Healer (18 page)

The gray-marble of smoke hovered over the village before thinning ever upward as Glenarden’s horsemen approached the gatehouse. A banner with pale blue and black colors of Rhianon’s visiting family flew opposite the red, black, and silver of the O’Byrne. The guests from Gwynedd had arrived. A glance at the horizon told Caden there would be time before purple twilight gathered over the western hills to wash away the blood and filth of the hunt for the feasting to follow.

His procession of triumph, though, would not wait. He had caught the long-sought witchwoman. The pall of the prophecy would lift forever when he presented her to Tarlach. Granted, Caden would have preferred presenting the living, breathing, helpless creature whom Tarlach had feared for so long. Even if his father didn’t recognize Caden as rightful lord of Glenarden, the people would recognize the superstitious old man for the mad soul he was. This was the beginning of a new age for Glenarden.

But the fall had killed the madwoman. Her breathless, broken body was rolled in a blanket and secured across Ballach’s flank. Behind them followed Caden’s fellow hunters with the fine bucks they’d come upon not long after she’d thrown herself to her death … and a makeshift rack with the trophy wolf skin stretched for proper drying.

The guards in the gatehouse hailed the approaching hunters and opened the gates to receive them. Caden slowed Ballach. Where was the crowd? Had he not sent runners ahead to let the keep know the men returned, not only with meat for the tables, but a spectacular prize? He’d sworn them to secrecy as to the latter’s nature, of course. Yet, aside from the usual watchmen manning the gate, there were no onlookers to cheer his return.

Uneasiness pricked at his senses. This was not right.

“Tell the men to have their weapons ready,” he said to Heming.

“Aye, something is amiss to be sure,” the Gwynedd man agreed.

“How goes the day?” Caden shouted to one of the guards. He recognized the man, as well as his companions. “Where is our welcome?”

“On the inner grounds of the keep, milord. ’Tis a most wondrous day for Glenarden.”

Well, his father wasn’t dead.
Wondrous
would hardly be used to describe a clan chief’s death. Yet something clearly had happened.

“And why is this day so wondrous?” Caden asked, for clearly the oaf was going to shed no more light on the mystery.

“We are instructed by Milord Tarlach to tell you Glenarden is received of a most welcome and esteemed guest.”

Tarlach was up and about? No amount of beseeching on Caden’s part had roused the old man from that putrid den of grief. By the gods, what game was the madman about? And before Gwynedd’s guests? Rhianon must be as fitful as a hen in a fox’s teeth at this.

Unless Arthur had come to Glenarden. That had to be it. They had a royal visitor.

“Enter straight and proud, men,” Caden called over his shoulder. “It seems we have an honored and unexpected guest to welcome.”

The village beyond the stockade enclosure was all but abandoned. A few dogs frolicked unchecked, driving fowl up to the low-hanging thatch of the rooftops. Ballach strained at the rein, eager to return to the stable and a handsome helping of grain. Struck with an anticipation of a different sort, Caden allowed the steed to break into a slow canter.

Because of his maternal connections to nobility, he’d grown accustomed to Queen Gwenhyfar’s visits, but Arthur had never been to Glenarden.

Ahead, the great hall rose in its stone and timber majesty above a skirt of tents, set up by Gwynedd’s entourage. Rhianon had insisted on preparing the master bedchamber for her parents, while the rest of the visitors would sleep either in the hall or in their tents. But if Arthur were here, new arrangements would have to be made.

And given the massive spread of people, that was surely the case. The Pendragon himself, Dux Bellorum of Britain …
Caden’s
guest. Pride swelled in Caden’s chest, leaving hardly room for breath.

The crowd parted to allow Caden and his men to ride straight toward the steps, where a banquet table had been set. Here and there amidst the carpet of people, the smoke of bonfires wafted up, indicating the festivities were expected to continue well into the spring evening.

Caden reined in Ballach. Where was Arthur’s banner of the Red Dragon?

