Healer (24 page)

“There’s Caden now!” A jubilant Rhianon waved her handkerchief at her husband.

Another man joined him on the shoulder of the hill. Brenna studied him—his fine green tunic and brown breeches. Suddenly recognition clicked into place. He’d been with the hunters who had captured her.

“That’s that ghost of a huntsman from Gwynedd, no?” Tarlach asked. His forest of a brow knit as he squinted in the midday sun.

“Aye,” Ronan replied. “Heming, I think.”

“Ghost?” Brenna questioned.

“He lurks about as though always stalking. Here a moment, then gone. Not the most sociable sort.”

As if to demonstrate, the hunter faded into the hubbub of activity in the campsites surrounding Glenarden’s.

“Heming spends more time in the wood than at court,” Rhianon complained. “Good riddance.”

Brenna would have thought the Lady Rhianon would have been glad to see someone from her homeland. Certainly she and Keena, who was also from her homeland, were as close as peas in a pod, always whispering in Brenna’s presence as if she weren’t there.

“When can we go down to the fair?” Brenna asked, watching Caden help his wife down from the cart. For all his strength, he handled her as though she might break. Perhaps Rhianon would be the key to unleashing the goodness suppressed by his jealousy and anger.

“Now … if you’re not too weary from the morning’s ride.” The mischievous twist of Ronan’s lips said he knew better. “The servants will set up our encampment while we take in the sights.”

Beaming with excitement, Brenna dismounted from Airgid. “I must pinch myself to believe I am here. And to meet Arthur and”—she edited out
Gowrys
quickly—“and others I’ve only heard about. Soon as I’ve rubbed down Airgid and watered her, I’ll fetch my skins and medicines.…”

“Milady, allow the servants to do their jobs,” Ronan chided. “As for your
trading
, Vychan is most adept at business.”

“But I need the money from my goods to purchase vellum and supplies for Bron.” Reminded of the boy, she turned to see him standing at her heel, crutch beneath his arm. “And Bron,” she said, ruffling his mop of brown hair, “has trading to do as well.”

“There will be time to take care of all this business,” Ronan assured them. “Today we shall see what is here and perhaps buy something to eat from the vendors. As soon as the rest of your entourage catches up with us.”

Brenna followed his pointed look to where Dara, Daniel, and Cú made their way toward them. Her husband was right … about the looking. She’d do well to familiarize herself with the goods and prices as she’d seen Brother Martin do at the small fair near Glenarden. If he were here, her life would be complete joy.

“Take two men with you,” Tarlach insisted. With Vychan’s help, he eased into his chair, which had been placed under the shade of an oak. His face was flushed from the effort of dismounting, but he seemed otherwise invigorated.

“I’ll ask O’Toole,” Ronan agreed. A cocky grin claimed his handsome features.

How Brenna loved it when he smiled, though it was rarely outside the privacy of their bedchamber. It ate at him that his and his father’s would-be assassins were still at large, despite his exhaustive efforts to find them. Hence, they might still be in their midst, though none had a scar from the arrow Brenna had shot through his hand.

Sharing his son’s rare humor, the old chief’s mouth pulled up on the one good side. “Aye, I’d wager he’s enough, weapons or nay.”

To keep the peace, no weapons beyond a dining dagger were allowed on the fairgrounds except for trade or competition, but what Egan lacked in weaponry, he made up for in sheer mass.

After a downhill walk through too many other campsites to count, Brenna’s entourage entered the main street to the makeshift village of merchants from all over Albion and beyond. There were Saxons, Frisians, Franks, Spaniards, Italians, Jews, and Middle Eastern vendors, all plying their goods from buildings, tents, and stalls rented from the landowners. Never had Brenna heard so many languages and accents or seen so many luxuries.

“Can you imagine the world beyond Albion?” she exclaimed, fingering an Italian silk in awe.

There was glassware, displayed like the colors of the rainbow, the beautifully crafted ceramics, dye-stuffs for Glenarden’s clothmakers, cotton fibers for armor padding and quilts, leather goods…. Brenna wanted to see and touch them all. Even the armor. Her astonished squeals were only surpassed by Bron, who rode astride Egan’s broad shoulders.

“Methinks we have two youngsters,” Egan said with a laugh as Brenna tugged him and Bron toward a puppet show on a flat of land cleared for entertainment. “Mayhaps now we might roost long enough to eat. I’m hungry as three horses.”

