by Sandy Blair
Birdi clung to Angus’s arm as the sounds of men and animals engulfed her. She couldn’t discern the number swirling about, but sensed she’d never been among so many people in her life.
As Angus led her along the road, frantic chickens clucked to her right and goats bleated to her left. A woman yelled, “Hot pies, hot pies, two fer a bodle!” Another shouted, “Fresh Partan! Poke ‘em!” Birdi stopped and bent before a wicker stall and found a litter of wee hogs. Now why on earth would someone want these? A man scooped up a squealing pink blob and held it out to her.
Over the cacophony, he shouted, “A healthy gryce, m’lady. Just a penny!”
She forced a smile and shoved Angus with her elbow, pushing him away from the crazed granger before they caught whatever ailed the poor man.
A moment later a bundle of blue cornflowers appeared under her nose. She jumped back.
“A gowpen of blavers for the lady, sir? Goes with her gown, they do. Only a bodle to a knight as fine as yerself.”
Angus chuckled at her side. “Would you like them?”
Staring open mouthed at the wizen flower man, dressed in more colors than Birdi could lay name to, she shook her head. What strange people! And the Macarthurs had the ballocks to call her odd? Humph!
A great shout rang out and Angus craned his neck to look over the crowd. “Come, they’re having a cattle pull.”
“A what?”
He grinned down at her, light sparking in his eyes. Good graces, the man was handsome, beyond handsome when he smiled like this.
“Men hook their horses with chains tail to tail and the strongest wins. There’s bound to be wagering. Come. We’ll likely find Ian there. The man’s yet to miss an opportunity to fatten his purse.”
She could do naught but murmur, “As ye wish.” She was confused beyond endurance, yet some wee voice deep within shouted, “Drink it in. Dinna miss a moment.”
At the far end of the village, at the edge of a great field, they found Ian as Angus had predicted.
Coming alongside his friend, Angus asked, “Which has yer coins?”
Ian chuckled, “The bay with the white feet.”
Birdi could see naught but two brown blobs slowly shifting on a field of dusty green.
“Did ye find a room at the inn?” Angus yelled over the shouting crowd.
“Aye, and a bed for yer lady, though the price comes dear.”
Angus nodded as if expecting the answer. He then leaned toward Ian and whispered something. As Ian answered in like manner, Birdi heard a meow and felt a soft brush against her ankle. She squatted, and finding a ball of dark gray fluff with four white paws staring up at her with bright green eyes, excitement bloomed in her chest. “Now aren’t ye the bonniest wee bit?”
Meoow.
She’d always wanted a cat; had hoped in vain to receive one in tribute since she’d first stroked the soft fur of a fat, complacent one in a Macarthur croft seasons ago. Hands shaking in anticipation, Birdi reached for the kitten, but it scampered away. Not to be thwarted, she followed, dodging peddlers as she went. The kitten meowed again and she turned left, following the sound. She continued on, taking note as she always did of how many steps she took in each direction, so she could find her way back to Angus when she caught her prize, the kitten.
As she approached the entrance of a narrow, shadowed lane, her palms began to itch. Along with the annoying prickle came a heavy feeling deep within her chest.
Ack, not again. Not now.
While in her glen, she’d been called upon by the Macarthurs mayhap once a full moon, often less. Since leaving it, she’d been assaulted by need thrice in as many days and disliked it intensely. If this kept up she’d be naught but raw skin and bones in a fortnight. She scratched her palms again and strained to hear the kitten.
Nothing. But the need was definitely making itself known. Aye, and with increasing intensity.
Though disappointed about losing her kitten, Birdi heaved a resigned sigh, took a cleansing breath, and then focused. She’d get no peace unless she heeded the need, and she did so want to enjoy this place, and mayhap find the kitten. With any good fortune at all—and she thought she was overdue for some—the need would be easily tended as it had been when she made the dolly.
She turned into a lane. As she neared the end she heard a woman’s keening. She leaned forward as she slowly approached what appeared to be a large, brown mound.
