“Thank you for your help, Lady Muriel,” whispered Brendan. “I am so sorry to trouble you…”
Muriel took the dry, warm fur that Alvy held out to her, and smiled briefly. “It is no trouble. We could not leave you out in that storm. But if you don’t get these wet clothes off and let us warm you, we may as well have left you there on the beach.”
He gave a slight nod. Slowly he reached up for his ragged linen tunic as if to begin pulling it off but then his head fell forward and his arms dropped back to the bed.
Quickly Muriel eased him back down. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. His skin was paler than ever, and his lips were almost blue. Most frightening of all, his shivering had stopped.
Muriel pulled her small knife from the small leather scabbard at her belt and used it to rip away the man’s wet tunic.
She started to tear open the heavy linen pants, but an indignant voice stopped her.
“My lady! You cannot!” Alvy came bustling over and lifted the knife from Muriel’s hand. “Here. Let an old servant woman get the britches off him. You go and stir the fire, and see about getting him something hot to drink.”
With some reluctance, Muriel got up from beside the unconscious Brendan. There would be no use trying to argue such a thing with Alvy, protective as she was. Muriel could only smile as she moved to the hearth, and take care to keep her back turned to the bed.
There was the ripping and tearing of old cloth. Muriel started to glance back, peering out from beneath her long, dark hair, but then quickly turned away at the sound of Alvy’s voice. “Muriel! Is the fire stirred up yet? He is still cold, so very cold!”
Muriel busied herself by placing the last two bricks of peat on the fire. She stirred the blaze with the iron poker, feeling warmth spread out from those small crackling flames.
She set down the poker and held her hands over the fire, realizing just how cold and tired she was herself. For a time she simply stood by the hearth and watched the wispy blue smoke rise up into the night through the narrow slot in the center of her dwelling’s thatched roof.
Finally she heard the rustling of a heavy wool cloak as Alvy wrapped it around the man’s unconscious form. “All done, lady! And here is another cloak and a few more sealskins to cover him with.”
Muriel turned around. The man called Brendan was tightly tucked in beneath a heavy stack of woolen cloaks and gray-brown furs flecked with black. Only his face showed in the soft light of the fire, and she was relieved to see that he did look a little better. There was a bit of color coming back to him now, and his breathing seemed to be deeper and more regular. He would live. He would recover.
She would see those strange eyes again.
With the relief of knowing he would survive came another wave of fatigue. The long time spent in the cold, wet night, the use of her powers to their greatest limit, the struggle to save a dying man—all of it seemed to catch up to her at once.
There was a familiar and gentle hand on her arm. “Come, dear one,” said Alvy. “I’ve made you a warm bed in the rushes, near mine. We’ll find him another place in the morning, and you’ll have your own good bed back.”
“Thank you, Alvy. I’m just glad he will live.”
“Oh, he will. And… Lady Muriel? I caught a glimpse of him while getting his wet clothes off. I’d say he was worth the trouble.”
Muriel smiled as she looked back at the old woman, but shook her head with some sadness. “Perhaps he is worth it for someone,” she whispered, “but I cannot dare to hope that he is what he says he is. And even if he were…”
“And what does he say he is?”
“A prince. The tanist of his people.”
“Tanist!” Alvy stared at her. “The next…king?”
Muriel shrugged. “We have no way of knowing. He could say anything, sick with cold as he is, and it could mean nothing.” She looked away. “He is only a stranger in need of help on a storm-wracked night. In the morning he will be gone. I cannot allow him to be any more to me than that.”
“Well, he is a pretty one, though,” Alvy said, glancing at him again. “And there are so few men that you could safely look to. If it’s true about who he is… then perhaps he will be worth it to you, too.”
Muriel smiled gently. “Thank you again, Alvy. Good night now.” She turned away and lay down on the furs in the rushes for what remained of the night, still seeing Brendan’s eyes as they had looked in that bright flash of lightning out in the storm.
Muriel awoke to find herself lying on the floor, nestled beneath a stack of furs in a thick pile of rushes, just as the gray light of dawn began to fill her house. For a moment she was puzzled. What was she doing sleeping in the rushes?
Then she remembered. In an instant she threw off the worn fur coverings and got to her feet. Cautiously she moved toward the bed, almost afraid to look—and then she let out her breath.
He was still there, sleeping soundly, warm and safe in her bed, snugly wrapped in her own good wool cloaks and softest sealskins. His fair skin looked normal now, warm and alive, with just a touch of redness at the cheek. His golden brown hair, cut short to the level of his chin, lay smooth and soft on the feather-stuffed linen pillow. And his breathing was light and steady, she noted as she watched the slight rise and fall of the black-flecked furs that covered him.
It was an odd feeling to see a strange man lying in her bed. Muriel reminded herself she should be glad he was alive and think no more about him—but now that she knew he would recover, her curiosity grew stronger as to exactly who and what he really was. She had told Alvy that this man was not a slave and she was surer than ever of it now.
A slave was the very lowest of men—far lower than any honest servant. A servant was simply a person not of the highborn class, a man or woman of the land willing to trade labor for the good food and dry bed and measure of protection that living in the king’s fortress would provide. But being a slave was not a matter of birth.
