Warrior Reborn (13 page)

S
eventeen

C
HRISTIANA’S SCREAM VIBRATED
in the air, pounding against the ribs in Chase’s chest.

He dropped the peat piled high in his arms, drawing his sword as he ran across the open ground to burst through the doorway. Whoever had harmed Christiana would meet their end on the sharp edge of his blade.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice inexplicably breathless.

“Nothing’s happened. She’s fine,” the old woman assured him without turning, her hands busily wrapping a fine, white strip of linen around Christiana’s foot. “She fought the pull of the potion but she sleeps now.”

The bandage wound up and around Christiana’s ankle in a thick, heavy-looking bundle, reminiscent of a cast.

“Is it broken?” Even as he asked, he doubted the wisdom of the question. It wasn’t like this old woman was a real doctor with access to an X-ray machine in the back room.

“No. Only badly bruised. As you should have known yer ownself.” She turned her gaze on him then. “You’ve too little faith, lad. And where’s my peat turves? Did I no tell you I need them to keep the fire going? I canna be expected to do everything myself, can I?”

The damned peat lay all over the ground outside where he’d dropped it when he’d heard the scream. “I’ll have them right in.”

By the time Chase returned to the house, Orabilis was nowhere to be seen. He stacked the peat on the floor beside the big fireplace before kneeling beside Christiana.

She appeared to sleep, her soft lips slightly parted, delicately moving as if she carried on a conversation in her dreams. Only the frown wrinkling her forehead confirmed that, even in her sleep, the pain of her injury still reached her.

He ran his thumb over the furrows in her brow, as if he could drive away her troubles.

If only he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of confronting Ulfr back there on the trail, he might have prevented this. Had he not been off his horse, bent on proving himself to be some macho-man warrior, he might have had a chance to reach the out-of-control horses before they’d sent the wagon crashing upside down, pinning Christiana underneath. But no, in that moment he’d been more interested in her impression of him than in her safety.

And Christiana had paid the price for his pride.

“If you really want to help, perhaps you might carry her in here.”

Chase jerked his hand from Christiana’s brow, feeling a little like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Where were you?”

Some warrior he’d turned into, when even a shuffling old woman could sneak up on him.

“Preparing a bed for my guest. Now, if you’ll be so kind . . .” Orabilis stepped aside, holding an arm out to indicate the open door behind her.

He scooped Christiana into his arms and rose easily to his feet. In his embrace, she moaned and turned her face into his chest. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she snuggled against him.

Her warm breath penetrated his heavy linen shirt in a way none of the sharp, cold winter winds had done, setting his heart pounding.

Inside the little room he leaned down to lay her on the pallet spread out on the floor, but Orabilis stopped him.

“No, on the bed, I told you. I’ll take the blankets beside her for this night.”

The old woman hardly looked able to climb in and out of a bed, let alone up and down from the floor, but he did his best to blank any doubt from his face.

“Are you sure?”

“I told you so, did I no?” She shook her head, her disgust clearly evident. “Young people today. No appreciation at all for the abilities of their elders.”

Apparently his face had been more expressive than he’d intended. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He could have said more, but chances were good he’d only end up with his foot farther down his own throat. He laid Christiana onto the narrow bed, surprised when he had to peel her fingers from the grip they held on his shirt.

Orabilis motioned him outside the room and followed shortly after, shutting the door behind her.

“She’ll rest through the night and feel much better when she awakes.” The old woman pointed to a chair as she made her way to the fireplace, pausing to pick up a small clay jar. “As for us, I’ve a pot of stew on that will be ready soon enough. Have yerself a seat and we’ll visit for a piece as we await our meal.”

Chase did as he was told, pulling a seat out from the table as Orabilis scooped a handful of something from the jar and tossed it into the bubbling pot.

“What’s that?” he asked, settling into the hard chair. It was a good bet the floor would be equally comfortable.

“Just a bit of this and that. A mixture of herbs I favor for seasoning my food.”

He wasn’t sure how it would taste, but his growling stomach could attest to the fact that it smelled like something from a five-star restaurant.

