Healer (23 page)

“I am a healer. I thought my visions were only for me. How can you leave me now, when I first find there is more to them than my own interest and that of my child?” Brenna pleaded.

“Aye, there’s the bairn to protect, Martin,” Ronan reminded the priest. “Part of a greater plan, you say, yet you are abandoning the child and the mother.”

“I am.”

The serenity in her mentor’s demeanor bewildered Brenna. How could he have such peace in the midst of something like this, much less answer her with that benevolent smile?

“God has a plan for each of us,” Martin reminded them. “Yours, Brenna, is for here and now. Yours, Ronan, is to believe in her and protect her the best way you know how. But mine,” he continued, “is elsewhere.”

“Even when I’ve been summoned to Strighlagh?” Ronan shot back.

Last night Egan O’Toole had given Ronan a message from Arthur, demanding he go to the fair at Strighlagh a fortnight hence, to meet with the Gowrys and straighten out the mess of hostages that Caden had created with his impulsive and unjust raid.

“Mind you
both
have been summoned,” Martin said. “But neither of you will need me. God is with each of us. He is sufficient.”

Brenna crossed her arms and turned away. The priest was right. The Word said it. She believed it. But she sure didn’t feel it.

“You can trust God always, lassie, but you canna always trust your feelings.”

Easily said, Ealga,
Brenna silently argued with the nurse in her mind.

Father God, I believe … but help my unbelief.

A loud creak on the bed drew everyone’s attention to where Tarlach had rolled on his back. His eyes were open, staring at Brenna as if for the first time.

His chest rose, pulling in breath and strength, then collapsed with a heavy sigh. “You are not,” he accused, “Joanna.”

The despair in Tarlach’s words tugged Brenna to his side without thought to herself. She perched on the edge of the bed and took his hands into hers. “Nay, milord, I am not. I am Joanna’s daughter. And on my soul, I give you my word, you have nothing to fear from me. What is past is past and forgiven.” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “We must look to the future now. To your recovery and to the grandson you shall have … with the mark of the Red Hand on his hip.”

A flicker of recognition registered in Tarlach’s dull gaze.

“We must stand together as O’Byrnes, Father, for Brenna is my wife, one with me, and mother to your grandson,” Ronan said, closing in on the other side of the bed. “There is an enemy within us so vile that both you and I were nearly sent earthways, but for Brenna’s intervention. She has saved us both.”

“I have seen this myself, sire,” Martin spoke up, earning a flicker of a glance.

Brenna tried to read Tarlach, but he was unfathomable. Whatever emotion or thoughts existed behind his gray gaze remained his and his alone.

He lifted his hand with a tired wave. “Tell me.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Ronan reined in Ballach to keep the horse from leading Brenna’s smaller one into a trot. He’d chosen the gentlest of the stable for his wife to ride over Glenarden and introduce her to its heart—the people who tended the fields and livestock now out to pasture after the calving. Although given his choice, he’d have insisted on a cart, or that she ride with him on his stallion.

“I am with child. I am not an invalid,” she’d insisted. “And I’ve longed to ride a pony since leaving the Sacred Isle.”

How could he deny her? She had taken Glenarden as she’d taken his heart—with her bubbling love and genuine humility. Vychan and Dara hovered over her like mother hens, determined to teach her her proper place and duties as lady of the keep, but Brenna’s innate humility was impervious to such things. The household authority she deftly deferred to Rhianon.

“My sister has been trained to oversee such a grand keep. An eagle doesn’t swim, nor a fish fly.”

Then there was Daniel and Cú. Even though Dara accompanied Brenna into the village to visit the sick and distribute alms at the gate, the awkward youth and dog guarded her flank. They also served as witness to the effectiveness of her balms, for Cú’s mange improved by the day, now that he’d stopped biting it. And only yesterday Daniel and Brenna had carefully bound the broken leg of a rabbit that had run afoul of a trap.

“Daniel has a special heart for God,” Brenna told Ronan when he’d teased her about being jealous of her time spent with the lad. “And a way with wild creatures. I shall call his attention to Merlin Emrys when next I see him.”

For the first time since returning to Glenarden, the tightness in Ronan’s neck and shoulder muscles relaxed beneath the fingers of the early morning sun.

“So many times I’ve looked at these fields and pastures from the cover of the hills. Never did I see myself riding through them on my own pony. And her name is perfect, isn’t it, Airgid?”

One might have thought he’d offered her the horse’s weight in silver, rather than one of the older stable steeds, broken by experience and time. “’Tis a high name for such a lowly beast,” he teased. “But I’ll find a more worthy mount for you at the fair.”

