After Nones on the fifth day, he finally discovered evidence of her passage outside a small village; campfires snuffed with dirt, and nearly impossible to detect, because she’d cut her wood to slivers, allowing it to burn more evenly. Living off the land, she had been eating wild mushrooms, leeks and berries, which were all available in plenty this spring. Soft hearted and a lover of creatures, Sorcha had opted for nature’s bounty instead, pulling up edibles up by their roots. Keane found evidence of freshly plucked ramps and wild berry stems. His sister, more than anyone, knew precisely which were safest to eat, for she was an apothecary and a healer, quite accomplished in her skills. To Sorcha’s credit, she had both Lìli’s and Una’s tutelage combined, and although she liked to think herself their pupil, she was a master all to herself.
Quite certain the evidence he’d found must be Sorcha’s, Keane followed her trail back to the king’s road, but then he lost it again, and nevertheless, once he encountered the road, he was startled to discover it well traveled, with motley bands of pilgrims, all walking in packs. He’d seen nothing of the sort in all his days—not even during his travels for David. It was as though all these people had embarked upon a pilgrimage—men, women, children on a march toward the sea. He’d heard tales of crusaders, marching off to Jerusalem, and it reminded him of this. He scratched his head, peering back at his men. After a while, they came upon a traveling monk, also headed in the same direction, and he spurred his mount to inquire where the man was going.
“To Rònaigh!” the man said. “To bless the princess bride.”
Keane screwed his face, riding along beside the man in silence, trying to determine who he could be referring to. To Keane’s knowledge, King David had no legitimate daughters, and only one young son. Finally, he asked, “What princess?”
“A daughter of the sons of Cruithne.”
Keane gave the priest a cockeyed glance, for it was quite possible he was tetched. Cruithne, King of the Pechts, was long, long dead. He’d been a relative of Keane’s, so far removed. But Kenneth MacAilpín, in his day, slew all seven Pecht lords. The dún Scoti chieftain escaped the slaughter only because Keane’s people had fled to the Vale, sent there to guard the true stone of destiny. It was MacAilpín’s example Padruig meant to follow that day when he’d entered the Vale one score and three years ago to slay their sire. However, unlike the families of those slaughtered Pecht lords, Padruig had left the sons and daughters of the Guardians all living. Therefore, in truth, there could only be two unwed blood daughters of Cruithne remaining, his sisters Cailin and Sorcha being the only two. But nobody knew this… and, besides, wedding some strange laird was the last thing he knew Sorcha was inclined to do. “My good man,” Keane said, “Cruithne has been dead for three centuries and more. There are none of his blood remaining.”
“Not as I hear tell,” the priest argued, excited by the prospect of meeting a long-lost daughter of the dead Pecht king. “’Tis a prophecy foretold!”
Keane screwed his face. “What prophecy?”
“My lord,” he said, sounding more Norman than Scot—a fact that made Keane discount his tale even before it was said. “’Tis long been held that once the destiny star returns, the house of Conn shall wed a daughter of Cruithne, and thereafter shall arise a new clan—Chattan, whose sons and daughters, at last, will bring peace to our lands.”
Peace? In these Highlands? Where one laird had little cause to trust another? Forsooth, they were all vying for King David’s favor, and those who did not secretly longed for a savior. Sister against brother, brother against father, father against mother. Peace was not a luxury to be had.
Nevertheless, one could hope.
Keane trotted along beside the man, considering his manner of dress. “You are wearing the Christ’s garb. How is it ye mean to bless a pagan bride against the wishes of your king?” It was well known that King David had aligned himself with England’s Church. It was no longer meet to worship the gods of old, and yet …
The priest laughed. “My son, long before there was ever a Christ, there was a Cailleach. Any wise mon would know to love them both.”
“I see,” Keane said, but he didn’t see at all. And nevertheless, he had an odd, odd feeling in his bones. He peered up at the strange star, thanked the man, and rode along a while longer, until he came across another traveler, carrying a sack. “Pardon sir? Can you tell me where you are going?”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “Rònaigh, lord!”
“To bless the princess bride?”
