by Ruth Kaufman
The crack ended abruptly but water continued to leak onto his head from above. He knew he had only one chance. He reached up, his fingers clawing at the mud above his head, and caught roots.
Hope blossomed once again within him. The roots were small, but they were a good sign. Ronan ripped and pulled at them, the muddy earth giving way easily. Roots disturbed the earth of the motte a castle was built on. Ronan paid men good money to make sure weeds did not grow on the motte of his own castle. He continued to pull at them and more mud fell. The roots grew larger and stronger. He grabbed one about as thick as two fingers and yanked. The chunk of dirt that fell allowed light to stream into the black hole. Desperation granted him strength and he clawed his way toward the light, opening the hole wider. Freedom beckoned . . . only a distance about the span of his hand separated him.
Ronan broke through the earth. Like a dead man returning to life, he sucked precious fresh air into his lungs. He was surprised that the light he had seen was caused by the dawn glowing in the east. He had thought it brighter than it actually was. He heaved himself free and crawled forward. Glancing over his shoulder, he was abruptly grateful for the darkness that clung to the land. He was still within bowshot of the walls. If they saw him, he would be dead in an instant. Too weak to rise, he crawled on his belly through the ditch that surrounded the keep then up the high dirt mound that had been formed when the keep had been built as part of its defense. He had to reach the top before the sun cleared the eastern horizon. Before the guards on the walls could see him.
He dragged himself over the rocks and dirt, his hands and nails torn, still he scraped his way forward, using only the rapidly fading strength of his arms. His desperate race against the sun goaded him to the top of the berm. The pink streaks in the eastern sky grew larger and more golden. Muscles burned and trembled with effort. The agony within him strengthened, his body protesting every movement, his ribs protesting every breath. Nay! He would not stop. He would not give in to the pain. He would not hand the English a victory so easily.
Ronan reached the top of the mound and slid down the other side. His vision darkened and threatened to go black. He hit the bottom and struggled to suck air into his lungs. Not yet . . . not yet. He had to gain more distance. He was still too close to the keep. He reached out with one arm, his fingers burying into the soil, and he slowly hauled his body forward. His other hand grasped dirt and he pulled again. One agonizing inch at a time, the distance between himself and his former prison increased.
The light of the sun flared as it cleared the horizon and began its journey through the sky.
Time blurred for Ronan. All he could do was pull himself forward over the rocky earth. But a strange sound reached him. He felt the vibration in the earth he gripped; it traveled through his chest and his heart hesitated. Heavy horse, approaching fast. His gut clenched and he lifted his head. They galloped on the road a short distance from him. Fighting to blink his vision clear, he struggled to focus. At first, Ronan could not tell if they were Scottish or English. Then he caught a glimpse of color, a plaid that was so very familiar.
His ribs protested as he drew a deep breath into his lungs. “MacGrigor!” he roared. His bellow stole the last of his strength, and he lowered his head to the dirt. The rumble of hooves drew closer. Ronan squeezed his eyes closed, praying.
“My God!” a familiar voice cried.
Ronan lifted his head again, but his vision refused to focus. His heart pounded in his chest. Please let this be real and not some bloody hallucination from the crack in his skull. “Aidan?”
His brother dropped to his knees beside him. “Ronan, what have they done tae ye?”
He reached for his younger brother and sighed in relief when Aidan’s hand closed on his with a powerful grip. Ronan closed his eyes and his awareness slipped away.
Aidan feared his brother would die before they could get him home. As soon as he learned the English had captured him, Aidan had gathered men to search and had scoured the land for the past three days. Sorrow and fear battered him. He had been terrified he would never find Ronan, that he would never see his brother again. Finally, his birds had heard a rumor of where the English held Ronan, Aidan had rode in the direction of the fortress, determined to either ransom his brother back or steal him.
Ronan’s cry had stunned them all.
