By the time she was plunked down on a stool in front of the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. The corset whittled her waist to an impossible state, pushing her breasts up until they teetered on the edge of popping out any moment. She hoped not. The boning would probably do irreparable damage to her. The person who cut the strings on this thing would have her undying gratitude, if they burned it with all the rest of these horrid corsets, she’d have his baby. How many years had she complained about the underwire in her bras? It was nothing in comparison to this. The thought made her giggle. Oof, no giggling either.
Her hair was brushed by two women, clucking and arguing amongst themselves over the style. They opted to braid it into tiny sections, weaving the braided ropes, so they fit snug against the back of her head, the remainder left to cascade down her back. They left in a hurry leaving Brenawyn with Mistress Fordoun. She hung in the back, distractedly playing with the leaves of flowers set for the braided coiffure.
“The man of the house is home? What can I expect?”
She shook her head, “I doona ken, my lady. Depends on how the request is answered. I had the boys send a note ta their da asking for a private audience. They ha’ ta present ye ta court, but ye couldnae ha’ come at a worse time, my lady. We are a house divided. T’is no’ a tolerant time. The auld ways are dying and ye could be in danger. Thaur has been talk o’ burnings.”
“Then help me get out. I came to find the Merlin. I don’t know how I’ll locate him but my chances are better out there than in here behind lock and key waiting for God knows what. Help me.”
She dragged a chair over to the door and shoved it under the handle and came back to kneel in front of Brenawyn. “My lady, doona fear the master o’ the house. He is compassionate ta yer plight, but gifted he is no’. Doona mention the Merlin, gone these past twenty years, left o’ a sudden with no word. A day hasnae passed without the Sinclair weeping over the loss o’ his brother. A sad fate for the entire clan, the witch hunters rose in this area decades ago and it was decided ta hide Alexander, once he shown the gift. They sent him off ta learn, but publically wiped his existence ta the rest o’ the world. Deid in childhood it says on the tombstone o’ an empty grave.
“It would ha’ stayed that way, had Alexander no’ come back. A strong braw lad he had grown inta, made me weep ta see him again, want ta keep him safe as I had done for all his life, but I couldnae. He had grown beyond my help, the markings on his chest.”
Brenawyn grabbed her arms, “What do, did, they look like?”
“An ancient script in deepest indigo,” she leaned forward whispering, “Marking him a Druid, one of the Tuatha de Dananns’ own.”
Close, but no mention of the red, Brenawyn sat back disappointed, the name and the markings too much of a coincidence to ignore, but she berated herself for hoping that she had been brought to Alexander’s family. That would be too easy.
“He didna keep a low profile; he couldn’t naturally, looking so much like his brother, quite the formidable, the two o' them, and with his markings, which he made no move ta hide. Very close the two o' them were, inseparable, always ta be found practicing in the lists, his markings out for the world ta see.
Thaur are so many visitors to these parts, it was a growing concern, and it was only a matter of time before attention would be drawn ta the keep. Alex wouldna ha’ gone willingly, his brother at his back in defense, making it worse for the family, but thank the gods he wasna haur when they eventually came. The examiners overstayed their welcome within a day but lingered and once they’d gone, the traitor was dealt with.”
“So what happens if your request is denied?”
“It may be. I couldnae trust ta put inta words what has happened, who ye are.”
“Who you think I am.”
She brushed this off inconsequentially, “I need ta think o’ a way ta explain ye. The boys, gods love them, are boys. Who kens who ha’ heard the story o’ yer discovery? The odd way ye were dressed, yer speech. Aye, a convincing story will have ta be supplied, if ye are presented publically. Mind ye, ye’ll end up that way, but the Sinclair needs ta ken about ye first ta decide what’s ta dae with ye.”
A knock at the door had Mistress Fordoun scurry to ease the chair away. Once she had replaced it in a location that didn’t look suspiciously like it had been used as a safeguard against entry, did she open the door. A young man, just old enough to grow a first, scraggly beard, stood at the door. “Mistress Fordoun, yer presence is required downstairs. I am ordered ta bring yer guest presently.”
