God had betrayed her. What was the point of her gifts, if she was to lose the only man she’d ever loved? Where are You, Father?

  “See if your prize still works miracles,” Keena told Heming. But her hateful gaze wasn’t on the hunter. It was on Brenna.

  That same smile Heming had given Brenna yesterday and again a short while ago in her vision accompanied familiar words. “My pleasure is yours for all your days.” The implication curdled her blood. And her without so much as the dining dagger in her sack to defend herself.

  “No!” Without thought to himself or his men, Ronan tore from his defensive position at Egan’s back. He slashed his way at the warriors who blocked his path to Heming, while more closed in at his back in a circle of certain death.

  Helpless, Brenna reached from her very soul’s depths for the God who seemed to have abandoned her.

  “Father God!”

  “For Glenarden!” a chorus of men shouted at the same time from somewhere behind her.

  Angels? She glanced over her shoulder in disbelief.

  Men. A score or so. Stampeding across the shallow burn, beating their weapons against wooden shields, shouting. “For Gowrys!”

  Time slowed itself, and trapped all in it. Brenna clutched the side of the cart, gaze riveted on Ronan. The warriors surrounding him stood frozen in disbelief before the charging phantoms that had appeared from nowhere. Bleeding from a gash on his arm, Ronan skewered one diverted Saxon and kicked another away. As her husband turned to deal with the second man, a hand clamped vice-like about Brenna’s ankle.

  Heming! For the blink of an eye, she saw beyond his leering face. On horseback, Donal of Gowrys directed his ragtag force. They swarmed like hornets about Caden’s renegades, their sting death-dealing. Beside Donal was the shocking image of Brother Martin, crosier raised in one hand and the Gowrys colors in the other, bellowing prayers for his king like an ancient bard.

  Heming snatched at Brenna’s foot with such force that the amazing sights vanished. Down she went, h
ard, on the wagon bed.

  “You’re coming with me,” he shouted above the din of clashing wood and metal.

  Brenna grabbed at the rail, at Tarlach’s leg, anything to hang onto, but Heming’s strength was compounded by the panic in his gaze. As the wagon bed raked at her back, Brenna seized one of the arrows from her quiver. The moment she was close enough, she thrust it, dagger-like, at her assailant’s eye.

  He turned too quickly. The tip slashed across his jaw and snagged his ear.

  “Witch!” He backhanded the side of her face, knocking her to the ground.

  How her head spun! The men fought about her, moving like ribbons on a Maypole.

  Brenna shook off her dizziness. She had to keep Heming from taking her. She crawled under the wagon, reaching for the sack next to her bedding. Digging frantically, she found her dagger, shoved it between her teeth, and latched onto the wheel with her arms. She drew up her ankles, ready to kick.

  But there was nothing. Nothing except a heavy thud at her feet. Beyond them was the bulging stare of Heming’s lifeless eyes, now separated by Tarlach’s battle-axe.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “’Tis a fitting death.” Tarlach’s last words were as clear as his speech had been in his prime.

  Ronan tried to grab his father’s flailing hand, but he wouldn’t take it. Instead, the dying man reached with his good arm toward something just beyond his grasp, something he wanted with all his being; something not of This World. Then it dropped, leaden, across his chest as breath left him for the last time.

  “He … he died saving me,” Brenna cried softly. She closed the old chieftain’s eyes with her fingertips. Her gown was bloodied from tending the knife wound in his chest. Heming’s last murderous deed. She’d left the blade there and packed Tarlach’s brat about it to stifle the bleeding until death stilled it.

  A blade of rage edged with grief wedged in Ronan’s throat. “’Twas a fitting death for a warrior, more so than choking abed on his own spittle.” As though putting a child to bed, Ronan covered his father with the stained black, red, and gray plaid of his clan. “God was with him … as He was with us all.”