Judging by Ronan’s broken body, Aidan’s worst fears had come true. He had suffered terribly at the hands of the English. But Aidan marveled that Ronan had managed to escape. The people living in the shadow of the prison keep whispered that le March barely had enough men to form a watch on the walls. Longshanks had placed le March in control of a keep that was nothing more than a boil on the backside on the devil’s arse.
Aidan prayed that the fact that Ronan had been able to free himself and crawl a quarter mile from his prison meant that he was strong enough to survive this.
“Almighty have mercy,” Laird MacFarlane said as he stepped next to Aidan. The laird had been a friend of their father’s and a longtime ally of MacGrigor. He and his troops had fought with them in the battle when Ronan had been captured. The laird had not hesitated to accompany Aidan to find Ronan.
“Aye,” Aidan said tightly. “Come. We must get him home.”
MacFarlane nodded, although his face had grown unusually pale.
The sun descended in the western sky as the small group crested a rise and Castle MacGrigor stood before them. A more welcome sight Aidan had never seen.
Aidan had no desire to reveal the state of their laird to everyone who worked and lived at the castle, but he had little choice as they rode through the gates and into the bailey. Aidan bellowed for a litter and for servants to help as he hustled his brother into the castle. The occupants stopped and stared; many crossed themselves, whispering prayers.
Inside the great hall, Ronan groaned and suddenly sat up on the litter, forcing them to stop and place it on the floor before he toppled from it.
“Ronan,” Aidan barked, kneeling beside him. “Easy, ye are safe.”
Ronan blinked at him and his eyes widened. He then glared at a young serving maid only a pace away. The muscles in his face went rigid, his lips pulled downward, giving him a cruel snarl, and for a moment, his pupils grew in size and Aidan caught a red glint in them.
Bloody hell! Not now! Aidan recognized the expression from childhood, but the blackouts had become so rare Aidan had begun to hope Ronan had defeated them. Unfortunately, as the years passed, Ronan’s expression during these rare attacks had turned vicious and terrifying. Now with his terrible wounds and with blood covering him, he appeared as if hell had welcomed him to its bosom then spat him back out.
The serving maid he had locked in his gaze gasped and retreated. She covered her mouth, shaking.
Aidan gripped his brother’s shoulders. “Ronan,” he barked but knew it would do little good. “Ye be home!”
For the barest instant, Ronan’s eyes flicked to him, but then to Aidan’s horror, they rolled back into his head. Every muscle in his brother’s body stiffened and he knifed backward. Aidan only just stopped him from slamming his already cracked skull into the stone floor. His arms twisted upon themselves and his entire body jerked spastically. Aidan could only stare in shock; never had he seen anything like this from his brother. This was much more than the blackouts Ronan had suffered as a child.
Ronan’s muscles clenched, standing in sharp relief under his skin. The cords in his neck raised and the veins bulged. He fought to breathe, choking as froth formed on his lips.
The serving maid he had terrified only a moment ago screamed. “Demon! The devil has him!”
Aidan’s head snapped around. “Nay!” he roared. “Be silent, wench!”
One of his kinsmen stepped forward and pulled the screaming woman from the great hall.
With a gasp, Ronan suddenly went limp, breathing raggedly, but at least he was still breathing. “Get him tae the solar now,” Aidan growled. “MacFarlane?”
Aidan pulled him out of earshot of the others. “We need your help. The clans allied with us were quite concerned when they learned my brother had been captured. I need ye tae spread the word we have recovered him. He is alive and will once again lead MacGrigor.”
MacFarlane’s gaze slid to the litter as the men carried Ronan upstairs. “What happened, young MacGrigor?”
“Nothing,” Aidan growled. “His wounds are grievous, but he will recover.”
“He be at death’s door,” MacFarlane snapped.
Aidan bit back a curse. “Are ye blind? Ye didna see what he did? He freed himself. He willna die. He has too much fight in him. Tell the other clans.”
MacFarlane said nothing, staring at the now empty stairwell.
Aidan gritted his teeth. “On my da’s soul, do it for him if not for my brother.”