The traveler nodded, his long, white beard tied below the chin. He lifted his sack. “I bring good tidings and gifts to honor the Maiden from Inbhir Nis.”
Keane furrowed his brow, for Sorcha had not been raised in Inbhir Nis. She was raised in the Mounth, and yet she must have traveled through Inbhir Nis…
“In Rònaigh?”
“Aye, lord!” the man exclaimed.
“An’ ye’ll travel to see for yourself?”
“Following the star, lord!” he said excitedly, pointing to the gathering clouds above their heads. But even with the promise of inclement weather, the star was perfectly visible.
Keane thanked the man, and rode on. ‘Twas said that, for the most part, these apparitions were ill omens. Although he’d heard tell of another star that once stretched over a third of the nighttime sky, leading The Conqueror across the narrow sea to his legendary victory over England. This star was equally as magnificent, and brilliant enough to be seen by day.
It was impossible Sorcha could have missed it. Had she joined these people on their journey? Perhaps, although it certainly wasn’t her impetus for leaving the Vale. Their lies had driven her away.
Further on down the road, Keane trotted alongside a young woman traveling with two boys. She held one child’s hand, peering up at Keane a little warily.
“Rònaigh?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“To meet the princess bride?”
“Aye, sir. Some have claimed the Cailleach sent her to cure the laird of Dunrònaigh.”
“Of what, pray tell?”
“Blindness, sir.” She lifted her child’s hand for Keane to see. “My sweet boy needs a blessing, so we must hie now before the star has fled.”
“I see,” Keane said, peering up at the long-haired star.
Not a one of these tales was remotely plausible, and yet… “Ye wadna happen to know what this princess looks like, would ye?”
The woman smiled benevolently. “The loveliest maiden ever to live. ‘Tis said she bewitched the Blue Men, while crossing the Minch on her snow-white unicorn, and they bore her ashore on a tide of mist.”
Indeed, Sorcha was riding a white mare as they only had white horses in the Vale. Or rather, none but white mares would have been paired with a Guardian. In fact, Sorcha rode a sibling of Beithir’s, his own well-loved steed. Keane wondered if it could be his sister. The description, while overly fanciful, fit her nonetheless. He thanked the woman, and decided he’d better find Aidan and relay what he’d discovered. If there was any truth behind the stories he was hearing, their sister was preparing to wed a blind man from Rònaigh.
“To Aidan!” he commanded his men. At once, they turned about and headed south.
“So, ye’re tellin’ me I am no’ your prisoner?”
“Nay.”
“But I canna leave?”
“Nay.”
Sorcha eyed the man she knew only as “Alec,” incensed with all that he was saying. And more—that he had duped and drogued her to further his aim. Men went blind every day. Women went blind. It did not merit kidnapping a stranger. In fact, her brother’s wife went blind, and no one in Dubhtolargg absconded with a healer.
Of course, they had more than their share, with Lìli, Sorcha and Una. And even after Una was gone, she and Lìli both were quite skilled.
Sorcha tried to make sense of the man’s story. From what he’d said, some woman by the name of Biera had come calling one mon
th past and told them all a tale that sent them in search of Sorcha.
Could it be that old woman was Una?
Some part of Sorcha desperately wanted to believe it was true, although some other part of her had already begun to suspect her journey was little more than a fool’s errand—a desperate attempt to turn back time.
Forsooth, she didn’t know how to be without Una. Sorcha had never known another mother, although, in truth, what would she do now if she found her? Scream? Rail about the lies and deception? Nay, she would hug the woman fiercely and beg her not to leave. The terrible truth was that Sorcha was lonely. She had been lonely for a long time, and the only thing that had kept her going these long days past was the hope that Una was still alive … out there … somewhere …
Drinking faerie water on the Isle of Skye?
Only now that Sorcha thought about it, the notion seemed absurd, and yet …
She pushed a dense slice of barley bread across her plate. The woman called Bess sat watching her eat. After a moment, the woman came over, jiggling Sorcha’s plate. “Are ye no’ hungry, lass?” she asked. “I thought ye said ye were famished?”