“Welcome home, Son.” Definitely not at death’s door, Tarlach shoved himself to his feet behind the board table. He was not without trembling and leaned heavily on the board before him. Still, his great mustache had been trimmed, hanging like an oxbow on an otherwise clean-shaven face, and his silver-gold hair had been combed and braided. Next to him, the seat of honor stood empty.

The bench Caden usually shared with Rhianon was empty as well. But then, she might be busy. Perhaps even washing the guests’ feet, as was only fit hospitality.

Caden nodded to his father-in-law, Idwal, and his wife, Enda. “I bid my Gwynedd family welcome.”

Idwal and his lady nodded stiffly, both shifting uncomfortable gazes from Tarlach to Caden. Perhaps his father had insulted them?

“We have a great s
h
uprise this day,” Tarlach informed him.

No. Tarlach was not going to steal his moment.

“As have we, Father,” Caden announced. Not even Arthur would take this from him.

Caden slid to the ground from Ballach’s back. Pain burned in his overstretched groin muscles, but he hid it. Instead, he worked loose the knots securing the body of the witchwoman. After heaving her over his shoulder, he approached the steps of the keep, his limp slight. At their bottom, he unrolled the blanket, depositing the lifeless body at the bottom of the steps before the head table.

“Behold, Father, the wolf-woman … the
witch
you’ve feared all these years.
Brenna of Gowrys!”

A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. The closest onlookers took a step back as one. The old chief blanched, pale as the still figure on the ground. Clutching at his chest, Tarlach sank into his chair, shaken to the core at the sight of the still and bloodied corpse.

Suddenly everyone was talking, staring, pointing. Caden stood proudly over his prize, taking his due recognition. Like Beowulf over Grendel, like Jason with the Golden Fleece, like—

“What … have … you …
done?”

The words that rose above and quelled the cacophony came at Caden like the roar of the beasts of old. No war cry Caden had ever heard compared to their rage … and lust for blood.

The urge to race toward Ballach and his sword stopped as though hitting a mountain wall at the sight of his eldest brother, dressed in the finest red, black, and gray brat and embroidered linen tunic—the one that Tarlach refused to give to Caden.

Ronan!
Caden blinked in disbelief, unable to move.
But Ronan is dead.

At least Ronan had the pallor of the dead. His eldest brother stood equally frozen, not by the sight of Caden, but by that of the body of the woman lying at his feet. Then with an unearthly howl of rage—or agony—Ronan came down the steps in two bounds. Caden stepped back, bracing himself, but instead of attacking him, Ronan gathered the wolf-woman up in his arms.

“Brenna!” His sob was loud enough to wake the dead in Erin a sea away. “Brenna!” He kissed her face. Her head. Her neck. Again and again. And shook her.

Caden couldn’t believe what he saw. The ghost of his brother, come back in the flesh, hysterical over the death of a witch he’d hunted a lifetime.

“Come back to me, Brenna of the Hallowed Hills.”

Brenna of the Hallowed Hills?

Ronan was as crazed as Tarlach.

“At least we know that Ronan was not the wolf,” someone observed dryly from among the horsemen.

Bewitched,
Caden thought.
That’s the only explanation. Maybe something to do with the ring on her finger.

Ronan gently laid her down and raised her hand to his lips, kissing it as though it were some religious relic.

“She killed herself,” Caden heard himself saying. “Ran over a cliff, rather than be caught. She went crazy when I killed the wolf, but it attacked—”

Without warning, Ronan shot up from his crouched position and drove what remained of Caden’s breath out of his body. He struck the ground, his elder brother atop him. Instinctively, he fought back, striking Ronan in the jaw, but the blow didn’t faze him. Caden drew up his leg in an attempt to throw Ronan off and the pain that ripped through his groin nearly made him faint. Yet he dare not. Not with the feral look in Ronan’s gaze. Not with the snarling flash of his teeth. His time with the wolf-woman showed in his every mannerism.

