by Jill Barnett
Glenna stopped, worried.
“Bring me the bags! He’s not dying. ‘Tis but his ribs, and why his breathing is so shallow he looks dead. Most likely he cracked one or two rib bones. Go fetch a bowl and spoon from the maid, and another ewer of water. Go, go.…”
Glenna spent the next few minutes scurrying back and forth and doing exactly as Gladdys demanded, even when she asked her to send someone for a cup of sea water from the nearby sound. She made a poultice and used linen to tightly bind it to his chest.
The old woman mixed the sea water with some powders from the bags, opened his lids and spooned the concoction into his eyes, then waited, counting in Welsh, “Un, dau, tri, pedwar…deg,” before she put more liquid in again. The ritual continued a few more times then she set down the bowl and spoon and stood back, watching him closely as if she were waiting for something.
After a few tense moments she laughed out loud and pointed at him.“There ‘tis. See? The poultice and bindings are good. His breathing is becoming deeper.”
Glenna studied the deeper rise and fall of his chest, watched the golden cross around his neck move as he inhaled deeper than before, and she felt her own relief. He took another deep breath and the cross on the chain fell to the side, revealing a bright red mark near his throat. Like the sword imprint on his palm, this was a burn mark from the cross, which must have grown too hot from the heat of the fire. He'll have a scar, she thought.
He murmured something she did not hear.
“Look there,” Gladdys said with a slight cackle. “He’s calling for his mum.”
“There’s no shame in calling for one’s mother,” Glenna defended quickly, her gaze meeting the woman’s.
“If ye had one,” Gladdys said sharply.
“Aye.” Glenna’s voice drifted off. “If you have one.” She looked away.
Gladdys placed her hand on her shoulder and said kindly, “Fret ye not, girl. Trust old Gladdys. All will be well, but it will take some time for ye.” Then she picked up the pitcher and stuck her finger in it, stared at her finger glistening from the water, then looked inside the ewer for a moment. She looked up. “I believe ‘tis cold enough,” she said and dumped the water on his head.
* * *
Lyall reared up, coughing and choking. Eyes wide open but seeing only blurred light and shadow. He drew a large breath of air and pain shot from his chest like an arrow down through his body, and he groaned loudly, bent double, and a blasphemous curse left his lips. His ribs had been broken many times at tourneys and at the tilt field. The pain was all too familiar. His eyes teared from it, which did not help; they felt full of sand, and he shook his head…his wet head…and his hair slapped and stuck to his cheek. Disoriented, he instinctively reached for his weapon, but his sword belt was gone. He squinted at the smaller blurred figures, women, standing nearby.
The brittle stench of smoke and burnt wood, a smell and taste from his youth he would never forget, was lodged in his nose and on his dry tongue. Light-headed, he raised his hand to his brow, which was hurting, then slid it to the back of his neck, where the skin felt sore, as if burned by the hot sun. What was this? He was a man, not a lad of ten. Where in the bloody hell was he?
A gentle hand touched him, followed by the shadow of a woman, her hair long and flowing brushed against his arm. “You are in Steering, my lord. In a tavern. You were thrown from your horse.”
All came flooding back to him. “Glenna?”
“Aye.”
“Yer wife,” a woman with a musical voice said.
“My what?” Lyall swung his legs over the side and tried to stand. The room swam and he gripped the table till his knuckles felt white.
“My lord, husband,” Glenna said quickly, taking his hand in hers and nearly squeezing all the blood from it. Her other hand pushed hard on his shoulder. “Lie back down, my love,” she said through gritted teeth. “You hit your head and your sense is meandering. Fret not. I am here with you.”
He followed her lead, stayed silent and let her push him back down, curious to see how this played out. His sight was still off and he was weaponless. “Where is my sword? Bring it to me.”
“You must rest,” she insisted, starting to turn away.
He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her down close enough to whisper in her ear, “Afraid I might use it on you…wife?”
