For Love Of Rory. Barbara Leigh
back with them.
But he must answer true and read the Runes with honesty and detachment, for they were the word of the gods and he had sworn to give voice to their truth.
He frowned as he put forth the Runes. Then he spoke. “Your brother is with a woman of strength and beauty. Danger and loneliness, for him, are in the past.”
Guthrie wiped his hand across his face. “Then he is with Brunda, his dead wife. It cannot be read any other way, for there is always danger for a Celt on foreign soil.”
Drojan continued to frown. He did not interpret the reading as did Guthrie and was about to tell him so when Guthrie continued his thoughts aloud.
“We will not seek vengeance for Rory’s death. He died in the way of the Celt, and no man can ask more. We will raise the children that we have taken and teach them our way of life. But I must know that his body is given proper burial.”
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.