“The fevers burn away at the body’s muscles, like the sun does to dried meat. But there is something in this water that restores what the fever took away.” Brenna rose to her feet. “Come now. Your fingers and toes will start to wrinkle.”
“What kind of place was this? A pagan temple?”
“Before the water men came, most likely it was dedicated to Sulis, goddess of healing waters. But it has been a holy place since God created it, whether credit was given to Him or nay.”
Brenna stood ready to help if Rory needed it. It pleased her that he did not.
“Water men?”
“Aye, our first Christian fathers. This was used for healing and for baptism, just as Saint John the Baptist used water. To wash away sins, that man might start afresh, learning and loving God. Merlin said there were many such places all over the isle.”
Rory’s brow shot up. “Which merlin is that?”
“I’m thinking his name was Emrys. I was just a little girl, but he visited once or twice with us and told the most wondrous stories. A strapping man he was, with black hair and expressive blue eyes. He was your Arthur’s teacher, just as Ealga was mine. Can you imagine being tutored by the wonderful Merlin? Though he did say I was most bright for my age.”
Rory stared at her in wonder. “You have friends in very high places, Brenna of the Hallowed Hills.”
“It’s Brother Martin who has the friends. Although Emrys is the only one he ever brought here.”
“Martin.” Rory mulled over the name, wringing the long tail of his shirt dry.
“Aye, I went to see him today. He’s most anxious to meet you.”
At this, wariness invaded Rory’s demeanor. “Is he the priest in the glen near the river?”
“The same. He’s known me ever since I can remember. In fact, he gave me my religious training.” She glanced about. “I don’t suppose you remembered to bring down towels?”
Clearly, from Rory’s scowl, he hadn’t. “What did the good Brother have to say about me?”
“Only that he looks forward to meeting you. ’Twas I that did most of the talking. I told him about the attack and how Faol came to your rescue. And how the fever nearly took you.”
“Did he say anyone was looking for me?”
Brenna caught her breath at the alarm on Rory’s face. Of course the murderer would be searching for him … if the coward had nerve enough to return after being attacked by a wolf and a ghostly bowman.
She caught Rory’s face in her hands. “Don’t worry your head over his telling anyone about you. He’s kept my whereabouts secret for years. He’ll do nothing to endanger either of us. He’s a good man.”
The corner of Rory’s mouth twitched. “You see good in everyone, Brenna. Even the likes of me.”
“Especially in you, Rory of the Road.” The words spilled out before she could stop them, baring a heart about to burst. “I thank God for sending you to me.”
Brenna knew she should look away from that warm russet appraisal. The line she’d drawn between her feelings and Rory dissolved with each breath she took.
“I do not deserve such honor.” Rory put his hands upon her shoulders.
Heaven help her, Brenna savored their touch instead of pulling away as she should.
“What do you see now, Brenna?”
“I see you kissing me.” Brenna stopped. She dared not look further, for what she saw would come to be and it mustn’t. Not this soon.
“Are you enjoying it?” He pulled her closer, without so much as a wince of pain.
She went willingly, allowing his shirt to soak her clothing. “Most heartily, sir.”
A half sigh, half laugh escaped the lips only inches from hers. “There is no woman like you on this side of Heaven.”
She was going to swoon. It was the heat. His closeness. The fact that she’d stopped breathing.
“And who am I, then, Brenna?”
“The man I love.” There. The truth was out, and she was about to drown in it most willingly.
“And who is he, my sweet?” His lips brushed hers, hesitantly. As if he was almost afraid of what she might say.
“The man I will marry when the time comes, if you’ll have me and the son I’ll bear you.”
Rory stepped away so suddenly Brenna swayed and stumbled. She caught herself on the candle shelf, overturning one. Hot wax spilled over her hand. “Oh!”
“Brenna!” Rory seized at her hand and began to blow on it. “Forgive me, a stór.”
But the damage was done. Rory’s reaction to her heart’s desire slapped her as cold and harsh as winter’s breath.