“Hush, now.” She leaned forward to cover the pony’s ears. “She can hear you. He didn’t mean it, Airgid. I vow you shall be mine for as long as God allows it.” She ran her hands along the mare’s gray neck.

Something told Ronan the wounded rabbit was not the last of the animals that would find a home in Glenarden’s sheds. He thought about Faol, amazed that he missed the beast. He’d never been much for pets, even as a child. His heart and soul had been bound in the past … until Brenna. Now seeing ordinary people, even animals, through his wife’s eyes was seeing beyond the physical to an extraordinary, most individual spirit. She had made his old world new.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said aloud. “Perhaps we’ll find a good pup at the fair.” Especially since a new horse didn’t seem to be in order.

The same cloud that tamped his spirit grazed her sunny expression. “Maybe.”

Would that he’d kept his mouth shut. He grappled to recover the sun. “Well, definitely fabric. I’ll have my bride bedecked with dresses in every color of the rainbow.”

She thought a moment. “Perhaps a blue, like the one that was ruined. That would be lovely.” She glanced down at her boyish attire. “Though I can’t see wearing a dress for riding.” Second thought creased her brow. “Unless you think me unfit to be seen with.”

Ronan groaned. What a muck he made word by word. “Milady, I’d find you most fetching in anything you choose to wear … or not wear,” he added with a rakish grin. Ronan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, stirred by the look she gave him. With the sunlight dancing off her raven hair and her blue eyes brighter than Heaven’s own sky, no man with a heartbeat could resist the urge to spirit her away to a private place and—

“Lady Brenna!”

Across the meadow to the east, making his way through the heather and spring’s bouquet of wildflowers, came Daniel of Gowrys, Cú bounding ahead of him. At a distance, one of the guards assigned to keep him from running off watched.

Ronan couldn’t say if the Gowrys lad was intrigued by Brenna and the aura of mystery that surrounded her, or simply smitten. Either way, confound his timing.

“There’s a woman waiting with a crippled boy to see you beside the gate. She’s come down from the uplands.”

“A Gowrys?” Ronan exclaimed, astonished.

The young man shrugged. “I’ve ne’er seen her, but she’s nigh worn out from the journey, dragging the boy on her cloak when his leg gave out.”

The same way Brenna had dragged him to her cave, Ronan recalled.

Brenna must have had the same thought. “Oh, Ronan, we must hurry. Come along, Airgid.” She nudged the mare’s sides with her heels. “Quickly now.” The gray mare took off at a teeth-jarring trot, Brenna holding onto its mane for dear life.

“Brenna, wait!” he shouted. At the click of his tongue, Ballach bolted forward and caught up with the smaller steed in six great strides. Ronan reached down from the stallion’s back and caught up the reins his wife had dropped. “Ho, Airgid. Ho.”

The mare eased back into a walk. Brenna, beet-faced, straightened in the saddle and gave him a sheepish grin. “You must teach me to ride again, it seems.”

Had Ronan ever been so frightened? He wanted to strangle her. Had Brenna ever been more precious? He wanted to love her as if there were no tomorrow.

“If you will run ahead,” she said to Daniel, above the heart pounding in Ronan’s ears, “tell the lady I will be there as soon as my mare will carry me to her.”

“Aye, right away.” The lad gave her a courtly bow and bounded off, dog at his side.

Ronan tamped down the feelings stampeding through him. “Come along—
cautiously
—milady.” He handed her Airgid’s reins. “Your people await you.”

Let God be his witness. He loved her so much it hurt.

Brenna glanced over her shoulder to check on her new charge, wondering if Bron was as excited to be attending the fair as she. A week ago, the peasant boy now riding in the cart with Tarlach, Rhianon, and their companions had been a penniless cripple with a clubfoot. There were some things even the gifted could not heal, but Brenna did discover a rare artistic talent in the lad. Another way he might help provide for his widowed mother. The wolf he’d drawn on his mother’s cloak with charcoal while they awaited Brenna’s arrival was Faol’s very image. So real Brenna could almost smell his fur, rife with the scent of the sun and forest. And she knew God had provided another way.

Ronan paid the mother a handsome price for it and it now hung, nicely framed, in their bedchamber. As for Bron, his mother agreed after some persuasion to trust her son to Brenna’s care, at least until after the fair. Upon seeing the lad’s rare talent, the women of Glenarden had scrounged every scrap of cloth to be found for more sketches, that he might sell them at the fair. Some had already set about embroidering those lifelike images he’d given to them for their kindness.

At first, Rhianon protested the peasant’s company in the cart … until Bron offered to sketch her likeness along the way on one of the precious sheets of vellum that Brenna had secured from the brethren.

