by Lily Baldwin
“It would be him against the world”, she said out loud.
How could she ask that of him? But, equally, how could he ask her to give up her beliefs and the very name her mother gave her?
The darkness began to recede, and the first morning bird sounded. The Skylark’s song twisted her heart as it marked the true passing of night. Only then did it become unbearably clear that their promises to each other had been made in vain. Sooner or later, Ronan would chose his destiny, and it would be one in which she played no part.
For the first time since Ronan’s departure, she shifted her gaze and stared at her empty hands. She hung her head and felt a rush of pressure surge from deep within her body. It traveled the length of her abdomen and into her throat, pushing against the walls of her mouth until she finally opened her lips and let go an earsplitting sob. A flurry of birds filled the air, jetting out of the tree branches as they fled from her deafening cry.
She felt a cool rush of air on her face, and once more, she heard the whispers on the wind—soft feminine caresses from a long descent of ancestral women who had also loved and lost. Driven by the strength in their voices, she stood and shook Ronan from her skirts. Her legs protested the sudden movement, but she welcomed the pain; it was a reminder that she was indeed alive and very much in possession of name and of soul. She would return home, and she vowed never again to deny her instincts or the wisdom revealed by her visions.
From her satchel she withdrew the Witch’s cloak. She fanned it over her shoulders and pulled the hood low over her head. The fabric was thin, but it felt like stone across her back. It was her weapon in a battle that ended centuries ago; a battle she single-handedly still waged against an entire kingdom. Her mother refused to give her allegiance to the Scottish King, and Shoney would not fail her.
She assumed the gait of a crippled hag. Ronan may know her as Shoney, but as far as the rest of the world was concerned, she was the Witch of Dervaig. He would never sweep the cloak from her shoulders, allowing her to stand with pride. And she would never be content masquerading as a Scottish lass or as his secret whore.
Trails of tears coursed down her cheeks; try as she might, she could not stop crying. Her vision was blurred by the endless pools filling her eyes, which caused her to stumble and trip so that she need not feign the Witch’s gait. Finally, she arrived home, and as the door shut behind her with a loud thud, she prayed to the Mother of all to give her the strength to do what she must—she would leave him before he left her.
She hung the cloak on its peg and began to pull off her clothing.
“No, don’t do that”, someone cried.
Shoney whirled in the direction of the voice and saw the shadow of a man in the far corner near her pallet. She lunged for her sword.
“Reveal yourself, fiend.” Her voice sounded courageous to her own ears, but inside she quivered with fear. From out of the shadows strode Aidan with his hands raised above his head.
“’Tis only me”, he said. “I’m sorry to have caused you such alarm. I’ve been waiting for you since last evening, and I’m afraid I fell asleep over there and did not hear your arrival.”
He walked toward her, cautiously eyeing her blade. “I spoke hastily to ensure you stayed altogether garbed in my presence. Ronan has a mighty temper and would cut the eyes from my head if I ever saw you…well…you know.”
She watched a smile briefly flit across his features, but it soon passed, replaced by a soberness that surprised her. The brief occasions she had met Aidan he seemed to take nothing serious, except of course the risks which Ronan and Shoney were taking to be together.
“Tell me, Aidan, why you are here?” No sooner did the question pass her lips then she formulated her own answer. She inhaled sharply, covering her mouth with her hand. The room began to spin as she felt herself fall, but Aidan caught her.
“He is injured—isn’t he? The village was attacked and he fell,” she croaked.
“No, Shoney. Ronan is alive and well in health, although his spirit suffers. There was no battle. The bell rang for his mother.” Shoney did not understand. Aidan answered the query in her eyes.
“She is ill, gravely so. Her condition baffles our healers. They have no cure or even relief. You are our last hope.” Aidan moved toward the door. “Pack what potions you will need and come, please.” She heard the urgency in his voice, but she did not move. “Shoney, hurry—we must away.”
“Ronan knows you are here?” she asked.
“Aye, I am here on his orders.”
She turned her back to Aidan, “I am sorry but I cannot.”
“That is an unacceptable answer, Shoney.”
