by Sandy Blair
“Tinker?” She wanted to smite him for startling her so. Short of breath, with her heart still skipping and thudding she demanded, “What on earth were ye thinking...skulking up on me? I could have clawed yer eyes out.” My word!
“Beggin’ yer pardon, dear lady. ‘Twas not my intent.” Tinker’s face suddenly loomed before her, scruffy and as dark as saddle leather. Buried within a myriad of comical folds sat two grass-green eyes, a bulbous nose, and a toothless grin. She tapped the tip of his nose. “Ah, ‘tis ye.”
“Aye, and I’ve a gift for ye.”
“A gift?” She knelt, pulled her basket onto her lap, and started gathering her spilled apples. Tinker knelt to help. “Now why would ye bring me a gift, Tinker?”
“For saving me life is why.” He looked about and told her, “That’s the lot, lass. All yer apples are in the basket.”
They stood and she laced her free arm through his. His coat, the one she’d patched and aired in the sun, once again smelled of wood-smoke and male sweat. “Taking care of ye was the least I could do after falling on ye.” In truth she’d tripped over him—found him more dead than alive, his tools and trinkets gone—last Beltane. “Did the sheriff capture the curs who waylaid ye?”
Tinker snorted. “Nay, and I dinna expect he ever will, what with the number of ruffians about. Nettles all. ‘Tis good that ye keep to the woods, lass.”
“I’ve nay choice. ‘Tis all I ken and trust.” She’d been told the world beyond her woods held castles, princes, and miraculous colored glass, but that it also held untold horrors. Like priests in black gowns, her mother had warned, who burned the likes of her on pyres.
“Tell me,” he said, pulling a twig from her hair, “what have ye been about that ye’re covered in mud?”
She held a flawless red globe out to him. “They hide behind a bramble hedge.”
“Ah.” Grinning, he snatched the apple from her hand. “Thank ye.”
“Come.” She waved in the direction of her croft. “Sup with me. I want to hear about yer travels. Were ye in time for Sterling Fair?” He’d been on his way there when he’d been waylaid. As Tinker had mended, he’d filled her head with tales of fire-eaters, fearless knights, and elegant ladies dressed in gold. “Was there a puppet show and jugglers? Was there pork pies and music? Was there—”
“Whoa, lass.” Around a bite of apple, he mumbled, “I would love to sup and answer yer questions, truly, but I can’t take the time.” He held a large leather pouch under her nose. “I only came by to give ye this.”
Taking the bag from his hand, Birdi struggled to keep her face placid. So many months had passed since last she’d supped with him, had spoken with someone who wasn’t fearful of her. Grinning, Tinker waved an impatient hand. “Open it, lass.”
Masking her disappointment behind an understanding smile, she did as he bid and found a treasure trove: a yard of scarlet ribbon, a shiny silver buckle, a skein of deep green wool, and a foot-long length of palm-wide lace.
“Oh my.” Such prizes left her at a loss for further words.
Tinker’s gnarled finger traced the raised stitches surrounding a delicate lace petal. “‘Tis from Italia. The ladies of Edinburgh don such. Thought ye might find some use for it.” He shrugged. “‘Tisna something most about these parts find useful.”
Tears welled behind Birdi’s lashes, clouding what little vision she had. He lied. Anyone would treasure what she held in her hands. She reached out and stroked his whiskered cheek. “Thank ye.”
Tinker ducked his chin and mumbled, “‘Tis the least I can do.”
“‘Twas a favor ye did me.” She treasured their brief time together. She hadn’t had a friend before or since.
He patted her arm. “Be that as it may, I still thank ye.” He craned his neck to look through the treetops. “‘Tis close to midmorn. I must take my leave or I’ll not make Aberfoyle by gloaming.” He took a final bite of apple, tossed the core, and then took her hands in his. “I truly wish ye well, lass.”
“I wish ye the same.” As he turned away, she asked, “When will ye be back?”
“Next summer, lass. I’ll look for ye then.”
Next summer? Her heart sank. Need a whole year pass before she could again stand close to someone, converse, or be touched? She heaved a sigh as her tears took shape. Apparently so.
