Healer (5 page)

“But Father wasn’t royal or priestly?”

Brenna could still see Ealga’s ever-patient, ever-loving smile. “His lineage was just as precious, but he wasn’t among the chosen.”

The chosen.
Those gifted few who excelled in war and in their studies in universities like Glaston or Llanwit. Once versed in the arts and sciences of the ancients and the Word of God, these students were then groomed, according to his or her gifts, for the mission of the church.

“Tarlach was trained as a scholar, warrior, and king,” Eagla told Brenna. “His quest? To keep the kingdom of Glenarden a Christian one. He was to wed Joanna, a Grail priestess of the most devout and scholarly of Briton and apostolic lineages.”

Missionaries in their own way, Ealga had explained, these women sometimes married into a pagan court to seal an alliance and produce a Christian heir.

“What the swords of the Christian kings could not conquer, love did.”

Brenna loved that part of her nurse’s tales.

“But the sacred bloodlines have always been fostered and protected on all our isles by the church fathers. Arthur’s is such a marriage. His mother, Ygraine’s, and Aedan’s. His aunt Morganna and Orkney’s Cennalath as well.”

But of most import to Brenna was that Joanna had renounced her honored calling to marry for love … and paid a horrible price.

A boisterous “Ho!” from the far side of the abandoned lake rath pulled Brenna from past to present. More hunters approached … including a dog handler and two great wolfhounds.

Brenna blanched. Dare she hope the blizzard would mask Faol’s scent? If not—

The handler released the hounds, but instead of heading in Faol’s direction, the dogs began to run in circles among the riders, barking wildly. The chaos caused the horses to rear and bolt so that the crazed canines were soon leashed again and led away toward the pass.

Brenna clasped her hands to her chest.
Father God be thanked!

Meanwhile, the men below gestured and looked about, uncertain as to what to do about their missing comrade. With the tracks of the earlier conflict blotted out by the sudden increase of ground cover, there was little to make them look closely at the forest’s edge, where Faol and the injured man lay still as death. Brenna could see them only because she knew where to look. She hoped, at least for Faol’s sake, the wolf and man would not be seen. But for the man to survive …

’Twas God’s decision to make. Even as Brenna accepted the truth, her heart lacked the conviction that she knew she should feel. Since the day Brenna had found Faol, abandoned and half-starved, she was the only mother the orphaned wolf pup had known, just as Ealga had been hers. To lose her constant companion to the hunters …

The men divided and circled the shore of the lake. Twice they rode past the spot where Faol and the still man lay in the cover of wild brush and snow, and twice the searchers missed seeing them. At long last they regrouped and left, led by the fair-haired man through the pass leading down to the lowland from the basin. Ealga had branded her parents’ murderer as a golden-haired monster, so this strapping fellow was surely his son.

And there Faol lay next to his charge like a self-appointed guardian angel, escaped by a thousand heartbeats from her worst nightmare.
Father God be thanked.

Brenna’s knees ached as she straightened from her crouched position. Wriggling her toes in her deerskin boots, she warily studied the pass where the O’Byrnes had retreated. Even if they went straightaway to their fine keep, ’twould take the balance of the night by a leaping fire and considerable drink to thaw from this blizzard.

A howl sharper than the wind broke the hush surrounding her.
Faol.
Standing a few feet away from the fallen man, the wolf looked in her direction as if to say it was safe to come out and see what he’d done. The proud wag of his tail slung snow in all directions. Mother of mercy, he’d brought home prizes from his hunts before and left them at the entrance of the cave, but this surpassed them all.

Chapter Three

Despite the icy weather pelting the mountainside, Brenna was sweat soaked by the time she and Faol dragged the unconscious man into the shelter of her home—a cave, but no ordinary one.

A crook in the entrance chamber, combined with the hide hung over the opening that separated the inner cave from the outer, cut the icy fingers of the wind off at the knuckle. The hot spring in the bowel of the mountain, a natural heat that drove them to the outer cave in summer, warmed the inner chamber.

“Thank you, Father God,” she said, grateful that the stranger still breathed after being dragged on his cloak up a rocky mountainside. The glorious warmth embraced them, even though she’d banked the fire early that morning.

After covering the stranger with such blankets and skins as she had and propping his fine sword against the wall, Brenna stirred the coals on the hearth and added wood. Soon the fire’s shadows danced on the walls and ceiling of the stone enclosure. As her aching fingers began to thaw, she watched the smoke swirl upward through a blackened fissure in the ceiling. Brenna could only guess where it exited.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d not eaten since that morning. Tempting as it was to stuff down one of the cold bannocks she’d baked on the hearth the night before, Brenna turned her attentions to her patient. The oat flatbread would have to wait. A long night awaited her, but undoubtedly it would be even longer for him.

If he’d not bled too much already.

