Barbara Leigh Read online

  Drojan was torn between telling Guthrie that he saw no indication of Rory’s death in the Runes, and rejoicing that there would be no more raids on English soil, which would cost lives that could ill afford to be lost. The seer glanced at the Runes once more. If Rory was indeed alive, he would surely find some way to return to his home. To wage war on the English in the hope of finding him was to invite disaster. He decided to keep his counsel as Guthrie wavered between grief and hope before coming to a decision. “I ask that you go in peace to bring back my brother’s remains.”

  Drojan bowed his head, silently accepting the assignment, as Guthrie continued. “There was a boy. A male child with dark hair and even features—well fed and bright,” Guthrie mused. “Rory expressed an interest in him. He said he wanted the boy. I will take the child into my house in memory of my brother. I will raise him and to him I will give all I would bestow upon my brother’s son, and until such day as my lady wife, Damask, gives me a child of my own, this boy will be my heir.”

  Drojan took a deep breath. “It is good,” he pronounced. “Rory will rejoice when the gods tell him how you have honored his memory.”

  Within minutes Guthrie had gone to search for the boy Rory had favored, but Drojan remained within his magic circle and stared at the Runes. What he saw bothered him more than he wished to admit, for the rune that he knew to be his personal symbol stood out predominantly and it was challenged by the symbol of a female crossed by the sign of Woden. Never had he seen such a lay of the Runes and it unnerved him to think that Woden might have decided to disrupt Drojan’s life by sending a woman emissary.

  Scooping up the Runes, he returned them to the bag and destroyed the circle. As he left the building his eyes searched the faces of the village women. Which of them might have been chosen by the war god of the North, and how would Drojan recognize her? Sometimes he wished he had not been given the powers that had catapulted him to the most respected and sought-after authority in Corvus Croft. It was a heavy burden to bear knowledge of the future, especially when the future concerned oneself.

  * * *

  Voices drifted through Rory’s mind. Women’s voices, soft and comforting, and one disturbing in its hint of sensuality. The sensual voice caused him to fight the darkness of unconsciousness and try to open his eyes and return to the world of the living. But the world of the living was a world of heat and pain. It was the pain that convinced him that he was not dead, although the features of the woman that swam before his eyes seemed lovely enough to be those of the Valkyries of which his friend Drojan spoke.

  Though he clamped his lips tightly shut, Rory sometimes heard his own voice calling out against the pain and fever. Then blessed moisture touched his lips and warmth seeped down his throat. His mind returned from the passages of the past and he fought to hear and understand the words bandied above his head. English voices, speaking English words. He must hold to his consciousness long enough to discover his whereabouts and, hopefully, the fate that awaited him.

  “He has said nothing that would give us the name of his village,” the sensuous voice said. “He calls for a woman named Brunda, but hers is the only name he has uttered.”

  “We will stay with him. He may yet give us the information we need,” the other voice responded.

  A cool hand touched his brow. “He is burning with fever. If we cannot break it he will die, and we’ll never know from whence he came.”

  The hand slipped down beneath his ear. The voice, no longer sensuous, cried out, “His neck is swollen. Here!”

  “God save him, the poison has gone into his body. We must soak him in tepid water and bring the fever down as quickly as possible, else he will die.”

  Rory wanted to scream as he was dragged from the bed and lowered into a tub of water that seemed more icy than the winter streams. Too weak to fight, he remained still, suffering in silence. To his amazement, in only a matter of minutes the water did not seem so cold and his mind fought to clear itself. It was then he first realized that his life was forfeit should he, in his delirium, call out the name of his village. He must fight to keep from entering delirium again, though the effort drained his body of his last vestige of strength.

  If he hoped to survive he could not give these people the information they desired. And survive he would, if only long enough to look upon the woman with the cool hands and the sensuous voice. A woman he linked to the sea nymph he had held in his arms just before he was struck down. As the lovely body floated in the eye of his memory, Rory relaxed.

