Healer

by Linda Windsor

  Through the dust and smoke from the fire, scattered in the midst of the fray, Ronan surveyed the bodies strewn about—some dead to all that had happened with sleep. Others dead to This World, or soon to cross over to the Other Side. He said what he believed about God, but still his blood roiled from battle.

  Ronan helped Brenna down from the wagon and held onto her as though she alone kept him from such a crossing. He would kill Caden for trying to take this from him. Gone was the fraternal bond that had kept Ronan’s suspicion at bay.

  But in his desperation to protect Brenna, Ronan had lost track of his brother during the melee. Now the Gowrys beat the predawn forest for those who’d fled their charge: Caden and the women among them.

  Caden. The very thought turned Ronan’s blood hotter and hotter. He would hunt his brother down and avenge his murderous plot. Draw his innards from his belly and feed them to the dogs while he watched. Even then, that would not be enough.

  “I should help Brother Martin tend the dying.” Brenna pulled away from Ronan’s embrace with reluctance.

  Bitterness tinged Ronan’s words. “Tend only our wounded.”

  Not that there were many. A few cuts and bruises for sleeping in the midst of a full-fledged battle.

  She slanted a reproving gaze at him. “All must receive the comfort and knowledge of Christ.”

  “Their souls be cursed to eternity.”

  Brenna caught Ronan’s arm as he turned away. “You may damn them, but I cannot deny them the same mercy you have received.”

  Ronan bit his lip. He could not argue with truth.

  But he had been a boy, led by a madman—not a full-grown coward attacking incapacitated innocents in the night.

  He looked at the bloodstained sword he’d planted in the earth. It was still there, by the cart, when he had abandoned it to be with Tarlach once the enemy had fled for the woods. Ronan felt no sorrow for the fiends he’d slain this night. Taking up the weapon, he wiped it across his thigh, staring into the wood.

  His heart hardened even more. “And the killing is not yet done,” he growled to himself. For a moment the image of Faol, baring his teeth to protect Brenna, flashed into his mind. Aye, the beast lived. In Ronan himself. This time, in the form of a man.

  The sun broke over the horizon, bathing the green skirts of the cloud-cloaked mountains rising to the north and the woods thickening about the burn. With the dawn, the effects of the taint in the men’s beer began to wane. Caden and the women were still missing when most of the Gowrys returned to the camp with the prisoners they had been able to capture.

  “Isn’t there anything you can do to speed the return of the men’s senses?” Ronan demanded of Brenna. He wanted to find Caden before he had the chance to leave the area, for his brother would not dare show his face at Glenarden again.

  “I’ve given them something for their aching heads and thick tongues, but no. Keena’s henbane, or perhaps mandrake, must run its course,” she snapped. “Be thankful they are alive and well, not among the dead. Those are dangerous herbs in evil hands.”

  Even Brenna’s ever-loving nature had been tested by the carnage. She glanced to where the Gowrys dug a deep trench for the bodies stacked beside it. Catching her lip between her teeth, she shuddered and blinked away the weariness and grief clouding her eyes. “I must get away from this.”

  “Wait.” Pricked by guilt, Ronan caught the sleeve of her dress. “I’m sorry. I’m not the saint you are.”

  Brenna didn’t reply. She merely stared at his hand until he released her. As he watched her head for the sparkling stream away from the main body of the camp, he knew he’d hurt her. But she could not understand this anger….

  “You need to get away as well, son.”

  Brother Martin approached, hearty as he’d been in leading the Gowrys hours earlier. Druids and priests were exempt from harm, even on the battlefield. At least by law.

  “How is Alyn?” Ronan asked.

  Evidently the youngest O’Byrne had not practiced the moderation he preached and had slept like a babe through the bloody conflict.

  “Slight as he is, he’s taking longer to come around, but the women are nursing him with sips of tea like a babe. Likewise the boy, Bron. But you need to take time to count your blessings,” the priest advised. “I’ll tend to Alyn.”

  Not what Ronan wanted to hear. “Caden betrayed us,” Ronan ground out through his teeth. “He will pay.”