She looked up to find him beyond sight and called “Take care, Tinker John.”
When silence answered back, her tears spilled.
Birdi turned toward the heat of the sun and therefore her pool. Mayhap a bath would wash off not only the dirt coating her, but the melancholy now weighing her spirit down.
~#~
Angus rousted from a dreamless sleep when something wet brushed his ear. He lashed out with a clenched left fist, his dirk at the ready in his right.
Heart hammering, he rolled to his feet and found Rampage, legs splayed and ears pinned, staring at him as if he’d never seen a man before in his life. “God’s teeth, horse! What the hell were ye thinking?”
Angus sheathed his dirk, shoved his hair out of his face, and settled on his haunches. His mount—head down, eyes still wary—snorted and took another step back. Angus held out his hand. “I didna mean to scare ye, ye big brute. Come.”
Rampage twitched his bruised nose and blew out a derisive snort.
“Aw, come on, lad, I didna mean to clout ye.” Realizing he’d best make amends quickly or he’d be playing catch-me-if-ye-can with his charger, Angus plucked a few tender shoots from the base of the nearest tree and held them out on an open palm. “Peace?”
Rampage, lips twitching, cautiously stretched out his neck to sniff the peace offering. Before Angus could catch his halter, Rampage’s head jerked up and his ears angled toward the glen. As his nares flared trying to catch a scent, Angus heard a splash.
He jerked to his feet and yanked his claymore from its sheath. Hopefully, there were no more than three or four Macarthurs in the glen. Rampage nickered and pawed the earth, and Angus hushed him. Until he kenned his enemy’s number, he didn’t need a hundred stone of charger tromping and snorting announcing his presence. A handful of Macarthurs he could handle. Fighting more would put his and Rampage’s lives at risk.
Heart hammering, blood surging into tensed muscles, Angus crept to the forest edge aware Rampage slowly but quietly followed.
Finding only ripples rolling across the wee pool’s surface, Angus’s gaze raked the glen for intruders. It stood empty but for a few birds and butterflies. He blew out a breath. “‘Twas only a fish, ye bloody idiot.” Feeling the fool, he also felt less guilt over accidentally clouting his mount, who’d started his blood racing for naught.
As Angus sheathed his claymore, the surface of the pool rippled again, this time with far larger waves. Blessed Mother! What manner of fish could possibly make such a wake? Before he could ponder further a dark shape broke the surface on the far side of the pool.
A woman—naked as the day she was born, as pale as a winter moon—rose like a phoenix to stand thigh deep in the water on the far shore.
Chapter 2
Angus immediately searched the area again looking for the woman’s husband, a guard. Finding none, his gaze returned to the lass.
Years of ingrained catechism demanded he cover his eyes and leave. Chivalry demanded he—a knight of girth and sword—at the very least rattle a bush and warn the fair lady of his presence, but he couldn’t do either. The blood had drained from his head and limbs only to surge in his groin.
As the woman shed water from her rose-tipped breasts and slender arms with long, tapered hands, he drank in the sight. Not usually a man taken to fancy, he found himself envying the water; would have given his sword arm to sluice as the water did down the woman’s glorious globes and across the flat planes of her stomach in such fashion.
He shifted his weight to accommodate the swelling beneath his kilt as she wrung water from her hair.
Black and glossy as a raven’s wing, her locks
immediately started to curl across the gentle swell of her hips. His fingers curled in like fashion, palms itching, wanting to grab fistfuls, imagining her hair caressing his chest and stomach as she sat astride him, her long, tapered thighs spread wide across his. Aye, ‘twould surely be glorious.
She suddenly cocked her head, obviously listening. Not daring to breathe—much less move—he waited for her screech. When her gaze swept past him and she remained silent, he released his breath. The glare bouncing off the water had apparently masked him.
His eyes hungrily examined every inch of her as she waded to shore on long, slim legs and climbed the far bank. She then bent for something in the tall grass, and her bonnie round hurdies glistened in the sun like twin moons. He groaned aloud. The sight—more than any sane man could stare at without turning coddle-brained—made him bounce in response beneath his kilt.
Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her delicious bottom and looked about the glen once again. Where was her cur of a husband? How was it possible a wandering knight could stand and stare? Surely so lovely a lass had a husband. But then, mayhap she was widowed. The thought lightened his heart until he remembered upon whose land he stood. The Macarthur’s.
As he pondered the dilemma, the lady shook out a shift. When she raised it over her head, Angus felt hard pressed not to yell halt!
He then squinted, sure he couldn’t be seeing correctly. She held up not a gown of velvet or brocade with threads of silver and gold but a kirtle, course and dun. He blinked in disbelief as she pulled it over her head. The lass wasn’t apparently of high birth after all. “Humph.”
The possibilities for conquest—of a dalliance—yawned. He smiled, only to feel Rampage’s great head butt his back. The horse nickered softly.
“Quiet, ye damn pest.” He elbowed Rampage’s deep chest and the horse obediently backed. “Now, stay.” Larger than most cattle and white atop that, Rampage had frightened many a warrior into soiling himself. His mere presence in the glen would likely frighten the lovely lass to death. If not, then surely she’d flee, and he wouldn’t have a hope of catching her. He was on the far side of the pool and she kenned the forest at her back.
Deciding he had naught to lose and more than a handful to gain, he took a deep breath and stepped into the sunshine. To his utter surprise she smiled, quickly turned to her right, and said something he couldn’t hear. Her pace quickened as she walked along the opposite shore. His hopes soared. They would meet by the boulders, where the reeds were thickest.
He then spotted movement in the tall grass just feet before her and halted. Was it her man lying in wait? To her mate did she speak?
Nay. ‘Twas something gray that crept on lowered haunches in the tall grass toward the lass. Was it a lymer—a dog? Hers or her liege lord’s? And if so, why was it skulking about like a—?
My God, a wolf!
He wrenched his sgian dubh from its sheath beneath his left arm. It flew from his hand, his aim true. A heartbeat later and to his horror the lovely lady keened and dropped like a stone to her knees.
~#~
Birdi, her nose filled with the unaccountable scent of blood, crooned as she ran frantic hands over Wolf. Had he been fighting? Had he been caught in a villager’s snare? What ailed him? Why had he collapsed? Why did his chest heave so?
Then her hands found the handle of a blade.
She gasped. How had this happened? Though her sight was pitiful, she was certain he’d been coming toward her with his bushy tail wagging, his pink tongue lolling, and the next...
How matters naught, fool! He’ll die if you dinna do something and quickly.
She gripped the blade’s handle with both hands and caused him to whimper. She leaned forward, a hair’s breadth from his magnificent pale ears. “Hush, sweet dautie, hush. Trust now as ye have in the past.” Blinking away the urge to keen for her friend, she rocked off her knees and into a squat, planting her feet wide to be sure she made firm contact with Mother. Holding her breath, she yanked the blade. It came loose; Wolf keened, and then fell silent. Blood, scarlet as any sunset, bubbled up through his gash like a sacred spring. She pressed crossed palms to the wound to stem the flow. Painfully aware of the furious rhythm of his heart beating beneath her hands, she reached out to the powers surrounding her.
When familiar heat surged through her quaking limbs, her own heart finally slowed. She took a deep settling breath...The power was again within her. All would now be well for her friend.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Mother of All, I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound...
~#~
Chest heaving, Angus dropped to his knees beside the fallen, raven-haired woman. His bloodied sgian dubh lay in the grass at her side. His stomach turned.
How in God’s name could this have happened? He threw a blade as accurate as any man and had for more years than he could recall.
Hands shaking, he cradled the woman in his lap, surprised by her slight weight. As his free hand skimmed over her kirtle, seeking the sticky wetness of blood, his peripheral sight caught something moving at the tree line.
Angus growled deep in his throat. The blasted wolf.
The beast slowed, looked over his shoulder at him, flattened his ears, and then bolted into the woods, his tail between his legs.
“Ye damn well best run, ye miserable—”
The woman in his arms moaned.
