Healer (9 page)

The shock over being put before the judgment of the royal court in his own hall began to thaw in Caden’s veins and was replaced with a growing simmer of indignation. Here,
he
was lord—not Arthur, nor his queen, and certainly not the seer some considered a prophet after the Old Testament order.

“Though I am vexed,” Caden continued, “as to why such a trivial matter in the scheme of Arthur’s concerns should merit a spy among us, who have long been among his staunchest supporters.”

“I have my ways of discerning things,” Merlin told him, nonplussed. “Though I remind you that the loss of any life is no trivial matter, milord.”

And through it all, Tarlach slept! If this were not sign enough of the old man’s incompetence, nothing would sway those still lamenting the loss of Ronan.

“Your
ways
of discernment, are they the same ways you of the church seek to forbid others?” It was no question Rhianon hurled at the man, but an accusation.

“Milady …” Iron rang in Merlin’s voice. “Neither I nor my brethren seek such restriction. The pursuit of knowledge in truth is an admirable quest. Our Creator is so great that at our best effort, we shall never know all there is to know of His creation.”

Rather than Merlin’s supposed supernatural abililty to see things, Caden thought it likely that a priest had brought the matter between Glenarden and Gowrys to the attention of Merlin Emrys. Caden searched the smoke-filled hall to see if the priestly recluse from the glen dared to show himself.

“That is not what I’ve heard from my family in Gwynedd,” Rhianon persisted. “Riderch’s was a most cruel attack, kin against kin,
simply because Myrddin and Gwendoleu clung to the old ways.
”

A collective breath held, for Christian and pagan alike awaited Merlin’s reply.

“Milady, perhaps it is
your
sources that should be questioned and not mine,” Merlin chided gently. “Yes, Riderch’s attack on Gwendoleu’s kingdom was unjust, but it was his greed to rule over more land
masked
as a religious intolerance. It only appeared the battle was over a nest of larks … of Riderch’s Roman Church leanings against the bards of old druidic practice like King Gwendoleu’s Merlin Sylvester.”

That the Roman Church frowned upon the secular arts and knowledge pursued and taught along with the Word by its sister church in Albion was no secret. But thus far, the religious tolerance and practices of the bishops of Britain remained untouched by Rome’s influence, for its ways were as old, if not older, than its Roman counterpart. Many of the Hebrew festivals and customs of the first-century missionaries were held in both the western and eastern Camelot.

Merlin schooled his voice to that of a patient teacher with a child. “I think we
all
know that Arthur has the support of both Christian and non-Christian kings in his battles against the northern Picts and Saxons. But do you
also
know that the king who controls Carmelide in Gwynedd controls not only a rich commercial center but access to the whole belly of Albion? Greed, not church conflict, is why the clash at Arderydd happened. Christ Himself would have spat upon Riderch of Alcut’s true motivation.”

“But—” Rhianon bit off her objection as Caden tightened his fingers on her leg to silence her. Instead, she puffed at his side like an angry hen fit to burst.

Merlin raised his strong, clear voice for the benefit of the entire audience. “We must not throw Christ out with Riderch’s filthy holy water, my children. Remember, the Dux Bellorum, and his father, the former Duke of War, are
both
descended from five centuries of our island’s Pendragons. As such, they razed Riderch’s dun at Alcut and established neutral rule in the late Gwendoleu’s kingdom to protect these freedoms of faith and pursuit of knowledge for both Christian and pagan alike. The banner of the Pendragon has flown over Carmelide ever since.”

And greed never would have crossed Arthur’s mind,
Caden thought wryly to himself. Landless before his marriage, Arthur now had dominion over Strighlagh, Manau Goddodin, and Carmelide, one of Albion’s choicest commercial centers. Instead of calling Arthur “The Bear of Britain,” Caden would call him “The Fox of Albion.”

“My husband tries hard not to dictate his faith to the kings and princes pledged to him,” Gwenhyfar spoke up. “For Christ Himself was no dictator. Though He showed us the only way to the Father, He gave us all the freedom to choose to follow that way. His is a rule of love.”

“Not Arthur’s,” someone quipped from among those gathered near the back of the hall. Nervous laughter rippled in its wake.

“Who dares address the Queen of the Celtic Nations thus?” Caden exploded … though his mind was in the same moat as the offender’s.

