Healer (4 page)

Ronan humored the old man as much as followed his orders. At midday, instead of stopping as usual for the nun repast, he paused for neither rest nor food for his men. They ate on the move—the fresh bread and cheese in the sacks provided by the keep’s kitchen. The higher into the hills they went, the sharper the wind whipped through the narrow pass leading to the upper lakelands. Ronan was thankful that the former stronghold of the Gowrys wasn’t much farther.

“Faith, ’tis colder than witches’ milk,” Caden swore from the ranks behind Ronan.

“Witches’ milk?” the naive Alyn protested. “What would you know of such things?”

“A good deal more than a pup not yet dry behind the ears. ’Tis a fine drink on a hot summer day.”

“Or for the fever,” Egan O’Toole chimed in.

His poorly disguised snicker raised suspicion in the youth. “They play me false, don’t they, Ronan?”

“Aye, ask our elder brother, lad,” Caden remarked in a dry voice. “He has no sense of humor.”

Somber, Ronan turned in his saddle. “I have one, Brother, but my duties do not afford me much use of it. As for your question, lad,” he said to their younger brother, who rode next to Caden, “there’s no such thing as witches, so there can be no witches’ milk.”

“What about the Lady Joanna?” Alyn asked. “She was a witch.”

“Think, lad,” Ronan replied. “If she’d truly possessed magic, would she or her kin have died? It was love and jealousy that addled Father.”

“But love
is
magic, little brother,” Caden put in. “Make no mistake.”

“’Tis also loud enough to set tongues wagging all over the keep,” Alyn piped up. He grinned at the round of raucous laughter that rippled around them at Caden’s expense.

But Caden showed no shame. “That’s the rejoicing, lad.” He turned to the others. “Methinks our Lady Kella has little to fret over as yet.” With a loud laugh, he clapped their red-faced little brother on the back.

Rather than allow the banter to prick or lift an already sore humor, Ronan focused on the first few flakes of snow already whirling in and about the pass ahead of them and the nightmare that already had begun. Twenty years before, this very pass had been just as cold and inhospitable. With possible flurries blowing up, Ronan had no inclination to prolong the outing.

The crannog, or stockaded peninsula, was now little more than a pile of rubble rising out of the lake water’s edge. Cradled by overgrown fields and thick forest on three quarters of its periphery, the lake itself was as gray as the winter sky. On the fourth was the jut of land upon which Llas of Gowrys had restored an ancient broch, bracing it against the rise of the steep crag at its back. With no regard for what had been, yellow spots of gorse had taken root here and there in the tumble of blackened stone.

Ronan could still smell the blaze, hear the shrieks of the dying. Ignoring the curdling in the pit of his stomach, a remnant of the fear and horror a six-year-old dared not show, Ronan dispersed the group. “Egan, you and Alyn take your men and search north of the lake. Caden, take the others and search the south. When I sound the horn, everyone should make haste back here. The sooner we return to warm hearths and full noggins of ale, the better.”

“I want to go with you,” Alyn declared, sidling his brown pony next to Ronan’s gray.

“I intend to stay here in the cover of yon ledge and build a fire,” Ronan informed him, “but you are welcome to join me.”

“I think not.”

Alyn’s expression of disdain almost made Ronan laugh.

“What if a raiding party of Gowrys happens upon you?” Caden spoke up. A rare concern knit his bushy golden brows.

“Then I shall invite them to the fire for a draught of witch’s milk.”

Caden laughed out loud. His square-jawed face, bristling with the golden shadow of his great mane of hair, was handsome by even a man’s standard. “I misjudged you, Brother. I stand corrected on the account of humor but would still hold that you act too old for your twenty-six years.”

“The Gowrys aren’t given to visiting the place where they were so soundly trounced … and I’m no more than a horn’s blow from help, should my sword not suffice,” Ronan pointed out.

He had no taste for this nonsense. What he craved most at the moment was the peace that followed after the others rode off, whooping and beating their shields lest the spirits of the slain accost them. The hush of the falling snow and the still testimony of the ruins were at least a welcome change from the ribald and oft querulous babble of the hall. Time alone, without demand, was to be savored, even in this ungodly cold and desolate place. All he had to do was keep the memories at bay.

