Healer (25 page)

But the voice of his wife, Caden knew, and he would follow it anywhere. “Come, Love. ’Tis a lovely night.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“I’ve never been inside a tavern, have you, Daniel?” Brenna asked, walking behind Ronan, her arm linked with that of the Gowrys lad.

Alert to any nuance of danger, Ronan looked past the patches of torch and firelight to the night beyond as he escorted his wife and Daniel through the camps and stalls of the fair. His keen gaze glided from one group of revelers to another for any possible hiding places for brigands.

Ronan was still put off by the events of the afternoon. The sight of Brenna being carried off by the Gowrys that afternoon, feet flailing, had knifed Ronan through with a two-edged blade—one of panic and one of naked fury. Tonight, apprehension riddled him, though the other blade was not far from him. Against all logic, he’d agreed to let Brenna accompany him to the exchange of hostages. He, and more amazingly, Tarlach, yielded, albeit grudgingly, to her argument that a greater power accompanied her than their muscle and steel.

How Ronan’s fury had vanished at the touch of her hands still made him wonder. He’d been primed for a fight—no man, friend or foe, would lay hands on his wife—not for the reconciliation that spilled from his lips. Nor had she needed his or Egan’s help. Her protection had been a dog, a crippled child, a widow woman, and her Shepherd, she insisted, before he and his champion could offer it.

Could her Shepherd—God—be as tangible as she believed? For, while Ronan walked like a man on edge, her childlike enthusiasm for life and all it brought was undaunted. Even now she approached such a simple occasion as exploring the nightlife of the fair as a grand adventure full of wonder.

Maybe there was something to Caden’s accusation that Ronan was bewitched. Or as addled by Brenna’s lack of guile as Caden was by Rhianon’s manipulation. Ronan at least still carried his dining dagger and kept both hands free for the dirk in each boot in case of an ambush.

Father God …
Humor tugged at his lips as he reached out to Him who was higher than his understanding. He even called God as she did, now that he ventured to call at all.

The sight of Brother Martin waiting with Donal and three other men under the painted
Red Lion
tavern sign cut his prayer short. The benches set in front of the two-story building to accommodate the overflow of customers were all taken. Dust kicked up by the reveling clientele floated in the light of lanterns strung overhead from tree to tree. Music and laughter wafted out through the open doors and windows, revealing a crowd thick as hornets on a hive inside. Two of Strighlagh’s guardsmen chatted near a corner post.

Ronan continued to scan the area, looking for any sign of additional Gowrys, but given that their chief was the only one who wore the colors, it was hard to tell, even in daylight.

“Ronan!”

It took Ronan a moment to recognize his youngest brother. Alyn broke from the group, rushing to embrace him. Ronan could feel the young man’s ribs through the linen of his tunic. Yet his face was flushed and, from what Ronan could tell, his eyes were bright … overly so. Alyn had not yet learned to hide his feelings well.

“I thought you were dead. We all did.”

“I was left for dead but was rescued.” Ronan turned to introduce Brenna as the rest of the Gowrys party caught up to them.

“I know,” Alyn said. “Brother Martin told us the whole wondrous story. Can you believe how God has worked in our lives?”

God.
Dare Ronan fully accept what his younger, less-jaded brother did? What Brenna did? That God was working through the circumstances and events of their lives? Yet here he was, married to the enemy he’d hunted until just months ago and now ready to negotiate with her kin to help stop a twenty-year war. What other explanation could there be?

Even more, he was offering prayers to her God under his breath, as if it were second nature to him.

“
This
,” he said, “is Lady Brenna of Glenarden, the lady who changed my heart forever.”

Alyn bowed with all the grace his tall, gangly body would allow. “Milady, at last I meet you. And you look nothing like a wolf.”

Ronan allowed himself a chuckle to Brenna’s melodious laughter.

“And I at last meet you, Alyn of Glenarden,” she replied. “You put me to mind of your eldest brother.”

“We take after our mother. Caden is the golden Glenarden.”

“Let’s make the exchange and be done with it,” Donal of Gowrys said. Like Ronan, his gaze darted about to shadows with equal distrust. Or was he looking for a sign from an accomplice?

“Daniel, you are free to join your kinsmen,” Ronan said. “But we hope that you will not be a stranger to Glenarden. Cú will sorely—”

Something set off an inner alarm, that sense of being watched … closely. As Ronan turned, a hooded, cloaked figure shot up from the nearest bench and plowed into him, sending him sprawling off balance. The hiss and thud of an arrow registered in an alder just beyond them.

Had the man just attacked him or saved him?

Charging through Ronan’s confusion came one main thought. “O’Toole! Get Brenna to cover.”

“Cover them all,” the unknown man ordered, his deep voice ringing with authority. “In the name of the Pendragon.”

The men previously seated with the stranger rushed to form a circle about O’Byrne and Gowrys alike. Beyond, the two guards had broken away from their conversations and raced off in the direction Ronan’s mystery figure pointed, as if they’d been waiting for this to happen. As O’Toole steadied Ronan on his feet, the stranger removed his hood, revealing a mane of white hair and piercing gaze beneath the snowdrift on his shaved high brow.

“By the Father’s grace, Merlin Emrys,” Brother Martin exclaimed.

The priest started toward his friend, arm extended, but Merlin held up his hand. “Later, friend, once we reach a safe place. All of you—come with us to the Eccles.”

The walk to the small church that served the valley of the Forth near Strighlagh seemed to take an eternity, given with each step, Brenna expected another arrow to fly at them. At Ronan. The thought of losing her husband nearly made her sick to her stomach. She clung to his arm like moss to a tree, as though she might somehow protect him and at the same time draw upon his strength.