As she drew near, it moved. Startled, she shied. When nothing further happened and the keening continued she edged closer. To her horror, ‘twas not a pile of discards but a woman in rags, and in her arms lay a flaccid, potbellied babe.
“Help me.”
Birdi squatted before the thin woman with hollow black eyes and touched her shoulder, “I will, but I need to ken more. How has this come to pass? Where is yer husband?”
The woman looked at the babe in her arms. “Died these three months past.”
Never...ever...tend a stranger who counts the passages of the moon in Marches and Mays. Those that do are pledged to the black-gowned priests. They’ll bring ye down...will do their utmost to smite ye.
Birdi reached out and placed a tentative finger on the wooden cross hanging from a bit of dirty yarn around the woman’s neck. ‘Twas the priest symbol. Like the one Lady Macarthur wore. This frail woman before her was indeed a follower of the black robed men.
Birdi took a steadying breath. I’m sorry, Minnie, but I canna turn my back on her. I ken too well this pain she suffers. Aye, only too well.
Birdi kicked off the delicate slippers Kelsea had given her and planted her feet firmly on Mother of All. Heart bounding within her chest, she dreaded what would follow. “I shall help, but ye must first promise to trust as ye’ve never trusted before, and pledge to keep what I’m about to do our wee secret.”
Chapter 15
Although his gaze was fixed on the horse pull, Angus’s thoughts were on Birdi and her reactions going through the market. Lord, ‘twas like being a lad again, seeing it again for the first time through her eyes. And Lord, was she funny. And her expression when she saw that litter of pigs was priceless. Aye, and the way people stared at her in awe! None would ever have guessed she wasn’t a lady born. She carried herself straight and proud, smiled easily and often. And her laugh; it rang pure and clear, drawing the eye of every man within hearing. Aye, given a different set of circumstances—a different rearing—she would have made a perfect chatelaine for an ambitious man. Just the sight of her dressed in rich brocades and fur was enough to steal a man’s breath and make him weak at the knees. Aye, so why was he giving her up?
Pondering the possibility of his talking Lady Beth into training Birdi, he felt a drop of rain and turned to ask Birdi if she was ready to go.
She was gone.
Heart in his throat, he scoured the crowd. “Birdi!” Receiving no answer, he plowed his way through the tightly packed clansmen. “Birdi!”
Where the hell is she?
“What’s amiss?” Ian stood at his back.
“Birdi’s gone.”
“Dinna fash. Something in one of the stalls might have caught her eye, and she’s milling about there.”
Angus quickened his pace, his focus shifting from right and left as he examined every doorway he passed. “Nay, she wouldna.”
“She’s a woman, Angus. Of course she would.”
Teeth gritted, he hissed, “She wouldn’t, because she’s blind.”
Ian grabbed his arm and spun him. “She’s what?”
Angus wrenched free and took off at a jog, claymore banging at his back. “Blind! Blind as a bat, as a burrowing mole, as blind as Lizzy’s auld dog.” Chest heaving, he came to an abrupt halt before the market stalls. “God’s teeth, where the hell could she have gone?”
Ian shrugged and looked about helplessly.
Angus gave the marketplace another quick scouring and growled, “Ye take the right, I’ll go left. Bellow if ye find her.”
Angus ran. He�
��d been frightened a time or two in his life but never so often or to such a degree as he had since meeting Birdalane Shame. And when he found her, he’d paddle her fine hurdies raw and blistered for the aggravation she was putting him through. Aye, and take great pleasure in the doing!
After checking every open doorway, he tore past the entrances of short mews off the main road one after the other, calling out her name. He’d raced past the last before the sight of vivid blue registered in his mind. He turned and raced back.
There, at the end of the mews, before a pile of rags and a closed stable door, squatted Birdi. He took a deep settling breath, not trusting he wouldn’t grab her up by the hair and throw her over his knee. He didn’t bother keeping the menace out of his voice as he growled, “Birdi?”
When she didn’t respond he strode down the mews, and found himself face to face with a pathetic-looking stranger, a woman the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his time in France, when he’d boldly—and foolishly—toured the waterfronts, determined to drink himself into nightly stupors trying to forget all that he had done in the name of king and country.