“No more afraid than you were of my bow and arrows. You need no weapon,” she hissed back at him. “There is no one here now but the healer. You are safe.”
“That I am lying here on my back and half blinded is proof I am not safe with you nearby,” he said.
“Step back, milady,” said the melodic voice. A strange, full-haired shadow of light and dark loomed over him. “Let me put more mixture into his eyes.”
He released Glenna’s wrist and she scurried back away. “My eyes? What mixture?” he asked the shadow.
“To wash away the ash and soot and soothe your poor eyes.”
“The hay cart fire,” he said flatly, remembering, and he eased back down and let the healer minister her medicine.
“ ‘Twill clear your vision, my lord.”
So he blinked and let her add more.
“Can you see yet?”
“Soon. Try again,” he said encouraging her as she added more liquid to his eyes. It was working. She repeated the process and each time he blinked his vision became clearer, then slowly the shadow above him took sharp form.
His first reaction was to flinch but to do so would have insulted her. Out of appreciation for the old woman’s help, he returned her gaze kindly. He sat up again.
“You can see clearly?” Glenna came nearer.
“Aye…wife. As clearly as the day we were wed,” he said wryly and watched her flush. “Ah, one of my favorite memories. Surely you, too, remember it well.”
“Aye,” she agreed, eyeing him suspiciously.
He snatched her hand and pulled her closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his hand low on her soft and rounded buttocks. “Tell our tale to the miracle healer here. I’m certain she would find our great romance vastly interesting...a tale for the bards.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and he merely smiled and rubbed circles over and over on her backside. She looked ready to bolt, so he gripped her more tightly. In turn, she cleared her throat loudly and pressed her elbow near his sore ribs and he winced and grabbed her elbow in a tight grip.
She would pay for that, he thought. She tried to edge away a step, but he pulled her back, slapping her buttocks harder. “Stay close, my sweet and tell the tale.”
“It was in the spring, “ Glenna began.
“Winter, sweetings,” he corrected. “After the first snow. Surely you recall as do I, as if it was yesterday, not but barely two years—“
“Six month hence,” she volunteered at the same time, and she hurriedly said, “Two years and six months.”
“The winter air was clear and brisk.”
“ ‘Twas spring,” she said pointedly. “Look, Montrose. Do you wish for me to tell the tale or not? Remember, my love,” she said sweetly, “that you have been recently knocked silly in the head, which would not have happened if I had my bow and arrows.”
“But not even a blow to the head could make me forget meeting you.”
“Most likely because your head is so hard,” she said under her breath.
“On with you, wife. Tell the tale.”
“I do not think so. Since you do not know the time of year we met, it is certain you are still too feeble-minded from your ordeal. You should rest now,” she said, patting his hand overly hard. “One would hate to find you exerted yourself and then turned into a simpleton.”
“It would take more than a conk on the noggin for me to forget that day…you vixen.” He held her to his side in an iron grip. “She was like a cat in heat, so hungry she was for a good man. I carried the scratches on my back for weeks.” He brushed her chin with his knuckle. “Close your mouth, lov
e, else ‘twill catch flies.”
“It is you, my lord husband,” she said quietly, “who is made of the same stuff that attracts the flies.”
“Aye. Sweet as honey,” he said loud and merrily. “That surely is our love. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.” He nuzzled her ear. “I could lick you all over.”
She gasped and stepped away.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I see that our great romance is not to be told of on this day. Therefore I apologize, madam. I believe my wife has grown suddenly modest.”
The old woman turned and reached for her staff, but not before she gave him a quick wink. Lyall shifted, looking around the room, and he spotted his saddlebags in the corner along with Glenna’s belongings. He noticed then the great hound was not at her side and wondered where it was. Slowly he stood and felt the solidness of ground with relief, his legs firmly planted and his head did not swim, his sight clear, perhaps, surprisingly, clearer than before the hay fire.
A few minutes later he handed some silver to the healer. “You have my gratitude, old woman.”