Gwenhyfar waved her hand in dismissal. “I take no offense. We need a touch of humor to lighten so dark and heavy a subject. And how could I argue when it is true?”

“Well said, milady,” Merlin agreed.

“Our Duke of War, our Pendragon, must be a strong leader,” the queen told the assembly. “But I know it gives Arthur no pleasure to make war upon his own kindred … to walk among the dead and dying who might have stood shoulder to shoulder with him to stop the Saxon storm that will snuff out all that is dear to the sons of Albion like a candle in the wind.”

“According to the law of God, Riderch, the king of Alcut, might be forgiven,” Merlin said, raising his staff to command undivided attention. “But to ensure the unity of this island, he still had to receive earthly justice. And that”—the master of oratory swept his staff in a circle around him—“is why this feuding among the clans and tribes must stop and stop
now.
”
He slammed the wooden staff onto the floor.

Caden bit his tongue, but his thoughts ran rampant. He had been part of Arthur’s troops when the attack on Gwendoleu had taken place and saw no difference between it and the justice Caden recently delivered to the Gowrys. Merlin Emrys spoke out of both sides of his mouth, with one standard for his Arthur and yet another for Glenarden.

It was all right to exact revenge, evidently, if one forgave the enemy before annihilating him. So the O’Byrnes erred only in the spiritual realm, for they would never forgive the Gowrys for Ronan’s death. Where was this freedom of choice to forgive or not to forgive, which Merlin claimed so boldly to defend?

“Now if I may,” Emrys said, not bothering to face Caden with his request, “I would like to see the arrows you’ve determined to be irrefutable evidence.”

Caden burned to fling his question at the prophet. Instead he turned to his steward. “Vychan, send the captain of the guard for the shield next to the gatehouse. The arrows are lashed to it … against the blood of its owner,” Caden added in defiance. “It was a fit end for the cur.”

Merlin whirled, his robes wrapping about his lean form, and nailed Caden with an ice-hard gaze. “The clan Gowrys is calling for a hostage and tribute from Glenarden,
milord,
both for an unrighteous attack. An attack in which a Gowrys prince was slain.”

Caden clenched his fists on the edge of the table. “By my father’s breath, they’ll have none of it! We were within our rights.”

“Perhaps if you’d gone through Camelot’s justice, milord, instead of taking it into your own hands, it would not have come to this,” Gwenhyfar counseled him, as calm as Caden was outraged. “But as it is, there is no witness to your brother’s death.”

“Or that Ronan is even dead,” Merlin added, watching Caden closely.

Surely Emrys did not suspect him of—

The fury pounding in Caden’s veins stumbled. Had the prophet seen something? Something Caden and his men had missed?

“Well, Ronan certainly didn’t ride off with the fairies, now, did he?” Rhianon exclaimed. “Oh!” Like a child who’d said more than she should, she belatedly covered her mouth and braced against Caden for her share of the merlin’s cold reprimand.

But not even the powerful Merlin Emrys was immune to such beauty and charm. “That at least, milady, we can agree upon.”

A welcome titter of laughter swept through the room.

“Merlin, do join us at the table,” Gwenhyfar spoke up, graciously salvaging the hospitality that had fallen by the wayside in the course of the prophet’s appearance.

Caden would never forgive himself if Glenarden’s name was besmirched for inattention to the law of hospitality. He bolted to his feet. “Forgive us, Queen Gwenhyfar … Merlin.”

Caden’s gaze came to rest upon his father. To remove someone from the table was an affront, and it was filled to capacity with the favorites of both the queen and Glenarden. But Caden had to find a place for Merlin to join them. “P-perhaps we should help Father to bed before further discussion.”

“Nay,” Merlin objected. “Leave Tarlach be. I am content to remain with my companions there.” He motioned to the place he’d abandoned further down the ranks of the hall guests. Although now that his identity was revealed, some were squirming uncomfortably at the thought of sitting next to a man of such power.

At the mention of his name, Tarlach stirred with a start. “Wh-what?” The old chieftain blinked at the prophet standing boldly in front of him. Instantly recognition disbursed the initial confusion in his eyes. He thumped the table with his good fist. “By all that’s holy, Merlin Emrys!”

Genuine pleasure lit Merlin’s face. “Tarlach, old friend. It has been a few years.”