“It was a foolish notion.” She jerked her hand away, but she couldn’t help the tears glazing her eyes. The Devil take them. “But you asked me what I saw, and I told it as I saw it. It isn’t set in stone.” She sniffed hard and wiped eyes on her sleeve. Or is it?
“But you have a gift. You said you saw what I saw as a child when you held me … and now this.” Rory tried to close the distance between them, but she dodged him and reached for the pile of clothing she’d discarded.
“I also dreamed I could fly, but I’m not about to jump off a crag. Not all dreams come true.” Only those she saw through the eyes of her soul.
“What if we want them to come true?”
Brenna froze in disbelief.
Father God, my heart cannot bear such leaps and lows. Her things clutched to her chest, she straightened and turned on bare feet. “We?”
Rory held up his hands in a show of surrender. “You have bewitched me, Brenna of the Hallowed Hills. You drew my soul from the depths of hell and breathed life into me with your song. You nourished my body with your herbs and loving care. It was for you that I came back from death’s door. And it is only for you that I will remain on This Side, for I cannot imagine a future without you as a part of it.” Rory glanced at the floor. “If you would have me, half the man that I am.”
The torture in his voice pulled Brenna to him. She caressed his cheek. “You recover by the day, Rory. I promise you that you will be all you were before. You must believe me. Have I failed you yet?”
“Brenna, it is I who will fail you. I will give you no son.”
“Of course you will. I’ve seen it.”
“By my father’s breath, must I say it, woman? My wounds have stripped me of my manhood!”
Brenna’s thoughts reeled, condemned by the agony fueling his anger and frustration. Father God, forgive her. Brother Martin was right. She had harmed Rory most cruelly.
“I have seen our child. Not with the eyes of a dream, but with the eyes of my soul,” she assured him. “As you recover, so will your manhood.”
“How can you know?”
Don’t make me tell you. Brenna looked away, but Rory cupped her chin, turning her traitorous face back to his.
“What”—he hurled each word with accusation—“have … you … done to me?”
“Nothing that cannot be undone this day,” she managed. Now that she believed him to be honorable.
He seized her shoulders with a strength that astonished her. “What, Brenna?”
“I put herbs in your food and drink to protect myself.”
With a growl, he thrust her away and paced along the edge of the pool, not unlike Faol.
“I took you in as a stranger. I saved your life. But until I came to know and trust you, I did what I had to do. What I will do no more.”
“Indeed you will not,” he snorted, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I’ll prepare my own food from now on.”
“No, Rory, you’ll think about the logic behind my actions and then you’ll see that what I did was right, given the circumstances. And you will believe me when I say that from this day forward, I’ll hold no more secrets from you.”
Still, when he turned to face her, suspicion clouded his face. Hurtful as it was, Brenna motioned toward the passage. “Now, you go up ahead of me. Should you become lightheaded, I’ll be behind to catch you as I can.�
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Since Brenna had revealed her meddling with his food and natural desires, dreams Ronan prayed would not come true plagued his sleep. There were visions of Brenna in his arms, warm with desire, radiant … of their coming together and her laughing, no longer Brenna but some wild-haired witchwoman mocking his manhood. Yet when he shook off the nightmare, there she lay a short distance away, sleeping innocent as a lamb in the bed she’d maintained by the fire since revealing her secret. He missed the simple pleasure of awakening to her warmth. Of her touching his forehead and cheek to check for fever.
Now his fever was of the kind that made her decision to make up her bed by the fire a wise one. He rose up on one elbow to watch her. Next to Brenna, Faol opened one eye but made no threatening move or sound. Her lips curled ever so slightly upward. Whatever she dreamed was pleasant. Perhaps she saw him kissing her.
Ronan scowled. Her visions were unnerving at best … if there was anything to them. Perhaps Tarlach had once felt similar anxiety before he went over the edge of reason and fell into murderous insanity.
Faol heaved a sigh deep enough to carry the burdens of the world with it and rose to his feet. After padding across the distance between them, he nudged Ronan for a pet.
“I’ll do all in my power to protect her,” he promised the wolf. Oddly, the two of them had become friends as Ronan’s recovery progressed. At least as long as Ronan kept his voice and manner amiable in Brenna’s presence.