“I am Gladdys,” she said, giving him a penetrating and long and silent look, before she turned to leave. “And I can only heal a hairsbreadth of what has passed.”
His mood, light from all that foolishness with Glenna, waned quickly, and he grew quiet and pensive from the old woman’s knowing look.
She paused in the doorway and faced them both, tapping her staff three times, until Glenna, too, had turned around and was paying attention.
“This room still be over-crowded,“ she said directly to Glenna. “Deceit weighs heavily in the air.”
He stared long and hard at the woman. What was she about?
“Know ye, girl,” she continued. “I have no chant to fix what problems plague ye in the here and now.”
Lyall could see Glenna’s unhappy reaction—her pale skin and tight lips and jaw. She did not like what she’d heard.
The woman’s wise dark gaze moved to him. “Nor can I mend yer troubles, my lord. Ye will find that prize which ye seek and all that goes with it…that which foolish men believe they want, what drives them to do what they will. But understand and trust me when I say to ye both… there are far too many lies inside this room.” And she left them alone.
The room grew heavy with their silence and the strange and unsettling truth in the old woman’s words.
After another tense moment Glenna turned around and laughed bitterly. “Foolish woman and her predictions. Druid? Bah! Lies? Aye, there are too many lies. After yesterday, I’ve had my fill of lies.” She marched toward the doorway. “I’m going to the stables. I need to check on the animals.” And she closed the doors without looking back.
He did not try to stop her, but what Gladdys had said cut to the quick…not about lies, but about truths, and soon he, too, got up and left.
6
‘Twas late when Lyall returned to the tavern, the closest thing to an inn in the small coastal village on the southeastern side of the island. Their preplanned traveling route had been in place, secure before he ever ventured out on this secret deed, one which could turn out to be his biggest folly. Though their destination was to the south, he had chosen Steering for a reason, not knowing then the truth about the Gordons’ thieving trade over the past years, something that put a chink in all those well-made, well-mulled over plans.
While the southern side of the isle had a port and shorter crossing, they would land on the northeastern edges of Skye, part of Leod lands, and Leod had strong ties to the King of Mann. The more who knew what was afoot, the higher the risk for failure, so the decision was made to take Glenna over the longer route. The most trouble would come from the unpredictable. Who knew how many victims of the Gordons’antics he had yet to face…and buy off?
Lyall sought out the tavern master and made arrangements for hot food and sleeping pallets. Early the next morn, they would take the first ship to ferry them across the Minch and back to the mainland. He’d paid a handsome sum for the speediest ship of the two available, one with a large sail, a sleek bow, and the strongest oarsmen. But what had cost him most dearly was the ransom he’d paid to the sellers of the merchant fair, where his marks bought recompense and promised peace for all goods Glenna and the thieving Gordons had stolen…and probably some for goods never stolen, considering the final sum he’d paid for their vows of silence.
From all the yammering and many tales that filled his aching ears, the threesome had been robbing them blind for a long time. His wealth--which was hard won through tourneys and the hiring out of his sword arm--could not buy back his family’s lands, he thought bitterly, but it bought silence in Steering.
The back room of the alehouse was empty when he returned, but the shutters were tightly closed and a tended fire cast amber light as it burned in the rock pit in the center of the room, where a smoke hole in the roof pulled the firesmoke up and out. He grabbed a lantern and went in search of Glenna in the stables. His intention was to care for his horse and then drag her back to the tavern.
The air was overly warm, heat from the livestock, which made the odor of horse sweat, manure, and hay even more pungent. In the closest stall, her bay mare had been curried down and fed, while his own horse, also curried, was eating comfortably from a feed trough half-filled with fresh oats.
Glenna was nowhere to be seen. He turned to leave, wondering where the hell she had gone, when he heard a thumping against the wooden boards, coming from a back stall.
Inside was her lop-eared hound, looking at him like a simpleton, adoring and more beggar than dog. The hound’s mouth hung open, tongue lolling as if he were grinning and his tail drummed excitedly against the stall.