MacFarlane’s gaze returned to Aidan. He swallowed hard then nodded. “Aye, for yer da then, God rest his soul. It would kill him tae see his son in such a state.”
“My brother will live,” Aidan growled. “Tell the others.”
“Aye.” MacFarlane turned and left the great hall, calling for his horse.
Two days had passed and Aidan heard the serving maid’s scream all the way into the great hall. Cursing himself, he sprinted for the stairs. He should have known better than to leave her alone with his brother. Hadn’t the last two attacks taught him anything? He exploded through the door but was stunned to see his brother was not in the midst of an attack. Instead, Ronan was conscious, but hurting, and anguish lined his face. He reached toward the serving girl, who cowered in the corner.
“Nay,” he whispered hoarsely. “I willna harm ye, lass.”
The girl spotted Aidan and he noted her hands shook. “I was tryin’ tae tend tae him, but he suddenly roused and grabbed my hand. He wouldna release me. Please, dinna let him hurt me.”
Ronan flinched at her words.
“Nay,” Aidan snapped, “ye ken yer laird. He willna hurt ye . . . ever.”
Ronan looked at him and his eyes widened. The muscles in his face tightened. Aidan lunged to his side, but before he could order the servant from the room, Ronan’s eyes rolled back in his head and his muscles began to spasm.
The girl screamed in terror and ran from the room. Her cries of the demon echoed through the keep.
“Damnation! Be silent!” Aidan bellowed but she was already gone.
Aidan pinned his brother’s arms. Ronan’s injuries were too great; the uncontrollable spasms would only cause more harm.
Marta, the old healer, entered and moved to help. The froth again formed on Ronan’s lips and he gagged and choked.
Terror pounded within him; he feared that this attack would be the one to end his brother’s life. His muscles corded under his skin and Aidan battled his brother’s great strength to keep him from hurting himself worse.
As abruptly as the attack began, it ended, and Ronan slumped into his bed, his breathing ragged. Aidan knew he would not return to consciousness for some time. Slowly he released him and stepped back, shaking.
“Young MacGrigor,” Marta said, wringing her hands with worry. “I fear yer brother be beyond my simple skills.”
“What mean ye?” Aidan snapped. His gaze traveled to Ronan, now so still on his bed.
“The crack on his skull . . . the wounds from whip and iron . . . so much damage.” She turned her head to look at her laird. “I dinna ken how he has survived it at all.”
Aidan ground his teeth in sheer frustration. In the past two days, the servants had witnessed two other attacks, and just like the maiden a moment ago, they had run screaming in terror of the Demon Laird.
Rumor ran rampant through the keep. The MacGrigor had made a deal with the devil to escape the English. Now the devil demanded his due.
Aidan could honestly understand the servants’ fear. “His head wound,” he said softly. “It must be the cause of this.”
“Pray pardon?”
“He was conscious when I first entered.”
“Conscious?” Marta asked in shock.
“Aye, the lass was terrified of him.” He paused and looked at Marta. “Her fear distressed him greatly.”
Marta continued to wring her hands, but her expression relaxed as she gazed at Ronan. “He has always been a good man, gentle and caring.” She paused, a fond smile coming to her lips. “Ye two were hellions as lads.”
Aidan felt the pull of a smile. “Aye, that we were, Marta. But ye dinna see it. It is that fire within that sustains him now. Yet I worry that the fear of his own people will break him where the English werena able.”
“We must keep the servants from him. They fear what they dinna understand.”
Aidan nodded. “But what can we do? My brother has fought too hard tae give up now. I willna give up on him. Surely, there is something.”
The old woman fidgeted nervously. “There is another healer who may have the knowledge tae help . . . but she is in the land of the Sassenach.”
“She is English?” Aidan asked horrified. “Damnation, they be the ones responsible for this.”
“Ye dinna understand. This woman is legendary for her healing skills, and she turns no one away. She does no’ recognize nations or wealth. Those who come tae her for help be only suffering people in the need of aid. Those who can pay her in gold. Those who canna give her gifts—clothing, food, baubles, or even trade work. But she is old . . . older than even I. I dinna ken if ye can convince her tae come . . . the MacGrigor be too weak tae go tae her. But I fear she is his only chance.”
