Healer

by Linda Windsor

  If she’d not been so preoccupied with Ronan’s departure, she’d not have exposed herself so. Faol might have escaped. She wouldn’t have plunged over the ledge. Had her feet not tangled in her wet skirts, she could have made the leap, jolted, but sound. Though where she’d go from there, she’d had no idea. All she wanted to do was run. Run from the hunters, the dogs, the sight of Faol’s lifeless body, his beautiful white fur stained bright with blood.

  Faol.

  A sob tore from Brenna’s throat. Then another, and another. “Faol.”

  “Hush, a stór.” Arms cradled her. Strong and familiar arms. “I know, I know.” The voice of love. Of her husband. “Would God that I could take your pain.”

  Ronan squeezed her as though he might force it out. It hurt, but not as much as his intention soothed her wounded spirit. Brenna wanted to look into his eyes but feared the head misery would come back. In this semidream world, it remained at bay.

  “But you are safe and alive. I owe God my life for that.”

  God. The irony of Ronan’s statement was not lost on her. When he’d been angry at God, even doubted His existence, Brenna had insisted God had brought them together.

  “Faol was ours for a season, but God spared you and the bairn.”

  The baby. Brenna remembered its bright spirit, part of her and yet not. And Ealga … and her parents. And the gentle voice of her Shepherd saying the same thing. He had a plan for her, for Ronan, for their child.

  Like before, Brenna hesitated, not really wanting to abandon the space between This World and the Other Side.

  “Come back to me, Brenna. I need you as I need breath,” Ronan pleaded.

  Love. Pure love. It poured from those words into her ears, filling her, forcing out her dread. Even her pain, she realized as she pried open her eyes. At least it was bearable, not waiting with swords and hammers to beat her back into unconsciousness.

  “Ronan.” She breathed his name.

  His face took shape above hers, strong, handsome, fraught with a mix of concern and …

  “Praise be to God, you are back with us!”

  Joy.

  “Shall I call Dara?” The mattress beneath them crackled as he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Do you need anything?”

  Brenna shook her head, slowly. “Where are we?” She smelled lavender … and heather.

  “In my bedchamber, Wife. Where you belong.”

  Fragments of memory flashed before her. People. A multitude. Ronan fierce as she’d ever seen him, about to charge a warrior’s sword. An old man shouting, clearly disturbed.

  “How?”

  Brenna listened as Ronan explained how his brother had come across Faol during a hunt.

  So the blond giant who’d killed Faol was Ronan’s brother.

  “Caden thought you dead. So did”—Ronan’s voice broke—“I.”

  Brenna raised her hand to his cheek. “I was,” she whispered softly. “The Shepherd sent me back to you.”

  He nestled her hand to his lips. “I’m so sorry for leaving you. I should have taken you with me. It’s my—”

  “Shush. My own pain is enough to bear without yours. God has a plan for us … for our love and our child.”

  Skepticism lifted his brow. “Are you sure?”

  Fear circled like carrion over Brenna’s spirit. Still, she nodded and sought his embrace. There it felt as though nothing could harm her.

  We are troubled on every side….

  Even in her weakened state, Brenna knew that her husband had at least one nemesis among the many surrounding her. One who wanted him dead … nearly killed him. She prayed on.

  … yet not in despair. Thou art with us. If You are for us …

  A knock sounded on the door before she could add, … we have nothing to fear.

  “Milord, it’s Dara. I have the lady’s breakfast.”

  Dara. The name of the healer who’d tended her.

  “A moment, Dara.” Ronan rolled out of the bed, slinging aside the covers. Naked to the waist of his laced braccae, he hustled across the plank flooring and opened the door. “She’s with us again, Dara.”

  The pure joy of his words put a smile on Brenna’s face. But secretly she wondered if she’d have been able to finish her prayer with a whole heart after all that had happened. Her soul cried out in panic.

  Father God, help my unbelief.

  Ronan couldn’t believe his eyes. Within an hour of taking breakfast, Brenna entered the hall, lovely in a green hand-me-down from Rhianon, who was suddenly glad to have a sister. Ronan resisted asking what had changed her since yesterday when she could be heard screaming that he was supposed to be dead and that witch had no business in Rhianon’s bedchamber. But then, Rhianon was fickle and high-strung.

