by Sandy Blair
He caught up with the rider at the next bend. Tall to start and better mounted, Angus had little trouble knocking the man off his horse. As the warrior crashed to the roadway, his shaggy mount bolted. Angus reined in and slid to the ground.
The man scrambled to his feet, claymore weaving before him, as Angus approached on foot. Ian was by now dead and this man was the one responsible.
Panting, the man eased to the right as Angus moved left, his blade singing as it swept the air before him in fast arcs. Teeth clenched, Angus growled, “Why?” If the bastard had any sense he’d drop his sword and answer.
The man lunged, feigned left, and swung again. Angus countered, catching him with the tip of his blade. The man jumped back and looked at his torn sleeve. Defiance flashed in the man’s eyes as a smirk curled one side of his mouth. “So ye are as good as they claim.”
Christ’s blood! Had these men killed Ian just so they could brag they’d taken on Angus the Blood?
He saw red.
Sword flailing, his mind went blank. His muscles and experience took over the fight.
When he came to his senses, the man he fought lay in a bloody heap on the roadway, an arm missing, his neck severed.
Angus bowed his head and saw his own chest and legs were covered in blood. His claymore slipped from his bloody hands as his head fell back.
“Aaaaaahhh!”
~#~
Birdi’s skin prickled as pure agony echoed off the loch and rebounded off the high hills at her back. Her throat went dry. “Angus!”
She scrambled down shale and onto the roadway. “Please, Goddess, please, please dinna let it be Angus.”
Arms outstretched, she ran, head and heart reeling with the certain knowledge someone had died. “Please Goddess, please, I’ll do anything ye ask. Please, oh please.”
She stumbled, righted herself, and ran on. A moment later she saw something large lying in the road before her. Deep red was everywhere, big splotches of it scattered over the dark earth and lighter gravel of the roadway. Panting, heart threatening to make good its escape through her heaving chest, she dropped to her knees before the man. Blank brown eyes stared back at her. Who was this? ‘Twas not Angus!
Ack! She didn’t care who the man was. Her Angus was out there somewhere, and she had to find him. She scrambled to her feet, took a step, and fell, her foot caught in her hem. Furious, she wrenched her skirts up with both hands, got to her feet, and ran on only to land hard on her hands and knees.
Familiar gold and black filled her limited field of vision. “Ian? Oh, Goddess, Ian!” She crawled beside him through a pool of blood, looking for the wound. She instinctively jerked away when her hand made contact with wet stickiness. His right shoulder was soaked in blood. Leaning over him, she ran hasty fingers along his neck. She found a pulse, but it was only like that of a wee rabbit’s, too fast and weak for a man his size, not strong enough to sustain his life. Should she stay and try to save him or seek Angus? Shaking, she keened, “What to do, what to do?”
When he groaned, his need ripped through her, and the decision was made. “Ian, can ye hear me?” His head lolled toward her and stunning blue eyes stared back at her. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Tell...him...I’m...sorry.” His eyes then closed and his jaw went slack.
“Nay!” She slapped his cheek and shouted, “Listen to me! Believe. Trust in me.”
To her relief, he opened his eyes once again. They didn’t appear to see, but ‘twas enough. Would have to be.
She rocked back onto her feet and, squatting, pressed her crossed palms firmly to his shoulder, making him groan. Heart racing, she pleaded, “Mother of All, tis I, Birdi. Please, I beg ye come, and give me the strength once again. Please, Mother, please.” She closed her eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath, and waited for the tingling heat to rise, a sure sign the power was again within her.
Feeling it surge through the soles of her feet and up her legs, her heart finally slowed. Aye, ‘twas now time. “Mother of All, I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound so Ian may live.” She then crooned the auld words, the secret words of thanks and praise.
When she sensed the task done, Birdi lifted her hands from Ian’s shoulder, and felt, rather than saw, a shadow over her where none should be.
Battling the mind-bending pain surging through her, she looked up. Angus’s stark white face stared back.
Arms slack at his side, he dropped to his knees beside her. “Nay.”
Her heart breaking, kenning he’d witnessed it all, she whispered, “I feared ye’d hate me. If ye kenned...”