  The priest crossed his arms, thinking aloud. “Actually he did as much to bring peace between you and the Gowrys as any edict from Arthur.”

  As absurd as Martin’s finding merit to Caden’s betrayal was, Ronan knew he should thank the priest again and again for urging Donal and his clan to cover Ronan’s back … for reminding the Gowrys that they’d not seen the last of their common enemy. But if he did as the priest said, Ronan would lose the edge of his rage, and that was something he could not afford to do until he’d sent Caden earthways.

  “I nearly lost her.” The hungry way Heming had looked at Brenna, the sight of her reeling from his backhand—thinking of those images kept Ronan’s rage sharp and ready.

  “But you didn’t.” Martin clapped Ronan on the shoulder. “Go to her, laddie. You need each other … and time with God.”

  Lips thinned, Ronan looked to where Brenna knelt beside the burn. She had edged downstream, toward the falls, and beneath an umbrella of alder and hazel. Leaning over, she splashed the running water on her face and arms, washing away the blood and dirt. And, judging by the way she scrubbed and scrubbed, she was attempting to erase the horrors of what she’d seen.

  “When the Hebrew warriors returned from battle,” Martin said, “they cleansed themselves physically and emotionally by spending a week away from their loved ones until the battle rage was replaced by God’s peace.”

  Peace. Would Ronan ever have it?

  “You do not have that luxury with your wife. Seek your peace together.”

  At this moment, in this time, Ronan didn’t even want such peace. At least not for himself. But he did for Brenna. And that desire clashed with his blood’s clamor for more carnage. Yet, with it, he might at least take some of the nightmare away from her.

  Brenna was crying when he reached her. Sobs wracked her shoulders as she tried to rub the dried blood from her skirts. Were it in his power, she’d never face such a day as this again. Ronan gently pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

  “I told the truth back there,” he said, ignoring the cold dripping fabric now soaking his clothes. “I’m not the saint you are.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’m just a man who faced losing the most important thing in his life, and it still haunts me. I want to protect you, a stór.”

  “Such things are beyond our power.” Brenna jerked her arm toward the camp. “I c-couldn’t save any of them.” She fought for a steady breath. “The Gowrys are d-deadly foes.” The next breath was no less shaky. “You want to protect everyone, and I want to save them, but … but sometimes, we j-just can’t.”

  “I know.” Ronan’s reply was as inadequate as he. He wanted to take away her tears. Take away her fears, her pain. But all he could do was feel. Worse, what he felt could not be put into words. But he tried. “I love you, Brenna, with all my heart and soul.”

  Ronan lifted her chin, his gaze meeting her own. Instead of seeing his declaration sink in, perhaps hearing it returned, he saw terror. Sheer, speechless terror.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw Caden coming at his back, knife drawn.

  There was no time to speak, only to act. Ronan twisted sideways. His hand caught Caden’s wrist, halting the downward swing of the blade. With his other, Ronan pushed Brenna away. Heard her splash as she fell into the burn.

  “One of us will die,” Caden rumbled from deep in his chest, “this day.”

  Perspiration pushed its way through the skin on Ronan’s forehead. He struggled to hold the knife at bay, all the while reaching for the dagger in his belt with his free
hand. But his brother’s uncommon strength, the prick of his knife against his skin, forced Ronan to use both hands to stop it. Blood thundered in his ear so loud it was hard to think about what Caden might do with his other hand.

  But Ronan had to do something. Caden would not stop with taking his life. He would kill Brenna as well.

  “Praise God the Father Almighty and Jesus Christ, Lord of all!”

  Caden’s strength faltered at Brenna’s shout. Enough that Ronan regained some of the footing he’d lost.

  “Let go of me, woman!” Caden roared.

  In the periphery of Ronan’s vision, Caden shook Brenna from her hold on his free hand. Something clattered from it. A knife?

  Ronan couldn’t look. Now he dealt with the force of both of Caden’s hands on the knife poised at his throat. And his feet would not hold in the moist earth beneath him.

  “This is not you, Caden.” Brenna was back, embracing Caden about the waist. “In the name of Jesus, the Christ, begone demon of lust and greed, for this soul belongs to Him, not the likes of you. I cast thee out in Jesus’ name.”