  “We must put compresses on the swelling in his neck,” Old Ethyl said as she soaked a cloth with the liquid before handing it to Serine.

  “It will be impossible to tell whether the swelling has gone down with his beard in the way,” Serine fussed. “There is nothing for it but to take care of his facial hair.”

  Rory heard the woman’s remark. He was proud of his beard. As with all Celts, his beard was the symbol of his manhood. Thick and rich and luxuriant, he wore it well and washed and combed it often. And although he trimmed it regularly, he had not been without facial hair since puberty. It boded well for him that the woman who had his care appreciated the virility indicated by his beard. He felt gentle hands brush the hair on his cheeks and he drifted into sleep as a feeling of well-being overcame him.

  A well-being that Serine did not share, for she knew what she was about to ask Old Ethyl might well bring about the end of their friendship. Steeling herself against the reluctance that slipped insidiously through her body, Serine managed to form her request.

  “Ethyl, shortly after you came here as a bride, you mentioned a mixture of herbs you had learned from a woman in the land of your youth. Do you remember?”

  Old Ethyl closed her eyes. “Yes, I remember. I remember all too much, and all too well.” She remembered the kindly woman who had spent her life concocting harmless potions that made life happier and easier for those around her, only to come upon a mixture so potent it all but brought the dead back to life, and ultimately brought down the wrath of the other healers, who coveted the recipe.

  The woman did not know how to write, and made her brew with a handful of this and a pinch of that. All good herbs from God’s own garden. Gladly she gave the others the names of the herbs she used, but she was unable to give the exact measure and their potions were useless, and more than useless...deadly.

  In anger and frustration the unsuccessful healers accused the woman of witchcraft and she was burned in her little hut along with her herbs and her secret.

  “If this man came from the land of which you spoke, perhaps that mixture might cure him more quickly than the simple things we have available.”

  “It is against the law to make that brew,” Ethyl said without meeting her eyes.

  “But you have done so, Ethyl.” Serine turned her steady gaze on the woman. “If you have some of the mixture, I beg you let us use it to make this man well so that he can lead me to Hendrick.”

  Ethyl walked over to the window. “I saw the bitter brew made many times. She would take powdered wormwood, and a pinch of myrrh and saffron. To that she would add senna leaves and camphor. Then came such herbs as manna, the roots of rhubarb, zedoary, carline thistle and—” her voice faded to a whisper “—angelica.”

  “But there is nothing poisonous or sinister in those ingredients. We use them all the time for one thing or another,” Serine mused aloud. “Was it in the way she prepared them?”

  “The herbs are placed in a container half-filled with fruit spirits and set out in the warmth of the sun. You are right. There is nothing sinister or magical about it. As she did with all her herbs, when she worked she recited her ingredients in a singsong voice. Some of the other healers felt they could improve on her concoction and tried adding herbs and berries. The additives did more harm than good and people became ill rather than being cured. A woman died after taking what was said to be the exact duplication of the recipe. They went after the healer who had made the original brew
. They accused her of being a witch and burned her. It was believed her recipe was lost with her, and an edict was handed down that no one was to experiment with her concoction on pain of death. That edict has never been lifted.”

  “But surely it was only in the land where you lived,” Serine argued, sensing that her only hope of saving the Celt’s life was slipping away.

  “The edict was accepted by pagan and Christian alike, and the punishment ultimately the same regardless of the name of the god they worshiped.”

  “Ethyl, for the love of that God, please help me to save this man and find my son.” There were tears in Serine’s eyes. “I know how greatly this request must disturb you. Still, I must ask it.”

  Ethyl’s hands shook. “You cannot know unless you could have heard the woman’s dying screams. You cannot know the fear I have felt each time I did more than make tea from the herbs I gathered. Yet I know that herbs are capable of doing more good than harm and I could not allow the knowledge she bequeathed to me to be lost in the flames that took her life.”