Tarlach cut his gaze to Caden. “Well, get up, laddie. Where are your manners? Give Merlin your seat.”

The blood rush scorching Caden’s face grew hotter still. Tarlach’s seat was Caden’s right as the real lord of Glenarden, but to suggest Caden leave the table altogether—

“Well go on, laddie. Are you deaf?”

The injustice rendered Caden speechless and still.

He felt Rhianon’s gentle hand on his arm. “Take
my
seat, dearest.” His wife rose and brushed her skirts free of imaginary bread crumbs, suddenly self-conscious as the focus of both the queen’s and Merlin’s gazes. “In truth, my head pains me with this change in the weather,” she said. “So, if it please Her Majesty and Merlin, I—”

“By all means, Lady Rhianon.” Gwenhyfar gave Rhianon a grateful look for her resourceful alternative to the dilemma. Or perhaps the queen was as relieved as Caden to have Rhianon’s impulsive tongue removed from the tension that had seized the room.

The only challenge remaining for Caden now was to hold counsel over his own tongue … and hope Tarlach might not embarrass them all.

Chapter Seven

Past and present, reality and dream … the ability to separate them plagued Ronan each time he struggled to open his eyes. Nonetheless, this time his senses alerted him to being manhandled. The gritty glue of sleep holding his eyelids fast finally gave way. There, above him, was the raven-haired nymph of his dreams, gently lifting his head into her lap. Her lochan blue eyes grew larger upon meeting his gaze.

“At last, you’re awake!” She hugged his head in her delight, then planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. “And free of the fever, I might add.”

She was very real. Warm and utterly captivating. Yet … dangerous. Vague recollections of consciousness drifted to the forefront of his thoughts until they took form. Now he remembered. She was the long-lost seed of Gowrys, the daughter Tarlach feared would destroy Glenarden. Her name eluded him. Had he heard it?

Ronan tried to speak but found his tongue uncooperative. Anticipating his need, she tipped his head forward and eased a cup to his lips. Water.

“I fear I do not know your name,” he managed at last. “Or how I came to be here.”

“I am Brenna, and I’ll tell you the rest when you tell me your name.”

“Brenna of ...?” he prompted. Though she’d be a fool to admit her true identity.

“Of these hallowed hills,” she answered simply. “Though some call me the wolf-woman. Have you heard such stories, sir?”

Her candor shocked Ronan. “Heard, but not believed.”

She offered him more water. “And now it’s your turn to tell me your name.”

Another memory bobbed to the surface. “Adam?”

She blushed. “Nay, that is the name I gave you.” She rustled the sheet covering him. “For reasons I need not explain.”

Now he remembered.
Saucy, this one.

“I’d have your real name, now that you’ve come to your senses.”

“R-Rory.” Better to use a name that began the same as his own. He only hoped he could remember it. Her charms had a way of scrambling his senses.

“Rory.”

He liked the way she savored his name.

“It suits you, for you’ve a reddish cast to your hair and your clothing suggests kingly fortune. Are you from this province, Rory?”

Ronan chose his words carefully, for this Brenna was no fool. “A traveler through it many times, but born to the road, as my father before me.”

“A soldier for hire or seeking tourney? You were well outfitted, at least with steed, clothing, and weapon,” she explained hastily. “I’d say you were successful enough.”

“Not hardly, or I’d not be here, feeling as though I’d been drained of all but my last breath.” Ronan winced as he shifted his weight onto his good shoulder.

The pain swept even more of the cobwebs from his memory. Ambush, she’d said.

Now he remembered … at least parts of it. The impact of the arrow in his back. Another from the fore.

“Would that I’d worn my mail shirt, save I was out for a day’s frolic, not combat.” In his mind’s eyes, he saw a faceless man on horseback, intent on running him down.

“So you remember now?”

“Bits here and there.” He stared at the ceiling of the cave. “Though what was real and what was not, I’m sorely put to tell.”

“Why then did you ride with O’Byrnes on such a
celebration?”

The way Brenna said the word told Ronan he walked a delicate line between life and death, for he was in no condition to defend himself, even if his adversary was a woman.

“I was on my way to join Arthur in Strighlagh and accepted the hospitality of Glenarden.” Ronan feigned astonishment. “Don’t tell me that
you
are the wolf-woman the O’Byrnes sought?”