  Caden shuddered, weakening enough for Ronan to push the blade away at his arm’s length. They locked at his elbows. Although how much longer Ronan could sustain this muscle to muscle—

  “I praise the name of Jesus,” Brenna cried out, “who seizes you by your neck and casts you out!”

  An angry “Nooo!” erupted from Caden, along with a force that knocked Ronan nearly senseless to the ground.

  Breath? Muscle? Maybe both. Something had bowled Ronan over like a toddling child. Caden stood above him, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, his knife still clutched in his hand. But instead of finishing off Ronan, the man seemed to struggle with himself.

  And still Brenna clung to him. “I cast you out in the name of Jesus!”

  “Let me go, woman!”

  Caden would kill her. No doubt in Ronan’s mind. Renewed by desperation, Ronan rolled away and struggled to his feet, drawing his sword.

  Caden drew his as well, but Brenna would not let him go.

  Even when Ronan begged her, “Brenna, run!”

  “I claim this man in the name of Jesus—”

  Caden shoved her face away with the palm of his free hand.

  “—and I banish you,” she stubbornly resisted, “demon greed and ambition. I banish you, demon lust and envy. All of you in the name of Jesus.”

  Spittle sprayed from Caden’s snarl as he tried to twist from her grip. He lifted his sword as though to strike her with its pommel. Ronan lunged at him with his own weapon. The blade glanced off his mail shirt but diverted Caden’s attention from Brenna. As Caden’s blade clashed with Ronan’s, Caden sent Brenna flailing to the ground with his boot.

  Clutching her abdomen, she rolled to her knees and screamed, “Martin!”

  Alarm shot through Ronan like ice falling into a blazing fire, steaming his desire for blood. Had Caden hurt her or the babe, Ronan would kill him twice! Dagger in one hand, sword in the other, he flew at his fair-haired brother, slashing, blocking, thrusting, parrying. Again and again he met steel. And with each clash Caden gained ground, fed by Ronan’s fury.

  Ronan winced as Caden’s sword found the meat of his thigh—and leapt away when Caden, distracted by Brother Martin’s loud and angry Latin verse, failed to follow through.

  “Spiritus, ego te ligo in nomine Jesu, potestate ….”

  Brenna repeated the prayer in her native tongue, this time keeping her distance as she circled Caden. “Spirit, I bind you in the name of Jesus, by the power of the cross and His blood ….”

  Ronan watched for another chance, the right slip. With their distraction he might overcome Caden’s incredibly sharpened battle prowess.

  At long last men from the camp had heard the sound of combat and rallied at full run.

  But Brother Martin stayed them with an authoritative, “Back!” between his rants, for such a prayer as this Ronan had never heard. “Et per intercessione omnium sanctorum, te impero recedere, Caden …” the priest continued.

  “And by the intercession of all the saints …” Brenna joined in.

  “Brenna, get away from him,” Ronan ordered.

  Instead she boldly seized Caden, who seemed stunned, even ill, from behind again. Brother Martin laid his hands upon him as well.

  “I command you to leave Caden of Glenarden and return to thy lowly source.”

  Ronan wanted to pull her away to safety, but Caden faded by the breath, by the groan, by the unseen power that ran him through the gut and dropped him to his knees.

  “Spirit, I bind you in the name of Jesus,” healer and priest began—one in Briton, the other in Latin.

  Caden’s eyes rolled back in his head, but it was his rippling abdomen that riveted the attention of all who’d gathered. The hair stood up on Ronan’s neck. It was all he could do not to back away as some of the others did.

  “Return unto thy lowly source.…”

  Arching backward so abruptly that Brenna just escaped, Caden fell to the ground, writhing and groaning in agony.

  Both Brenna and the priest followed him, keeping their hands on his body.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” they finished together.

  Caden coughed. It was the only sound in the eerie silence.

  Then an unearthly scream erupted from a cluster of rocks near the falls. Some of the men turned to run, while others stood motionless, hands on the hilts of their weapons.

  Keena raced out from cover, tearing at her hair with her hands and racing up and down the bank.