Her world turned black.
Angus, his eyes locked on the scarlet stain blooming across Birdi’s shoulder, barely managed to catch her before her head hit the ground. “Merciful Mother of God, please tell me this isn’t happening.”
He’d never given credence to the tales of cailleaches, brehons and bandrui. Hell, he barely gave credence to Saint Brigid, the patron saint of the Highlands. Yet try as he may he couldn’t deny what his eyes had seen and his ears had heard. And he didn’t want to believe. He wanted Birdi to be normal, just an odd, orphaned beauty. No secrets, no powers, no fears. Normal.
Blood continued to spread across Birdi’s chest as the wind rushed across the loch. He felt cold tracks slide down his cheeks. Was his beautiful Birdi now dying?
Please, God, no.
He looked at his fallen friend still lying in a pool of blood. His jerkin remained slashed and soaked with blood, as was the once snow-white shirt beneath, yet as Ian looked back at him from clear blue eyes, his skin was returning to almost normal color when not a moment ago it had been ashen. His expression was as shocked as Angus suspected his own now was.
“She’s a cailleach.”
Struggling into a sitting position, Ian nodded. “Aye. Now put pressure on her wound.”
Why hadn’t he thought of that? Angus pressed his hand down on Birdi shoulder, feeling wet warmth—Birdi’s life—beneath his palm. His stomach roiled. Oh dear God, his poor wee Birdi. Her being Pagan wasn’t bad enough, God? Ye had to make her a cailleach as well? Ack!
At Angus’s side, Ian wavered a bit and had to use his arms to brace himself. “Are the bastards dead?” Angus nodded. “But it happened again. I saw ye lying here, thinking ye dead, and...”
He didn’t explain further. Ian had seen him lose control—become a berserker—once before; they’d come upon a group of Hessians raping two French women years ago.
Ian nodded in understanding, apparently unfazed, and then looked about. “We need to dress her wounds. Where’s my horse?”
Angus shrugged. If there was any logic left in the world the cattle were together. He whistled. A moment later Rampage thundered up the road with Ian’s black gelding at his back.
Ian staggered to his feet, grabbed his mount’s reins, and tied him to a tree. “He isna as cooperative as yer beast.” Ian routed around in the bag behind his saddle and pulled out a fine silk shirt. As he walked back, he tore it into strips. “Take her cape off, and let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
Angus undid the clasp at Birdi’s breast and slipped the cape from her shoulders. Above the gown’s wide scoop neck, he saw the top of the weeping scarlet slash. With his gut feeling like it was full of glass shards, he eased her arms out of the brocade. Ian held Birdi upright and Angus lifted the gown over her slack body. He pushed the sheer cotton shift off her shoulder, exposing the whole oozing gash, and shuddered. It was a good six inches in length. He could see bone.
Ian cleared his throat. “‘Tis not so bad.”
Angus glared at his friend.
Together they cleaned the wound and bound Birdi about the chest and right shoulder. Her shift and gown back in place, Angus cradled her to his chest. As he rocked side to side with her, he said, “We’re only a few miles from Clachan. I know of a kirk there where we can seek shelter for the night.”
“Good. Come morn, ‘tis only a day’s ride to Inveraray. We can seek refuge with the Duke of Argyll
until she recoups.” After a minute Ian added, “Ye need to think about riding straight for Blackstone.”
Angus brushed the loose strands from Birdi’s face. Looking at her, wishing with all his heart that she would open her eyes, he said, “We canna. First, it’s an arduous trek and she’s in no condition to make it, and second, Blackstone has a zealot for a priest. He’ll drive her wode in an effort to convert her.” Why his liege hadn’t tossed the fanatic glutton out of Drasmoor years ago was beyond Angus’s understanding. “And if he ever saw her lay on hands...
Ian flexed his injured shoulder. “Listen to me. We can take a boat across Loch Awe at Portsonchan, which will cut off a good two-day’s ride, then head due west. As for Fat John, who says he needs to know what she is.”
