Healer Read online

  But none were as dear as the man who now paused at the door. Llas’s eyes said it all. This was his last farewell. “Get the bairn, and lock yourself in here.” The vibrant blue of his eyes turned to steel as resolve closed the floodgate of his emotion.

  Joanna rushed to obey, her hand clutching the wooden bolt as she cried, “God protect you, love of my life.”

  But Llas didn’t look back. He was already committed to the death struggle below. Wearing no more than his courage and determination, the chieftain of Gowrys disappeared into the dark, descending corridor, where flickering shadows cast by torches from the hall below danced on the walls like demons inviting him to the fires of Sheol.

  Her worst nightmare all too real at last, Joanna slammed the door and slid the bolt in place. In the adjoining room, her infant daughter stirred in the soft bedclothes woven by Joanna’s loving hand. Beyond the cradle, the babe’s nurse, already awakened by the tumult, hurriedly pulled on her overdress.

  “So it’s come,” the woman said, voice muffled by the volume of her garment.

  “Aye, Ealga.”

  Ealga, her cousin and sister of Avalon, knew of Joanna’s nightmarish vision. The first time, it came unbidden to Joanna on her wedding night, ripping away the sweet languor induced by nuptial passion. Trembling in her husband’s arms, the new queen could not be comforted by Llas’s vow that his foster brother would never turn against him, much less wage an ignoble attack in the dark of the night. The Glenarden king was a man of honor. Had they not fought side by side since coming of age together? Nothing could break such a bond.

  Nothing but the twisting fingers of a jealous heart. Joanna had chosen Llas over Tarlach, even though the Joseph of the church had promised her to the latter. Joanna had ignored the high priest’s reminder of the duty to which she’d been born and bred to follow the lead of her heart. And now Tarlach was here, just as her dreams had foretold.

  Joanna cradled her baby to her chest, but it was no balm to the anguish chafing within her. Llas would never accept what she had long known—that she’d have to send their daughter away in the dark of night to escape the betrayal of his foster brother. That all left behind, save the Gowrys who lived in the fells above the lake, would die.

  Father in Heaven, must it be so soon? Tears rolled down her face, soaking into the blankets as she nuzzled the dark curls of baby Brenna’s head. The baby whimpered, sensing Joanna’s distress.

  “’Tis best we be on our way, Cousin, before the mite grows restless and gives us away.” Using coals from the hearth, Ealga lit a small finger lamp on the bedside table. “We cannot let Brenna fall into his hands.”

  His. Ealga’s intonation belied the need to say Tarlach’s name. She’d had no use for their neighbor since coming from Avalon to Gowrys the moment the women of the Arimathean order learned that the young queen was with child. A few years Joanna’s senior, Ealga had pledged herself to the mother and the baby she helped deliver.

  “There is an evil in that one. You know it, Joanna,” the nurse had said, time and again, about Tarlach O’Byrne.

  Aye, Joanna knew it. But, like Llas, she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Tarlach and Llas had been such good friends, comrades-in-arms fighting with Aedan MacGabran, sometimes against the northern Pictish tribes, other times against the Irish, and always against the Saxons. Then Tarlach was wounded in a skirmish, and Joanna was sent with an elder healer from the Holy Isle to nurse him back to health. It was the first time she’d met the Glenarden, offspring of an ancient royal lineage. As a descendant of an equally old priestly line, Joanna was to marry him when she came of age. Tarlach had fallen in love with her, but it was his foster brother, Llas, who had stolen Joanna’s heart.

  “Brenna is the hope of Gowrys—indeed, of Glenarden, too.”

  Ealga’s soft words tempted Joanna back to the present, but the regret clawing at her would not let go. If only Bishop Dupric, who’d been sympathetic to Joanna’s plight, could have pierced Tarlach’s jealous rage with reason.

  Joanna could still hear the holy man’s assurance. “His anger will mellow in time, my child.”

  But it hadn’t. Not even Aeda, a royal bride of Gododdin, who’d borne Tarlach sons eligible to rule both Pict and Scot, had diminished the Glenarden’s wounded pride. The likes of love and hate knew no span of time or reason. Else, how could Joanna have chosen Llas, a lesser chief than Tarlach? How could she love her husband as fiercely today as when she’d pledged her love and life to him?