His words hung in the air and a panic settled in the pit of Brenawyn’s stomach. She would be going down alone. “
Mistress Fordoun turned to her before exiting, “Take heart, my lady, I will speak for ye.”
It was a relief, but she had to make the descent with this young man she had never seen before, his armament, the sword held in the scabbard at his back, and the blade tied to his thigh, a clear indication that she was in trouble. As she followed him down to the dining hall, all desire for small talk dried in her throat. No need to discern information when the prospect of finding too much about her tenuous situation in a few mere minutes seemed too much to bear. She assessed the various exits, archways giving to nothing more than another stone hallway, what was beyond, out of her sight. A flurry of activity was in progress, the floors were being swept and scrubbed, and trestle tables brought in, tallow candles replaced by fresh, the busy set up for a feast for the lord returned home.
Without turning to see if she followed, the man walked through a small opening at the back of the dais and took winding stairs. She slowed her steps, knowing she was walking further away from any escape. “Doona think about it, lass, I’d be on ye, ‘afore ye made the nearest archway. Come, it won’t be bad,” said the man, his attention attracted by the change in her gait.
Brenawyn looked at him, trying to hide her thoughts; she was quick normally, out of this contraption called fashion. She couldn’t get a deep breath, she was seeing spots in front of her eyes, by the slight exertion of the climb, and he was faster in all probability. Possessing the upper body strength to use that sword, his legs were knotted with muscle. No, she couldn’t outrun him. She smiled sweetly into his face, using her looks to distract. From the resulting look on his face, the gambit worked. She followed him up the stairs to meet whatever fate the universe threw her into.
A knock at the oak door granted them entry, but her escort smiled at her, opening it for her but didn’t enter himself. She heard the door click closed and softly bang against its frame as if he taken his place, back up against it, to guard.
“Would ye like some sherry, lass?”
Brenawyn turned to face the voice, “No, thank y … oh God, Alex?” Taking two steps toward him. The hair greying at the temples marked him as only a close relative after the words were out of her mouth. Urgings from Fordoun screamed in her head. Oh God. Oh God. “I apologize. You look like someone I knew.”
He got up from the chair and walked over to her, around her, she felt his eyes boring into her. He stopped in front and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “Ken my brother, dae ye?”
“I, uh, um, I do, I think.” She looked into eyes the same shade, focusing on the graying hair at the temples. This was not Alex.
“Taller than myself, wider in the shoulder, same eyes as our mother, and though yer no' likely ta ha’ seen, but I have ta ask, dae ye know if he had um … scars, um, on his … chest?”
“Not scars but something else.”
“Markings in blue, and red the newest addition, the last time I saw him?”
“Oh, God.” she sobbed in relief, “You are his brother.”
“Tell me, when did ye last see him? Whaur? Is he in good health? Tell me.”
She wanted to tell him everything, to release the burden of holding everything in, all the fantastic, and unbelievable; she wouldn’t have believed if it didn’t happen in front of her eyes. Caution held her back. Wh
at should she tell him? The last time she saw him, what could she reveal without giving hint to the otherworldly. She’d hold that for now, the whole experience and focus on the image of him standing amid their camp, shirtless promising more pleasure; she felt the blood rise to her cheeks, “He was well when last I saw him, not too long ago.”
He chuckled, “Aye, t’is good ta hear that he still has that effect on the lasses.” He hugged her to his chest, “Thank ye for giving me news on my brother, Alexander. Tell me, is he coming home soon.”
He must have felt her stiffen, because he gave a small cry and hugged her harder, “Forget I asked. Doona tell me.” Trembling he set her away from him. “Let us focus on the immediate. I doona kin what ye expect o’ us, but some explanation needs ta be given for ye. Dae ye mind being named as Mistress Fordoun’s niece? All know she has family a ways off.”
“I mean to be gone soon.”
“With no guard, nothing o’ yer own?”
“I know that these are borrowed, but if I could have my clothes I arrived in back.”