  Brenna, on the other hand, was … full of grace, he thought, watching as she hugged Dara and thanked her for her help.

  “With just a few stitches, she made it fit,” Brenna told Ronan, turning carefully so that he might see. And then to Dara, “You must have tea with me after the Pascal service, milady, so that you can tell me more of my mother.” The moment Brenna had heard Brother Martin was giving the Pascal service, she had insisted she was well enough to attend.

  “Ach, I’m no lady, milady,” Dara protested. “I’m just a lowly servant … a midwife. Not born of the blood like yourself.”

  “You are my friend,” Brenna insisted, turning to Ronan. “Tell her, Ronan.”

  Ronan’s lips twitched. “You heard my lady, Dara.”

  Dara puffed up, affording him a sharp look. “I know my place, milord, and ’tis best for her ladyship if she learns hers.”

  Dara was right. If Brenna was to be the queen of Glenarden, she had to learn to act like one, lest the people disrespect her. Though Ronan loved her as she was, uninhibited and filled with life and love.

  “In time, Dara.” He couldn’t resist touching the ugly purple swelling running from under Brenna’s hairline to cover her left temple. Such bruises were matched in many places hidden by the garment. Each one, he knew. He’d helped Dara rub ointment on them. Or, rather, Dara had humored him by letting him help.

  Funny how a woman who was almost a nonentity in his past figured so prominently in his present. How many other good people had Ronan overlooked in his prideful role of princeling?

  “Oh my!” Brenna’s gasp banished his introspection as she took in the huge expanse of the hall, the weaponry hung on the walls and beams, the tapestries. “Arthur’s own Camelot can be no grander than this!”

  Ronan was glad that he had the chance to show his wife his keep in relative privacy. “There are grander,” he assured her.

  She shook herself from the enchantment. “Where is Brother Martin?”

  “Aye, he’s with the others out in the orchard.” Weather permitting, the Resurrection service was always on the fourteenth day of Nissan, or Passover, held out of doors where both high and low of station might worship together with the Creator’s sky as the ceiling of their temple.

  “Then we must hurry. I’ve so wanted to hear the church service from within the throng instead of from without.”

  “It’s a good walk,” he warned her. “I could arrange a private service for you after—”

  The stubborn jut of an otherwise perfectly shaped chin cut him off.

  “You waste your breath, milord,” Dara tutted. “She says the more she moves about, the quicker she’ll recover. I only hope her head agrees.”

  “There’s hardly a dull ache now,” Brenna assured her. “The fresh air will do it good.”

  “All the same, this friend,” Dara reminded her, “is not leavin’ your side.” To prove it, the old midwife stationed herself on Brenna’s other side as they stepped out into the sunlight.

  The inner grounds where his jaded homecoming celebration took place the day before drew the same awe from Brenna as the hall. “You must introduce me to every cow, calf, sheep, and lamb. And the chickens,” she said as a mother hen strutted fro
m one of the sheds with a small band of chicks in her wake. “Have you named them?”

  Keenly aware of Dara’s observation, Ronan hesitated. “No,” he said finally, “but you may, if you wish.”

  A hint of a smile touched the old woman’s thin lips.

  “Brenna has a love of animals,” he explained.

  “And fire pits. Sure, you’ll be feeding an army today,” she marveled. “And look at the beautiful banners on the tents. It’s like a grand fair.”

  “Lady Rhianon has a talent for hospitality.” At least Glenarden sported more flair than it had before the lady came to it. Even Vychan had reluctantly given her that.

  “Well, I have never seen such a fine keep and grounds. And look—” Brenna pointed to the gate of the inner stockade. “A village beyond. I’m sure it’s filled with good people, if you and Dara are any example.”

  Good but superstitious people. Some of whom still might believe Brenna a witch of dubious powers. Ronan’s chest tightened. Should he have insisted she remain inside?

  “Come on.” Brenna tugged at his arm when he slowed his step. “We’ll miss the Eucharist.”

