by Advocate
The rain was cascading down in great sheets, as though she was standing in the center of a roaring waterfall. But if she looked hard enough, she could barely make out the outline of the Beynon farmhouse in the distance.
The mules whinnied loudly, stamping their hooves as cold, damp air flooded their stalls and the wind scattered the loose hay against the stable walls.
Faylinn wrung her hands. She didn’t care at all about the icy rain. She would walk through the fires of Hell if it would help Bridget. But she couldn’t leave her alone. Not now. What if I left her and…. No. She shook her head violently. I’m not going anywhere.
An anguished scream from the back room propelled Faylinn’s heart into her throat and she bolted back past the stalls. She entered the small room half-expecting to see Bridget on her feet or on the floor, having fallen. Instead, the dark-haired woman was lying on the bed, eyes closed, the blankets balled in white-knuckled fists.
"Bridget." Faylinn rushed to the bed. "Stop. You’re going to tear your stitches. Calm down!"
Faylinn’s raised voice caused Bridget’s movements to grow wilder, and after staring at her for a second, body frozen in shock, the younger woman forcibly took hold of her scattered emotions. She dropped to her knees and, heedless of Bridget’s greasy, sweat-soaked skin, peppered the bruised face with the softest of kisses. "Bridget, calm down," she soothed, pressing her cheek to the brunette’s. "It’s all right. Go back to sleep."
"Hurry," Bridget hissed, shaking. Scowling, she jerked her face away from Faylinn’s. "Cold." The words were as full of fear as impatience.
"I know." Tears stung Faylinn’s eyes and she ruthlessly blinked them away. Sitting up, she re-tucked the blankets around her sister-in-law and then threw another log on the fire, stoking it with a long stick that was propped up against the wall. She stripped off her borrowed trousers and climbed back into bed, moving as close as she dared, and pressing her legs against Bridget’s, trying to share her body heat. "I’m so sorry." She lightly stroked Bridget’s face with one hand, her fingers deftly avoiding the many cuts as the room grew brighter from the force of the flames.
"Bridget, you will be fine." She knew the words were as much for herself as her injured companion but she continued her litany of encouragement anyway. "You must. Do you hear me?"
"No," Bridget said weakly. "You don’t understand." She pawed at her blanket. "Hurry."
Faylinn frowned. "You don’t have to hurry, Bridget. You’re safe here, love." At least for the time being.
Bridget began to thrash, grimacing at the pain the action caused her broken arm. "He’s in the cold!"
Faylinn shook her head. "No. No one is in the—"
"Henry," Bridget cried softly. "He’s still out there."
It was like having a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. Faylinn blinked stupidly for several long seconds until the words penetrated her brain. Instinctively, she covered her ears with her palms and curled up into a tight ball. She couldn’t think straight as images assaulted her and recent memories threatened to drown her, dragging her into their madness and despair. But, the soft mewing of the woman she loved wouldn’t allow her to withdraw completely.
Sky-blue eyes worked furiously beneath closed lids. "I failed. I tried but… my fault." Bridget licked her dry lips. "Sor-sorry."
Faylinn’s head snapped up at the words. "Don’t say that," she whispered harshly, clinging to Bridget’s side. "It’s not your fault. By God, none of it was! How can you think that?" she anguished. You’re the only one without blame. And you’ve suffered so.
Bridget’s hand found Faylinn’s and she gripped it tightly. "But he’s cold and wet," she breathed raggedly. "I can feel it." Bridget’s mind flashed to her toddler nephew huddled in the hollow of a tree, his body shaking from the cold, his laughing gray eyes glazed and unseeing.
Faylinn’s breathing hitched and she had to swallow a few times before she could find her voice. "He’s not…." She stopped again, willing herself not fall apart. "He’s not outside in the cold, Bridget." Unbidden, the thought of her son in a grave flashed before her eyes, twisting the knife in her gut.
A wretched expression twisted Bridget’s beautiful, damaged face. "I can’t find him. I’m trying so hard. You have to believe me," she begged, starting to cry. "Please."
"God, forgive me." This guilt will follow me to the grave. As I deserve. "I should have believed then but I was afraid. I do believe you now."
