Healer (19 page)

“Bewitched.” With that garbled sob, Tarlach’s panic-stricken eyes closed.

Chapter Sixteen

Rumors abounded. The wolf-woman had been caught. A dead witch had come to life. Ronan had been bewitched. Now the chief of Glenarden lay on his deathbed.

Ronan paid the rumors no heed. His father had made his choice—the same superstitious mistake he’d made years earlier. If he was against Brenna, then Tarlach was against Ronan.

All Ronan cared about at this point was that Brenna was alive.

If he so much as reflected upon the vision of her lying in the dirt, tattered and white as death itself, his stomach turned so fiercely that he feared fainting. Or a reason-blinded rage stalled his brain. Neither extreme was familiar to Ronan, but then neither was this love he felt for his wife.

But she breathed, blessed be, though her semiconscious state was fraught with moans each time she moved, or was moved. And she was sick. Wretchedly so. Therein was another change Ronan saw in himself. Before, such things had made him as queasy as the person who was ill. But for Brenna, he would do anything.

The village midwife had come to his aid as he carried Brenna into the keep. Old Dara had witnessed the scene, saw the dead come to life, yet showed no fear as she gently washed away the dried blood on Brenna’s flesh. There’d been so much. Thankfully, most of it was Faol’s. He’d given his life to save her.

Caden swore he’d had no choice but to kill the wolf or be killed. He said he’d not harmed Brenna. That the dogs had followed Faol to her. He’d expressed incredulity that she’d tried to save the beast, racing into the savage animal fight without fear and emerging without so much as a scratch when not even Gillis would attempt to interfere. But in her panic to escape Caden and his men, she’d gone over a rocky ledge and plunged three spears’ lengths to yet another ragged protrusion. Far enough to break bones, yet her worst wound was the gash on her head.

“I thought her dead,” Caden declared to Ronan in defense of the unceremonious transport he’d given her to Glenarden. “Life did not beat in her throat, nor did she draw breath.”

The men vouched for his brother’s story. All of it.

“When I saw the ring, I thought she’d been responsible for your death … er … disappearance,” Caden amended.

That his brother had been truly threatened by Faol, Ronan was forced to accept. He’d seen firsthand how protective the beast was of Brenna. But it was Caden’s zeal to capture the wolf-witch that Ronan thought responsible for his wife’s near death.

“Milord,” Dara said, straightening up from the sweet-scented bed that Caden and Rhianon had prepared for her parents in the upstairs master chamber, “if you would send in a servant to help me, I’ll see what injuries lie beneath this rag of a dress and put a clean shift on …” Dara paused before deciding her next words. “Your
lady
.”

She chose well. But Ronan was loath to leave Brenna’s side, for even a moment.

“I’ll help you, Dara. Brenna
is
my wife,” he insisted. “Wed before God four days ago.”

Dara gave him a stern look. “This is woman’s work, milord. On my life, I will look after Lady Brenna. ’Twas her own sainted mother who taught me many things about the childbed.”

Ronan blinked in surprise.
“You
were schooled at Glaston?” Dara was but a peasant, uneducated beyond her common knowledge of nature’s secrets.

“Nay, milord. I was midwife during your birth,” she reminded him, “long before my hair turned the color of dull iron. But for Lady Joanna’s instruction, both you and your mother might have been lost.”

“I’m sorry, Dara. I’d forgotten.”

“Worry not, milord. I’ve special cures for the womenfolk. Now do as I say, that your wife might rest clean and comfortable as my herbs will make her, given her condition.”

Ronan scowled. “But you said you saw no sign of broken bones or internal injuries.”

The lines furrowing Dara’s shriveled face lifted with her laugh. “Aye, milord, but that doesna change the fact that she’s carryin’ your child. Both mother and bairn have wills of iron, it seems.”

“You can tell so early?”

Dara’s humor wavered. “I take the word of milord … for now. Now let me to my work, so that I can see if it’s wishful thinkin’ you’re havin’ or if God has seen fit to fulfill the prophecy. This old head can think of nothin’ short of a blood heir to both clans to settle the madness at last.”

God.
Dare Ronan believe the Creator God was truly with him? It was something he longed for with desperation. He’d need help of the supernatural to offset the superstition and treachery plaguing Glenarden.