  Not all the villagers were in the orchard. Some clung to the old gods. Some to the old deities and the One God. The few who remained behind peered at Brenna from behind the hide coverings of their windows. The less discreet stared openly at the legendary wolf-woman. Ronan sensed curiosity, but there was fear as well—fear mingled with its companion, animosity. It was especially evident in the women who gathered children into their huts as though looking upon the lady in the pale green dress might somehow bewitch them.

  Yet the cool reception didn’t seem to bother Brenna. Gone was that little girl lost who’d sought the reassurance of Ronan’s embrace that morning.

  She now waved at total strangers, calling out, “Blessed be” and “Glorious day” to any within earshot. All the while, Dara would whisper the name of the person who ducked behind a curtain and doorway … or who ventured to wave back.

  The morning sun beat warmly down on meadow grass beyond the village gates. Wildflowers of yellow, red, blue, and white adorned the spread of green waving in the gentle breeze that carried the priest’s booming voice to them.

  “I invite thee to the Lord’s Table to partake of the bread and wine in remembrance of Him and His great sacrifice for us, while we were still sinners.”

  As was their place, the guests proceeded toward the priest, who today was accompanied by twelve assistants garbed in mean gray robes. With Tarlach and Caden conspicuously absent, Rhianon led the way. Ronan pulled Brenna forward that they might take their rightful place in the fore, but she held back.

  “I will wait my turn with my people … and the young man with the dog, whom, I believe, saved my life.”

  Daniel of Gowrys and Cú stood at the edge of the crowd, watching Brenna’s approach. By the time they reached the lad, Dara had shared her opinion of the hostage. A decent enough lad, but strange. And who could blame him for keeping to himself, situated as he was amidst sworn enemies?

  But as they approached, Cú lowered his ears and growled. Daniel jerked his leather collar, and the dog sat, but it was still guarded.

  Unlike Brenna, who approached the beast with open arms. “Listen to you, now, growling on such a day as this,” she admonished the dog in a whisper. “I hold no grudge for you. Have you a name?”

  “Cú,” Daniel replied, holding it even tighter. “Careful, milady, he’s a fierce one till you get to know him.”

  “Cú,” she said to the dog in a voice that would have made Ronan roll over and do anything she asked of him.

  “Brenna—” Ronan reached for the hand she extended to the dog’s nose, but she resisted.

  “Smells are important. We are getting acquainted … aren’t we, Cú?” Though she continued to whisper, attention was turning their way down the line. “You’ve a horrid case of mange on your flank. I’ve just the thing to make it stop itching and heal. If you’re willing, that is.” The same singsong voice she used on Faol lifted the wolfhound’s ears.

  “Caw, I never,” Daniel said in wonder when Cú tentatively licked Brenna’s hand.

  Or was it the way she held the dog’s gaze with heartfelt concern that transcended words?

  To Ronan’s dismay, Brenna knelt so that the hound could have killed her with a simple snap of its powerful jaws. Instead it hunkered down and allowed her to stroke its wire-bristled fur. “How long has his fur been thinned so?” she asked Daniel.

  “Was that way when I came here, milady.”

  Brenna glanced up at Ronan. “We must get my things from home.”

  “We will, cariad.”

  “I’ve a dog suffering the same malady,” a man standing nearby spoke up. “Bites hisself bloody, he does. Hurts me to see it.”

  “Hush,” the woman next to him hissed. “’Tis witch’s magic.”

  “’Tis God’s gift of nature’s bounty, milady,” Brenna said gently. “Given for the good of His children.”

  “The same as the drawing salve you get from me for your boils, Ina.”

  Ronan turned to see Brother Martin standing next to them, flanked by Rhianon and her guests. Upon seeing Brenna’s approach, the priest left his companions in charge of the Eucharist to come to her aid.

  “Or the medicinal teas for your plaguing coughs or distressed bowels. This lady has prepared them for you for years, and I have seen that they reached those in need.”

  A murmur of surprise wafted through the crowd.

  “The church believes Lady Brenna is a gifted healer like her mother before.”

  “Her mother was a witch,” Ina said.