"You don’t!" The voice was a deep, guttural growl.
"Yes," Faylinn swore fervently. "I will always believe you." Give me the chance to prove that, Bridget. "Shh…" she soothed, and carefully pushed clinging bangs from Bridget’s forehead. She scooted up to the head of the bed and, through sheer determination alone, managed to get into position so that she was cradling the larger woman with strong, if shaky, arms. Faylinn was panting by the time she was finished, but it seemed to help.
Bridget’s breathing began to slow and even out, and her violent thrashing came to an end.
From behind Bridget, Faylinn rested her chin on a broad shoulder as a trickle of perspiration dripped from her own brow onto Bridget’s bare skin. She could feel the steady rhythm of Bridget’s heart against her own chest and the wet material of Bridget’s shirt stuck to hers. For a moment she became light-headed and wished she hadn’t stoked the fire. But it passed and she felt herself growing sleepy. Lazily, she shifted and placed a kiss on the top of Bridget’s head.
"Faylinn?"
"I’m here."
"I can’t find—"
Please, not again. The blonde woman held her tighter. "You did find him, Bridget. You did everything right." She paused. "He’s safe now."
Bridget seemed not to want to believe the gentle voice near her ear. The words couldn’t be true, could they? She was still looking. And it was so dark. When she was a girl she was afraid of the dark. Henry would be too. But the calming words were spoken so softly, so lovingly, that couldn’t help but believe them. "He’s safe?"
Faylinn voice cracked. "Yes."
Bridget sighed and her body began to relax. "Warm?" she questioned finally, the word barely audible.
Hot tears streamed down Faylinn’s cheeks and dripped into Bridget’s hair. She moved her lips close the darker women’s ear. "Yes, love. He’s warm." A small bittersweet smile touched quivering lips. "Sleep now. Nothing can hurt him, I promise."
"I’m not a witch."
The unexpected words were said in such a clear, true voice, that, for a moment, Faylinn thought they came from someone else. She gently turned Bridget’s face to the side and found a pair of bloodshot, sky-blue eyes peering tiredly back at her. Awake. Alive. The strength of her watery smile grew. Thank you. "It wouldn’t matter if you were a witch," she told her gently, meaning every word. "Not to me."
Bridget sighed and her eyes drifted shut. I need… I need you so.
Faylinn heard the words in her own mind and bit back a sob. Needs me? Oh, God.
Bridget murmured something unintelligible as she finally succumbed to her need for deep, healing sleep and her muscles turned to water.
"That’s right." Faylinn exhaled raggedly, feeling the racking tension in her body finally begin to ebb. "Rest," she said again, running her fingers through Bridget’s thick tresses.
Faylinn began to softly croon a Scottish lullaby. It was one she sang to Henry that her own mother had sung to her whenever was ill as a child. Even at her tender age, the sunny summers of her past seemed so long ago and far away that her mind could barely grasp them. They vanished like wisps of smoke between her fingers.
A crackling bolt of lightning tore through the sky above the Beynon farm. Exhaustedly, Faylinn clung to Bridget with all her might, refusing to let her go. "You are not a witch, Bridget Redding. But you’ve enchanted me just the same."
* * *
Badger stopped his tale and dug thick fingers into his well-worn tobacco pouch in order to reload his pipe. He glanced up from his task and what he saw
caused his hands to still. "Are you lasses all right?"
Kayla exhaled, feeling a little stunned and light-headed. Damn, how long have I been holding my breath?
Liv could only nod. The telling of young Henry’s death and the toll it had taken on his mother had hit her especially hard the first time, dredging up her own insecurities regarding her parents and the little brother she raised herself. Its retelling was having the same effect and she was plainly rattled.
Kayla grasped Liv’s hand and threaded their fingers together, giving it a little squeeze. Her forehead creased in thought for a split second before she pinned Badger with intense blue eyes. "Does she die?"
The man looked a little surprised. "Faylinn or Bridget?"
Kayla’s jaw visibly sagged. "Bu-But…. She’s not even hurt. What do you mean, Faylinn?" she demanded. Taking Liv’s hand with her she propped her elbows on her knees and leaned forward to better hear Badger’s answer, despite the fact that the man’s voice rang out clearly in the room. "Just tell us!"