She drew back. “Now, do I look like a wolf, Sir Rory of the Road, or does he?” She pointed at the hearth where a monstrous-sized white wolf lay, watching Ronan with eyes like burning coals. “Though people do confuse us,” she added with a not-so-grievous sigh. “And they have no delirium to blame for the mistake.”

So she admitted to being the wolf-woman? Ronan couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had the precociousness of a wood nymph and a voice sweet enough to shame an angel’s.

“I meant no insult to you by my implication, milady, but to the fools who seek you.” Though, Heaven help him, the woman and the wolf had seemed one and the same to his mind, giving him second thought. That is, when he could think at all. Ronan wondered just what he had told her in his delirium. “I pray I said nothing more in the fever that you found troubling.”

From the shadow that fell over her face, Ronan had his answer.

“You’ve led a troubled life since childhood, Rory of the Road,” she said. “Your childhood nightmares still haunt you.”

Shame ran Ronan through. She knew him. But at the touch of her fingers on his cheek, turning his face to hers, he was amazed to see not anger or accusation, but tenderness and compassion swimming in her eyes.

“I saw what you saw as I held you,” she told him. “At least in part. Whoever made you, no more than a child, take part in the Gowrys massacre was cruel and heartless.”

She had
seen
what he saw? An involuntary shiver tripped along Ronan’s spine. Still, she didn’t seem to know who he was. Only that he’d been present at Tarlach’s cowardly massacre. He fought to think above the emotions tangling his mind.

“My mother died when I was young. I had no choice but to follow my father on the road.”

“So it was
he
who fought with the Glenarden.” A single tear escaped her wet gaze. “Know this, Rory. The bloodshed was not your fault. I felt your horror at it all. I know you wanted to run away from it. I know you are still running from it.”

Night upon night, but how—

“You must give those nightmares to God, or you will not heal. At least, not here.” She placed the palm of her hand over his heart. “God is waiting to forgive you, waiting for you to ask.”

But could
she?

She nodded, making him aware that he’d voiced his question. “Of course I forgive you. You did not want to be there. I even forgive the man who led the attack, for surely Tarlach O’Byrne was not the same man who’d been my father’s best friend. Ealga—my nurse—said Tarlach was driven to madness by demons of lust and greed.”

Demons still tormented Tarlach’s crippled body. Demons of guilt.

“I pray for my enemy daily as Christ encouraged His followers to do. I pray for peace between the clans, that I might live a normal life outside this cave. And I have prayed over you even more, that God”—her voice broke—“that God would take away your childhood terror and shame.”

That these tears could be for him strained Ronan’s credulity beyond its limit. Say what she would with Tarlach beyond her reach, if she knew he was Tarlach’s son ….

“No matter what Scripture says of forgiveness, milady, this forgiveness of yours of the men who murdered your kin and still force you to hide like a hunted animal … it … it isn’t natural.”

She sniffed, then wiped her eyes with her skirt. “Nay, Rory, it is not. Only by God’s grace is it possible.” She rocked back on her knees and sang,
“Look upward for manna, not backward for salt, or you’ll become bitter, and all your own fault.”
A melancholy sigh overtook her. “Ealga taught me that rhyme to live by.
‘Don’t be a Lot’s wife,’
she’d say whenever I lamented leaving Glaston for this isolation.”

“If what you say is true, then you are closer to God than I, Brenna of the Hallowed Hills.”
And far more forgiving of Him.

“Well,” she said, fluffing up the pillow beneath his head, “then we shall have to work on that.” She pushed herself up to her feet, mischief dancing where tears had been moments earlier. “You might start by asking forgiveness for the curses you’ve hurled at all manner of man and beast during your fever.”

Ronan followed the graceful sway of Brenna’s hips as she fetched a bowl from the table near the hearth. That was it? Her only concern was for
his
pain? For his soul? This was harder to accept than a woman who shape-changed into a wolf.

“I hope I never cursed you, lassie.”

“Not once.” Brenna picked up a round of flat bread from the table and tore off a piece, which she tossed to the wolf. It caught it with a snap of sharp teeth and swallowed it in one hungry gulp. “Although you’ve sworn heartily at Faol, the very one who saved ye.”

She broke up more of the loaf into the bowl and filled it with hot broth from a pot over the fire.