The frail, hollow-eyed woman held a babe in her lap, its fragile parchment skin the color of roasted pumpkin, its dark eyes sunken into a seemingly too-large head. Its legs called to mind those of a stork’s. He kenned what ailed the babe; he’d seen this child time and time again after crops and cattle had been destroyed by war.
The babe was starving to death.
Birdi, head bent, tears streaming down her cheeks, ignored him. She was totally focused on the babe, one hand on its head, the other resting on the babe’s bloated belly.
“Ack, Birdi, lass...”
She’d apparently found a babe to replace the one she’d lost. It wasn’t uncommon for desperate women to offer their babes up for sale. ‘Twas often the only way to keep them alive.
He dropped to one knee. As he wrapped his arm around Birdi’s shoulders, he heard her whisper, “...please, Mother of All, Goddess, please I beg thee,” and his heart stuttered.
The blood drained from his head and he rocked back onto his haunches.
Oh my God. Birdi was pagan.
The babe beneath her hands shivered. It opened its mouth and then wailed. Not strongly as a proper babe might, but wail it did, its wee fists batting the falling mist. The mother, tears now streaming down her face, cooed and hushed the babe as she snatched it up and cradled it to her chest.
Birdi wavered and fell against him. As he steadied her, he felt heat. My God, the woman was burning up, near to melting with raging fever. Had she touched the babe and contracted something?
The shock of his discovery that she was Pagan forgotten, he tipped up her chin to see her face and a cold sweat exploded across his chest. Birdi’s magnificent eyes were now as vacant as the babe’s had once been, staring skyward, unblinking. “Birdi! For God’s sake answer me. Can ye hear me?”
In response she whispered, “Give her...coins.”
Angus scooped Birdi into his arms. He had to get her inside, get water into her, get food into her, do something. As he rose, she clawed at his chest with surprising strength. “The coins. All...will be...for naught...if she canna eat, the babe canna suckle.”
In no mood to argue—not willing to examine what he’d heard while sweat careened down his back and chest, with blood hammering in his ears—he tossed the frail woman a fistful of coins. He then turned. The woman called, “Bless ye!” as he ran with Birdi toward the main roadway.
As he rounded the corner he saw Ian emerge from a nearby building. “Ian!”
His friend came at a run, took one look at Birdi, and asked, “My God, man, what happened to her?” His hand reached for his dirk. “I’ll kill the son of a whore.”
“I’ve no idea, but we need to get her inside.” The mist had turned to an all-out rain.
“This way.” Ian raced ahead some thirty feet to the only two-story building on the now muddy roadway. He held the door wide as Angus angled Birdi through the doorway.
Following behind, Ian ordered, “Up the stairs, Angus. Second door.”
The whitewashed room, its low ceiling made lower by thick round beams, held only a bed and a chair. ‘Twould serve. It was warm and dry, the two things Birdi most needed.
Having had to hunch to get through the doorway, Angus remained stooped as he crossed the room to the sturdy- looking, pine-post bed. He lowered Birdi onto thin ticking.
Leaning over his shoulder, Ian asked, “What can I do?”
Angus ran a shaking hand over the stubble on his jaw. Think, man! Think! What had Lady Beth done when Duncan lay at death’s door with a raging fever? He pictured the sickroom, pictured Beth keening over his friend, and it all came back.
“Fetch a bucket of cold water and rags.”
“But she’s—”
“Dinna argue, man, just do it!”
As Ian reached for the door, Angus amended, “And broth, hot broth.”
His friend gone, Angus looked down at Birdi. Her cheeks were flushed, her body still. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. Merciful Mother of God! What was wrong that she’d sickened so quickly? And what had she done or given to that babe?
Having no answers and desperately needing to do something, he knelt at Birdi’s side and started to undress her. He pushed off her cape and struggled with the pearl band about her head until he realized it was secured to the cauls. He pulled pins, got her headdress off, and her hair cascaded around her. He then studied her gown. Seeing no opening in the front, he rolled her onto her side and found no opening in the back. “Shit! Over the head then.”
