Healer

by Linda Windsor

  To Linda’s delight, Maire, Book One of the Fires of Gleannmara Irish Celtic series, was rereleased by Waterbrook Multnomah Publishers with a gorgeous new warrior queen cover in 2009. Christy finalist Riona will be rereleased with its heroine on an all-new cover in summer 2010.

  Another of her novels, For Pete’s Sake, Book Two in the Piper Cove Chronicles, is winner of the 2009 National Reader’s Choice Award—Best Inspirational, the Golden Quill Award—Best Inspirational, the Best Book of 2008 Award—Inspirational (Long & Short Reviews), and Best Book of the Year—Inspirational (Romance Reviews Today). For Pete’s Sake also finaled in the Colorado RWA 2009 Award of Excellence and the Southern Magic RWA Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence.

  Linda’s research for the early Celtic Gleannmara series resulted in a personal mission dear to her heart: to provide Christians with an effective witness to reach their New Age and unbelieving family and friends. Her goal continues with Healer of The Brides of Alba series, which reveals early church history, much of which has been lost or neglected due to intentional and/or inadvertent error by its chroniclers. This knowledge of early church history enabled Linda to reach her daughter, who became involved in Wicca after being stalked and assaulted in college and blaming the God of her childhood faith—a witness that continues to others at medieval fair signings or wherever these books take Windsor.

  Windsor is convinced that, had her daughter known the struggle and witness of the early Christians beyond the apostles’ time and before Christianity earned a black name in the Crusades and Inquisition, she could not have been swayed from her early faith. Nor would Linda herself have been lured away from her faith in Christ in college by a liberal agenda.

  Linda’s testimony that Christ is her Druid (Master/Teacher) opens wary hearts wounded by harsh Christian condemnation. Through her witness, admitted Wiccans and pagans have become intrigued by the tidbits of history and tradition pointing to the how and why druids accepted Him. She not only sells these nonbelievers copies of her books, but she also outsells the occult titles surrounding her inspirational ones.

  When Linda isn’t writing in the restored eighteenth-century home that she and her late husband restored, she’s busy speaking and/or playing music for writing workshops, faith seminars, libraries, and civic and church groups. She and her husband were professional musicians and singers in their country and old rock-and-roll band, Homespun. She also plays organ for her little country church in the wildwood. Presently she’s trying to work in some painting, wallpapering, and other house projects that are begging to be done. That is, when she’s not Red-Hatting or, better yet, playing mom-mom to her grandchildren—her favorite role in life.

  Visit Linda Windsor at her Web site:

  www.LindaWindsor.com

  Don’t Miss the Stunning Sequel

  Thief

  BOOK TWO

  The Brides of Alba

  Linda Windsor

  “Love of our neighbor is the only door

  out of the dungeon of self.”

  When Caden O’Byrne fails to find the death he seeks as an end to his miserable exile from family, country, and faith, an old Scottish proverb challenges him to move on. But doing so means traveling deep into Saxon territory to bring home a young woman abducted as a child by Saxon raiders. Little does Caden know that a familiar enemy awaits him—one more dangerous than a Saxon blade.

  Sorcha’s troubles are finally behind her with her betrothal to a good, if elderly, thane whose wealth will enable her to continue rescuing British children from the Roman slave market. Then a stranger arrives and tells her she has an inheritance from parents, who never tried to find her when she was a young, frightened captive. Sorcha’s heart is torn between her passionate calling and an intense longing for what might have been back at her childhood home.

  When treachery strikes, Caden and Sorcha are forced on a dangerous journey that neither could have imagined.

  Prologue

  Lothian

  Leaf Fall, late sixth century AD

  It was a good day to die. But then this warrior had lost count of such days, hoping that each one would put an end to his miserable existence … to this exile of body and soul. Beneath him, his horse strained at the reins, eager to join the fray between the Pendragon’s forces and the Saxon invaders seeking to win yet one more chunk of the ever-shrinking Bryneich. Once it had swept to the North Sea, but the Sassenach had hacked away its coastal settlements with their axes. Now they wanted more.

  Caden O’Byrne held his stallion back, waiting with the other mercenaries for the signal to sweep down the hill and relieve the first line of warriors already engaged. None of them knew him by any other name but Caden. Like everything else that mattered, he’d left clan name behind. Only shame followed, haunting him night and day.

  The clang of blades, the cries of rage and anguish rose in a dissonant chorus from the edge of the autumn-tinged forest of oak and alder that had hid the enemy—or so they thought—until the last moment. Anxiety weighed upon the faces of Caden’s battle-hardened comrades—at least those with something or someone to go home to. But there were a few, like him, who grinned, teeth bared in anticipation of, if not death and escape from their personal demons, at least a chance to take out their pent-up need for vengeance on an enemy they could see and lay hands on … an enemy they could kill.

  Down the line, Modred, Arthur’s nephew and now regent of Lothian, sat upon his horse, clad in somber priestly robes, his arm raised. Priests and druids were untouchable in battle, at least among the tribes of Britain. That made Modred a bit of a paradox in leading the Lothian warband, though coward came to Caden’s mind. He wondered if Modred following his mother Morgause’s calling into the high Celtic church made the man fit for the Lothian kingship he’d assumed from his late father, Cennalath. Or loyal enough to his uncle, Arthur, now engaged in the battle below. After all, it was Arthur—known as Pendragon to the Welsh, Dux Bellorum to the British, and High King to the Scottish Dalraida—who was responsible for the Saxon-loving traitor Cennalath’s death.