As for Tarlach, the old chieftain was indifferent to the boy. He catnapped along the two-day journey ensconced in his leather chair, which was secured to the cart, while Cú and Daniel walked behind. Tarlach’s stubborn will amazed her. He insisted on attending the fair to show anyone—peer or would-be assassin—that he was still alive and in control of his kingdom.

Now, ahead of them, stood a fortress of stone and timber belonging to Angus, known in Arthur’s brotherhood of the Round Table as the Lance of Lothian. Perched on the ancient black rock standing sentry over the Firth of Forth, it flew banners of blue and gold on white. Above those, a Red Dragon fluttered unfurled, indicating Arthur was in residence there. Hence, it was Camelot for as long as the Pendragon remained.

“See how it shines in the sunlight!” Brenna took in Strighlagh’s whitewashed timber and stone fortress high upon its rock pedestal. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“Raised in the darkness of a cave, I would think so.” Caden sneered from the brown horse beside her.

Insecurity bullied its way into Brenna’s delight. Self-conscious, she glanced from the red tunic and braccae that Dara and the women had made for her to Rhianon’s elegant peony gown.

“No beauty compares to you, milady.” The look Ronan gave her riddled her to the core. But what a marvelous warmth it was.

“Aye, but beauty must know its place,” Caden pressed with a pointed look at the bow and quiver of arrows slung across Brenna’s back. “My wife has no fear that her husband can’t protect her.”

“With a tongue as sharp as well-aimed spit, Rhianon needn’t—”

“Ronan,” Brenna softly stayed his reply.

Given any chance, her husband’s middle brother would ruin Ronan’s peace with his barbed remarks. They escaped like steam from a pot about to boil over, Ronan had observed.

“Caden has every reason to be as proud of Rhianon as you are of me,” Brenna pointed out, pragmatic beneath her husband’s skeptical look. “And each of you for reasons that are as different as Rhianon and I are.”

She turned to Caden, encountering the glacial sting of his gaze, yet unable to see beyond or through its gray fog.

Devoid of humanity.

“I have no fear that Ronan is unable to protect me, Caden.” Brenna forced herself to ignore the chill. “As you said, I was raised in a cave, and this weapon is like a second skin to me when I am in unfamiliar territory. But I will put it away, if it offends you.”

“Pay him no heed, Brenna,” Ronan spoke up. “I am proud to have you just as you are as wife. That is what makes you extraordinary in an ordinary world.”

As though bored, Caden kicked the sides of his steed. “I’m riding ahead to secure our place for the tents,” he called over his shoulder.

Brenna reached across the distance between their mounts and squeezed Ronan’s hand. “I’m grateful I’ve married the stronger man—one who has the courage to turn the other cheek.”

“Until he presses too far with this jealousy and ambition of his.”

Ronan’s undertone pierced Brenna with alarm. The prophecy that she would divide the O’Byrne household was happening, and Brenna could see no way around it.
Father God, what must I do?

The answer came clearly:
“Let love pull hatred’s teeth.”

Except that kindness only seems to madden Caden and Rhianon all the more,
she argued.

“Doing right is never wrong.”

“But for now,” Ronan announced, breaking into her battling thoughts, “I look forward to enjoying the fair with my most extraordinary wife.”

Once they reached the edge of the nobles’ encampment, Tarlach insisted he be helped upon his horse. Riding straight as his ague-plagued limbs would allow, he passed upward through the menagerie of tents and clan banners to his rightful place of encampment as kin to Strighlagh’s Gwenhyfar and battle lord under Arthur. The reception was warm enough. Several chieftains hailed him as friend, although some seemed more surprised than others to see him up and about, affirming that the rumors of his death had made their mark.

But even more attention focused on Brenna. She was grateful to have her father-in-law on one side and husband on the other. Even so, she could feel the eyes upon her—some curious, some anxious, but all interested in the prophesied return of the daughter of Joanna and Llas of Gowrys.

“Where are the Gowrys camped?” Brenna asked Ronan.

“You’ll see them in Arthur’s court soon enough,” Tarlach grumbled. “Nor will you seek them out, if you’re wise. I forbid it.”

Aside from asking about her unborn son, this was the most her father-in-law had said to her since he’d regained strength.

“The Gowrys will be camped farther downhill toward the river … where the ground rent costs less.” Ronan pointed to a sea of banners and tents situated alongside the sun-bright curl of water. “Beyond the bridge.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me, milord,” Brenna assured Tarlach.

“’Tisn’t you I’m worried aboot, woman. ’Tis the bairn.”

Brenna instinctively covered her abdomen. Surely her own clan wouldn’t do anything to threaten her or her child.