A movement from just above a hawthorn thicket near the base of the cliff caught Ronan’s eye, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. With feigned nonchalance he brushed away the snow accumulating on his leather-clad thigh and scanned the gray slope of rock as it donned the thickening winter white veil. Nothing.

At least he thought he’d seen something. A flash of white, with a tail—mayhaps a large dog. Beneath him, the gelding shivered. With a whinny, he sidestepped, tossing his black mane as if to confirm that he sensed danger as well.
A wolf?

Drawing his sword in one hand, Ronan brought the horse under control with a steadying tone. “Easy, Ballach, easy.”

The speckled horse quieted, his muscles as tense as Ronan’s clenched jaw. The scene before him was still, like that of a tapestry. At his gentle nudge the horse started around shore toward the high stone cliff. Dog, wolf, or man, Ronan was certain the steel of his blade was all the protection he’d need.

Chapter Two

From a lofty ledge in the steep slope of the rock cliff, Brenna of Gowrys watched the lone man on the horse pick a cautious route around the lake. The O’Byrnes had ridden off, but this one made his way straight for the thicket where Faol had disappeared. Whatever had possessed the wolf to venture that close to a human? She’d raised him from a pup to be like her, a hermit for the sake of survival.

And, like her, Faol was curious. Hadn’t she come out this very day just to see the enemy that hunted her, ignoring her late nurse’s warnings? Yet this one didn’t wear the colors of the O’Byrnes, who’d abandoned him at the pass to hunt her down like wolves after a sheep. She didn’t recognize the horse, either. It wasn’t the short, sure-footed native breed, but larger and sleeker, built as though to race the wind rather than maneuver in the rocky uplands. This one had surely been brought across the sea from exotic places Brenna had but heard of.

Perhaps the man was a foreigner, too, a guest of the O’Byrnes. Stranger or nay, the sword he wielded as though it were a featherweight identified him as a danger—and, like the rest of them, a fool to be out in this weather.

Brenna flexed cold-stiffened fingers within the confines of her wrap.
Now who’s the swineherd swearing the pig stinks?

A quirk of a smile on her lips, Brenna drew her fur-lined cloak more closely about her. Like the rest of her clothing, it was made of remnants of coarse woolen cloth, except that she’d lined it with a patchwork of such fur as her bow and sling provided. A season’s worth of hunting and skinning paid well in food and warmth. According to Ealga, rest her soul, the good Lord put everything on the earth a body might need.

Melancholy weighed the corners of Brenna’s mouth. It had been two winters the dear woman who’d raised her had been gone, but Ealga had left a legacy of love and wisdom. A sister of Avalon’s Isle, Ealga had taken a seven-year-old Brenna to the sea-swept marshland that had been granted to Joseph of Arimathea in the first century. The wattle-and-mud church he built in Glaston, beyond the claws of the Roman eagle that once occupied and then abandoned Albion’s shores to the Saxon wolves, was now a holy community. It included a hospital, where Brenna had learned the arts and knowledge of healing handed down from those who’d personally known and learned from Christ, the Great Physician.

As an apprentice, Brenna had gathered and preserved herbs while applying herself to the religious and academic studies fit for the late Queen Joanna of Gowrys’ daughter. When Brenna had reached the age of sixteen, Ealga brought her back to the Gododdin hills so that Joanna’s prophecy for peace might be fulfilled before the Gowrys and O’Byrnes killed each other off. Although by what means Brenna was to bring down the house of the O’Byrnes, her guardian had not explained—if she even knew. God knew, Ealga assured her. He would not have given Joanna such a vision if He had no plan.

Surely being hunted like an animal by one clan and considered a messiah-like herald to war by the other wasn’t part of the Creator’s—

A flash of white amidst the trees below drew Brenna’s attention from the stranger with a start.
Faol!
The silver-white wolf had circled and was stalking the man again. She bit her lip, subduing the urge to whistle for the animal to come to her. That would certainly draw the stranger’s attention.

Though his horse nervously pranced along the bank, the man thankfully appeared oblivious to her pet’s proximity. Aye, the animal would know what the man would not. Thanks be to God, the horse could not speak. The increasing wind wrapped the man’s cloak about an able and muscular build, piquing her curiosity all the more. Had he a face as fine?