Badger scratched his chin through his thick beard and addressed Liv. "Is she always so bossy?"
"Hey!" Kayla complained loudly, sitting up ramrod straight.
Badger ignored the tall woman completely. "How do you stand it, Liv?"
"She’s not bossy," Liv informed him flatly. Then her eyes took on a familiar twinkle and she smiled, feeling herself relax a little. "Just a little… umm… intense. But only sometimes," she added quickly, already hearing her lover’s growl in the back of her mind.
"Hey!" Kayla repeated, this time shooting a glare at Liv.
Badger grinned unrepentantly, raised a bushy eyebrow, and said, "Articulate too, I see."
Liv sighed. Two peas in a pod. She slapped Kayla’s thigh playfully. She leaned close and whispered, "You’re expressive and intense in ways Badger can’t even imagine. And I love you to pieces."
Kayla squared her shoulders and grumbled to herself, "That’s a little better." But she was still scowling. "I guess."
Badger regarded both women kindly, his thick Scottish brogue and deep voice recapturing their attention with ease. "I can see that neither one of you is going to last for the long… but highly interesting telling. Too bad too." He shook his head sadly but his stare was only mildly reproachful. "So let me make things plain for you. Both Faylinn and Bridget died—"
"What?" Liv and Kayla cried in unison.
Badger held up his hands. "Och! If you’d let me finish you wouldn’t fash yersels so. They both died eventually. But not for many, many years after the terrible events of Cobb Island."
"Oh."
"Thank goodness." Liv closed her eyes.
Badger chuckled. "Feel better now? Or shall I stop?" he asked innocently, not looking up from his pipe.
"No!" they chorused incredulously.
He bit back a smile. "I’ll take that as a ‘no’."
Kayla was tempted to blurt out ‘smartass’ but prudently held her tongue. She was rewarded by a tiny hand squeeze from Liv, who recognized she was making an effort. Which was hard considering she hadn’t missed the gleeful look in Badger’s eyes as he teased her. How does Liv get along with everyone from flirty teenagers to crusty old Scotsmen? And even more bizarre, why would she want to?
Badger finally pushed a large pinch of tobacco into the bowl of his meerschaum pipe and brushed away a few stray shreds that speckled the rim. " a Weel, I’ve no problem continuing. I’ll gab all day if you like." He winked. "Anything to avoid Sylla, ya know.’" Placing his tobacco pouch back into his sporran he shifted his bulky body in the chair to get more comfortable again. "But seein’ as how I let the cat out of the bag about Bridget stayin’ alive, how about I skip ahead a wee bit of time… past some of her recovery?"
A dark head nodded. "Absolutely. It’s about time to fast forward. I’m especially hoping—"
Badger lifted an eyebrow and Liv clamped her hand over Bridget’s mouth. "She’s especially hoping that you’ll tell us the story exactly as you see fit."
"Oh, I can see that," Badger laughed.
Kayla nipped Liv’s palm with sharp teeth, earning a high pitched yelp.
"Well, at least you’re not kissin’ each other again," Badger said wryly. Though it always lightened his heart to see people truly in love. He’d seen it with his own parents, enjoyed the blessing himself, but knew it was sadly lacking in today’s world.
The stout man cleared his voice. "Here we go then. A thin blanket of snow and ice covered the Virginia coast as a harsh autumn gave way to an equally unforgiving winter…."
* * *
Virginia (Mainland)
December, 1690
Christmas Eve
A frigid wind howled outside the small room in the back of the Beynon stable. She paced the room, oblivious to the fireplace she’d let grow cold. She wore a pair of Will’s dark-brown, buckskin, hunting trousers and a new navy-blue, woolen shirt that Faylinn had made for her during the past month. The cloth was well-worn but clean, having been recycled from several shirts that were too small for even Faylinn. One sleeve had been made extra-wide so it would fit over the splint on Bridget’s left arm, and the collar and pocket hung slightly askew.
She smoothed her sleeve fondly and recalled the many nights Faylinn had toiled away with a needle and thread in front of the flickering fire, her pale brows drawn together in utter concentration. Despite her worry, Bridget chuckled. It was truly the ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever owned. And she couldn’t have loved it more had it been spun of pure gold.