Well … she was. But not anymore. The barley bread was horrendous. The news was worse. Thankfully, they had given her a cup of broth, and she’d finished that before Alec ever ventured into the kitchen. If she were forced to eat this bread every day, she would weep until she filled an ocean with her tears. Sorcha suspected the barley they’d used was rancid, but it wasn’t the only thing wrong with this block of stone. Forsooth, she could have chiseled a plaque into its surface—here lies Sorcha dún Scoti, felled by a sorry slice of bread. It was worse than the uisge they’d brought from Chreagach Mhor, and far, far worse than her sister Cailin’s haggis.
At least, they didn’t intend to keep her long …
Besides, it was, perhaps, a noble cause. “I am sorry,” Sorcha said. “But I seem to have lost my appetite.” She looked again at Alec. “So, what you’re saying is this: I canna go anywhere until after May Day’s Eve, and furthermore, I am bound to nurse your lord?”
“This is correct.”
“Hmmm …”
Keenly aware of Bess’s scrutiny, Sorcha lifted the offensive slice of bread, shoving it into her mouth, gnawing with some difficulty. The bread was bitter and stiff, and she had to work her eyetooth into it to make even the smallest dent. All the while, Bess sat watching expectantly, and Sorcha loathed to hurt the woman’s feelings. She seemed so sweet. It was certainly not her fault Alec drogued her and put her off her course. At long last, Sorcha nipped off a bite, and then set the bread down again, smiling wanly at Bess.
Of course, Sorcha was well within her rights to refuse to help them. But, as she had no heart to refuse the woman’s bread, she also couldn’t turn her back on a people in need. At any rate, it would serve no one—least of all herself. “Ye dinna have to drogue me,” she said, plaintively.
“I’m sorry, lass. We didna ken another way. Biera said ye wadna be persuaded.”
Sorcha lifted a brow. “In truth, sir, you might have simply asked. Although, in any case, I do not know this woman, Biera, and she cannot know me. Therefore, I am still of the mind ye have mistaken your charge.”
Both Alec and Bess seemed disinclined to believe her, and they gave each other curious glances from the corners of their eyes—as though they knew something more they were disinclined to share.
Alec lifted a brow. “An’ ye tell me, ye would ha’e agreed to help?”
Given the chance to decide for herself, Sorcha might have, although not before May Day’s Eve. And yet, that was not the point. She tried to explain. “Sir, I must reach the Isle of Skye before Beltane.” After, Una would be gone. The grimoire clearly specified that the Cailleach must drink before Beltane, so it was quite certain she wouldn’t remain thereafter, as her “sister” Brigit was a patroness of creatures and crops. She would have much work to do after the transformation. “Ye dinna ken, sir. ’Tis of the utmost importance I leave here at once.”
Alec leveled her a sympathetic look. “Tha mi duilich, lass.” I’m sorry. “No one on this isle will take you, and lest ye grow wings or fins, ye’ll no’ be going alone.”
For the most part, Bess looked quite contrite, although her attention remained centered on Sorcha’s plate, and Sorcha’s belly began to ache. He was sorry, he claimed. Pah! Much good it would do her now! Sorcha did know how to swim—she’d lived in a house on a loch, after all—but she had no inkling how far away the Isle of Skye might be. Nor was the sea so friendly as their loch. From so high in the tower, she’d spied naught but frothing oceans, with no other lands in sight.
“Nevertheless,” he said, as though he meant to barter with her still. “If ye wish to leave after the May Day’s celebration, I will take you anywhere ye wish tae go.”
“Anywhere?”
“Aye.”
Sorcha’s brow arched. “But you say if?”
“If,” he agreed, nodding—though once again that knowing look passed between the two, as though they knew something Sorcha did not.
“Well, sir, I can assure you, I will wish to go, willye nillye!” And, as it seemed she had so little choice in the matter, she finally relented. “So, this laird o’ yours … he’s that man I met abovestairs?”
“Aye lass.”
“What a sad lump,” Sorcha said in her pique. In fact, in all her life, she had never met a more beautiful man who’d so clearly lost his will to live.
“’Tis precisely why we need you.”