Once Tarlach met Brenna, the old man couldn’t help but love her, Ronan thought. Especially since she had no desire to lead her own clan against the O’Byrnes. Such a match was indeed the answer to the prophecy of peace … without bloodshed.
Although, given her fears about his male nature and the hostility of his clan toward her, better he marry her as Rory first. If he told her who he was, he might lose her forever. After a few days, he’d tell her the truth. By then, he’d have proven his love for her was real. And if her vision was real, she’d be with child. An heir that would unite the two clans. Then he could leave her in the safety of the cave while he went to prepare his family for her arrival.
Ronan scratched Faol’s head absently, glad the wolf could not read his mind. Bad enough his conscience attacked him. But it wasn’t as if she hadn’t deceived him, he told himself. And his reason for lying was as valid as hers. More so. This time, his heart was at stake.
Chapter Eleven
A full year of marital bliss and Rhianon had yet to conceive the son who would become the O’Byrne, the chief of Glenarden. But this year she would have the blessing of her goddess and that of the church for Lady’s Day. She’d invited Brother Martin to give a Mass here to celebrate the Annunciation, when the Virgin Mary received the blessed news that she would bear a son. Even now the cooks were busy preparing the feast and painting boiled eggs to adorn the Lord’s Table.
“Careful not to anger the goddess, child,” Keena whispered in warning. Not that her nurse had to speak lowly, for Tarlach’s snoring could be heard through the thin wall separating his bedchamber from the one that had been hers and Caden’s before Ronan’s death. Rhianon had turned it into a chapel to please the Christian God.
Very much aware of her old nurse’s scrutiny, Rhianon carefully, reverently, took the figurine of the fertility goddess Ostara out of the velvet pouch she kept hidden beneath the mattress of the bed.
Keena came closer to see it. “The Christian God is not the only jealous god. Ceridwen will not like this.”
But Ostara was the goddess of fertility whose legendary pet rabbit gave her colored eggs. Rhianon carefully hid the disk-like Ostara in an arrangement of fresh-cut flowers next to Ceridwen, triple goddess of the Celts. “She has had her chance, Keena. Perhaps Ceridwen needs help.”
Standing back, Rhianon made sure the visiting priest would only see the flowers on the small altar shelf beneath the tapestry of the cross Rhianon had made. He’d approve the banding together of the deities no more than Keena.
“Faith is in the heart, not in some object or image,” he’d chided her when she expressed astonishment that there was no image of God Himself.
Well, she’d prayed to get with child to His invisible God ever since Martin had been tutoring the Gowrys hostage, and all to no avail. Symbols worked better.
“If only I had a picture of the Blessed Virgin like Arthur has on his shield.” Rhianon sighed. “That would show God the fervency of my desire.”
“What would a Father God know of women’s travails?” Keena disdained. “Common sense tells me not a thing.”
“The priest said He gave a woman more than thrice my age a son, Keena. Enough now! I will have a son to inherit this kingdom, no matter which god grants my desire.”
Keena drew up to as full a height as her hunched frame would allow, her dark eyes glittering. “I love you too much to lead you astray, Rhianon. ’Tis the source of my words and has been since the day you were born and handed into my care. Your desires are mine.”
“And I love you for it.” Rhianon rushed to embrace her nurse. “But I am desperate. You know I am.” She smoothed Keena’s wild, uncombed hair away from her withered face. “I need this babe.”
“And, by the goddess, you shall have it, as your mother delivered you. I will see to it. And don’t forget Heming.”
Rhianon sobered at the mention of the hunter and soldier of fortune. She had not seen him since the Witch’s End.
“I saw him this morning before you awoke. He asked for you.”
Of course he would. One indiscretion when she was but sixteen and the oaf acted as if he had some claim on her. Rhianon had thought him still off with Arthur. The man was a worrisome shadow that could not be detached.