She whirled around. “Ronan gave me an unacceptable answer yesterday when once again he refused to bring me to the village.”
Aidan began to pace the room. On several occasions he turned to face her as if to speak; then he shook his head, apparently deciding a different approach was needed. She sighed as she began to build a fire. There was nothing Aidan could say about Ronan that would change her mind. But he must have sensed this intuitively, because when he spoke he did not mention his friend.
“You are a healer, Shoney”, he implored. “There is a good and virtuous woman who needs your help. Her name is Anwen. She is mother to every child in our clan and sister to every woman. Do not do this for Ronan. Do this for her.”
Instantly, her resolve dissipated.
Three years had passed since her mother died from an illness Shoney could not cure. The pain still ripped through her every time she pictured her mother’s beautiful face.
“I will go, Aidan, but hear this and hear it well. I am not a witch. I have no magic. I will come armed with herbs, poultices, and potions not with spells or miracles. I will do everything in my power to help Anwen, but she may still pass from this world.”
“I understand your full meaning, Shoney. Now please make haste. The hour is later than I would like.”
She asked Aidan to describe her symptoms while she searched her table for appropriate remedies.
“I do not know much, but I know the illness came on fast with a hot fever and terrible pain in her stomach and back”, Aidan said.
She had an idea of what ailed her, but she could not be sure until she spoke with the women in her attendance. She doubted Aidan knew how frequently she was using her chamber pot or whether she had reported any discomfort when she expelled. Shoney became grave with concern.
“Aidan, if I am right, then her condition is very serious. We must hurry. Every moment is crucial.” Aidan nodded and took the satchel from Shoney’s hand as she turned to grab the Witch’s cloak.
“No, leave the hag’s garb,” he directed. “Today, you come as yourself.”
She whirled around and looked at him with wide eyes and her mouth agape. She could not believe her ears.
“I am to walk into the village as I am, as me”, she stammered.
“Yes, Shoney, just as you are”, he smiled. Then he opened the door and held it for her to pass.
“Why did you not say so in the first place?” she smiled.
“Come along”, he urged. “We must away.” She nodded in agreement and followed him out the door.
“Where is your horse?” Shoney asked.
“We aren’t going to ride”, he answered.
“What?” Shoney did not understand how Aidan could have been so careless. It would take over an hour for them to walk to the village. What if it was too late by the time they arrived?
“Mother of all, Aidan, why did you walk?”
“I didn’t walk”, he said. “I sailed.”
“Whatever for?”
“For speed”, he replied.
It was hard to believe sailing was the fastest route to Gribun, but what did she know? She had never before set foot in a boat.
Despite the grim nature of their voyage, she could not help but be excited. Aidan led her behind her hut and down the cliffs to where a boat was tied. It seemed very small compared
to most of the ships she had seen pass by. Perhaps only three or four men could have fit. She took Aidan’s offered hand, but as she climbed aboard she was not prepared for how the boat rocked, and she squealed as she almost fell over. Aidan thankfully caught her and helped her to her seat. Her face warmed with embarrassment.
“This is my first time in a boat”, she explained.
“I never would have guessed”, he winked.
She was breathless with anticipation and more than a little nervous as Aidan untied the vessel. Straight away, they were taken out to sea by the waves. She watched as he unfurled the sail, which swelled with the steady winds. As they sped over the water, she sat in wonder, staring at the coastline and the sky overhead. She felt like a bird flying over the sea. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face toward the sun.
Then she suddenly remembered where they were going, and she thought for a moment she might be sick.
“You look a bit green, Shoney, but do not worry. Many people experience a little stomach upset when sailing; it should pass soon.”
Little did Aidan know she was not ill because of the surf but because of the dread consuming her from within. She was going to the village and would be presented to Ronan’s family. She had wanted this, longed for it in fact, but now that her desire was coming to fruition, she was afraid. What if the clan persecuted her despite Ronan’s support? What if they banished her from the village or Mull altogether? Or worse yet, what if Ronan was made to suffer? Fear was taking hold of her, stealing her breath and causing her to quiver in her seat.