Not that she’d ever know. Brenna shook the morose reminder aside. Spawned by the loss of her one human companion, such notions smote her at the least expected times, always at war with her faith that God’s grace was sufficient, even in loneliness.

The sudden hiss and thud of a flying arrow finding its mark cut short her unbidden longing. The stranger stiffened, arching backward. The sword fell from his hand. Impaired by his wind-tossed cloak, he grabbed in futility at the missile lodged in his back with the other.

Brenna’s sharp gaze fixed on the bright red and green fletching of the arrow.
God’s mercy, he’s been ambushed!

A figure, garbed in the brown and gray of his surroundings, emerged from the thick forest at the edge of the bog. No clan colors did he boast. Yet the Gowrys’ red and green fletching was on the arrows.

As she puzzled, the assailant drew back another deadly shaft and, with a banshee-like howl that caused his prey to turn toward him, let it fly at the staggered stranger. This time, the impact drove the victim backward, sending him off the horse’s flank. The stranger struck the ground, breaking off the arrow in his back as he rolled over and to his feet with his sword in his good hand.

The assailant dashed back into the cover of the wood and after what seemed but a breath later emerged mounted on a brown horse, unremarkable compared to the fine dappled one that trotted off in the distance. With another bone-scraping howl, he charged the wounded man. The stranger, no novice to be sure, stood his ground before the pounding hooves of the oncoming steed, sword raised.

The ring of metal striking metal cracked sharp as thunder in a summer sky. The momentum carried the deadly predator past his target. He turned his horse, its nostrils blowing clouds in the cold air. His weakened prey staggered in a turn for the next onslaught, making no effort to run from the villain who charged at him again.

She had to do something. Brenna unslung her bow, but the distance was too great to ensure a hit. If she missed, she’d expose herself to the same danger. Caution and the urge to help the helpless warred within. She was a healer, not a slayer.

Beyond, the murderous intruder rode straight at the stranger. Even if he chose, the stranger could not reach the protection of the trees in time to escape the hooves of the snorting horse. Despite his effort to sidestep, the charging animal struck him a mighty blow, hurling him toward some ice-encrusted brush near the woods’ edge.

The stranger dragged himself into the thin cover and reached for a stalwart sapling to pull himself to his feet. Below Brenna’s perch on the rocky crag, the horseman brought his mount to an abrupt, rearing halt and dismounted. Drawing a short sword from his hip, he advanced for the kill.

Brenna leapt to her feet, throwing caution to the wind. But the shout on the tip of her tongue stalled as yet another banshee wail filled the winter hush of the landlocked basin—
animal, not human
.

From out of nowhere, a bolt of snarling, silver-white fur slammed into the assailant, knocking him over like a chess piece. The weapon in his hand flew, harmless, toward the now still man in the brush.

“Faol!”
Surprise robbed Brenna’s voice of its strength.

Faol took a stand over the blade, wedging himself between its owner and the fallen stranger. Teeth bared, his warning growl drifted to where Brenna watched in open-mouthed wonder. Faol had chosen to even the fight. Never had she known such pride and fear at the same time. The wolf was fiercely protective of Brenna, but of no other living soul—until now.

Would Faol let the burly assailant retreat? If the wolf did and the man fetched the bow Brenna could clearly see slung on the horse, would her wolf have sense enough to run? She searched the landscape beyond the standoff of man and beast. Where were the stranger’s companions? How could this be happening?

Exactly as she anticipated, the intruder backed toward his steed for the weapon slung there. Her limbs thawed, clearing her mind for the action. She had no choice. Brenna drew an arrow from the quiver strapped across her back.

Nocking the arrow, she raised the weapon and pulled back the string. Second thought reared its head. She’d never shot a human.

But then, like as not, she’d not hit the man.

Below, the would-be murderer continued to curse the snarling wolf standing between him and his victim’s body. Ever so surely, he reached for his quiver of arrows.

Brenna hesitated no more.
Father, send it straight and true, according to Thy will
.

She let the missile fly along with her breath. It shot up in a graceful arch and, much to her astonishment, ran through the leather protection of the assailant’s hand, pinning it and the glove to the saddle. Given the distance, she’d aimed at his body, but this sufficed.

Startled, the man broke off the arrow to free his hand, all the while looking about in wild disbelief. Brenna ducked deep into the crevice. She’d done what she had to do, but a rise of queasiness now battled her alarm. Faith, would she have to tend the very wound she’d inflicted, or would he find and kill her first?