The frontal shaft, fired dead on at close range, had gone clean through his shoulder. But the one fired deceitfully at his back had broken off. Upon cutting away his velvet tunic and the embroidered linen shirt beneath, both as princely as the gold ring on his right hand, Brenna removed the absorbent fungus she’d stripped from a nearby ash and applied to the wounds before she had moved him. Now his muscled flesh, mottled with dried, blackened blood, began to ooze fresh blood. The cold must have slowed the bleed, for the bruising appeared little worse than when she’d covered the wounds at the beginning of their journey.

But now she knew the wounds needed to bleed freely to rid the body of contamination. And the broken shaft and arrowhead had to be removed, by whatever means necessary.

She began to assemble what she’d need for the surgery. Ealga’s tools, now Brenna’s own. Hot, healing water from the spring. Poultices of wood sorrel and bugle. Strips of cloth rent from her late nurse’s clothing.

What if he’s an O’Byrne?

The thought stopped Brenna in her tracks.

Fine time to be thinking such a thing. Not that she had a choice. Enemy or nay, she couldn’t let him freeze to death, now, could she? She was a healer. He didn’t wear the O’Byrne colors. And he was God’s child as much as she.

Father, he and I are in Your capable hands. If he is my enemy, let me conquer him with Your love.

Only in faith could Brenna bat down the doubts that curled like serpents about her resolve as she returned to her patient’s side, ready to work. Fear was a lack of faith, Ealga said. And Brenna had faith. She was weaned on it by her nurse and Brother Martin, the hermit priest in the glen. Never mind that she’d led the life of a fugitive. Never mind that this man might be sworn to take her life. This was her duty. God would protect her for serving Him so. He would not fail her.

As though sensing her troubled thoughts, Faol left his favorite place by the hearth and came to her. After studying both her and the patient’s still face, the wolf began to lick the unconscious man’s cheek.

Brenna pushed the animal away affectionately. “Off with you now! You’ve done your part. Best leave his care to me.”

Instead of going back to his rug by the hearth, Faol dropped next to her patient—diligent, if not wholly obedient.

“Silly pup,” she fussed. “Now I have to clean my hands again.”

But she was Faol’s mama, and he was her guardian and dear companion. Love welled in Brenna to the brim.
And thank You, Father God, for my faithful, furry friend. I can’t imagine life without him. Keep him safe and bless him with long life.

Yet even as she prayed, she well knew that the wolf was hers for a time only. Like Ealga. She took a deep breath to break the vise closing on her heart.

Faol cocked his head at her.

“’Tis good for now, laddie,” she whispered. Beyond that, Brenna could not bear to think, lest her fear of being alone again become unbearable. “Father God willing, we’ve a man’s life to save.”

Chilled to the bone, Caden of Glenarden led the dismal group of riders back to the fortress in the waning light of nightfall. He almost wished he were as frozen dead as his elder brother surely was by now, rather than tell Tarlach the dreaded news. At the lake, Caden first thought Ronan had tired of the waiting and, with the increasingly bad turn of weather, started back to Glenarden. Perhaps the howling wind had muffled his signal. But then the group came upon his brother’s riderless horse wandering in the pass, the horn still tied to the saddle.

Evidently Ronan had tried to make it back to the keep, but something had gone wrong. They’d searched along the pass for any sign of Ronan or his possible assailant until the weather and darkening skies made it impossible to continue. Not even the dogs had a clue, not so much as a scent, although they’d behaved oddly about the lake, circling the riders and barking incessantly. The master of the hounds was at a loss to explain or control their behavior until they were well away from Gowrys’ ruins. Only then did Gillis mutter something under his breath about spirits of the dead spooking his furred charges.

Shouts from the towers bracketing the main gate heralded their slow approach. The welcoming shouts smacked of relief, for the hunting party should have been back by midafternoon for the feast. Perhaps Caden should have sent Alyn back with O’Toole to let his father know what had happened.

Cursed hindsight. Caden excelled with it. But daylight fairly raced to fade, and the snow thickened in the pass until it was nigh impossible to see. Were Caden as superstitious as Gillis, he’d think death’s angel curtained it off.

The aged oak gates of Glenarden swung open, preempting further speculation. Tarlach himself shuffled out into the weather, flanked by some of the clan elders. Caden couldn’t see his father’s face, but he knew his bent figure, broad as a bear and just as dangerous in a temper. And if he were not already in one, the clan chief would be upon finding out his precious heir was missing, probably dead. And his wrath would fall on Caden, who never measured up to Ronan.

Caden steeled himself, his fingers tightening on the reins of the riderless dappled stallion walking next to his own steed. God forgive him, he loved Ronan as a brother. Yet there was a part of Caden, a poison green part, that hated him and would not mourn the loss. Ronan had no fault in Tarlach’s failing eyes. He’d fought like a warrior at age six. He was the unanimous choice of the lesser chieftains as Tarlach’s heir. He was a wise administrator, cautious … everything Caden was not. Nay, Caden would not miss him overmuch. Perhaps now was the chance to show Tarlach his second son had merit too.