“Impossible. They were destroyed, burned ta prevent anyone learning o’ the circumstances o’ yer arrival.”
“All of my clothes?”
“For yer own safety, aye. Doona fear, though, ye are in no danger from the likes o’ this house. All will be well. Ye may stay in my solar until yer formal presentation ta me. I will be granting ye asylum. Under penalty o’ death, would anyone dare ta touch ye.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Until later, my dear.” He turned on his heel, the cape billowing out behind him. The door openly automatically by the same guard who brought her there, to allow the lord passage from his apartments.
Chapter 17
Brenawyn had to stand public presentation, whatever that entailed. Hopefully, it stood on formal ceremony, not much time for unanswerable questions. Let Fordoun claim her as niece, she’d have to remember to ask her given name before this ruse came to a screeching halt but if accepted by the populace here, it wouldn’t seem amiss if she had more freedom and access to the outside world.
Time passed slowly but when the door opened, Brenawyn wished she had more time alone with her thoughts. The young guard again escorting her. The hall had undergone a transformation in her absence mostly due to the people crammed cheek to jowl in the expansive space. They didn’t enter through the same archway, he took her along another pass, circuitously circumventing the crowd until at last they came into the room behind everyone else, then moving close to the elevated dais. She was tall enough to see over most heads to where Lord Sinclair sat with his sons, the boys that she had first met, both of whom looked bored. Their father, reserved, sat in the ornate chair, waiting until the murmur died down. He stood and a hush swept the crowd, “T’is good to be home,” to a raucous cheer resounding off the rafters.
“My lord,” at first he wasn’t heard, Brenawyn only did because the man was a few feet away from her. He cleared his throat, “My Lord!” louder. The people around him shushed but gave him a look. He stepped forward, pushing the crowd out of his way. She could hear grunts of resistance, and an occasional yelp, but the unknown man gradually made his way to the front to garner the attention of Sinclair. “Yes?”
“I beg pardon, my lord, but a most distressing piece of news made it to mine ears. Can ye confirm that the sleeping lady has been found by yer own sons?”
Silence reigned; the only movement was the craning of Sinclair’s neck to look at his boys, who had identical looks of fear on their faces. “But da, we only … ”
“Hush now. Off with ye. I’ll find ye later.” Waiting patiently for the boys to get up, he did not turn back to the questioner until they departed. By then, whispers of the sleeping lady made it back to Brenawyn. She wanted to run. The crowd packed closer together when he opened his mouth to speak, pulling her into the tide its rush. There was nowhere to go. The guard was miraculously still next to her.
He took her by the arm; she could feel through the fabric of her dress that his knife was no longer in its sheath. “Hush, let me hear.” Too distracted by the knife clutched in his free hand, she didn’t care who the lady was, her only thought was why he thought to pull his knife. There was danger here.
“Tell me true, my lord. Shall we rejoice that trying times are at an end? Do the portents tell of the end of the suffering and the wasting sickness with the coming of the sleeping lady? Tell us, my lord.”
In the back of the room, her guard managed to wedge himself behind her, leaving her exposed. He leaned over. “Stay very still,” he whispered, and slid the knife between her skin and the corset. “Can ye reach it?”
She nodded swallowing the tears that threatened. “Yes.”
“Good. Always keep it with you.”
“John.” Sinclair found her in the crowd, but spoke to her guard, “John, bring our guest forward.”