Only hated enemies captured in battle, or those paying for the worst of crimes, were forced to become the property of others and serve without a choice. Servants were not property—but a slave was no better than any cow or dog, to be used or traded as his master saw fit.
Looking down at Brendan’s strong and gentle face, and remembering his well-spoken words from the night before, Muriel was certain that this man was no criminal. She did not dare to hope that he might be a prince, as he had said, but he surely seemed to be an educated man of the warrior class.
Perhaps he had indeed been captured in battle, stripped of his gold and weapons and fine clothes before managing to escape…and then the sea had brought him here, to her.
Her mouth tightened. She closed her eyes. Why had the sea brought this beautiful young man to her doorstep? Already she was drawn to his handsome form and kind manner, already she felt care and concern for him after pulling him from death…and already she was forcing herself to pull away, knowing there was almost no chance that he could be one of the very few men with whom she might dare to fall in love.
Muriel found that she had started to reach out for him with one hand. She could almost feel the smooth, fair skin of his neck and the gentle pulse beneath it, warm and strong and reassuring—but she quickly clenched her fist and pulled her hand back.
Brendan must remain nothing more than a guest in need who had briefly stayed beneath her roof. If he should try to be something more than that to her, she must immediately put him in his place and keep him from her.
He could not know what she risked by allowing herself to love any man, or even by coming close to it. He could not know what had happened to the women of her family, of the curse they had endured for so many years, of the care they must take not to fall in love with any man except—
He began to stir, turning over onto his side, and Muriel quickly went over to the hearth to build up the fire once again.
Brendan, he had told her. His name was Brendan. She found the fire already glowing nicely.
On the stone ledge surrounding it were two wooden plates, well filled with hot, flat oatbread and chunks of boiled eel with a little green-black carrageen stirred in. The seaweed was not Muriel’s favorite, but Alvy insisted that it gave a person strength. Beside the plates were two wooden cups filled with fresh water hauled in from the stream outside the gates.
In a third wooden cup was a steaming hot brew whose scent she recognized. Alvy had been quite busy this morning. Muriel picked up the hot drink and moved to the bed.
Her guest now lay sprawled on his side, facing the dwelling’s white wall, his arms stretched out in utter relaxation as if this were his house and his bed. Muriel sat down on the edge of the wooden frame. “Brendan.”
There was no response—only a faint snoring sound. “Brendan,” she said again, a little louder. “Wake up. It’s dawn.”
More snoring. Carefully she reached out and placed her fingers on the warm skin of the man’s bare shoulder.
He jerked awake. In one move he rolled onto his back and reached toward her wrist—but stopped just short of touching her.
Muriel sat motionless, holding the hot drink away from the bed. “Good morning,” she managed at last. “I’m glad to see that you are still alive.”
“More than alive,” he answered, sitting up against the wall and smiling. “Once you’ve thought yourself facing certain death, every new breath is like a gift.”
Muriel stared back at him, still unmoving save for lifting one eyebrow. Those eyes of his, one light blue and one dark brown, were like something she had only imagined. But now, in the cool gray light of day, she could see that they were very real.
“And to wake up with you at my bedside is more than a gift. It is a wonder.”
“It is not something that has ever happened to anyone before, I can assure you,” Muriel answered. She looked away, studying the cup in her hand, the walls, the rushes on the floor—anything except the gaze from one blue eye and one brown. That gaze was too distracting, too full of other things she had never before contemplated.
“Oh, but I did not mean—”
“Here. Drink this.” She handed him the cup.
Brendan looked at it but kept still. “What is it?”
Muriel shrugged. “My serving woman, Alvy, knows quite a lot about herbs and such things. This will warm and strengthen you. She wanted you to have it last night, but you had already fallen asleep.”
“My apologies. The last thing I wanted to do was abuse your company, even for a moment. I—”
She held out the cup again. “Please. Drink.”
He took the offering carefully, eyed the dark and steaming liquid within, then breathed in a little of its aroma. He looked up at Muriel across the rim of the cup but made no move to imbibe.
She found herself impatient. “Let me have it. I will drink first, if you do not trust me.” She reached for the cup, but he stopped her.
“I trust you, lady. You have already done more than I can ever repay.” Smiling good-naturedly, he took a small sip, then tried not to frown at the sour taste. He took another draught, and another, and in a moment the cup was drained.
“There! I feel better already. It was very kind of Alvy to prepare such for me.”
Muriel shook her head. “She would do the same for anyone who turned upon our doorstep, cold and in need. She has been a part of my life, caring for me, as long as I can remember. I am lucky to have her.”
“And I am lucky to have you.” The man called Brendan set down the cup in the rushes beside the bed and reached for Muriel’s hand before she could pull it away. Slowly, gently, he stroked the skin of her fingers, looking at her with his strange eyes and smiling.
She stared at him, and it seemed to her that she had forgotten how to move. It was as if the warmth he had regained from sleeping in her bed, beneath her furs, beside her fire, was being returned to her now. The slow heat crept from his skin into her fingers, through her hand, up the length of her arm, and—
Muriel withdrew her hand and looked away.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.”