After an unendurable wait she peered out of her hiding place once more to find her answer.

Neither. For once, the superstition surrounding her and the ruins worked to her favor. Abandoning his victim and precious sword to the growling wolf, her target wrestled to mount his steed. The startled horse danced away, dragging him with one foot hung in the stirrup while he desperately grasped the saddle with his uninjured hand. His head swiveling to keep an eye on the growling wolf and seek the source of his attack, the would-be assassin hopped in three full circles, one of them through the shallows of the lake, before he managed to gain his seat.

There his courage caught up long enough for him to pause and snatch up the reins of the dapple gray, which had wandered a short distance down the shoreline. Disgust thinned Brenna’s lips. The churl was not only a cowardly murderer, but a horse thief as well.

He could not be one of her clan, she hoped as much as prayed. Scratching a livelihood from the hills to which they’d been exiled had left the Gowrys so poor that the days of pageantry and marking their arrows with their colors were part of the past. Was it possible another enemy of the Glenarden used the same fletching?

Much as she was tempted to scurry down the rocky incline straight to the wounded man’s aid, the years of caution instilled by Ealga prevailed. Running both horses as though every Gowrys’ ghost were on his heels, the assailant grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared in the pass. Of course, he might return once he came to his senses. Worse yet, what if his victim’s companions returned and found her in the open with no place to run?

But the stranger was clearly hurt, or perhaps, still as he lay, already dead. And Faol, which should mean
fool
rather than
wolf
 … well, Brenna wasn’t certain what the wolf was up to. She’d never seen him behave in such a peculiar manner.

Am I healer or fugitive?
Brenna listened intently to the hush of the surrounding hills, broken only by the occasional bluster of the wind. The weather was worsening. A fit man, or woman for that matter, wouldn’t last long in this, much less one wounded and undoubtedly bleeding.

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … ye have done it unto Me.
The sisters who taught her God’s Word turned away no one in need. And neither would she—despite the poor company he kept.

The snow fell upon her descent as though hurled from Ben Ledi. Rare as they came, such snow-fat storms from the Mountain of Light that guarded the entrance to the Highlands made the steep slope all the more treacherous and closed off the passes, sometimes for weeks. Keen as she was to the signs of weather, Brenna hadn’t expected this. But then nature did not always reveal its secrets.

Scree near the bottom of the slope sent Brenna sliding with the loose, ice-glazed stones into a dense thicket of scrub conifer and juniper. As she struggled to her feet, all speculation about nature’s whimsy was banished by a rumbling in her ear.
The howling wind had either picked up, or an accompanying drum of horses approached.

Pulling back into the cover of the wild brush, Brenna crouched in the narrow of a deer path, waiting until the horses and riders materialized.
O’Byrnes!
But would they see their fallen colleague? And—a terrible thought—would they see Faol?

Her heart beating twice its normal rate, Brenna eased a frozen branch of evergreen aside to look for her pet. Instead of shrinking deeper into the forest cover, Faol lay stretched out next to the man, his thick white coat blending with the snow-blanketed landscape.

Now ’twas certain the wolf was mad—his skin alone was worth a goodly sum. What was so exceedingly special about this man?

There were six riders at first. A fair-haired one sported the red, silver, and black colors of the O’Byrnes on the brat. Instead of riding around to where the stranger had fallen, they waited, fully mounted, and laughed amongst one another in a camaraderie Brenna might have envied under other circumstances. Faith, but she missed someone to speak to. Aside from a wolf and the too few visits from the hermit priest in the glen, there was no one.

Many were the nights Ealga had heralded her with tales of how her mother and father had met. How Llas of Gowrys and Tarlach of Glenarden had been best of comrades then. Until Llas met Brenna’s mother, Joanna, who was since childhood betrothed by the church to Tarlach.

“To preserve the Grail lines, child,” Ealga explained when Brenna wrestled with the unfairness of her mother being promised to someone she’d never met. “The O’Byrnes carry the Davidic blood passed on in Erin after the fall of the Holy City. And your dear mother, Joanna, carried the Briton royal
and
the apostolic blood of St. Joseph, come to these shores after the resurrection of our Lord.”