“Ye think he’ll not grow suspicious when she doesn’t attend vespers? When she refuses to confess before him? The man isna an idiot.” Fat John had given Lady Beth headaches too numerous to count when she’d first arrived and the woman was Christian and worldly, unlike his Birdi.
“We’ll make excuses for her until we can come up with something else.”
Angus grunted. Birdi didn’t know the Holy Ghost from a kelpie—would nay doubt trip herself up within a week—and God only knew what would happen then. Ack. “How is yer shoulder?”
“Ye’ll not believe it.” He shrugged off his jerkin and opened his shirt lacings for Angus to see.
Ian’s wound—identical to the one Birdi now bore—was miraculously on the mend. Though beyond belief, Angus no longer wondered how Birdi had come by her many scars.
Rising, he growled, “Let’s get out of here.”
~#~
Their footsteps echoed throughout Clachan kirk’s frigid nave as Angus and Ian walked toward the altar. Ian, dirk in hand, murmured, “‘Tis empty.”
Angus shifted Birdi in his arms. “Thank God.” Birdi had been crying out in her sleep, much as she had after she’d tended Kelsea and the babe she’d found in the mews. There’d be no explaining it to a stranger. “Make a pallet for her there.” He nodded toward the raised dais.
Ian snatched the cloth from the marble altar, hauled down a tapestry hanging to the right of a shallow alcove, and pulled the cushions from three tall, heavily carved chairs stationed to the left of the altar. After he’d laid them out, Angus lowered Birdi and covered her with Ian’s great cloth of plaid. He then sat next to her and took one of her cool hands in his. He turned it over and rubbed a thumb over the calluses dotting her palm.
“Ye’ve not had an easy time of it, have ye, lass?”
And matters were likely to get worse. Ian was right. They needed to make for Blackstone. Castle Blackstone was an isle fortress. Ensconced within its walls, Birdi couldn’t come to harm again. More importantly, she’d never be alone again. The priest he would deal with in some way.
And what of his wager with Duncan, and the lass who waited at Beal? He hissed through clenched teeth. Mayhap, if he looked pathetic enough—if he raised his wager to a full year’s salary—Duncan would concede to giving him another fortnight to bring home a proper chatelaine bride. If Duncan would, he—Angus the Blood—might still be able to gain Donaliegh and his chiefship. And if he failed...hell, he’d already grown accustomed to starving.
He ran a finger along Birdi’s lush lower lip. But to make it all work, he had to prepare her.
“Ian, find me some holy water.”
Birdalane Shame was about to be baptized into the One True Faith.
Chapter 17
Birdi sat, shoulders sore, in a tall chair by a warm fire in a small, darkly paneled room. She pulled the soft blanket about her and warily eyed Angus as he spread their supper of bread and fish before them.
She’d been told when she awoke just an hour ago that they were now in Inveraray, in the home of a man named Argyll. Unable to tolerate the suspense any longer, she asked, “Are ye angry with me?”
“Nay. Mayhap disappointed that ye’d not trusted me enough to confide in me, but not angry. Ye did, after all, save Ian’s life.”
Aye, there was that. “Thank ye for taking care of me. Again.” He’d been most solicitous, despite her keeping him awake for two nights running as she raved and thrashed.
He pulled an angle iron out of the fire and stuck it in the tankard he held. A moment later he handed her warmed ale and honey. “Ye’re welcome, but ye ken I canna tolerate any more secrets. Ye need to be honest with me. And I want yer promise that ye’ll stop doing whatever it is ye do to bring yerself to harm.”
“‘Tis not as if I seek the sick and dying, Angus.” When the need came, it came, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
“I’ll not pretend to ken any of this, but I do ken that ye do...whatever ye do...with a pure heart. Unfortunately, too many will not look upon yer...” He waved his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Healing?” she offered.
“Aye, healing, with the favor I view it.”
“Ah.” No great surprise there, she supposed. The Macarthurs feared her, so why wouldn’t others? “And now what?”
He knelt before her so his eyes were close and level with hers and took her hands in his. She sighed. He had such lovely hands, broad and warm with such bonnie long fingers. Calloused, they held hers gently and made her feel safe.