Food.
“I forgot.” Brenna glanced at the sun, surprised to see it had moved several more degrees westward than it had been when they arrived.

“I’m still not hungry,” Bron protested, and Egan slid him down to his feet.

“Speak for yourself,” Daniel of Gowrys teased, handing the boy his crutch. Both strangers in Glenarden, the two had become best of friends since Bron’s arrival. Daniel had given his word to Ronan that he’d not try to escape and, having saved Brenna by calling down Tarlach’s wolfhound and with the champion Egan as watchdog, that was enough. “Cú, stay with Bron.”

“And you, Bron, stay here with the ladies,” Egan said. “Ronan and I’ll be along with food directly.”

As the menfolk set off in the direction of a row of food vendors, Dara hauled a light blanket out of the sack she’d carried slung over her back and spread it on the ground. “To tell the truth, I forgot food meself,” she admitted. “I canna mind when I last came to the big fair … and so much to see.”

“I have to say, now that we’ve settled,” Brenna confided, “the scents excite my stomach as yon puppets do a certain lad I know.”

“May I move closer so’s I can hear?” Bron asked. At Brenna’s nod, the boy eased his way closer to the stage, a curtained cart with a window where the puppets performed. Obedient, Cú inched forward behind him.

“I canna believe the change in that beast since young Daniel came. Same as its master …” Dara paused. “Well, the whole lot of us,” she continued, warming Brenna in her approval. “’Tis the prophecy to be sure.”

“Nay, ’tis God’s love. Words and efforts are vain without it.”

Brenna turned to watch the show, but her mind wasn’t on it.
Father God, they place too much credit with me. Expect me to work miracles. Help me turn their thoughts from me to You.

“Brenna of Gowrys?”

Father God,
more
for miracles?

“Aye?” Brenna looked up to see three men gathered round her. The one who spoke was a bear of a man, draped with a brat of faded red and green.

“Father, save us,” Dara gasped as two of them hauled Brenna to her feet. “’Tis the
Gowrys!”

Chapter Twenty-two

Dara didn’t wait for God’s intervention. The midwife launched herself at the leg of one of the men and bit for all she was worth with the few teeth she had.

With a startled curse, the Gowrys clansman shook the older woman free, kicking at her when she tried to bite him again.

“Stop it,
all
of you,” Brenna protested, tugging as her captors lifted her free of the ground.

“Bring her along,” the leader ordered.

They’d taken leave of their senses to abduct her here in the midst of a field of witnesses … although none of the shocked onlookers seemed inclined to intervene.

“If you are my kinsmen, I demand you put me down.”

They did, although Brenna wasn’t sure if it was her authority that stopped them in their tracks or the gray wolfhound that leapt into their path, snarling lowly.

“Gentlemen, I assure you, one of you will not shake Cú off so easily, if you persist in this indignation.”

“Caw, he even looks like Tarlach—gray and evil,” one of the men remarked, hand easing for his dining dagger.

“Lord Ronan!” Dara screamed. Brenna turned in time to see Ronan parting the thick crowd between the food vendors’ stalls like a raging bull.

“Act as gentlemen, or it will go badly for you,” she warned them, for Egan O’Toole was on her husband’s heels and him just as beetled-red mad.

At their leader’s nod, the men lowered their arms to their sides.

“Bow and kiss my hand, Donal of Gowrys,” Brenna ordered one of the men.

With his coal black hair and blue eyes, the older version of Daniel cocked his brow in astonishment.

“And nothing will be said, right, Dara?” Brenna asked.

“His bleedin’ leg will tell enough.” Dara gave the man a defiant sniff.

Fear stabbed at Brenna, despite her bravado, as a seething Donal of Gowrys bent over, head low, and kissed Brenna’s hand. “So it’s true you’re with them of your own accord?”

They were but a breath, a word from bloodshed.

“Aye, and now I’m with you
both,
” she emphasized. Brenna turned away and held up her hands in feigned exasperation.

“Then get me my boy back,” she heard Donal growl.

She had seconds. Just seconds.

“Ronan, where is the food?” Brenna called out in a bright voice. “We’ve
guests
.”

Father God, this is calling black white if there ever was such a case.