"Where are you?" Bridget whispered worriedly as she pulled open the rickety shutter and peered out into the cold night. "Faylinn, must you always be late?" They needed a clock, she decided. That way she could stare at it all night and feel justified in worrying over her companion so. But I must be careful and pay attention or I’ll smother her as my pig brother Cyril did. But it was full dark outside and Faylinn, Will, and Katie had promised they’d be back from town by late this afternoon, which was now long past.
The trio had left at sunrise the day before, intent on reaching town early enough to shop at the mercantile and locate a reasonably priced inn for the night. Will usually camped in the rough on his monthly trips for basic foodstuffs, tools, and the like, but he’d decided to make this trip a holiday treat for his wife and Faylinn, whom he’d come to think of as a daughter. If this month’s shipment of slaves had arrived, the runners would have pumped untold amounts of coin back into the local economy before heading back to sea. If the shipment hadn’t arrived, the shops would still be chock-full of wares to catch their attention and tempt the plantation owner, who had come to buy.
Bridget had fought hard to come along, though she was barely healed enough to be out of bed. But Will had told her bluntly that the story of her ‘suicide’ had spread through the Colony like wildfire. And that made her decision for her. At the very least the Beynons would forfeit their homestead for harboring a fugitive. But for Faylinn things would be much, much worse.
The Crown recognized no distinction between those in league with a servant of Satan and the servant herself. Methods employed for gaining confessions were often worse than the ultimate punishment itself. Swinging at the end of a rope would be a kind fate for Faylinn, Bridget had thought sarcastically.
Then there was Cyril’s death, for which Faylinn would surely be blamed. Bridget sighed. In a very real way, Bridget Redding and Faylinn Cobb Redding were and would forever remain ‘dead’.
You already knew that, Bridget reminded herself grimly. But she’d never really had time to think about what her life had become. She was too busy trying to save Faylinn… then stay alive. Now she could clearly see what she had really asked of her sister-in-law when she begged the younger woman to steal away with her in the night. God. Bridget had closed her eyes, feeling the mantle of guilt resting heavily on tired shoulders. I’ve stolen a life I fear I can no longer protect.
Against Faylinn’s protests, Bridget had gone for a long, painful walk in th
e woods… alone. She’d desperately needed some time to process what had happened and would happen now. Her head and arm had throbbed and she’d felt slightly queasy and winded after the first few paces, but a larger part of her reveled in the freedom of the clean cold that flooded her lungs and the brightness of the newly fallen snow. Forgive me my ill-tempered words, Faylinn, but if I don’t have this time I shall go mad.
Stress and a nagging flu – no doubt brought on by a horrific boat ride in the pouring rain where each woman had taken one oar and rowed for hours to save their lives – had plagued Faylinn for weeks. It was only this week that her body seemed to begin adapting to the shock of what had happened on Cobb Island and the new stresses of frontier life.
It never even occurred to Bridget that though Faylinn still grieved for her son, more often than not, she was happier than she’d ever been. The bright innocence in her emerald eyes had been tempered. But the result was something deeper and infinitely more compelling. Faylinn seemed older and more thoughtful, yet somehow lighter too. She cried more, but she laughed more as well and, as always, her gentle touch was a balm to Bridget’s soul.
But none of that mattered, because she knew that Faylinn was unselfishly making the best of things for her own sake. It’s just like her to suffer in silence. She did it with Cyril and now she’s doing it with me. In a matter of seconds, Bridget found herself in a full-fledged, self-pitying, foul mood.
Slowly, she’d made her way back to the stables only to find Faylinn standing outside in the cold, waiting for her.
"I can’t leave you here alone," Faylinn had told her, her eyes a little panicky. "You still need help."
But at that moment, Faylinn’s pity was more than Bridget could bear. They’d argued bitterly, exchanging harsh, hurtful words as they never had before, until, finally, Bridget had gotten her way. A heavy sensation settled in her chest as the confrontation from the morning before came crashing back.
"Pity? What do you mean pity?" The fair-haired women stared at Bridget in disbelief.