  But who was Caden to judge when he was naught but a mercenary bound to the highest bidder? In this case, the priest-king Modred.

  Besides, in these times of rivaling British kingdoms, today’s enemy was often tomorrow’s bedfellow, especially when the Saxons entered the scene. It was the Christian High King’s mission—and nightmare—to unite the squabbling Christian and pagan Britons as one against the wolfish enemy who would devour—

  Modred lowered his arm, commanding the signaler to blast his horn. Caden forgot about the questionable loyalty and merit of his employer and gave Forstan a nudge with his knees. The steed, aware of the meaning of the horn’s blast, shot forward, shuddering not at the sound of clanging swords and death as some of the other horses did. Like its rider, the costly stallion—worth two years of war prizes—seemed to crave it. Unflinching bravery had earned Forstan his name. Caden’s courage stemmed from the will to die.

  Joining the roar of the charge, Caden rode straight for the well-executed chaos. That was Arthur’s genius, the reason he led Britain’s kings, though he had no proper kingdom of his own. It was what the church had trained him to do: lead kings. The Britons had the best ground, the best warriors hewn from experience, and word that the Saxons were on the march along the Lader Water. Some said this good fortune was all due to the image of the Virgin the Arthur wore on his shield, but Caden leaned toward experience and skill over the painted face of a woman.

  Like the one on Caden’s own shield, though his had been nearly beaten into oblivion. Hretha, the name lettered around the image of the Saxon pagan goddess, certainly hadn’t brought glory or victory to its previous owner. Nay, it was skill and passion that won the day. And Caden sported Hretha now, not for the goddess’s protection, but for the well-made wicker and leather laminate backing her image.

  Caden’s blood began to race at battle speed, its cadence matching that of Forstan’s muscled flesh hurling downhill toward the fray. Abo
ve it flew the banner of Arthur’s Red Dragon, the rallying point.

  The Saxons also had reinforcements. Caden spied them in the periphery of vision. Perhaps, just perhaps, the enemy would put up a fight worthy of a warrior’s end. The drums thundering in his head drove Caden into the dust cloud enveloping the battlefield. He inhaled it and exhaled fury. A wild-haired Saxon with a deep red scar across his cheek rushed to meet him before he could dismount, hurling a lance with all his might. It glanced off the stallion’s breastplate.

  “Your gods take you if you wound my horse!” Caden slid off Forstan’s back and broke into a dead run toward the unfortunate warrior now brandishing an axe. “I was going to dismount to meet you fairly.” Horses were used like chariots before them, to deliver men fresh to the thick of battle and carry the weary off, though Caden had done his fair share of fighting from horseback. But he had no use for cowards who targeted a man’s horse.

  While Forstan cantered off, trained to await him a distance away, Caden unsheathed Delg, a prize from another battle and more deadly in his skilled hands than the thorn after which he’d named it. The Saxon charged, his axe forming a deadly sphere of continuous motion—down, around, up, around again, ever forward. Caden cut its frenzy short with a hard blow. Hretha’s oak and leather took the brunt of the impact and sent the weapon flying. Good for the old goddess, who was credited for March’s victory over winter’s end … and for Caden’s strong arm behind her.

  The Saxon made the mistake of looking after his weapon in disbelief. He still wore that expression when Caden separated the man’s head from his body with Delg. Easy. Too easy. Thanks to Egan O’Toole, the O’Byrne champion from another lifetime, Caden had been trained to incorporate skill and instinct into one. Plunging deeper into the thick of dust and battle, Caden faced enemy after enemy after enemy. And with each kill, the drums in his head grew louder. His breath became bursts of rage until he no longer faced men but the demons that deprived him of peace with their ceaseless torture.

  Just then, one of the Saxon curs approached the back of the Pendragon, whose blue and white tunic had long since been stained with dirt and blood from those who’d fallen victim to Excalibur. Arthur had led his men into the first clash and fought not only his own demons but, it seemed, those of his nephew, Modred, who watched safely from the heather-dashed knot above them. Caden judged the pace of the running yellow-haired warrior, whose axe was aimed at the Pendragon’s back.

  So much for the protection from the Virgin on Arthur’s shield. Caden hefted Delg like a spear and gave the sword a mighty thrust, closing a distance he could not make in time afoot. True it went, straight into the heathen’s abdomen. It stopped the assailant long enough for Caden to set upon him and end his writhing misery.

  Arthur spun at the unholy death scream, but instead of a flash of approval or gratitude on his beleaguered face, there was warning. Before Caden could comprehend the look, a shaft of blinding agony entered his back. He swung about, pulling Delg out of Arthur’s attacker in the process and slashing at his cowardly assailant. The tip of his blade laid open the man’s neck.

  But Caden kept spinning. Blood-splatter, autumn colors, blue sky, and dust—always dust—swirled about him. Arthur, his men, the Saxons … all were consumed by it. Thick and gray it was, choking out everything except the pain. Only when it turned to blessed blackness did the pain go away. One thought drifted up through the abyss, pulling the corners of Caden’s mouth into a smile. It’s a good death.