“You have not offended me.” Clasping her hands together, she rose from the bed and walked to the far side of the hearth, where the plates of food sat waiting.
“There must be a man in your life already,” he conjectured. “I am sorry. I should have realized that a lady of your beauty and kindness would surely have many men vying for her attention.”
She lifted the plates of food, smiling coolly at him. “There is no man in my life at all.”
“I see,” he answered after a moment, though it was plain to her that he did not.
Muriel sat down at the edge of the bed once more—a little farther back this time—and handed him one of the plates.
“Perhaps you will tell me why you have no man in your life, Lady Muriel.”
“Perhaps you will tell me why you were adrift in the storm last night, Brendan,” she countered.
He laughed. “Fair enough! I told you part of the story last night, but I will tell you all you wish to hear of my life and my predicament. You see—”
The door of the house creaked open. Alvy came in with a stack of folded clothes and woolen cloaks, topped by a pair of leather boots. The stack was so tall that she couldn’t see over it and had to peer around the side.
“Good morning to you both,” she said, elbowing the door closed. “Ah, Brendan, I am so glad to see you looking well! We feared for you last night.”
“No need to worry over me, kind lady,” he said, sitting up a little taller. “I am as indestructible as the wind, as unrelenting as the sea.”
“And as loud and braying as the gulls,” said Muriel under her breath, taking a bite of bread.
He looked over at her, seeming to have a terribly wounded expression on his face, but then she saw the twinkle in his eyes. “Now, can the simple truth be termed ’loud and braying’? Would any ordinary man have survived an ordeal such as mine, or gotten the attention of a woman like you to help rescue him?”
She looked back at him with all the coolness and calm that she could muster. “An ordinary man would not. But that could mean either that you are much more than ordinary…or much less.”
Brendan stared at her for a moment—genuinely stunned—then laughed out loud. “I can see that it will take more than words to make an impression on you. So be it! I will show you what I am made of.”
He set his plate aside and started to throw off his blankets—only to be stopped as Alvy came around the hearth and shoved the stack of clothes into his face. He fell back against the cushions. “You will show her none of what you’re made of until you’re wearing these,” she said firmly. “And after that, the king wants to see you.”
“The king? Ah, good! Then you will all hear my story. Ladies, if you would be so kind as to turn your backs, I will be ready in a moment. It’s never a good idea to keep a king waiting.”
Muriel stood outside her home in the warmth of the early summer sunshine, the sky clear blue after last night’s storm. She had combed out her long, black hair and put on a cloak. Like the one she’d worn last night, it too was dyed in her favorite shade of deep purple, and she wore it over her dark blue gown. Her bronze pin gleamed at her shoulder. Bracelets made of polished bronze beads adorned each wrist.
She was ready.
The door of the house opened, and Muriel looked up to see Brendan stepping outside. He looked nothing like the cold, pale, half-drowned man she had rescued the night before. His fair skin glowed with life and warmth, and his short golden brown hair gleamed brightly in the sun.
The clothes suited him. Though they were not fancy, the garments he wore were well made. Alvy must have gone straight to the king’s household and asked for whatever extra pieces they could spare for their unexpected guest. The pants and folded boots were of fine black leather. The linen tunic had been dyed a soft gray. The light wool cloak thrown over his shoulder was also gray, and it was pinned at his shoulder with a plain bronz
e disk.
He stood tall, so tall that the top of Muriel’s head would scarcely reach his shoulder. And as he walked toward her over the green grass, she could almost feel the great physical strength that had allowed him to survive for nearly a day and a night in his terrible battle against the storm-driven sea.
“Ah, I cannot tell you how much better I feel!” he said, breathing deeply of the sweet morning air.
“I cannot tell you how much better you look,” she murmured—with as much detachment in her voice as she could manage.
“I am so glad to hear that my appearance is pleasing to you, Lady Muriel. That alone makes my journey here worthwhile.” When she did not respond, he bent down a little as they walked, trying to catch her eye. “Most women would be pleased at hearing such a sentiment, yet you seem entirely unmoved.”
She could hear the genuine puzzlement in his voice as he finally added, “You did say you found my appearance pleasing.”
Muriel stopped then, her dark purple-blue cloak swinging around her. “I said your appearance was better. Not pleasing.” She stood looking up at him, into his shining eyes, and to her relief their strange coloring was not quite so noticeable out here in the sunlight as it had been in the fire’s glow or in the lightning.
“You must understand something, Brendan,” she explained, “I am not ’most women.’ I care nothing for how you may have dealt with other females, for I can tell you that I am not like them.”
His eyes softened a bit, though he continued to hold her gaze. “I will not ever make that mistake, Lady Muriel,” he said, then smiled. “But I hope you will allow me to tell you how lovely you look, your shining black hair and deep blue gown all set off by gleaming bronze. I am very happy that you chose to wear your best for me.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Was he serious? Or just mocking her? Or maybe it was a little of both.
Spirit of the Mist Page 2