Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  “Angus MacGillivray,” she whispered, not daring to believe ’twas the truth.

  “Aye, Edana, ’tis I. I am returned.”

  But the old woman could not always tell the difference betwixt her sightings of this world and the other. And this knight was so clear to her, so sharply defined, that she doubted her failing vision saw him in truth.

  It could well be yearning alone that prompted this sighting. Aye, Angus might be newly dead, leagues away, his shade having come to say farewell when he could not. One heard of such visits.

  She had to be certain.

  Dreading what she would feel, she reached out one shaking hand to touch the man before her. She planted a fingertip cautiously upon the place she perceived his chest to be, half expecting her hand to slide through him.

  He might have been wrought of stone. He did indeed stand before her. She began to shake with the force of her relief. She laid the flat of her trembling hand upon the knight and felt her tears rise at the thunder of his pulse beneath her palm.

  Her boy was finally home, against all odds and expectations.

  He stood silently before her, neither stepping away nor sweeping her into an embrace. Of course, Angus had never been an affectionate boy, never one to initiate a touch, though he would not spurn one offered. ’Twas so like him and as compelling evidence of his presence as the heat of him beneath her palm.

  “Angus. Home.” She shook her head and looked upon his beloved face. She reached for him with her other hand.

  He caught her tightly against his chest, just as she had expected, just as she had hoped.

  “Aye.” His breath was a welcome heat against her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned against his strength, trembling inwardly that this gift should be hers. Overcome by his presence and his embrace, she wept upon him as never she permitted herself to weep, uncaring of anything else. “I am finally home, Edana.”

  His utterance of that name made her eyes fly open. She pulled back and stared at him, seeking something in his gaze but not finding it there. He smiled slightly at her, a wary man encountering an old woman, one of no blood but as familiar as an aunt. She was not surprised by this, though she was surprised by the weight of her resulting disappointment. What else had she expected of him?

  Indeed, was it not better thus?

  Angus shook her shoulders slightly when she did not speak, humor unexpected in his words. “Did you not see me coming? There was a time when you knew all before anyone else could believe ’twould be true.”

  She pushed away, uncertain what to do with the maelstrom of emotion loosed within her. “Aye, I did, you rogue, but I saw not your face.” She straightened and scolded him, for lack of a better choice. “Indeed, I would not have recognized it if I had. What have you done to yourself, lad? What folly has cost you an eye?”

  His features set. “Naught of import.”

  “A lie if ever I heard one,” she retorted, though she was content to leave him his privacy for now. He would tell her, if ’twas intended for her to know, in his own time.

  Stubborn like his father, that was Angus MacGillivray.

  She swatted him, and he winced, though her feeble blow could not have wounded him. “I have learned to expect little good of knights. You have given me a fright, Angus.”

  He inclined his head slightly, probably not realizing the startling resemblance to his father in that one gesture. “You have my apologies.” He stepped back then and she saw that he was not alone. A companion rode with him, that man’s horse nudging against the knight’s great destrier.

  But the stallion’s saddle was not empty. A woman sat there, a woman bound and blindfolded and shivering, though whether ’twas with fear or cold was unclear. The old woman spared a glance to Angus, who watched her carefully.

  “What is this?” she demanded, fearful suddenly of his intent.

  “I seek sanctuary for a few days.”

  Her mouth went dry. “What have you done, lad? What do you want of me? Who is this woman?”

  “She is the key to my vengeance.”

  “Has she a name?”

  “Not to you.”

  She stared at him, willing the truth to fall from his lips, but if ever she had been able to accomplish that feat, she could no longer. He was no longer the boy she had known, and the realization was most troubling.

  She lifted her chin. If Angus meant to keep his secrets, then she would keep her own. But she would not aid him in whatever scheme he had made for this woman.

  “’Twould be rude to deny hospitality to any who come to one’s door in the night. Make your bed where you will,” she said curtly, and turned back into the hut.

  “The woman is injured.” Angus spoke as if he did not realize she was annoyed with him. “I had hoped you might tend her.”

  She turned to meet his gaze. “Is that all you seek of me?”

  “Nay.” That hint of a smile touched his lips. “I come also for the truth.”

  The old woman caught her breath, wondering whether he knew what he asked of her. He could not, for he made no effort to offer the truth himself. “If ’tis meant to be known, the truth will unfurl itself in its own time.” Before he could reply, she bent to coax her fire to life. “Send the nameless woman to the well, if you would have her tended.”

  “She cannot walk. ’Tis her ankle is injured.”

  “Then bring her there, for I cannot bear her weight.”

  Angus said naught more, but turned and left her alone. She gathered her herbs and her cane, a length of cloth and the lantern, then made her way toward the spring. Indeed, she might benefit herself from a visit there this night, for her own joints ached most painfully.

  She hoped those aches were not a portent of whatever Angus brought to her door.

  Jacqueline jumped when Angus removed her blindfold. Here was the moment she dreaded! He plucked her from the saddle, his expression impassive, then cradled her in his arms. He said naught but strode down the slope of the land in pursuit of an old woman.