Why didn’t someone try to pull them apart? Ronan was mad, and Caden’s men knew he’d been hurt. Caden swung at Ronan again, blinded by pain. He missed his brother’s face, hitting him squarely in the shoulder. With an agonized cry, Ronan gave way, stumbling backward, favoring it. Having found a weakness, Caden hit him again.

Where was everyone? What was the matter with them? Not even Tarlach allowed his sons to fight. Matters between him and Ronan were often settled far away from the keep and their father’s eye.

Ronan rolled away with a grunt and to his feet, shaking his head as if to shake away his obvious pain.

“Caden!” Heming tossed Caden his sword.

Caden seized it and gingerly hauled himself upright. He could hardly straighten. Blood ran from his nose down the front of his hunting vest.

“Use that sword, Brother, because if you do not, I will kill you.” Head lowered, holding his bad shoulder with his free hand, Ronan peered at him as though to run him through with gaze alone.

“Then come get your due,
Brother,
” Caden taunted. If Ronan were to die on his sword, best he run into it, because at that moment, Caden could not bear to step forward. Instead he braced as the steam of Ronan’s fury built, heaving breath by heaving breath.

But Caden didn’t want to kill him. He wanted to find out what had happened to him. He tightened his grip on the handle of the blade. Perhaps he could knock some sense into Ronan with the pommel.

“Someone stop him, before I have to draw his blood,” Caden shouted to the onlookers. What was the matter with the lot? They were as frozen as a winter lake while Ronan seethed, rocking, ready to charge. Ready to—

His brother took one step forward and stumbled to a sharp halt, reined in by a woman’s voice. “No, Ronan!”

Caden turned to see the source of the voice and understood why no one had moved to interfere with his battle. Indeed, he felt the white wash of fear drain blood from his face, his very limbs. The dead had come to life. There could be no other explanation, for surely she’d had no beat in her throat when Caden checked. Yet the wolf-woman struggled to her feet, her long black hair tangled with bits of heather and brush, her gown tattered and stained with blood. The sight rendered Caden as motionless as the rest.

But not Tarlach. The chieftain trembled visibly, but he took action. “Unleash the hounds,” he ordered. “Kill her. A fine prize to the man who—”

“Death
to the man who listens,” Ronan countered, bellowing even louder.

But Gillis had already unleashed the wolfhound. It bounded toward the unsteady female, spurred on by his attack command. Before Caden knew what his brother was about, Ronan snatched away Caden’s sword to race to her aid. Yet Caden knew Ronan would not reach the woman in time.

But someone else did. Out the multitudes stepped Daniel of Gowrys.

“Cú, to me!” the youth commanded.

Instead of attacking the woman, the dog that had been the boy’s constant companion since his arrival stopped, scattering dirt at the woman’s feet, and bolted toward Daniel. Never without pilfered food, the hostage rewarded Cú with some dried meat.

“Blessed be,” the wolf-woman whispered. Swaying unsteadily, she started toward the boy and the dog. “You have a gif—”

“Brenna!”

The world resumed its right motion. Ronan threw aside the blade and caught this Brenna as her knees gave way. With a grimace, he hauled her into his arms. “Blessed be, God has given you back to me, Wife.”

“Wife!” Tarlach gasped.

“Wife?” Caden echoed. Surely this was a dream. A nightmare. Nothing so far-fetched was possible.

“Tell me this is not so, Son,” their father demanded weakly. Only the astounded silence of the multitude enabled him to be heard. “It cannot be. You know the prophecy. You heard it firsthand. And already you and your brother try to kill each other.”

Ronan cradled her to his bosom, stubborn as a bear protecting its young. “
With a peace beyond your ken,
” he reminded Tarlach. “You always leave that part of the prophecy out, Father. And loving her has brought me that, Father. That peace beyond your ken.”

He lifted her higher, as though to show her to all. “Mark it well,” he shouted. “Brenna of Gowrys is my wife and mother of your grandson. Heir to Glenarden
and to Gowrys.
”

“Not as
long as I live!” Tarlach struck the table with his fist, but his effort was more than he had strength to carry out. Those who did not see it never heard it. He reached for Ronan as though his life depended on it.