Eventually. For now, the present must be faced. For the first time, Caden noticed that even the wind had ceased its wail, as if in anticipation of a greater storm approaching.“Where is my son?” Tarlach’s roar pierced the silence.

It took great effort not to remind the old man that two sons
were
present. “Ronan is missing, my lord father,” he said instead. “We searched till the light failed us, all to no avail.”

Tarlach staggered back as though struck broadside with a sword. A wounded growl erupted from his throat. An attendant rushed to the old lord’s side, only to be shoved away. Tarlach tore the cloak away from his face, exposing his wild age-shot mane to the elements, and narrowed his eyes beneath the bush of his brow.

“I’ll hear you inside.” No offer, no invitation. An order.

“We looked … ” Alyn’s young voice broke. “We looked everywhere, Father.”

In the torchlight Tarlach’s hardened features relaxed upon seeing his youngest son. “Aye, laddie, I’m sure you did. But come inside before you take a chill. My heart could not take the loss of another son.”

“
If
Ronan is lost, milord,” Caden said. It was a thin hope. One that might raise Tarlach’s esteem of him, if he found Ronan. At least there would be a body to mourn. “I give you my word,” he called to Tarlach as the old man turned to reenter the outer yard. “I will not rest until I find him.”

Without acknowledgment, Tarlach continued his bent, shuffling walk through the round, thatched huts of those who lived within the protection of Glenarden’s thick stockade walls and headed toward the raised stone keep in the center of the compound.

As if Caden did not exist in this world or in the old man’s own bitter one. It wasn’t new to Caden, but it hurt, twisting like a knife in his chest. Tearing open old scars and barely healed wounds. Again.

By the time the men had seen to their horses and had their grim audience with Tarlach, a feast fit for kings awaited them. But the air was far from the festive scenes portrayed on the tapestries hung along the wall. The pall of Ronan’s disappearance blanketed the very air and choked any semblance of laughter. The eyes of man and woman alike blinked away mists of grief as the story circulated the room in hushed tones.

“Gowrys!” Tarlach spat the name of his enemy and slung his empty bronze cup across the table where his sons and honored guests sat. The remainder of the population gathered on benches about the fire pit. The cup rolled off the table and onto the floor, where Tarlach’s hounds set upon investigating the untempting handout. A maid hastily retrieved it, wiping its rim with her apron, her eyes creeping to Ronan’s seat beside the chieftain.

It was conspicuously empty. No one dared occupy it. Certainly not Caden. Not yet. He contented himself to be next to Rhianon, the bride he’d taken that spring. Never had Caden felt this way about a woman, and he had known more than his share.

Beyond Rhianon’s golden crown of braided hair, interwoven with wine velvet ribbon to match her gown, Tarlach came into focus. He stared unsteadily at Caden, his head weaving from the drink in which he’d drowned himself. “
You
lost him, lad.
You
find him. You owe me that.”

“On my honor, Father, I will find our brother and exact justice.” Caden meant every word. He would prove himself invaluable to Tarlach. Indispensable. Now was his chance to show his father and his bride he was every bit his brother’s equal.

Tarlach rose on wobbly legs and lifted his freshly filled cup. “Tomorrow, at dawn’s light, we will search again for my firstborn. I will not mourn without a body. I will not!” He slammed the fist of his good arm on the table and leaned forward. “And if our search fails, then we will ride to the high hills at Leafbud and raze every Gowrys hovel until his fate is known to us.”

“What if the wolf-witch has him?”

All heads turned toward the youngest O’Byrne. Alyn had been unusually quiet until now … no doubt wracked with guilt for abandoning the search. In other men, Caden found such idealism disgusting. But in his youngest brother, it was pure charm.

The youth pressed on. “What if it wasn’t the Gowrys, but she who spirited him off his horse?”

For a moment the room was as frozen as the hunting scene embroidered by Caden’s late mother that hung on the wall. Glances, not words, were exchanged—some with fear and superstition, others with skepticism and mild amusement.

Tarlach thawed first, sinking into his chair as though the wind had been snatched from his lungs. Despite his rantings over the she-wolf, it was obvious that this had not crossed his fevered mind. In his mind,
he
was the hunter. The witch, if she existed, was the hunted. With a trembling hand the old man made the sign of the cross over his chest. His gesture was repeated here and there around the room.

Caden watched, fascinated to see the bear almost shrivel within the folds of his brat. Tarlach’s lips moved, yet nothing came out of them. Nothing coherent.

“Father?” Alyn hastened to the old man’s side. “I’m sorry I mentioned her. Of course she couldn’t possibly overcome Ronan. He’s a fine warrior.”

“Oh she could, laddie. She could, she could, she …. ” A whimper escaped Tarlach. “May God forgive me if it was I who put my son in her path.” He switched his attention to Caden. “Were there wolf tracks?”