“No”, she said aloud. Aidan turned and looked at her in surprise.
“What is it, Shoney? Did you forget something?”
“I can’t do this, Aidan. They will hate me. They will hurt me.”
He took hold of her hand. “Have courage, Shoney. Trust me. Trust Ronan. We will let no harm befall you.”
Nothing Aidan could say would ease her fear, but his words gave her the courage to continue forward. She never felt more terrified or more determined in all her days. Regardless of what happened, the truth would be known and her identity revealed. Never again would she don the crone’s cloak. The Witch of Dervaig was no more.
They pulled into port, and he jumped onto the dock to secure the boat. Shoney spotted a man rushing in their direction, she presumed to lend Aidan a hand. She watched his approach unable to move or breath. Her stomach was twisting in knots, and she could feel perspiration wetting her brow. It was too late to turn back now. Her secret was almost exposed.
The stranger called out to Aidan, but Aidan did not look in his direction. Instead, he turned to Shoney and flashed her an awkward smile. He suddenly seemed nervous as he fidgeted with a rope, winding it and unwinding it around his wrist. He must be dreading his kinsman’s initial response to having the Witch of Dervaig come to visit
“Aidan, where do you come from, and who is this?” the man asked as he approached, looking at Shoney. He was a broad man and thickly muscled with wild long brown hair. He was not handsome like Aidan or Ronan, but his eyes were gentle, and there was something very pleasing in his countenance.
She took a deep breath. And so it begins.
“Hello, Guthrie”, Aidan said. “I’ve just returned from Iona.”
Iona? Shoney was confused.
“Ronan heard of a healer from Skye visiting relations there. He sent me to fetch her with all haste.”
A healer from Skye? So that is why Aidan came to her by boat. He must have sailed to Iona first, but the healer refused him, and so he came for her. That she was Ronan’s second choice did not matter now. With Aidan’s assistance, she stood on the docks of Gribun in plain view without the coverage of cloak. She held her breath as Aidan turned to his friend. In moments, she would hear her name on his lips, and soon everyone would know she was Shoney, daughter of Brethia.
Aidan cleared his throat nervously. “Guthrie, allow me to introduce Bridget.”
“What?” Shoney cried, but Aidan ignored her astonished outburst as he continued, “Aye, this is Bridget, Bridget MacLeod.”
Chapter 17
Ronan sighed with relief. Anwen slept at last. He and his father knelt like sentries, one at each side of her bed. With every breath she took, he allowed himself to hope, but each hard won gasp was shallower than the last. As she exhaled, he leaned closer, waiting once more for her chest to rise.
The hour grew late. Aidan should have returned with Shoney by now. What if she refused to come? When they last parted, she had been furious, but what other choice did he have but to answer the call of the bell? Then her voice crept into his mind—he could have taken her along. He could have declared to all that the Witch of Dervaig was no more than a legend. That in her stead was a virtuous woman of flesh and blood whom he loved. He could have, but he chose once again to leave her behind. Was Shoney right? Was he ashamed of her?
He shook his head. He knew that was not the truth, but he had lied to himself and to her. The clan would never welcome her, and his father would never forgive him if he tried.
If only she had agreed to his plan to take on a fresh identity; then these questions and doubts would not be plaguing his mind. It was foolish for her to grip so tightly to a way of life that had long since disappeared into the mists of time. She was stubborn, but then again so was he, and he would win this battle. If Aidan was able to execute his plan, then he may have already won. Perhaps Bridget MacLeod, the healer from Skye, was right now climbing the stone stairwell to his mother’s rooms.
He looked toward the door, willing it to open and reveal Shoney’s arrival, but the heavy wood remained closed. He growled with frustration. They should have been here by now. He instructed Aidan to sail to the cliffs beneath Shoney’s hut and wait one day’s time before his return; the delay was a necessary risk if the clan was to believe the healer had been retrieved from Iona.
“She grows weaker.” Nathair interrupted his thoughts.
“I know, father”, he replied.