The red and green fletching on the arrow stymied everyone, including Donal of Gowrys. This time, it wasn’t the word of Glenarden against Gowrys about a mutual enemy; it was proof. Merlin Emrys, on hearing of the mutually agreed-upon exchange from Brother Martin, anticipated such trouble. So he’d had men watch both clans carefully to be certain no one from either side was at the source. Unfortunately the guards who pursued the would-be assassin—or searched the direction from which the arrow came—found no one.

The old church reminded Brenna of a great overturned boat made of dry masonry. At Merlin’s instruction, only Ronan, Brenna, and Brother Martin entered the structure through the single door from its west end. The rest remained with the royal advisor’s men outside. Inside, the wall rose, half again a man’s height, before it curved inward and upward, narrowing to a point, or upended keel, overhead. A small stone altar stood opposite the door, hollowed out to hold water. Lamp stands to either side illuminated the gable wall.

“For as many wonders of God’s creation that meet the eye, there are even more that do not,” Brenna whispered to Ronan.

“What?”

“If the recollection of my studies serves me, this church is strategically located where two underground streams cross. This alters the nature of the water placed in the cup, making it more beneficial to health … like the healing waters of our—”

A rustling of fabric in the silence of the great chamber drew Brenna’s attention from the candlelit altar to the sides of the room, where a group of robed figures filed out of the shadows. Merlin Emrys bade her party stand just inside the door, while the figures formed a half circle to either side of the altar. Half were clad in red, the other half, when Merlin shed his cloak and joined them, in white. At the center a tall, fair-haired hulk of a man in both red and white robes trimmed in gold took the seat that one of the others placed in the center of the half round.

“Arthur of Dalraida,” Brother Martin whispered to her. “Born of the Lions of Judah in red
and
the Josephs of Albion in white.”

Brenna nodded. A king of kings after the example of Christ, with twelve warrior and priest-like disciples.

The saintliest of Briton’s bloodlines assembled here with the kings and queens of Judah, the Davidic descendants from the breach marked by a scarlet cord, the stolen birthright in Genesis—a breach repaired as prophesied by Isaiah centuries before by the marriage of Pharez’s princess and Zarah’s Red Hand prince.

Martin identified them. Merlin Emrys, Arthur’s great-uncle, stood with his protégés Arthur and Percival. Vivianne, Arthur’s aunt and Lady of the Lake, with her protégés Gwenhyfar and the Angus or Lance of Lothian. There was Gawain, Arthur’s right arm….

Arthur was so much older than Brenna had thought. At least compared to Lance of Lothian, the Pendragon’s left arm.

Merlin Emrys tapped his staff on the hard earthen floor. At that moment two men in robes wordlessly lit the lamps hung on the walls. Immediately the scented oil began to offset the inherent must and mold of the stone enclosure. “I call this Council of the Grail to order,” Arthur said after the men in robes left. His voice filled the room—before them, above them, and behind them. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” Brenna echoed with them. She’d heard of such meetings, but they were usually reserved for the Holy Isle.

“Why are we summoned, Merlin?” Arthur asked quietly, the chamber amplifying every sound.

“Brothers and sisters, warriors and warrior queens, priests and priestesses of the Celtic Church of Christ, the matter of the O’Byrne and Gowrys may not wait until the political court to be held at the week’s end lest there be more bloodshed,” Merlin explained. “This night an assassin tried to take Ronan O’Byrne’s life for the second time, even as the leaders of both clans sought a righteous and peaceful end to this bloodfeud. Thankfully, Brother Martin made me aware of their honorable and peaceful intentions beforehand.”

Merlin Emrys handed Arthur the arrow he’d fetched from the tree before leaving. “Do not touch its tip,” he warned. “Had the Brother and I not foreseen trouble, this poison-tipped arrow might have found its mark.”

Brenna grew weak at the knees. Had it so much as nicked Ronan—

“It is poorly disguised,” Merlin went on, “just like the previous ones that nearly took this young man’s life.” He leaned his staff toward Ronan, casting darts of light about the lusterless stone walls. “But the nature of this poison alarms me far more than its disguise.”

“A knowledge of nature magic abused by a black soul,” Gwenhyfar remarked upon taking the arrow from Arthur. The queen tossed the arrow to the ground. “Faith, I can feel the darkness.” She crossed herself and held out her hands, palms up. “Take this from me, Father.” She grabbed Arthur’s hands. “And from our king.”

“Amen,” the gathering chorused together.

“What of Merlin?” Brenna asked Martin, as Merlin picked it up and wrapped it in the folds of his discarded cloak. “He touched it too.”

“It is his path to the perpetrator of this deed,” the priest answered. “This is more than a clan war, Brenna. If we cannot find and stop those who abuse such sacred knowledge of creation for their own gain and glory, the church itself is at risk. We all, Christian and pagan alike, shall be washed in the same black water regardless of our fruit.”

“That,” Merlin addressed them, “is a battle for another day. Tonight we judge Glenarden for its trespasses against their neighbors.”

Ronan’s muscles tensed even more beneath Brenna’s hand. Had she heard right? They sought to judge Ronan for
Tarlach’s
misdeeds?

“Come forward for your father’s sake, sir,” Arthur commanded.

“’Tis unfair,” Brenna protested beneath her breath to Brother Martin. She started forward with her husband, but Arthur palmed his hand at her. “Alone,” he stipulated, adding more gently for her sake, “for now.” He stood. “Ronan of Glenarden, for a moment I will make you king. Go on, take my chair.”

Ronan cast down his gaze. “Milord, I cannot—”

“Take my chair.”