  Heavenly Father! Joanna’s knees nearly buckled from the weight of it all. This is more than I can bear. I have seen my husband off to his death, and now I must send my child away to an unknown fate. Where are You?

  “Joanna.” Ealga reached for the babe, her eyes brimming.

  Mother’s instinct caused Joanna to draw her child closer, resulting in a startled wail of protest. She’d trust Brenna to none other than Ealga. Her cousin would see Brenna taught, as Joanna had been, in the arts of healing passed down through the ages. Joanna handed the child over, along with half her heart. The remainder still beat raggedly within Joanna’s chest for her husband.

  “Go … quickly. I will delay Tarlach as long as I can bear it.”

  Death was the fate of anyone left in the madman’s path. Yet Ealga made no attempt to change Joanna’s decision to remain behind. This plan had been made between them after Brenna’s birth. They had known Tarlach would come. That he’d never stop seeking Joanna. For her to accompany Ealga and the infant was to endanger their chance of escape and survival.

  “God speed you to safety, Beloved.” Joanna couldn’t resist one last brush of the baby’s head with her lips, one last sniff of sweet innocence. The scent reinforced Joanna’s faltering courage to do what had to be done. She would carry it with her to her impending death, a reminder of what her sacrifice was for.

  “I’ll get the hatch to the souterrain.”

  Joanna hurried into the master bedchamber and tugged the heavy bed away from the wall to reveal a trapdoor leading to an underground cell. From there, Ealga would make her escape through a tunnel cavern that opened in the forest adjacent to the rocky wall at the keep’s back. Four generations of her husband’s kin had known of this escape from the lakeside crag. This night it protected not only their child, but future generations, for God had been kind enough to give Joanna a glimpse of what lay ahead for the woman her child would become. Hope would not die tonight, even though Joanna would.

  As Ealga paused at the head of the stone steps, Joanna gave in to one last embrace of farewell. With the same fervor as the parting kiss her husband had given her, she conveyed to the nurse and child in her arms a lifetime of love, purged from the heart, the very soul of her being. It was good-bye for this time and place but not for eternity.

  “God surround you with His angels.” Joanna handed Ealga the finger lamp the nurse had lit earlier. The glow cast a halo upon the crown of the infant’s head. Ever so tender, Joanna tucked the blanket over her baby daughter’s dark curls. “Tell Brenna when she’s old enough that her mother and father loved her very much.”

  “Greater love hath no man than this—”

  Ealga broke off, unable to finish, but Joanna nodded, completing the rest in her mind: That a man lay down his life for his friends. Aye, this had to be a great love for it to hurt so much.

  “I will see you again, Cousin,” Ealga said. “Till then, this life of mine belongs to the bairn.” The nurse turned abruptly to make her way down the steep steps, the infant clutched against her with one hand, the lamp in the other.

  “Until we meet again.” Joanna watched what remained of her tortured heart leave.

  Father, I give them to You. You are my hope and stay. Give me courage to finish my task. Keep them in the palm of Your hand.

  When the nurse and infant were swallowed by the darkness, Joanna slid the bed back over the hidden door. In moments they would be safe in the time-carved bowels of the hills and in the Rock of her faith.

  Foo
tsteps thundered closer, accompanied by the clash of metal and stone, on the stairs leading to the upper chambers. Death cries mingled with bloodthirsty growls of triumph. Joanna whispered a broken prayer for her husband’s soul, for no man would set foot on the stairs while Llas still breathed. She ended with a plea for her own forgiveness as she took a jeweled dagger from its sheath and sat upon Llas’s side of the bed, still warm from the heat of his body.

  Cutting the silk ribbon confining the long braid of her hair, she shook her tresses loose. The regal cloak unfurled about her shoulders as she placed the ribbon on his pillow, remembering his joy in losing his fingers in her dark tresses. It was almost over … all but the final words she had for Tarlach O’Byrne.

  Joanna neither blinked nor flinched as the keeper of the bolt gave way, splintering the solid oak frame. With a calm she never dreamed possible, she rose and turned to face her destiny. The terror outside the chamber burst in with Tarlach O’Byrne at its head.

  “Your husband is dead, woman.”