But Brenna wanted them to be guests. That counted, didn’t it?

“I dinna like this,” Dara grumbled.

Ronan slowed only slightly, yet he was hardly winded when he reached them. Nor did he believe Brenna’s claim. “Get away from my wife, Gowrys. What mischief are you about?”

“She’s my cousin, as well, is she not? Daughter of my father’s brother?”

“She’s an O’Byrne now.” Ronan inserted himself between Donal and Brenna, ignoring the Gowrys’ hand upon his dagger. “Honorably wedded, bedded, and carrying Tarlach’s heir in her belly.” Her husband’s hand was also on his blade.

“And our
murdered
chieftain’s heir as well.” Nose to nose with Ronan, Donal refused to back away. “Like your brother murdered my eldest son.”

Around them, some of the crowd had risen and gathered, more interested in the prospect of a good fight than a puppet show. Brenna wanted to pull Ronan away, but Donal might take advantage of the distraction. Already the other two clansmen hefted dining daggers to match O’Toole’s. One misspoken word and someone would be maimed.

“That was wrong, no doubt,” Ronan admitted. “But stealing my wife is no way to settle this.”

“Nor is taking my only son left hostage for a wrong we did not commit,” Donal responded.

“Father!” Daniel of Gowrys approached, his arms loaded with mangled pies heaped upon loaves of bread and a large chunk of cheese dangling from a string about his wrist.

Gowrys backed down from Ronan’s hard glare, dagger hand dropping to his side. “Son.” Emotion cracked the grizzled Donal’s voice.

“The laddie’s put on weight,” the red-haired Gowrys observed.

“Nay wonder. Lookit what he carries,” his kinsman quipped.

“This isn’t over,” Donal growled beneath his breath to Ronan.

“Oh yes it is.” Brenna motioned to the food. “Will you and your men join us for a repast? Dara, help Daniel, please.”

“I’m not hungry.” Donal may not have been, but the expressions on the other men’s faces told Brenna otherwise. All three bore the look of a hard winter, wiry and broad of frame but gaunt beneath their bearded faces. And their clothing naught but rags holding rags together, a stark contrast to Glenarden’s well-dressed party.

It took a moment to unload Daniel so that he could greet Donal properly. Just their hug softened Donal’s belligerent humor a bit more. “You look well, Daniel.”

“I am well treated.” Daniel glanced at Brenna. “Especially since Lord Ronan arrived with our kinswoman as his bride. For the first time in all my days, Father, I’ve a hope for peace.”

The Gowrys exchanged dubious looks.

“What of my brother Alyn?” Ronan interrupted. “We’d like to see if he is as well treated as our hostage.”

“He’s treated as well as any of us can afford to treat him,” Donal said, “given both our homes and cattle have been unjustly ravaged.”

Daniel had told both Ronan and Brenna of how difficult it was to scratch a living in the highlands. Without the good ground that was once theirs beneath the lake rath, their winter stores barely kept man and beast alive. Cattle they needed for breeding died of starvation and served as food. Hides would be as good as they could bring for trade at the fair.

“My brother was wrong, though he did what was reasonable, given I’d disappeared from where he left me, leaving only blood and arrows fletched with your red and green.”

Donal snorted. “It was not us.”

“I believe you,” Ronan told him. “And I do not need the Pendragon’s order to give you back your son—”

Brenna’s heart skipped in anticipation.

“—when you return my youngest brother.”

The surprise on Donal’s face turned to distrust. “And why should I trust
your
word?”

“I
will guarantee it.” Brother Martin’s voice boomed behind them.

Brenna had been so engrossed in the exchange that she’d not seen the priest approach them.

“Meet Daniel, O’Toole, and me at the tavern this night. ’Tis a neutral place well patrolled by the Angus’ guards, so both clans need not worry about violence.” Ronan extended his hand. “This blood feud has lasted long enough.”

“I agree, Father,” Daniel said.

Donal ignored him. “This will not change what the O’Byrnes owe us for their wrongful attack.”

“Let the Pendragon decide that,” Martin said. “It is as I’ve told you, Donal. With Joanna and Llas’s daughter at Glenarden, the promised peace is close at hand.”

So
that
was the pressing matter the priest had sped away to after he’d left her.