Had he not faltered in his determination to confront Tarlach upon his arrival, Ronan’s announcement might not have been so disastrous. Instead, Ronan had left Tarlach to gather himself properly and gone to bathe and dress in his finery. And in doing so, come face-to-face with Lady Rhianon in the adjoining chamber, now turned chapel from the bower she and Caden shared.

Such a shriek he’d never heard. Down she went in a dead faint. Had he not been quick on his feet, Rhianon might have crumpled hard upon the floor. Instead he caught her and broke her fall. From that point, the word that Ronan had returned from the dead spread like a wildfire from one end of Glenarden to the other. Its people began to gather in the inner yard to see for themselves. With a hasty change of clothing and a still hysterical Rhianon in her servant Keena’s care, Ronan went straight to assisting Vychan in taking charge, for the party from Gwynedd had arrived.

The guests.

Ronan was certain his brother Caden entertained their guests, but he would check on his way to his father’s chamber. Besides, he needed to speak to his people. They deserved an explanation. Or as much of one as Ronan could give them.

God, You have given me Brenna and spared her for a purpose. I believed her when she said as much. Give me words, for my brain is fraught with worry.

Ronan descended the steps to the main level of the hall and sent one of the housemaids to Dara. The great room was astir with servants coming and going from the kitchen, but the main of the celebration was still in the courtyard of the keep. Taking advantage of the opportunity to see Tarlach unnoticed, Ronan started for the door to the antechamber, guarded by a servant. On the way he spied the young man who’d stopped Tarlach’s wolfhound from attacking Brenna. The lad was wrestling playfully with the dog.

“Daniel of Gowrys. The hostage,”
Dara had told him.

Upon seeing Ronan, Daniel’s boyish grin and play with Cú ceased.

Ronan approached the lad, extending his hand. “I owe you a great deal of thanks, Daniel of Gowrys.”

Instead of accepting it, Gowrys stared at it as if it oozed with the pox. “Is it true she is Brenna of Gowrys?”

“Aye. She and her wolf saved my life.”

“Then she didn’t know who you were.”

“No, she didn’t. But it was a strange rescue, one that could only have been arranged by God, for nature went against itself.”

Daniel’s gaze sharpened with interest.

One person at a time.
If that’s what it took, Ronan would repeat the strange story to every man, woman, and child in Glenarden
and
of the Gowrys. So he did, riveting the young man’s attention with how Faol had risked his life to save Ronan and keep him warm in the snow until it was safe for Brenna to help him.

“And for it, his skin hangs like a trophy.” Daniel jerked his head to where it hung on its drying frame next to the elegant hunting tapestry adorning the wall. Another wave of rage broke over Ronan at the sight. With a smothered oath, he strode over to the wolfskin and took it down. He’d not have Brenna see it day after day. Not like this.

“Will you do her another kindness, Daniel?” When the youth didn’t answer, Ronan explained. “I would not have my wife reminded so cruelly of her loss …
our
loss.”

It surprised Ronan to hear himself admit the wolf had worked its way into his heart as well. But for Faol—

“Will you take it to the tanner’s shed and ask the man to keep it for me?”

“He won’t listen to the likes of—” The lad broke off as Ronan withdrew his money pouch and retrieved two coins, ancient and Roman, but of value nonetheless.

“One for each of you,” he said, handing them over.

“And what do you think you’re doing with that?” a belligerent voice boomed from the hall entrance. Caden staggered inside, then recovered himself. “I made the kill. It belongs to me.”

“That wolf belonged to us—my wife and I. The sight of it would pain her.” Ronan would not waver on this. “Given the damage you’ve done, giving up the hide is the least you can do.”

“You are only lord by a thread, Brother, so tread lightly.”

“And until our father or kinsmen elect you, that thread still holds. ’Tis you who’d best tread lightly.”

“My wife wishes our bedchamber returned to her parents and then to us.” Caden’s hand rested on the dagger sheathed at his waist. Drinking increased his aggressive and impulsive nature.

“Better we remain closer to Tarlach, so you shall have it,” Ronan conceded. Sleeping in the master chamber didn’t matter a whit to him. What Ronan wanted to do was finish the fight Brenna had interrupted.
“After
my wife is well enough to move.”

“Can you not carry her to the antechamber?”