Sorcha exhaled a sigh. Her soft heart might, in truth, be the death of her yet, but the thought of that poor man lying upstairs, his face to the wall, his back to the door, and his shoulders shaking ever so slightly, made her feel heartsick. To be sure, it was a tragedy, and no matter how furious she was with her brothers and her sisters, she would die a hundred thousand deaths if she ever harmed a one, much less lopped off their heads.
But how strange, for they couldn’t have known Sorcha had any experience with this type of ailment … could they? Her brother’s wife was blind, as well. Constance was traumatized by the collapse of their mountain—the very same accident that supposedly took Una’s life. Except that, Constance was still blind, and neither Sorcha nor Lìli had been able to cure her. They had tried every potion in their repertoire: tinctures, elixirs, salts, and more. In the end, they had simply begun to teach her that her blindness wasn’t an end to her life, and she had far more to offer than her eyes alone might allow.
“Sweet girl, we beg you … please. If you would be so kind as to aid our laird, we will reward you handsomely for the effort.”
“But all I want is a boat to take me to the Isle of Skye. And my horse since, by the by,” she shot Alec a baleful glance, “you did not fulfill your end of the bargain. And yet, if, in fact, I should agree, and if your laird should regain his sight before May Day’s Eve? Then will I be free to go?”
Alec looked at Bess, and Bess looked back at Alec, and for the longest time, neither of them dared to look at Sorcha. But, at last, Alec relented, “Aye. Verra well. Heal our laird an’ ye’ll be on your way.”
7
In a modest inn along the king’s road sat a wee woman, with a dirty patch over one eye and hair as white and wiry as a bird’s nest. She sat pleasantly, biding her time, drinking slowly from a tankard of ale. Cool air blustered in as the door opened, and she straightened her back as six liveried men sauntered in, wearing the sigil of their house: twin black ravens beating their wings against a sword between. These were Padruig Caimbeul’s henchmen, and more oft than not, if they were searching for a body, it boded ill. However, whereas the innkeeper cringed at the sight of these men, the old woman sat bright-eyed. Neither did she cower when they went about, all cock and brag, scaring good paying folk out the door. They were asking, “Have you seen a girl? Dark hair, traveling alone? Answers by the name of Sorcha?”
“Nay,” said a frightened man. He gathered his belongings and gave a wary g
lance toward the hapless innkeeper. “I’ve seen no one—I swear it!”
“Nor I,” said another, and he too, made to leave.
It was highly unlikely to find women alone in such an establishment, unless they be harlots, and yet, the old crone sat, undaunted, unafraid to be mistaken for a woman of ill repute. For some men, even toothless old hags were perfectly acceptable by the time their todgers threatened to turn blue. Presently, one of the liveried men sat down beside her. “Have you perchance seen the girl we seek?”
The old woman grinned, showing perfect, white teeth. “The one called Sorcha?”
“Aye, madam.”
“No,” she said, shaking her grizzled head. But, then, as the man made to rise, she added, “though I did hear of her …”
Padruig’s man sat again, scowling. “So what did you hear?”
“I have heard that she journeys to the cradle of our kin.” And there was awe in the old woman’s voice as she spoke. She had more to say, but the liveried man furrowed his brow. “What gibberish is that?”
“Ach! Ye’re a fine, braw lad,” the old woman declared. “I can see in your eyes, you’re a wise mon, too.” And now, having settled his ire, he allowed her to continue. “So ye must know ’tis from Rònaigh’s own Giant’s Cave they carved that stone from Scone? Ye know the one, d’ ye?”
“Of course,” the man said. He straightened his back. “An Lia Fàil.”
“That’s the one!”
“King David was crowned upon it, himself.”
The woman nodded. “So they say.” She reached for her long-gnarled staff beneath the table. “Some say Conn of the Hundred Wars was crowned there, as well, but what should I know? I’m merely an auld woman.”
The man arched his brow. “Quite a lot, or so it seems.” But rather than scold her for her rambling, he meant to return the favor, flattering her instead, hoping to coax more out of her. “So you must be a verra, verra important woman to know so much. Do tell, what else ha’e ye heard?”
The old woman clutched her long staff with twisted fingers. “Oh … naught more.”
Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 19