  “Only in my father’s fevered mind,” Ronan replied. “Ask your father, Ina, or any of the men who were present at the Witch’s End, if they sleep well at night after the wrong committed upon Tarlach’s orders.”

  “I have heard their confessions,” Martin said. “But for God’s grace, they would carry the burden of their guilt to their graves.” He canvassed the crowd with a piercing gray gaze. “You men know who you are.”

  The edge of hysteria surrounding them began to dull. Yet Ronan knew it could sharpen with a turn of phrase.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” Rhianon stared at Ronan and Brother Martin as if they’d grown horns and tails. “Are you accusing your father of senseless murder before his own people? Oh, would that my husband was here to defend him, instead of abed with the same terrible head pain as his father!”

  The lady didn’t finish her accusation, but her nurse did. “Aye, the same curse as her mother put on Tarlach.”

  Whispers and gasps rippled through the gathering throng who had abandoned the young priests and the communal wine and bread.

  “Nonsense,” Ronan countered. “Caden suffers from too much of the heath fruit last night. As for Tarlach—”

  “Superstitious nonsense.” Like a great oak seizing Heaven’s replenishment, Martin raised his clenched fists. “With God on our side we have nothing to fear. Sin and sin alone caused Tarlach’s disability, and bitterness has fed his madness. God strike me down now if I am wrong!”

  Whether the crowd believed him or whether they awaited God’s verdict, the murmurs quieted.

  “Martin is right,” Ronan said. “I was there. Father’s rage came from a spurned heart, not a just cause. But I believe that God has given Glenarden a second chance to redeem itself … through my wife.”

  “What about the prophecy?” someone called out.

  “Father only quoted part of it—the part where Glenarden will be divided,” Ronan told the onlookers. “But the most important part that you need to know is this: And bring a peace beyond the ken of your wicked soul.”

  “May I speak?” Brenna rose, a bit unsteady, and brushed off her gown. She was pale, drained from the exertion of coming out to the orchard. Yet again Ronan was struck by her determination and courage.

  “By all means, my love.”

  “The same prophecy th
at has kept you at war with my kinsmen has kept me imprisoned for twenty years, hidden away from the people God intended me to heal. I prayed for an answer to my dilemma, and He sent me Ronan, whom I love with all my heart.” Brenna linked her arm in his. “By God’s union of marriage, his people are now my people. If you be divided,” she charged, “then you are divided between continued war and the chance for peace and prosperity for all.”

  “That is easy for you to say, now that you have married into authority,” Rhianon challenged. “But do you have your people on your heart—or ours?”

  “I have the welfare of the O’Byrnes and the Gowrys on my heart, milady,” Brenna replied. “As proof, it is my hope that you, Lady Rhianon, will do me the honor to continue to run the household as you have done so well. For I am a healer and unschooled in such affairs. I wish only to serve God’s people in that capacity.”

  The thin line of Rhianon’s lips slackened with shock. Beside her, her mother, Enda, squeezed her hand. As for Idwal, Ronan couldn’t be sure. Had Brenna won Rhianon’s father over or not?

  But behind her, Keena mumbled, “The proof will be in the pie.”

  Brenna stepped up to the crone and hugged her as Brenna embraced all of life—with boundless love.

  “Then let us make—” She stepped back, a flicker of discomfiture grazing her impressive show of confidence and grace. Her glance darted to Brother Martin, then back to Keena’s impassive face. “Then let us make delicious pie, dear friend. Together as sisters of God.”

  Brother Martin raised his voice with ecumenical authority. “God be praised that on this day, we celebrate not only the Resurrection of the Christ, but the rebirth of peace and friendship between Glenarden and Gowrys. Allies for Arthur and Albion, brothers and sisters in Christ. Amen.”

  Amens scattered through the throng, but Ronan would have wished for more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brenna rolled over, half asleep, and stared in the dim light at the thick-beamed ceiling of the anteroom bedchamber next to that of Tarlach O’Byrne. Upon hearing how Rhianon and Caden had been ousted from the master bedroom on the second floor, Brenna pleaded with Ronan to move to the makeshift chapel at the rear of the hall.