“Can your wife’s relatives not sleep there?”

The questions spurred the men closer, step by step.

“They are our guests.”

“Your reckless chase put my bride in that room.”

“You
married our sworn enemy.”

“She saved my life.” Ronan could smell the wine on Caden’s breath. It wouldn’t do to push him further. But questions burned amidst his anger and frustration. “After I was abandoned by you and left for dead, Brother.”

Ronan anticipated Caden’s flashpoint and seized his wrist as he went for the dagger, staying it.

“I thought you’d returned to the keep,” Caden grated out through clenched teeth.

Faces nearly touching, pure muscle to muscle, each held his own. The dagger rocked between them.

“You took my place readily.” Ronan stepped forward, forcing Caden to brace himself with a backward step. A wince grazed his younger brother’s face. Sweat began to film on his brow as it did on Ronan’s.

“Avenged … your death,” Caden pointed out through the strain.

How many times they had played at this, two bulls with locked horns, neither giving. They’d beat each other bloody, return to the keep, and swear to Tarlach they’d fallen.

“Your drink has impaired your brain, Brother.” Faith, his wounds were beginning to halt his breath. “I … will … not … yield … on the wolfskin … or my wife’s … welfare.”

Ronan threw his entire weight into Caden. Caden’s stance broke. He stumbled and caught himself against the wall, cursing all that didn’t curse back. The confrontation, combined with a wolfhound’s excited bark, stopped the servants scurrying about in their tracks.

Ronan kept his eyes on Caden but shouted over his shoulder, “Carry on. We have guests to attend to. My brother and I are agreed that Glenarden’s hospitality comes first, are we not?” he asked Caden.

“It is
all
we are agreed upon, Brother.” Caden held up his fingers, as though rolling wool between them. “By a thread, Brother. By a thread.”

This was far from over.

Ronan relaxed only slightly as Caden tore away and staggered out through the kitchen.

“I’d be watching my back, if I were you, sir,” Daniel said, his blue eyes dark with warning. “Least when I’m locked up at night, mine’s covered.”

Chapter Seventeen

Brenna drifted in and out of pain, as if her brain were trying to break free of her skull, rendering her helpless as a babe. She had no choice but to trust the tea her wizened caregiver offered her. But it
felt
right. None of Brenna’s innate alarms sounded when something passed her lips that could cause harm. There was no check in her spirit. No tingling in her jaw muscles. No palpable draining of strength. If only her mind were as keen as her other senses. And her guilt.

If she’d not been so preoccupied with Ronan’s departure, she’d not have exposed herself so. Faol might have escaped. She wouldn’t have plunged over the ledge. Had her feet not tangled in her wet skirts, she could have made the leap, jolted, but sound. Though where she’d go from there, she’d had no idea. All she wanted to do was run. Run from the hunters, the dogs, the sight of Faol’s lifeless body, his beautiful white fur stained bright with blood.

Faol.

A sob tore from Brenna’s throat. Then another, and another. “Faol.”

“Hush,
a stór.”
Arms cradled her. Strong and familiar arms. “I know, I know.” The voice of love. Of her husband. “Would God that I could take your pain.”

Ronan squeezed her as though he might force it out. It hurt, but not as much as his intention soothed her wounded spirit. Brenna wanted to look into his eyes but feared the head misery would come back. In this semidream world, it remained at bay.

“But you are safe and alive. I owe God my life for that.”

God.
The irony of Ronan’s statement was not lost on her. When he’d been angry at God, even doubted His existence, Brenna had insisted God had brought them together.

“Faol was ours for a season, but God spared you and the bairn.”

The baby.
Brenna remembered its bright spirit, part of her and yet not. And Ealga … and her parents. And the gentle voice of her Shepherd saying the same thing. He had a plan for her, for Ronan, for their child.

Like before, Brenna hesitated, not really wanting to abandon the space between This World and the Other Side.

“Come back to me, Brenna. I need you as I need breath,” Ronan pleaded.

Love. Pure love. It poured from those words into her ears, filling her, forcing out her dread. Even her pain, she realized as she pried open her eyes. At least it was bearable, not waiting with swords and hammers to beat her back into unconsciousness.

“Ronan.” She breathed his name.

His face took shape above hers, strong, handsome, fraught with a mix of concern and …

“Praise be to God, you are back with us!”