“Then I shall see him when … I see him,” Rhianon finished. The hairy Welshman knew things about her that Caden had only begun to discover. And some that her husband would never know. “Surely—” Rhianon broke off at the creak of the door. “At the feast tonight,” she finished, walking toward it.
Not certain what—or whom—to expect, Rhianon yanked it open.
No one. Not at the door. But close by, the Gowrys princeling wrestled a bone from one of Tarlach’s hounds.
“You there, Daniel,” she called to him. “Did you see anyone standing here at this door?” She preferred to keep her plans for Glenarden between her and her own.
Perpetually hungry, Daniel of Gowrys was like Tarlach’s hounds—always hanging about the spit in the main hall or in the kitchen, hoping for a handout.
“Nay, milady.” The lad hurled the bone, shaking his head. “Nary a soul.” Both wolfhounds bounded over empty benches after the treat, knocking some over in the process.
Rhianon scowled. How she hated those dogs. And she didn’t trust Daniel, either, and had told Caden as much. Wild and unkempt, Daniel skulked about the hall, always watching, always listening. He was old enough to slit their throats while they slept. For that reason, he was locked in a storage room at night. Fit enough lodging for him, even if Merlin Emrys insisted the lad receive an education from Brother Martin.
“Get out of here, you whelp!” Keena raised her cane and shook it at the boy. “And take those mange-ridden mutts with you until you learn to behave in a civilized hall.”
At the awkward and gangly stage where boyish muscle raced to fill an increasingly manly frame, Daniel climbed to his feet and walked away from them. On reaching the door, he turned back, a murderous look simmering beneath the mop of unwashed hair that spilled over his brow.
“Look at me like that again, laddie,” Keena warned, “and you’ll never live to see that rat hole of a place you call home again.”
The boy’s mouth quirked, begging to curl into a snarl. He shifted his gaze from Keena to Rhianon, then back to the crone. Rhianon shuddered at its ferocity. But the enemy Daniel made was far more dangerous. It wouldn’t be a matter of if Keena made good her warning, but when.
For now the timing wasn’t right. It would lead to the youngest O’Byrnes’ death. Th
en Caden would annihilate the Gowrys, with or without Arthur’s blessing. And Rhianon would be queen of both the Gowrys hills and the lowlands of Glenarden.
Or would she be queen of ashes left by Arthur’s warband? Nay, if war were to start, it must be clearly done by the hand of the Gowrys … perhaps even their princeling.
The Vernal Equinox. Light and darkness met on equal ground. From this day forth, seeds would sprout and grow into bounty. Nature would multiply. It was a time, according to the message of the robe-clad priest holding court in the open field, for rebirth.
Or love and lust, Caden thought, glancing at his wife. Clad in the green of the season with a wreath of first flowers crowning her golden hair, Rhianon took his breath away. Never had a woman had such a hold on him. The sun and moon would be hers, could he pluck them from the heavens.
Indulging in this celebration was the least he could do. Thankfully there would be feasting and song afterward. That is, if the priest ever ceased drolling on and on about gifts and God.
“Your Cymri forefathers worshipped creation. They saw a living god in the sea, the trees, thunder … all of nature,” the priest said. His clear, strong voice carried over the crowd. “Today we know that it is the One Creator God, present in all living things, not many lesser dieties. That is why Scripture says that nature and the heavens declare the glory of the One Creator God. The One God who breathed life into it. So until the Word came to them, your forefathers could not have known that it was the One God’s breath that grew the tree and moved the sea about us and the stars above us. Our God is so grand and far-reaching that our human minds cannot embrace all there is to know of Him.” He chuckled. “And, for all my study of Him, I speak of the shortcomings of my mind as well.”
Then stop talking and let’s eat, Caden shouted at the priest in silence.
“Yet,” Martin continued, “our druids knew this. The wisemen knew.” The priest glanced at Ailill. The druidic bard nodded in affirmation. “But the old thought was that you, the common man, could not come to know a God whom you could not detect with your ears or eyes … or by the touch of your hand. That wisemen, priests or druids, had to intercede on your behalf … much like the Pharisees separated the Hebrews from a relationship with their Heavenly Father.”
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