Faol.
Ronan translated the old tongue, not exactly surprised. “Wolf? So Faol is your
other
form?”

“Aye, to be sure he is, and I in two forms at once. Have you
ever
seen such magic?” Brenna snickered outright, making Ronan feel the bigger fool.

“Herth’s fire, woman, the fever may have addled my brain, but I seem to recall awakening to the lapping tongue of a cold and wet-nosed hairy creature resembling a wolf.”

She laughed, goading him all the more. “Well, it wasn’t me.”

As if floating down to the rug by the pallet, Brenna sank to her knees and put a cup of steaming broth next to her on the floor. Reaching behind him, she struggled dutifully to raise his head, so that he’d not choke.

Annoyed at the pleasure his confusion had given her, Ronan tried to raise it on his own but found it too heavy. Alarmed at his weakness, he tried moving his fingers and toes. To his relief, they worked, but the effort forced perspiration out all over his body.

“You mustn’t strain yourself, Rory, nor become hysterical.”

“I’m not hysterical!” Ronan ground out in frustration as she gathered his face to her shoulder in order to build up his pillows. She smelled like the fresh blossoms of a summer garden, yet he knew it to be the dead of winter. At least, he thought he did.

“How—” His beard-roughened cheek touched the flesh of a milk white shoulder, innocently bared during her ministration by her oversized shift. “How long have I been here?”

“Weeks,” she grunted in an effort to ease him down without dropping him. “Even I’ve been hard pressed to keep full track of time. The fever has taken you on both sides of the veil between the here and after. At times I feared you’d not make your way back. I’ve left your side very little.”

She took up the bowl. “Now open your mouth. Mayhaps I shan’t have to bathe you after each feeding, now that you’re awake enough to eat and regain your strength. You’ve been a dribbler.”

Feeling foolish
and
helpless as a dribbling babe soured Ronan’s humor all the more. “My apolog—” His sarcastic reply was arrested as she blew on the contents of the spoon to cool it for him, her lips pursed in such a manner as to do the opposite to his blood. His wounds put him at death’s door, yet her simplest gesture injected him with an awareness he’d not known since the callow days of his manhood.

“I’ve added bread to your meal, now that you’re awake, but we’ll start with it soaked in broth.”

Holding a cloth under his chin, she leaned forward and slipped the spoon between his lips. It was tasty enough in a plain way, not highly seasoned with spices from the Orient like the fare from Glenarden’s kitchen.

“’Tis sweetened with honey to cover the taste of the herbs I’ve used to keep the gangrene at bay and fortify the blood,” she informed him, following his wary glance at the dried herbs overhead.

Ronan grunted in response. Her mother had been reputed to be a healer with an uncanny knowledge of nature magic—the healing powers of herbs and plants the hills afforded. Joanna of Gowrys learned nature’s secrets from the abbey at Glaston where they’d been taught since the first Christians arrived after the death of Christ. With those same secrets, she’d healed Tarlach’s wounds and, according to Aeda, saved his mother and Ronan during a difficult childbirth.

“You said you’d tell me how I came to be here, if I told you my name,” he reminded her. “There are pieces missing that I do not recall.”

The tale was as incredible as she. Hidden among the rocks above the crannog, Brenna had witnessed the cowardly attack from the unknown assailant. As she spoke, Ronan’s buried memories came to the fore with clarity. The white wolf she said she’d raised from a pup streaked once more across Ronan’s pain-blurred vision of his would-be murderer approaching, sword raised for a blow that did not come.

“Faol took a strange liking to you, for reasons I cannot fathom. He has watched you as much as I, between his jaunts beyond the cave.”

“Friendly fellow, eh?” Ronan couldn’t help the edge in his voice, for he allowed not even his favorite hounds to lick him on the face.

“The fact is, he isn’t usually. At least not to strangers.” Brenna paused in thought, spoon in the bowl. “And I did have to push him away to keep him from licking your wounds.”

Aha! His memory had not played him false. “Are you certain he wasn’t after the blood?”

Brenna bristled at his skepticism. “He saved your life, sir. He drove the horse thief away and then laid beside you in the blizzard to keep you warm with his body until I could reach you.”

His horse! Ronan closed his eyes a moment in frustration. So that’s what the man was after. At first, Ronan thought his assailant might be a Gowrys, but his clothing was indistinct and of better quality than the highland clan could afford.