  That must be whose voice Jacqueline had heard, whose words she had not been able to discern. Her heart thundered with fear of what these two had planned.

  ’Twas much darker now and clouds were gathering overhead. She tried to guess how long it had been since she had been captured and knew only that it had been earlier on this same day. ’Twas perhaps close to the dinner hour now, for her belly had its complaints to make as well. Aye, and she was thirsty.

  Not that that was of any import.

  In the distance a wolf howled mournfully, its call quickly echoed by more of its kind. Even knowing of the predators’ presence, she wished she had succeeded in her escape. She would have survived, for Duncan had taught her much of this land’s bounty. She had once known which roots to eat and thought she could remember the better part of that instruction.

  She could have, if necessary, hunted with little more than her belt and her patience, as Duncan had taught her.

  Indeed, ’twas reassuring to think of her stepfather, who was never troubled by whatever the world cast into his path. She let the memory of his sensible advice echo through her thoughts and found herself calmed.

  ’Twas then that she noticed the rags.

  Jacqueline stared. The rapidly sinking sun sent golden rays through the leaves of the trees, gilding the tree trunks and illuminating thousands of dangling rags.

  For a moment, Jacqueline thought they could not be real, for both Angus and the woman acted as if they did not even see them. She watched as the lengths of cloth rippled in the breeze. They twisted and turned, strange ornaments to the trees.

  There were thousands of them, in all colors and all states of disintegration. Some were clean and new, as if just dyed and torn from a length of cloth. Some were woven in a pattern, most were plain. Some were so ancient that they looked as if they would crumble at the merest touch.

  Jacqueline could not imagine why they were hung this way. Was this the site of some strange pagan rite? Were these toke
ns of sacrificed victims? Her imagination ran wild.

  There was something odd about the place, perhaps the hue of the sunlight playing amidst rags, perhaps the unexpectedly vivid green of the moss below, perhaps the comparative silence. It seemed that the forest held its breath in this tranquil glade. She heard a trickle of water falling, though she could not see it anywhere.

  Jacqueline saw naught, naught but rags and moss and distant shadows. She realized now that the glade dipped like a bowl, albeit one with rippled edges, thus fostering the illusion that the rags hung into the distance.

  It seemed that not so much as a bird moved, and the echo of Angus’s footfalls seemed unnaturally loud. The old woman’s passage was silent. The sunlight twinkled abruptly gold and Jacqueline realized that the sun was on the very horizon. Soon ’twould be dark. What wickedness would befall her here on this night?

  The old woman halted on the lip of a hollow, her fingers shaking as she relit the lantern that she carried, which had blown out as they walked. The flame leaped in the oil just as the sunlight died, making the woman look like a gnarled gnome. Jacqueline started, even as Angus set her down on the lip of a dark pool. He undid her bonds and she rubbed her hands together cautiously, restoring the feeling but not wanting to be so lively that he was tempted to truss her anew.

  “Remember the wolves,” he whispered, then gave her a hard look. Jacqueline blinked at him, fearing that she would be abandoned in the woods defenseless by his choice.

  But Angus stepped away, leaving her alone with the woman.

  What was this? He strode away, without a backward glance. He had not so much as touched her! Jacqueline frowned, then turned to stare at the woman.

  The old woman smiled calmly. Her face was lined and her skin was tanned dark, her back was crooked and the hand braced upon her walking stick was gnarled. A twinkle lit her eye, the sight of it banishing Jacqueline’s fear of any malicious intent.

  “And how have you injured yourself?” she asked, her voice a thick burr of Gael.

  “In fleeing adversity.”

  There was a sound that might have been a chuckle from Angus. Jacqueline could not guess how far he had retreated, for the happy burble of the spring disguised the sound of his footsteps. She twisted around and caught one last glimpse of his tabard before he disappeared as surely as if he had never been.

  She shivered, certain she could yet feel the weight of his gaze upon her. What game did he play?

  “So you come to the cloutie well for a cure?” the old woman demanded. “Or do you come to seek the legendary healing powers of Edana herself?”

  Understanding dawned. Angus had brought her to one who could tend her ankle. It seemed he did indeed intend to keep her whole.

  For whatever his dark plan might be.

  “I know naught of cloutie wells or even of Edana, however great her fame,” Jacqueline admitted. “And I did not arrive here of my own volition.”

  That nigh made the woman smile. “No doubt, no doubt,” she murmured, then winked conspiratorially before continuing in a louder voice. “My fame is considerable, make no mistake of that. There were times when all came to hear the wisdom of Edana, to press trinkets into her hands that she might peer into the future days at their behest.” She frowned, her gaze slipping over the well with evident sadness. “There were days.”

  The old woman lowered herself carefully to a rock, then sighed, her features looking suddenly careworn. She laid her walking stick aside and cracked her knuckles, the sound echoing loudly.

  Jacqueline bit her lip, uncertain whether it would be best to change the subject or respect the old woman’s silence. She had the sense that she might make an ally here and did not want to give insult.

  Finally, though, her curiosity had the better of her. “What is a cloutie?”

  Edana fixed her with a sharp gaze. “These are clouties hanging in the glen, as any child of a Celt should know.”