His father jumped to his feet. “I must act, Ronan. I must do something. I cannot wait idly by while she dies in my arms. I must fight for her. Tell me what to do.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Ronan inhaled sharply and held his father’s gaze for a moment. He knew Nathair carried the same prayer—let it be the healer at the door.
Father Colin stepped inside and addressed Nathair, “Good Laird, the healer, Bridget MacLeod of Skye, late of Iona, has arrived.”
“Yes, yes, bring her in”, Nathair urged.
Ronan held his breath. He could not believe Shoney was in his home, standing just beyond the door. It was all he could do not to push past the priest and take her into his arms. But when she walked into the room, her eyes blazing with fury, he knew even if he threw caution to the wind and gathered her into his embrace, it would not be welcomed.
He was a fool to expect anything but hostile steel eyes. He commanded Aidan to let her believe she was coming to the castle as herself, as Shoney. Only when they arrived in port was the pretense to be revealed. By the look on Shoney’s face, Ronan knew his plan had worked.
“Bridget”, began the priest, “allow me to introduce Nathair, Laird of the MacKinnon.”
As warm grey eyes turned to greet Nathair, Ronan relaxed a little. At least she had a smile for his father.
“I am pleased to meet you and to be of service”, she said.
“Thank you, Bridget was it?” Nathair said coldly. His father’s lips settled into a grim line as he crossed his arms and stared at Shoney with disdain. Ronan shot Aidan a puzzled look, but he seemed just as surprised by Nathair’s contemptuous attitude.
“Father Colin, please leave us,” the Mackinnon instructed.
***
Nathair bolted the door after the priest all the while sneering at Shoney. She sucked in a sharp breath as his scorn washed over her. Her anger with Ronan was forgotten, replaced by sudden trepidation. Nathair’s eyes were every bit as amber as Ronan’s, but they narrowed
into hateful slits as he slowly moved toward her. Searching the room for amber eyes filled with love, she met Ronan’s gaze and found the comfort she sought. With tilted chin and straight back, she faced Nathair again but this time with a warrior’s courage.
He sneered at her, drawing his sword. Without hesitation, she lunged for the iron poker by the fire place, but as she turned, poker raised at the ready, she realized she was not the one under attack. Instead, Nathair rushed at Ronan. She screamed. Ronan stood unflinching. He did not raise his sword or back away as Nathair’s blade began its swift descent toward his skull.
“No”, she cried and turned away, expecting to hear the gruesome sound of blade cutting flesh and bone, but instead the clang of metal reverberated throughout the room. It was Aidan’s blade that intervened. The laird’s eyes bulged and sweat dripped down his red face as he strained to overcome the warrior protecting his son.
“A witch”, Nathair spat. “You bring a witch to your mother’s deathbed.”
Ronan met her gaze. He looked as surprised as she felt. “How did you know?” he said.
Nathair spun around, keeping his sword aloft. “I know who you are”, he seethed. “You are the Witch of Dervaig like your demon whore mother before you.”
She raised her weapon. The sheer size of her opponent stole her breath. His broad shoulders were only slightly smaller than Ronan’s, and he stood only a hand shorter. Despite her fear, she did not flinch as he advanced. Her only hope rested in her ability to deflect the might of his first assault. She was smaller, quicker, and her weapon lighter. If she could thrust before he was ready to strike again, then she might survive. Her stance was firm, and her arms were steady, but her skills were not to be tested against the chieftain of the MacKinnon. Ronan moved behind his father and, taking hold of the MacKinnon’s arm, he wrenched the sword from his hand. Relief was hers for only a moment as Nathair continued his slow perusal.
The raw aggression on his face sent chills down her spine, causing her to forget she was now the only one still in possession of a weapon. She staggered back against the wall. No sooner did she feel the cold stone of the castle behind her then Nathair’s image disappeared. Ronan and Aidan lunged in front of her, shielding her from harm. Shoulder to shoulder, they formed an impenetrable blockade. Their great muscled frames made her feel as slight and insignificant as a wisp of smoke. Breathless, she leaned her forehead against Ronan’s back. She had expected to face prejudice, but nothing could have prepared her for the expression of naked loathing in Nathair’s eyes.