  Following the nurse was Rhianon. The lady was blanched of color and as oblivious to their audience as the crone. “Cease, Keena. You must gather your wits!”

  But Keena whipped a blade out from her sash and turned on her young charge. “Back,” she hissed through her scant remaining teeth. “Back, or I’ll kill you.”

  Rhianon stilled, shocked. “Keena, nay. You must—”

  Keena raised her blade at her audience. “Curse you all, your God and your saints,” she shrieked. Except it wasn’t the voice of an old woman, but of something dark and otherworldly. The same something that had haunted Caden’s voice. Its timbre stroked Ronan’s spine, lifting the very hairs along it.

  “I’ll kill you, all of you,” the crone warned. Whatever it was that forced her backward, she slashed at it with all her fury. “Take that … and that.”

  Even as she went over the edge of the fall, she cursed at it … or them.

  “Keena!” Rhianon’s scream echoed to the highlands and back. She rushed to the precipice and peered over at the river below in horror and disbelief.

  For a moment no one moved, save Brother Martin and Brenna, who continued to pray over Caden in a mingle of Latin and British.

  Ronan grappled for his senses. “Seize her!”

  But everyone else was held suspended by what they’d just witnessed.

  Rhianon stiffened at the sound of Ronan’s command. Her gaze shifted from panic to calculation as she took in the men’s reaction. Or lack of it.

  “I’ll do it.” Just as Donal of Gowrys moved forward, Rhianon pointed an imperious finger at him. The chieftain stopped in midstride, halting anyone else of a mind to follow.

  “The first man to touch me will suffer the same fate as my husband,” she warned, her voice bordering hysteria. She ventured a hasty glance over the edge where Keena had disappeared. “And now that my nurse is gone,” she declared, growing bolder, “I’m even stronger.”

  “This is no ordinary foe, Glenarden,” Donal said to Ronan, almost apologetic.

  Using Caden’s discarded sword as a crutch, Brother Martin rose on stiff knees. “I’ll face her.”

  “Do you think I fear you, Priest?” Rhianon scoffed.

  Benevolent to her contempt, Martin walked toward her, smiling. “You have nothing to fear from me, child. It is my Lord who makes you tremble so. Let us praise Him together.”

  He cast th
e weapon aside, arms widening in invitation. As did Rhianon’s eyes. Furtive glances from priest to precipice showed her clearly torn between the appeal of the two options.

  “Praise God Almighty,” Martin sang in a fine baritone. “Ruler of Heaven and earth.”

  Rhianon put her hands over her ears.

  “Praise Jesus, Son and Demon Conqueror, Victor over death and sin—”

  “Curse you, Martin.” Rhianon accented her defiance with a stomp. And with a sweep of her bloodied skirts, Rhianon spun and leapt over the fall.

  The scene grew still as a tapestry. There was no trip of the burn over the rock ledge. No bird song. No movement of man or beast. No scrap of weapons against leather or mail.

  Until Caden groaned and tried to rise.

  “Be still,” Brenna cooed in a voice that gentled wolves.

  But not the wolf in Ronan.

  Ronan sprang at his brother’s prone figure and pressed his weapon at Caden’s throat.

  It was only Brenna’s sudden and tight clutch of the sword blade alone that kept Ronan from ramming it into that place where his brother’s life still beat without right.

  “Let it go, Brenna,” Ronan said.

  “Aye,” Caden said in gravelly agreement. “I deserve no less.”

  “I’ll not let you do this, Ronan,” she said.

  “Do it, Brother,” Caden implored. “Let this be done between us.”

  Brother Martin joined them. “Remove your hand from the blade, Brenna,” the priest told her. “This is Ronan’s test, not yours.”

  “Test?” Ronan echoed.

  “It is your choice to make. Will you submit to God’s will, or insist on your own?” Martin asked. “Will you remember your blessings or your rage? Will you feed the beast within you as you fed Caden’s, or starve it with gratitude for the miracles that have taken place in these last hours?”

  Miracles. They tumbled across Ronan’s mind.

  The Gowrys and that crazy priest spewing from the tall grass on the other side of the burn. Ronan thought he’d hallucinated at first.