The wolf forgotten, Angus quickly resumed his search for her wound. He pulled her kirtle up exposing her long slender thighs and rounded hips. What lay hidden within the dark curls at the apex of her thighs no longer held interest. He could only stare at the deep gash his knife had made at her waist.
Praying he hadn’t hit anything vital, he tore a strip from her kirtle hem—’twas cleaner than anything he had on —and wound the fabric about her waist to stem the blood’s flow.
His gaze raked the woods for her croft, any place to shelter her and properly tend her wound. Finding not so much as a path, he cursed. Then he remembered he’d skirted a village not long before he settled to wait out the day. He let out a piercing whistle.
Rampage whinnied as he crashed through the tree line. His thundering hooves quickly ate up the distance between them. The minute he came to a prancing halt, Angus tapped his shoulder. “Down.” The horse immediately obeyed, well used to his master being too weighted down in armor to vault.
Angus then scooped the lady into his arms. She groaned loudly and his heart leapt for joy. “Lass, can ye hear me? Can ye open yer eyes?”
The woman’s sweeping lashes slowly separated to reveal the most extraordinary eyes Angus had ever seen. The palest of blues, almost white, and outlined by dark rings, they reminded him of the ice mountains he’d once seen floating past the point of Cape Wrath. She blinked.
“Aaah...”
“Hush, lass, I will get ye to help.”
“Nay...” She then fainted again.
Cursing himself for an idiot, Angus clutched the pale lass to his heaving chest, tightened Rampage’s girth as best he could with one hand, and then slipped a foot into the now low-slung stirrup.
Mounted, he clucked, and the horse rose. Angus turned Rampage toward his enemy’s village.
Just minutes later and with the lady yet to reawaken, Angus pounded on the most outlying croft’s door.
It opened immediately. A shriveled man gazed out the portal, his eyes narrowed and cloudy as milk. “Aye, what do ye want?”
“A healer,” Angus boomed, “for the lady.”
“Go there.” The querulous man pointed a shaking finger toward the big croft across the road.
“The one with ivy?” He didn’t trust the blind man to know in which direction he pointed and had no time to go knocking door to door to find the right one.
“Aye, ‘tis.” With that the old man slammed his door shut.
Growling, “A welcomin’ bastard,” Angus strode a hundred yards to the next croft.
A child opened the door. Her smile of welcome
faded and her eyes grew round as six-pence as her gaze ran up his body. When it settled on the woman in his arms she screamed, “Maaaa!”
A wizen-faced woman came out of the shadowed interior to stand in the doorway. “What can I do for—”
The woman’s gaze had locked on the lady in his arms and she immediately started shouting, “Away with ye! Out! Go!” She slammed the door in his face.
“What the...” He’d never met so unlikable a group in his life! His worry growing and his patience on a short leash, Angus strode to the next croft, the last before the road dropped down toward a valley and into the main village. When a man opened the door Angus growled, “This woman needs help. She’d been st—”
The door slammed in his face.
“Bloody hell!”
Angus raised a foot and kicked the door in. It crashed against the wall with such force the walls rattled and a chair fell over. He strode in. With his teeth bared, he glared at the occupants—a man, a frail woman, and two babes—all huddled in the far corner of the croft’s only room. “Will ye not help this lady?”
In answer the adults silently shook their heads.
What ailed these people that they couldn’t see the lass was in sore need? That she could die. “Dressing! Get me dressing and poultice before I lose what little patience I have left to me.”
The man waved frantically at his wife. She made the sign of the cross and with the wee lass clutching her skirts, bolted to a small chest. She pulled out a crock and strips of sheeting. The woman then pushed the lassie toward her husband and cautiously approached Angus, her hands held out. “Here, sir knight. Take these with our blessings and go.”
“Why will ye not help one of yer own?” He held out the woman in his arms. “She’s not but a wee lass.” Surely, this wife kenned that he—a man—couldn’t tend her? He had to leave her here.
“She isna a Macarthur and no one here will offer more than we,” the man growled from the corner, his hands gripping his son’s shoulders. “Take what my wife offers and go.”