Curled next to him on a bed of straw lay his owner. She was sound asleep, her head resting on a silken piece of crimson velvet trimmed in gold braid, the tail of black rook showing under her cheek. Her ragged-tailed gown had drawn up to reveal a shapely leg, calf, knee, and thigh, as milk white as the unblemished skin of her face. The image of her naked, that pale skin like fresh snow, came racing into his mind’s eye.
Hand resting on the post of the stall, Lyall couldn’t move for a moment and took in the beauty before him. Her long black hair was as dark as midnight against her skin and spread about her shoulders, curling like thick Shetland wool. Standing and looking at her like that, there was no denying her lineage; she was the daughter of the king, a treasure hidden from the world, and his own salvation.
Oh, that he could pull this off. He looked away from her and rubbed the back of his neck, then found himself drawn to her again. At first glance, one would think she looked like a waif from the streets of Edinburgh with her jagged-hemmed gown that hung wrong, lying there asleep in a bed a straw, her head resting on what was clearly an expensive piece of embroidery. One of the overly large red leather shoes was half off her foot revealing a fine-boned ankle.
Red shoes. He shook his head again and felt a smile touch his lips. He shoved away from the post and knelt down in the straw, his hand reaching out to her. But the hound trotted over to nudge against his palm, and so he scratched the dog’s floppy ears.
“Glenna…Wake up, sweetheart,” he said quietly, then realized what he called her and wanted to swallow his foolish words. He looked at the dog, who was staring at him expectantly. The hound was most likely starved. “Fortunate for me that she sleeps like a boulder,” he said to the dog and paused. “Two days with her and I’ve gone mad…I am having a conversation with her dog,” he said, aware more than ever that he had been knocked hard in the head that day.
He scooped her up into his arms and winced when a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He paused, then crossed the short distance to the stable doors. “Come, dog!” he said sharply, refusing to call it by some foolish name. The beast loped happily after him. He kicked the doors closed harder than was necessary and turned toward the tavern backdoor.
She moaned softly and wiggled closer, her cheek against his shoulder, the velvet cloth spilling over
his arm, her mouth soft and the color of a ripe berry and her lips parted. Her long hair fell down like black silk and brushed against his thigh as he walked. His reaction did not please him.
Inside the tavern’s backroom, he lay her down on a straw pallet in the corner. Heat seemed to surround him, and he felt singed. He quickly put some distance between them and slumped miserably into a chair, his ribs sending biting pain through his upper body. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and drank copiously from a goblet of wine, ignoring her, glowering at everything, even the barmaid who brought them oatbread, butter, and some bean pottage.
Earlier the tavern lass had made it clear he was welcome to her bed in the loft above the ale room. He tossed her a coin and watched her sway out of the room. She paused at the door, faced him, apparently unaffected by his foul mood and ignoring Glenna’s existence, and she smiled fetchingly. “If you change yer mind, my lord, ye know where I be.”
He turned away to look at the sleeping form in the corner, rubbing his mouth with his hand, elbow resting on the chair arm. Here, when his body could use a good romp and swift tumbling, he could not bring himself to go to the wench whose soft, full body promised satisfaction and whose exotic, sloe-eyed stare told him she wanted him inside her. He closed his eyes, ignored his ribs and finished off the wine.
Hell’s teeth…half the village thought Glenna was his wife—a fact that would not stop many men of his ilk from seeking comfort wherever offered. No one in Steering knew the truth…except that old Welsh witch who knew all too much.
His gaze wandered back to Glenna; he did not need a woman so badly he would insult her, even if their marriage was a lie. He drove a hand through his hair, then rubbed his tight neck. Her public claim and his agreement would have amounted to a handfast, and a binding public betrothal. Luckily for him Glenna was not the Lady Montrose. Half the village thought Glenna was his wife. The real Lady Montrose was not dead, but alive and more than likely happily sitting before her embroidery stanchion in the tower room at Rossie.