  Serine went to her, placing her hands on Ethyl’s arms. “Do not let the knowledge be lost. Let it be used to save lives, as it was meant to do. I will take full responsibility and swear that I made the potion myself.”

  “There is no need for you to do that, although it would be true. For the herbal remedy we make that is bitter to the tongue is the same brew that cost my mother her life.”

  Serine gave a little gasp, but before she could express her horror at Ethyl’s revelation, the older woman added, “Use your skill to keep him alive, and I will return with the elixir that will, with God’s help, make him well.” Old Ethyl started toward the door. “I will be back to help you remove him from the water. In the meantime, you can deal with his beard in your own way.”

  Old Ethyl glanced at her mistress. There was something about Serine that seemed to indicate curiosity rather than concern. Was the younger woman interested in the man’s appearance? Surely not! This was a Celt. An enemy! One of the men who had stolen Serine’s son. Yet the features above the beard were strong and even. The man might be handsome, for all that he was a Celt.

  With hope beating in her heart Serine turned back to the Celt and, to her horror, saw that he was watching her with eyes as black and deep as the depths of hell. She could not help but wonder how much he had understood and how much he would be able to remember when his fever had passed. She listened closely as his jumbled words became discernible.

  “The name of the village,” she whispered. “What is the name of your village? Why do you want to steal children? Have you none of your own?”

  “Dead!” The Celt choked on the word. “All dead from plague.” His voice broke and his breath came in ragged gasps.

  “Tell me the name of your village and I will go there and cure them, just as I will cure you of your fever and heal your wound,” Serine soothed.

  “We must save the village,” he panted. “Without children, we will be lost. We must break the curse!”

  Serine crossed herself. “Curse?”

  “No children born since the plague...women barren. Must take children...” Exhaustion overcame him and he fell silent.

  * * *

  The sky darkened and the fire crackled against the chill of night. The pungent odor of herbs permeated the room, clearing the air of the scent of sickness, leaving the fresh smell of cleanliness with a hint of marigold ointment as Serine sat back and inspected her work.

  She had not expected the Celt’s skin to be so fair beneath his growth of beard. She had not expected his lips to be so full and well formed, hinting of smiling sensuousness even in his pain. She had not expected the structure of his face to be so strong, and the line of his jaw so firm. Nor had she expected the cleft set deep in his chin.

  His cheeks and forehead carried a much richer color than did the area that had been concealed by his facial hair. It must have been many months since he had taken the time to shave, she mused as she pressed another herb-soaked cloth against the swelling in his neck and was rewarded by a sigh of comfort.

  Twice she had added warm water as she waited for Old Ethyl to appear. And while she was alert for sounds of the woman’s presence, Serine was not anxious for her return. Her tired mind focused on the man before her. What was he like? What position did he hold in his village? Had he a wife and children? If his wife were here would she snatch him from the healing waters and insist that he lie in the bed burning with fever? Or would she approve of Serine’s treatment and help sponge the heated body? Would a wife watch the rivulets of water as they slithered down his shoulders and across his chest? Might she take her finger to trace the watery trail as it wended its way over the muscles of his upper body and disappeared into the pool of bathwater that covered his lower extremities?

  Without conscious reflection Serine’s eyes followed the pattern of her thoughts, relishing the taut muscles of his diaphragm and the flat ridges of his belly. How different he was from the jiggling bulk of the man Serine called husband. So different they might be of a different species. She cupped the water in her hand and allowed it to drizzle over his body, imagining the culmination of its journey within the depths of the cask. Imagining how it might trace his manhood, urging it to a glorious awakening. Such an act between husband and wife would, no doubt, in happier times, culminate in an act of love laced with passion as well as abandonment.

  How different such a coming together would be compared to her dutiful coupling with her elderly husband. How uniquely different, and how wonderful!

  She sighed and squeezed the water from the cloth as Old Ethyl entered the room. The older woman stopped short when she saw the expression on Serine’s face.