He shoved the weighty brocade up to her waist. That done, he hauled her to his chest, pulled her arms free, and yanked the two-stone weight over her head. Wondering how she’d borne so much without slumping, he tossed the gown onto the floor and carefully lowered Birdi back onto the mattress. She now wore only a thin cotton shift over her snow-white, pebbled skin.
The door burst open, and instinctively Angus wrenched out his dirk. Seeing Ian, he muttered, “Ye scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” Ian dropped a bucket beside the bed and handed him a fistful of rags. “The broth will be ready in a moment.”
“Thank ye.”
Looking as upset as Angus felt, Ian asked, “What else can I do?”
“Stand guard below.” Pagans were about as welcome these days as the plague, and the woman Birdi had spoken with had worn a cross.
“Has she spoken? Told ye what happened?”
Angus shook his head. “Not yet. I need to tend to her now. Let none above stairs, and keep your ears open.” He studied Birdi. “The moment her fever breaks we’re leaving. I’ll let ye know when to make ready the horses.”
Ian scowled. “Ye canna be serious. It’s pouring.”
Aye, and with any luck the rain would keep most inside and word that there was a Pagan in their midst wouldn’t spread as fast as he feared. “We ride, rain or nay rain.”
Muttering under his breath, Ian stomped out the door and down the stairs.
Angus soaked a rag in frigid water. Wringing it out, he whispered, “Ye are the one for keeping secrets, lass.” He shook his head as he wiped her brow. “What on earth will I do with ye now?”
He wiped her down with water, limb by limb. As he wiped the filth from her feet he wondered what had become of her delicate silver slippers. He tossed the dirty rag and reached for another, and started again with her face.
An hour later, Birdi’s fever still raged. At his wit’s end, he decided to soak all of her, front and back, and to hell with preserving her modesty. He pulled her into his arms and pulled off her shift.
His jaw went slack as he stared over her shoulder at her back. Scars—the likes of which he hadn’t seen even on friends, warriors—made lace out of her marble-white skin. Someone had taken a lash to her!
He laid her down and something deep in gut tightened. Oh my God. More scars marred the front of her. Fine, raised lines ran ac
ross her right shoulder, upper left arm, and left thigh. With a faint heart he dragged his gaze to her left side. The wound he’d caused had healed surprisingly well. ‘Twas now only a wee, faint, red line, but it, too, would eventually leave a scar. “Ack, lass, ye’ll never ken how much I regret hurting ye.”
He soaked another rag. As he scrubbed, he prayed. He would learn what had happened to her later.
~#~
Ian sat on the bottom step, his claymore across his lap. The fifteen men in the public room cast the occasional wary glance in his direction as he put a finer edge on his blade with a whetstone, but none spoke directly to him, though most, he suspected, talked of him. And of his friends above stairs.
Most in the room were cairds—tinkers—or herders come to Cairndow just for market day. They’d be leaving as soon as the sky cleared. Given the wind, that wouldn’t be long. And thank God. His friend had lost all perspective, thinking they should ride out in weather like this with a fevered woman. Which did bode well, he supposed, in one respect.
Whether his friend acknowledged it or not, Angus MacDougall was taken with his lass. It made Ian’s work—making Angus jealous and bringing him to the realization that he had his rightful bride already—that much easier.
And Birdi? She loved Angus, but he’d sensed a worrisome loss of patience within her. Why, he wasn’t sure. The woman hadn’t confided in him since doing so by the loch. That, too, he found disturbing. Women normally sought him out to worry aloud and ask his opinions. Birdi, however, was keeping her own counsel. Not a good thing, from his perspective, though it made her more intriguing.
And he still couldn’t believe Birdi was blind. He’d been with her for two days, and not once had she asked directions, run into something, or gotten lost. Until today.
He “humphed” deep in his throat, wondering how she was doing.
The door blew open and a drenched, rotund woman rolled over the threshold. Looking very agitated, she waddled over to the cluster of men in the far corner. As her plump arms waved, Ian watched the men’s expressions. Alarm registered on every face.