“I’m taking ye home.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Ye’re taking us back to the glen?” She threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, thank ye, thank ye!” She kissed him then, hoping her lips could express the pure joy she felt within. Oh, she truly loved Angus the Canteran, and he obviously loved her. He wasn’t angry after kenning what she truly was, had even called her pure of heart. Aye, she loved her Angus. They could live together...
To her surprise, he gently pried her arms away.
“Birdi, we’ll not be going to yer glen, but to my home, Castle Blackstone.”
“Oh.” Disappointment landed with a thud in her chest. Like a hot coal it burned a hole within her breast. “But why?”
He cleared his throat. “With my people ye’ll be safe and ye’ll never be alone again.”
“I see.” Her throat burned, realizing she’d misunderstood. He didn’t feel as she did, didn’t experience the same joy at their touching, listening to the other speak. He didn’t want her, but only felt obligated to keep her safe.
Feeling much akin to how she’d felt handing over Wee Angus to Kelsea, she clasped her hands in her lap. “Ye dinna ken how it is, Angus. Yer clan will take one look at me and turn away just as the Macarthurs do.”
He placed his hands on either side of her face. “Birdi, they’ll not turn away, because I’ll teach ye what ye need to ken to be one of us.”
“But my eyes...”
He frowned. “What about them?”
“They’ll ken me—what I am—by my eyes.”
“Birdi, though unique, yer eyes are beautiful. So bonnie, in fact, my heart nearly stopped the first time I saw them.”
She shook her head, not believing a word, for if his heart had nearly stopped, he’d feel as she did. He’d be taking her home, and they’d share her croft and swim and...
“Birdi, ask Ian. Ye trust him. He’ll tell ye the same.”
She studied his eyes, so wondrously blue and kind. Poor man, he did believe what he said, but she kenned better. She’d seen her truth in a looking glass.
Forcing a smile, she asked, “So, what do I need to learn?”
He suddenly grinned. “That’s the brave lass.” He kissed the tip of her nose then rose. Pacing, he said, “First ye need to ken manners. We are, after all, in the house of a duke. We can deal with prayers and the like later.”
As he droned on, pacing and gesturing before her, Birdi patted her pocket. Aye, ‘twas still there, her missive to Tinker. She’d post it on the morrow. Tonight and until Tinker could come for her, she need only humor the handsome Canteran who apparently still loved his hale Mary.
~#~
Beneath the flight of circling and squawk
ing gulls, Angus led Birdi, dressed in a borrowed gown—hers was still having the blood washed out of it—through the streets of Inveraray. As he described the fishing boats and catches, explained the local lore, he watched men watch her.
He hadn’t wanted to take her out, but she’d insisted, claiming she needed to buy a necessity. Never having lived with a woman, but knowing they had odd rituals and a monthly flow they called “the flowers” he thought better of arguing with her. Besides, if she traveled about and none shouted, Witch! she might finally believe she wasn’t so visibly different from her peers. Unfortunately, she was lovely and people did stare, but then, she didn’t notice, being so blind.
Stopping before a shop bearing a sign with a thistle, Angus handed her a coin. “This should get whatever ye need. I’ll wait by the door. Should ye have any trouble, any at all, just call.”
Biting her bottom lip, Birdi mumbled, “Thank ye.” She then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and chin high entered the shop. He smiled. No one would ever ken she wasn’t a lady of high birth.
After a few minutes she came out carrying two sugarplums.
“Did ye get what ye needed?”
She handed him one of the sweets and three bodles. “I did what I needed to do. Can we go back to the keep now?”
What was amiss? Why didn’t she appear happy after her first successful barter? “Are ye sure? There’s a market ye might enjoy.”
“I’m sure.”
“Verra well.” He placed a hand at her waist and turned her up the hill. As they passed an alehouse a bawdy female shouted, “Drop her home and come back to me, handsome!”
Birdi grew roots in the roadway. Frowning, she asked, “Who’s that?”
“Just a paikie.”
“A what?”
He leaned closer so she could hear him over the woman’s continued catcalls, the gulls, and the rumbling wagons. “A trull, ye ken, a prostitute.”
Birdi nodded and pursed her lips. “And what is she to ye?”