  Though Joanna cringed inwardly as he raised the severed head of her beloved Llas, she struggled to show no sign of her shock at the sightless eyes that had once burned bright with life and love or the drip of blood that had short moments before pumped through her husband’s veins. The dream had prepared her. Still, she was grateful for the bed between them bracing the slight buckle of her knees.

  Tearing her gaze away, Joanna met that of Llas’s murderer, and her horror-curdled blood became as glacial as her demeanor. “So I shall soon join him, sir.”

  There was no hint in this monster of the smitten warrior who’d once pledged his love to her. Tarlach’s nostrils flared like those of a Pictish bull, and his chest heaved beneath the bloodstained crest of pledging hands on his breastplate. Truly the demon of envy had eaten away at his heart and soul like an insidious cancer.

  “So you shall …” He licked blood spatter from his lips and smiled as though he savored the taste. “After—”

  “After I’ve had a word with you, Tarlach O’Byrne.”

  “I’ll have more than a word with you, ye coldhearted wench.” With a snarl of contempt, Tarlach tossed aside his bloody trophy. “Bring in the lad, men.”

  Joanna swayed. The blade she hid within the folds of her gown pricked at flesh just below the cage of bone protecting her heart as Tarlach’s son, the young heir of Glenarden, stumbled into the room ahead of the man’s henchmen. Joanna had been at Ronan’s birth, sent for in desperation when complications set in. She recalled stroking the baby boy’s thick tuft of dark auburn hair, watching the color come to his cheeks with the life the good Lord breathed into him. Today his wild hair was black compared to his shock-blanched pallor. A nasty gash lay open across his peach-smooth face, bleeding scarlet beneath a wide, terrified gaze. Had the man no conscience, that he would expose a child to such carnage?

  “God’s mercy, Tarlach. Your son can be no more than six, and already he bears the scars of your bitterness and greed.” Joanna resisted the natural urge to run to the lad and gather him into her arms. There was naught she could do for the child but pray that God would heal him of his demon father’s scars.

  So it will be, a familiar voice, a conviction beyond understanding, assured her.

  “The lad must learn how to deal with the witchery of your likes,” Tarlach shot back.

  “The same witchery that saved him?” When would people like Tarlach ever learn? “The secret things belong unto the LORD our God,” Joanna quoted, “but those things which are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever, that we may do all the words of this law. To do good for our fellow man in the manner of Christ,” she explained.

  She’d wonder to her last breath how anyone could call the knowledge of nature’s healing properties witchcraft. Witchcraft was but its destructive fruit, the use of knowledge for harm or self-glorification, rather than giving the Creator credit for creation’s properties.

  “Ye did no good to me, Joanna lass. You—”

  Suddenly the room flooded with a light from the nursery. A soldier carrying a smoking, blazing torch stopped just inside the adjoining door. “There’s no sign of the bairn, milord,” he said. “We’ve searched all the rooms.”

  Tarlach fixed a glare on Joanna.

  When had his left eye begun to stray? the healer within her wondered.

  “Where is the whelp?” he bellowed.

  “In God’s hands.”

  Brenna was safe. Llas was with his Maker. Joanna was but a few words from joining him. Tarlach started toward her, his axe raised in threat.

  Now, she thought, and God forgive me. Joanna felt the sting of the dagger as it broke the yielding flesh just beneath her rib cage. There was naught left to do but fall upon it.

  Tarlach swore as the torchlight glanced off the metal of the knife. “What manner of trickery is this? You seek to lure me close, then sting me with that?”

  “The only sting you will know will be that of the vision God has given me. The Gowrys seed shall divide your mighty house and bring a peace beyond the ken of your wicked soul.”

  Joanna fell upon the bed, the blade thrusting into a heart already dead with grief. It was then that she saw him. Llas, whole and magnificent, had waited for her, reached for her. Joanna clasped his hand and turned in the brilliance that surrounded them. It bore them up and away from pain, loss, and hatred forever.

  “No!” Tarlach leapt forward, realizing what Joanna had done. She would not rob him of this last pleasure. He’d not let her go. But to his horror, instead of leaving his hand at the throw, the axe took on the weight of a great stone, bearing his arm down to his side.

  What witchery was this?