Joy.

“Shall I call Dara?” The mattress beneath them crackled as he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Do you need anything?”

Brenna shook her head, slowly. “Where are we?” She smelled lavender … and heather.

“In my bedchamber, Wife. Where you belong.”

Fragments of memory flashed before her. People. A multitude. Ronan fierce as she’d ever seen him, about to charge a warrior’s sword. An old man shouting, clearly disturbed.

“How?”

Brenna listened as Ronan explained how his brother had come across Faol during a hunt.

So the blond giant who’d killed Faol was Ronan’s brother.

“Caden thought you dead. So did”—Ronan’s voice broke—“I.”

Brenna raised her hand to his cheek. “I was,” she whispered softly. “The Shepherd sent me back to you.”

He nestled her hand to his lips. “I’m so sorry for leaving you. I should have taken you with me. It’s my—”

“Shush. My own pain is enough to bear without yours. God has a plan for us … for our love and our child.”

Skepticism lifted his brow. “Are you sure?”

Fear circled like carrion over Brenna’s spirit. Still, she nodded and sought his embrace. There it felt as though nothing could harm her.

We are troubled on every side
….

Even in her weakened state, Brenna knew that her husband had at least one nemesis among the many surrounding her. One who wanted him dead … nearly killed him. She prayed on.

… yet not in despair. Thou art with us. If You are for us …

A knock sounded on the door before she could add, …
we have nothing to fear.

“Milord, it’s Dara. I have the lady’s breakfast.”

Dara.
The name of the healer who’d tended her.

“A moment, Dara.” Ronan rolled out of the bed, slinging aside the covers. Naked to the waist of his laced braccae, he hustled across the plank flooring and opened the door. “She’s with us again, Dara.”

The pure joy of his words put a smile on Brenna’s face. But secretly she wondered if she’d have been able to finish her prayer with a whole heart after all that had happened. Her soul cried out in panic.

Father God, help my unbelief.

Ronan couldn’t believe his eyes. Within an hour of taking breakfast, Brenna entered the hall, lovely in a green hand-me-down from Rhianon, who was suddenly glad to have a sister. Ronan resisted asking what had changed her since yesterday when she could be heard screaming that he was supposed to be dead and that witch had no business in Rhianon’s bedchamber. But then, Rhianon was fickle and high-strung.

Brenna, on the other hand, was …
full of grace
, he thought, watching as she hugged Dara and thanked her for her help.

“With just a few stitches, she made it fit,” Brenna told Ronan, turning carefully so that he might see. And then to Dara, “You must have tea with me after the Pascal service, milady, so that you can tell me more of my mother.” The moment Brenna had heard Brother Martin was giving the Pascal service, she had insisted she was well enough to attend.

“Ach, I’m no lady, milady,” Dara protested. “I’m just a lowly servant … a midwife. Not born of the blood like yourself.”

“You are my friend,” Brenna insisted, turning to Ronan. “Tell her, Ronan.”

Ronan’s lips twitched. “You heard my lady, Dara.”

Dara puffed up, affording him a sharp look. “I know my place, milord, and ’tis best for her ladyship if she learns hers.”

Dara was right. If Brenna was to be the queen of Glenarden, she had to learn to act like one, lest the people disrespect her. Though Ronan loved her as she was, uninhibited and filled with life and love.

“In time, Dara.” He couldn’t resist touching the ugly purple swelling running from under Brenna’s hairline to cover her left temple. Such bruises were matched in many places hidden by the garment. Each one, he knew. He’d helped Dara rub ointment on them. Or, rather, Dara had humored him by letting him help.

Funny how a woman who was almost a nonentity in his past figured so prominently in his present. How many other good people had Ronan overlooked in his prideful role of princeling?

“Oh my!” Brenna’s gasp banished his introspection as she took in the huge expanse of the hall, the weaponry hung on the walls and beams, the tapestries. “Arthur’s own Camelot can be no grander than this!”

Ronan was glad that he had the chance to show his wife his keep in relative privacy. “There are grander,” he assured her.

She shook herself from the enchantment. “Where is Brother Martin?”

“Aye, he’s with the others out in the orchard.” Weather permitting, the Resurrection service was always on the fourteenth day of Nissan, or Passover, held out of doors where both high and low of station might worship together with the Creator’s sky as the ceiling of their temple.