The crowd parted, most gawking at her. She’s too young, that’s no’ her.” Chanting, “The sleeping lady. The sleeping lady.” One woman crushed her, pleading, pulling at her sleeve, “Please,” depositing a child in her arms, “touch my child, say a prayer for her, heal her.” The child wailed in her arms, could she help her? The child was rigid, back bent in pain, heart racing, pumping blood too fast. The head. The problem was in the baby’s head. The crowd rushed them on, the woman trailed in her wake refusing to let go of her sleeve. Brenawyn had seconds before the child would be taken out of her hands. Her runes lit up and the crowd stepped back. She felt her guard leave her side, felt the dagger against the skin of her back, and heard the slide of metal on metal. Dagger and short sword at her back. If she could only … there it was, the damaged blood vessel, she felt it begin to heal. The child’s headache ease. The little body relaxed against her. She looked around for the mother to find her prostrate on the ground beside her. She bent to give the child back to her, touching her arm as she squatted next to her. The woman looked up; face ashen, avoiding her eyes. Brenawyn forced the bundle back into her arms but the mother was resistant. “Listen, your child lives.” Grabbing her chin and forcing her head down, the baby cooed, its fists waving happily in the air against her. The woman’s eyes sprang open, “Ye ha’ answered my prayers, milady. Oh thank ye, thank ye!”
The guard took Brenawyn’s elbow and hauled her to her feet, “What ha’ ye done, milady? What were ye thinkin’?”
“Silence.” The word boomed out, Sinclair on the edge of the dais. “Bring her forward.”
The last of the crowd parted and Brenawyn shook off the guard’s steadying hand to walk alone to face the Sinclair publically.
“Milady.” He bowed his head to her, and addressed the crowd, “t’is true, ye see before ye the sleeping lady. The one whose return the auld story foretold.” Holding a hand to Brenawyn, “Come take yer place on the dais, milady.”
Before she knew it, she was lifted onto the dais and physically turned to face the crowd, a strong hand on each shoulder, Sinclair, looking so much like Alex, put her in front of him.
“The priestess has come home.”
People crowded the dais, cheek to jowl, trying to get a glimpse of her, their hands reaching for the hem of her skirts. She gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles white. Jesus, I can’t control what people think, but to get them actual proof? What was I thinking? What have I done? I don’t even know where I am.
He must have felt her stiffen next to him, because he covered her ice cold hand with his warm one, enfolding it in his, and smiled at her. It was so like his brother’s, they both smiled with their eyes, with one exception, the deep laugh lines on her host’s face.
Cheers went up from the room, but Brenawyn looked into the faces of those nearest the dais. Most were partaking in the general jovial ambiance, but there was a small handful that did not. Their faces were devoid of emotion, standing stock-still staring at her. One. Two. Three. Four. This was where the danger lay, with these four and however many more she did not see.
And I just marked myself as a Druid—
a witch. They think me a witch! Shit.
Her host lifted her hand and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. He indicated with a flourish of his other hand, “Come, we must ha’ music! T’is time for a celebration!”
The sure grip of the lord of the house gave her a shred of assurance, and she dared to look again into the sea of people. She met the eyes of a young woman. Nope. Not confident enough to make eye contact with anyone else yet. The room was large, and it was standing-room only. From her raised position she could see the four enormous fireplaces each with a fire blazing, located at equidistant points on the four walls. A new platform had been erected since her last visit to this room, on it the band stood readying themselves for another set. The instruments were different, but she recognized a few: the lute, bagpipes, one similar to a guitar but smaller, not as small as a ukulele—this was definitely the wrong part of the world for that, she thought.
They struck the first chord and off they went into the crowd in different directions, the music of their individual pieces to meet again blending in the rafters.
“We are lucky ta ha’ Lughar and his troubadours settle in our lands. They ha’ blessed us with their music and their tales, and ‘til a time when my coin doesna lure them any longer, we’ll enjoy the entertainment.”
“He has a most pleasant voice, my lord.”
“I am most pleased ta ha’ ye say so.”
The song ended with Lughar in front of the dais. He bowed to Sinclair and to Brenawyn in turn.
“Dae ye ken the devinalh[1] about the sleeping lady o’ these parts, Lughar?”
“Aye, I dae. Shall I tell it then?”
“Please dae. The circumstances warrant a telling o’ the auld story.”
“One hundred years ago or more there was a battle; this battle was like none ye’ve e’er seen ‘afore. T’was a battle within a battle. A battle for far more than land, more than wealth, more than position, more than honor!”
There was a communal snort of disbelief from the crowd.
Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy Page 17