“Where is she?”
“Not far on the other side of the border. A ride of a fortnight tae reach her.”
“Ye speak of a month for her tae come here. Damnation, Marta, I dinna ken if he will survive a sennight.”
“Ye said yerself he has fought too hard. We canna give up on him.”
Aidan cursed softly and gazed down at his brother. Although many would kill to be laird of Clan MacGrigor, Aidan was not one of them. He had no desire to be laird. Ronan’s skills and talents made him perfect for that duty.
Ronan had fought so hard to survive what the English had done to him, to survive and escape on his own. If he had the chance to live, Aidan had to give it to him. Ronan deserved that much.
“I will send Robert and Connell on the morn,” he said softly. He crouched and took his brother’s hand. “I will find the help ye need. Just hold on until then, brother.”
Chapter Two
“Thank ye, child,” the old man said as Lia handed him a cup.
She smiled. “I don’t guarantee the taste, but the medicants should ease the pain enough for you to move. Of course, the hot springs will help too.”
The man, his joints swollen with age, could barely move because of the pain. His bones popped like dry tinder when he walked, and he had forced himself to endure a long and agonizing journey to find the healer whose reputation bordered on that of a miracle worker—Sueta, the old woman who had years ago taken Lia under her wing.
He downed the tea in one swallow, grimaced, and then gave her a toothless smile. “Not bad.”
“Wait for a bit, then you should be able to walk to the springs.”
“Thank ye again.” He paused and frowned. “What is your name, child?”
“Lia.”
“Lia of . . .?”
Pain seized her heart as a terrifying memory flashed through her mind. Fire raged around her, terrible thundering noises threatened to deafen her. The stone walls shivered and collapsed. She had stood, frozen in fear, sobbing and screaming for her mother.
She shook herself and forced the memory away. “Lia of Cumbria.”
The old man gazed at her curiously and patted her hand. “Are ye the healer’s daughter?”
“Nay, just an apprentice. I have made several steeping bundles for you,” she said, trying to divert the man from her
past. “I will instruct your daughter how to make the medicant and tell her which herbs she needs to make more.”
The man nodded again. “I’m feeling better already.”
“Good,” Lia said and rose. She had more patients to tend to.
The sound of horses approaching caught her attention. Lia looked to the trail and her eyes narrowed. Two men turned from the trail and toward the open area before the healer’s hut. Their horses appeared well-bred but travel-worn and exhausted. They had two more packhorses and a large mule in tow. The men did not look much better than their weary mounts. Although they dressed in the manner of the English, Lia knew instantly they were not. One man’s bright red hair and beard along with his sharp blue eyes told her he was a Scotsman. The man who rode with him had long blond hair. He did not have a beard, but his eyes were just as blue. Lia arched an eyebrow. With King Edward warring against the Scots, the men took a great risk coming to England.
The two dismounted, looking around warily. They did not appear ill or injured. Lia quickly approached. As Sueta’s apprentice, it was her job to greet newcomers and ascertain their intentions.
“Greetings,” Lia said.
The men looked at her, startled, then looked at each other.
Lia swallowed hard. She was an abnormally tall woman, only an inch shorter than the two men before her. Her natural reaction as she grew so tall and gangly had been to slouch in order to hide her height. That only resulted in Sueta snapping her cane on Lia’s back with an order to stand up straight. A stinging correction, to be sure, but one that did not leave a mark.
“We seek the healer,” the blond man said. Although he spoke softly, Lia did not miss his Scottish burr.
“She is busy,” Lia said. Sueta was in her small hut working on more medicants. “As you can see, we have a number of people here seeking her aid.”
“Aye, but we have need of her skills.”
Lia frowned. “You both appear to be hale. What is your purpose here?”
“Our . . . laird . . . has been gravely injured.”