“Then we must hurry. I’ve so wanted to hear the church service from within the throng instead of from without.”

“It’s a good walk,” he warned her. “I could arrange a private service for you after—”

The stubborn jut of an otherwise perfectly shaped chin cut him off.

“You waste your breath, milord,” Dara tutted. “She says the more she moves about, the quicker she’ll recover. I only hope her head agrees.”

“There’s hardly a dull ache now,” Brenna assured her. “The fresh air will do it good.”

“All the same, this
friend,
” Dara reminded her, “is not leavin’ your side.” To prove it, the old midwife stationed herself on Brenna’s other side as they stepped out into the sunlight.

The inner grounds where his jaded homecoming celebration took place the day before drew the same awe from Brenna as the hall. “You must introduce me to every cow, calf, sheep, and lamb. And the chickens,” she said as a mother hen strutted from one of the sheds with a small band of chicks in her wake. “Have you named them?”

Keenly aware of Dara’s observation, Ronan hesitated. “No,” he said finally, “but you may, if you wish.”

A hint of a smile touched the old woman’s thin lips.

“Brenna has a love of animals,” he explained.

“And fire pits. Sure, you’ll be feeding an army today,” she marveled. “And look at the beautiful banners on the tents. It’s like a grand fair.”

“Lady Rhianon has a talent for hospitality.” At least Glenarden sported more flair than it had before the lady came to it. Even Vychan had reluctantly given her that.

“Well, I have never seen such a fine keep and grounds. And look—” Brenna pointed to the gate of the inner stockade. “A village beyond. I’m sure it’s filled with good people, if you and Dara are any example.”

Good but superstitious people. Some of whom still might believe Brenna a witch of dubious powers. Ronan’s chest tightened. Should he have insisted she remain inside?

“Come on.” Brenna tugged at his arm when he slowed his step. “We’ll miss the Eucharist.”

Not all the villagers were in the orchard. Some clung to the old gods. Some to the old deities
and
the One God. The few who remained behind peered at Brenna from behind the hide coverings of their windows. The less discreet stared openly at the legendary wolf-woman. Ronan sensed curiosity, but there was fear as well—fear mingled with its companion, animosity. It was especially evident in the women who gathered children into their huts as though looking upon the lady in the pale green dress might somehow bewitch them.

Yet the cool reception didn’t seem to bother Brenna. Gone was that
little girl lost
who’d sought the reassurance of Ronan’s embrace that morning.

She now waved at total strangers, calling out, “Blessed be” and “Glorious day” to any within earshot. All the while, Dara would whisper the name of the person who ducked behind a curtain and doorway … or who ventured to wave back.

The morning sun beat warmly down on meadow grass beyond the village gates. Wildflowers of yellow, red, blue, and white adorned the spread of green waving in the gentle breeze that carried the priest’s booming voice to them.

“I invite thee to the Lord’s Table to partake of the bread and wine in remembrance of Him and His great sacrifice for us, while we were still sinners.”

As was their place, the guests proceeded toward the priest, who today was accompanied by twelve assistants garbed in mean gray robes. With Tarlach and Caden conspicuously absent, Rhianon led the way. Ronan pulled Brenna forward that they might take their rightful place in the fore, but she held back.

“I will wait my turn with my people … and the young man with the dog, whom, I believe, saved my life.”

Daniel of Gowrys and Cú stood at the edge of the crowd, watching Brenna’s approach. By the time they reached the lad, Dara had shared her opinion of the hostage. A decent enough lad, but strange. And who could blame him for keeping to himself, situated as he was amidst sworn enemies?

But as they approached, Cú lowered his ears and growled. Daniel jerked his leather collar, and the dog sat, but it was still guarded.

Unlike Brenna, who approached the beast with open arms. “Listen to you, now, growling on such a day as this,” she admonished the dog in a whisper. “I hold no grudge for you. Have you a name?”

“Cú,” Daniel replied, holding it even tighter. “Careful, milady, he’s a fierce one till you get to know him.”

“Cú,” she said to the dog in a voice that would have made Ronan roll over and do anything she asked of him.

“Brenna—” Ronan reached for the hand she extended to the dog’s nose, but she resisted.