  “I thought to apologize for being gone longer than planned,” she said. “But from the look on your face perhaps I weren’t gone long enough. We’d best move him back to the bed. With the night coming on he’s apt to catch a chill.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Serine agreed. “I was about to send for someone to help me do just that.” She tried to laugh away the woman’s suspicions, but the color that rushed to her face belied her efforts of denial. It was amazing how much that old woman could see with just one eye.

  “I learned why the Celts took our children,” Serine told her. “It seems their women are barren and the village faces extinction.”

  “That is good,” Old Ethyl said as she placed a container of rich dark liquid on the table. “The children will be treated kindly until we can bring them back.”

  Serine shook her head. “It is bad,” she argued. “They want children to populate their village. They will not easily give them up.”

  “Did he say where the village might be?” Old Ethyl asked.

  “He said little that made sense.”

  Old Ethyl handed Serine a cup of horsetail tea laced with the bitter brew. “Wet his lips with the tea. Some of the liquid will slip down his throat and he will begin to heal, God willing.”

  Serine hesitated before administering the brew. She could only pray that Old Ethyl had been able to duplicate the recipe exactly. If the woman had inadvertently deleted one of the ingredients, or been forced to make a substitution, it could cost the man his life and Serine her only hope of finding her son.

  Uttering a silent prayer, Serine dipped the cloth into the liquid and touched it to the lips of the unconscious man.

  The Celt choked on the liquid and Old Ethyl stayed Serine’s hand. “Gently, gently,” she warned. “Drowning him in herbal juices will not heal him the faster.”

  Serine gently squeezed a liquid-soaked cloth, wishing that her hand did not shake so when she was forced to hold him in close proximity, just as she hoped that Old Ethyl did not notice the evidence of her weakness. For Serine found it impossible to control herself where the Celt was concerned.

  * * *

  Rory’s fever had diminished and he lay beneath the furs in relative comfort as Serine ministered to him.

  In all truth, the Celt was p
robably much more comfortable than Margot and Old Ethyl, who slept on mats at the far end of the chamber.

  Serine had tried to talk the women out of guarding their captive so closely, but they would have none of it.

  “The man is young and strong,” Margot insisted. “He will let you minister to his needs until his strength returns. Then he will do his best to escape. Of that there is no doubt.”

  “He is sore wounded,” Serine argued. “It will be weeks before he is any threat to me. Besides, I would sound the alarm before he could rise from the bed.”

  “And what good is the alarm when there be only a few women strong enough to fight him?” Old Ethyl added her thoughts to the dispute. “Dame Margot and I will stay near the door and spell you should you drop from exhaustion. If the man looks to take advantage of our charity, I will see that he thinks better of it.”

  There was nothing for it but to let them have their way. Other than bodily evicting the two women, Serine was powerless to rid herself and her prisoner of the jailers. It was odd, but Serine felt no threat from this man. Perhaps it was due to his comatose state, but she could not bring herself to believe that he would deliberately harm her, even though his arms bulged with muscles and his chest was full and deep.

  Serine remembered the touch of his body against hers, his hands—strong and firm—holding her, and his lips, those beautiful lips, touching hers. Her heart quickened imperceptibly and she brushed the hair from his forehead.

  How unfair it was that Serine had been destined to wed a man so many years her senior. How sad that her girlhood dreams had ended on her wedding day, long before they ever knew the wonder of a lover’s kiss.

  And then the water gods had sent her this man who had come to steal her only son. Although he had succeeded in his quest, she found herself unable to hate him as he lay before her, looking for all the world as young and innocent as Hendrick himself.

  She smiled, turning her face toward the wall so Margot and Old Ethyl would not notice should they happen to be watching, for it was not only the man’s appearance that held her interest, there was something else about him that sent blood racing through her veins in a most unseemly manner. A virility that could not be denied even in sleep.