“We have a
mutual
enemy who would keep that peace out of reach,” Ronan said to Donal. “The one who left me dying with the Gowrys colors run through me. He is more responsible than Caden for the outrage against your clan.”

After an eternal pause, Donal replied, “Tonight, then.” But suspicion weighed heavily on his demeanor. With a jerk of his head, he said the word “Go,” and his men fell in behind him as he walked away.

“Wait!” Brenna stopped them. “You might as well take these pies.” Before they could refuse, she gave one to each man. “They’re as much as crushed from too much pie and not enough Daniel to carry them.”

The carrot-topped man grinned at her desperate stab for humor. “Thank ye, milady. If your husband dinna—”

“By all means.” Ronan’s clipped reply displayed none of the relief washing over Brenna.

With his men smoothly eased from his control by Brenna’s generosity, the Gowrys chieftain shot a defiant look over her head at Ronan. “’Twill take more than a pie or two to settle this.” With that, he led his men away.

How long the lot of them watched the colorful sea of fair attendees, even after it swallowed the Gowrys, Brenna had no idea. But Ronan’s grasp on her shoulders would surely leave bruises.

It was Bron’s hail that finally cracked the shell of anxiety enveloping them.

“Lady Brenna, look!” The lad hobbled over on his crutch, fairly bubbling with excitement. “Do you see it?” He pointed to the stage, oblivious to the drama that had transpired. In front of the covered cart, a man led about a shaggy black and white pony for people to examine, while two others hung a sign from the wagon.

“He says it’s the prize for the archery contest tomorrow morning.”

The boy’s longing was so palpable, Brenna hugged him. Or perhaps it was for breaking the tension. But she saw Bron riding the pony from village to village, leather sacks with his drawings and supplies hung over its flanks, his crutch slung from the saddle.
She
wanted it for Bron as much as he did. As much as she longed for peace among their clans.

“Sir, may women take part in the contest?” she called out to the man with the pony.

The man afforded her a curious head-to-toe look, but only after he spied Ronan and Egan flanking her did he reply. “Only if she can pay the fee and shoot a straight arrow. Can ye do them things, lassie?”

“Caden is going to leap for joy at this,” Ronan griped behind her.

She spun about. “Is it well with you, milord? For
you
are all I care about.”

Ronan grinned. “Who cares for Caden? I can refuse you nothing,
mo chroi.”

Joy shot Brenna through. Or was it love’s own arrow?

“Aye, sir,” she shouted back at the skeptical pony man. “I can do both.”

Caden laughed out loud at Brenna’s announcement that she was competing in the morrow’s archery tournament. It covered the cold fury gripping him when Tarlach accepted Ronan’s proposition to exchange the hostages without protest. As always, Caden was in the wrong. It was
his
fault that Glenarden would be seen as owing compensation to their sworn enemies.

“I did
nothing
wrong,” he fumed.

“Brother, I am not saying that you did, given what you knew,” Ronan said. “You did the wrong thing for the right reason.”

Tarlach held up his good hand to Caden. “Let your brother finish.”

The knife at Caden’s waist burned there, just as the desire to use it upon both his father and brother burned in his mind. He could hear nothing else but the thought fueling the flames.
They deserve to die.

“Caden.” Rhianon put a cool hand on his bare arm. “Let us leave this matter. I need to walk, lest I go mad with boredom.”

Madness.
By his father’s lips, that’s what it felt like. Caden had never liked Tarlach, but he loved him. Tarlach was his father in every way but heart. Caden swallowed, but his parched tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. What was wrong with him? If he did not rid himself of the dagger this moment, it would blister him.

“For our child,” Rhianon enticed with a whisper, “I need escape the smoke of the fire.”

Our child.
The one his wife pleaded be kept secret, for fear the witch would do it harm to protect her own. Caden would have shouted the news, but he dared not. He’d seen half of Glenarden bewitched by Brenna, his father and brother to the point of insane judgment.

Caden stood up from the plank table assembled by the fire, nearly flipping the board nearest him. His fingers fumbling as though listening to two masters, he managed to remove his dagger from its sheath. But instead of sending it flying at Tarlach or his brother, he buried it in the thick oak, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation.

“You know my feelings. Give them nothing they don’t deserve.”

Relief washed through him, for the burning stopped. He stared at the silver-handled dagger Rhianon had given him as a wedding gift as if it belonged to someone else.