  Joanna lay upon the bed, silent as death, yet the bite of her words assaulted his left arm with a thousand pinpricks, rendering battle-hardened muscles useless. The axe dropped harmless to the floor with a thud. Nay, she’d not do this to him. By sheer will, Tarlach dragged his unaccountably heavy legs to where the woman lay and turned her upon her back with his good arm.

  Below her breastbone, scarlet spread on the pure white of her embroidered chemise in a circle from the jeweled hilt of the buried blade. Pain surged through his body from the same spot, as though she’d impaled him instead of herself. The invisible blade ripped through his right side and up into his brain. God’s mercy, it felt as though his blood would burst from his temple, all but blinding him in its fierce rush.

  How could Joanna lie so calm and lovely in the midst of this ugliness? How dare her lips tilt in mockery of him? Why, he’d hack her beautiful face into oblivion.

  The Glenarden meant to reach for the dagger in his belt, but his rage turned on him as he had his onetime friend Llas. It took Tarlach unaware, slashing the air from his shuddering chest, denying him the use of every muscle. It was her … the beautiful, serene witch lying on the bed beside him. She’d cast one last spell.

  “Father!”

  Tarlach tried to answer his son, to call for his men, but all that emerged from his throat was a gagging, gurgling sound. Spittle seeped down his chin. His tongue rendered as useless as his arm, he drifted away from the clamor surrounding him. All that remained before oblivion claimed him was the memory of the last words from lips he’d once worshipped.

  The Gowrys seed shall divide your mighty house and bring a peace beyond the ken of your wicked soul.

  Chapter One

  Glenarden, Manau Gododdin, Britain

  Twenty years later

  Although cold enough to frost one’s breath, the day was as fair as the general mood of the gathering at the keep of Glenarden. The only clouds were those breaking away, fat with snow from the shrouded mountains—and the ever-present one upon the face of the bent old man who stood on the rampart of the gate tower. No longer able to ride much distance, Tarlach O’Byrne watched the procession form beyond.

  Clansmen and kin, farmers and craftsmen—all turned out for the annual hunt, but they were more excited over the festivities that awaited the
ir return. In the yard about the keep, gleemen in outlandish costumes practiced entertaining antics, delighting the children and teasing the kitchen servant or warrior who happened to pass too near. Great pits had been fired. On the spits over them were enough succulent shanks of venison, boar, and beef to feed the multitude of O’Byrnes and the guests from tribes in the kingdom under the old king’s protection.

  Below the ramparts, Ronan O’Byrne adjusted the woolen folds of his brat over his shoulders. Woven with the silver, black, and scarlet threads of the clan, it would keep the prince warm on this brisk day. A fine dappled gray snorted in eagerness as Ronan took his reins in hand and started toward the gate. Beyond, the people he would govern upon his father’s death waited.

  The youngest of the O’Byrne brothers rode through them, unable to contain his excitement any longer. “By father’s aching bones, Ronan, what matters of great import keep you now?”

  Were the pest any other but his youngest brother, Ronan might have scowled, deepening the scar that marked the indent of his cheek—the physical reminder of this travesty that began years ago. Alyn was the pride and joy of Glenarden, and Ronan was no exception to those who admired and loved the precocious youth.

  “Only a raid on the mill by our neighbors,” Ronan answered his youngest sibling.

  His somber gaze belayed the lightness in his voice. The thieves had made off with Glenarden’s reserve grain stores and the miller’s quern. Ronan had already sent a replacement hand mill to the mistress. But now that the harvest was over and the excess had been sold, replacing the reserves would be harder. It galled Ronan to buy back his own produce at a higher price than he’d received from merchants in Carmelide. This was the hard lot he faced—this farce, or hunting down the scoundrels and taking back what was rightfully his.

  Every year on the anniversary of the Gowrys slaughter, Tarlach insisted that the O’Byrne clan search the hills high and low for Llas and Joanna’s heir. But instead of going off on a madman’s goose chase after his imagined enemy—a mountain nymph who was rumored to shape-shift into a wolf at will—the O’Byrnes manpower was best spent ransacking and burning one of the Gowrys mountain settlements in retribution, for they were undoubtedly the culprits. It was the only reasoning the Gowrys thieves understood—burn their ramshackle hovels and take some of their meager stock in payment.