  Jacqueline dropped her gaze, instinctively disliking how quickly her roots were discerned. Still she had to know. “Why?”

  “They have been dipped in the healing waters of the well, then wrapped about the wounds of many. When wounds are healed, the once-wounded return to surrender their cloutie and give thanks to the lady of the well.”

  “And you are the lady of the well?”

  The woman laughed, a dry cackle that made her wheeze. She coughed heartily, wiped a tear from one eye, then looked hard at Jacqueline. “You are not from hereabouts, are you, lass?”

  “Ceinn-beithe. ’Tis near enough.”

  The woman watched her intently. “Yet occupied by foreigners ’tis said, a family from abroad who might know little of the tales of these lands.”

  “I know many of the tales, for Duncan has told me!”

  “Ah, but every Celt child knows of the lady of the well, the guardian of the waters and the keeper of great secrets. I am not the lady of the well, lass, for she is greater and wiser and older than any of us mere mortals. I am naught but Edana, a simple healer long in her service.” The woman smiled wryly. “But any Celt could tell you as much as that.”

  “My stepfather says we are all Celts, in some strain or another, for the Celts once held all the lands clear to Rome and left many a round belly in their wake.”

  Edana chuckled. “So, you are the stepchild of a wise man.”

  “And he is proudly a Celt.”

  She laughed then, a hearty ripple that tempted Jacqueline to join her despite her woes. Edana, though, offered naught even when her laughter, and then her smile, faded.

  She but watched Jacqueline and waited.

  “’Tis true enough that I was not born here, just as ’tis true that I love this land more than my own. Indeed, I think of it as my own,” Jacqueline argued with quiet resolve. “Will you deny me aid by accident of my birth alone?”

  The woman watched her, eyes dark, expression unfathomable. “You know little of healers either, lass, for ’tis not our way to deny anyone the aid which they seek.”

  “Will you tend my ankle? ’Tis true that I have twisted it.”

  Edana cocked her head. “What will you surrender in exchange?”

  Jacqueline opened her mouth then closed it quickly again. In truth, she had not expected to be asked such a question. “You may have my shoes, or my belt.”

  Edana shook her head. “Of what value are these fripperies to an old woman living alone in the woods?”

  “You might simply like to have it.”

  “I might not.”

  “I have no jewelry...”

  “I have no need of worldly gems.”

  They stared at each other, the lantern flickering between them. Jacqueline felt as if she guessed a riddle, one to which she was given few clues. “I do not know what you desire of me.”

  The woman leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “What of a tale?”

  “But any Celt will surely know all the best tales already and indeed would not desire to hear them told by a foreigner.”

  Edana laughed and shook a finger at Jacqueline. “You do know much of Celts, after all!”

  “Aye, my stepfather is a great teller of tales. I could not tell a one of them as well as he, but I would try, if ’tis your pleasure.”

  Edana’s expression turned mischievous. “What of your tale, lass? ’Tis no Celt tale you can sully, of that I am certain.”

  “’Tis not much of a tale.” And Jacqueline suspected ’twas likely to have a poor ending.

  “’Tis probably more of a tale than you imagine it to be, and one that only you can truly tell. No matter how trite ’tis, ’twill do, for binding an ankle is not such great labor even for an old woman.”

  “I thank you.”

  Edana abruptly looked up at Jacqueline, appearing as pert as a sparrow. “I would not show such haste in thanking me.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “The ankle is not yet repaired. And we have yet to discover whether ’tis truly only aid for that ankle that you desire of me.”r />
  Jacqueline blinked that her objectives might be so readily guessed. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Do you not, lass? Do you not?” Edana fired a shrewd glance at Jacqueline. “You find yourself in danger, lass, and before this is done, you will seek my aid.”

  Jacqueline held her tongue, as she was as yet uncertain she could trust this woman so evidently allied with Angus.

  “You have a tale to tell, lass, I would wager my soul upon it, and doubtless you have a name as well.” Before Jacqueline could reply, Edana cleared her throat and leaned toward the surface of the water. “Come, come. Let us beg the aid of the lady of the well in healing your wound. Of course, a Celt would need no such warning, but I would not suggest you mock either her powers or her presence.”

  She was naught to him, Angus reminded himself. Naught but a tool to win his objective. It mattered little what she told Edana and what Edana told her, for ’twas not simple to find the old woman’s dwelling in the woods and his captive would never be able to retrace their steps.

  Still, he halted halfway back to Rodney and listened to the distant music of the maiden’s voice. He could not hear her words, and he wondered what she confided in the old woman. She laughed and he glanced back for a fleeting moment before he turned and trudged onward.

  Angus had no right to want to hear whatever she told Edana. Her woes were not his own. Nay, he had responsibilities on this night: a tired and wet horse to tend, wet garb of his own to tend, a meal of some kind to prepare.

  The woman was no more than a burden to be borne until Airdfinnan was his own again. She did not have so much as a name, as far as he was concerned. He did not care where she had been going or why, whom she was intended to wed or what she thought of that man. He knew he should be relieved to abandon her to Edana, if only to avoid the horror in her eyes each time she looked upon his ravaged face.