For the next few minutes Orabilis busied herself drawing up two large mugs of ale. Surprisingly fine ale, as the first sip disclosed.

“This is good.”

“Of course it is,” she said dismissively, but he caught her fighting off a smile. “It’s the honey. The bees love my herbs when they flower, and the herbs flavor their honey. I’ll return in a moment. You just sit back and enjoy yer ale, lad.”

Chase briefly considered whether or not he should have more of the ale. She might have put something into the drink to knock him out as she had with Christiana. But, since he had no reason to mistrust her, he decided his concerns were foolish.

She returned soon enough, her arms wrapped around the biggest bowl he’d ever seen. When she set it on the table, he could see it was filled with what looked like dried weeds. As soon as she began crunching down on the bowl’s contents with the large pestle she held, the aroma assured him it was herbs, not weeds.

After a few minutes of watching Orabilis struggle with her task, he couldn’t sit still any longer.

“Here. Why don’t you let me do that for you? You’ve been on your feet ever since we arrived.” And for someone who looked like she could easily be a hundred years old, she could probably use the rest.

“I think I will at that,” she agreed. “But mind you, lad, I’d have you put some muscle into it. No lazing about.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, grinning in spite of himself.

“Ah, now I see.” She downed a large swallow from her glass and returned the grin, revealing a full set of straight, white teeth, completely at odds with everything else about her. “It’s that smile of yers what encouraged my Christy to trust herself to you.”

My Christy.
The old woman’s words alluded to a close history between the two of them. Closer than he’d realized from what Christiana had told him.

“What was it you gave her to drink earlier? The stuff that put her to sleep. Narcotics of some sort?”

“I’m no familiar with this ‘narcotics’ you ask over. It’s a dwale I use, of course.” She gave him a look that said she thought him slow-witted. “Dangerous, it is, but helpful in small amounts to alleviate suffering. I keep some mixed at all times. You never can tell when you’ll need someone to drift away quickly.”

“What’s in it?”

She shrugged and lifted her tankard. “The usual. A bit of bile, some bryony. A touch of hemlock. Opium. Henbane. All steeped in wine to preserve them.”

“Jesus! That sounds like one potent mixture.”

Hemlock? Opium? For someone who claimed no knowledge of narcotics, she was this century’s version of a pharmacist.

“Aye. I told you it’s dangerous. You canna allow but a sip to pass yer lips. Just enough and no more.”

“Is that what Christiana came here to get, this dwale?”

“No,” Orabilis rose to her feet and hobbled over
to the bubbling pot to give it a stir. “Though I’m sure she has a batch of her own on hand for treating the wounded. She is the healer at Tordenet. Surely yer aware of that, are you no? She’s here because she’s in need of all the regular herbs she uses for her healing. Most important of all her needs is that which yer grinding up for me right there.”

Chase looked down at the mixture in the bowl. A deep sniff of it told him very little. It smelled of mint and busy kitchens more than anything else. Not even a pinch on his tongue revealed anything other than what he could pull out of a spice rack.

“That’s a good job, you’ve done there, lad. Well mixed and finely crushed, it is. Here is the bag to fill for Christiana. Mind you doona spill. There’s none to waste this time of year.”

He accepted the big cloth bag but held off on transferring the contents of the bowl into it, curious about what these herbs were supposed to cure.

“What does she use this for? Why is this particular mixture so important to her?”
What’s in it?
was what he really wanted to ask, but he doubted the old woman would be so forthcoming with an answer on that one. Since Christiana had to come all the way out here to get it, chances were the old woman kept the ingredients as closely guarded as an old family recipe.

Orabilis seemed to consider his question, her back to him as she stirred her pot of stew. “If you doona already ken my Christy’s use for this, then I
suspect that’s for her to be telling you, no me. Her secrets are hers to share, no mine.”

That Christiana had a secret use for this mixture piqued his interest even more.

“Go ahead,” Orabilis urged, motioning with her spoon. “Put that into the bag. There’s nothing in there what will harm her, so you can put yer mind to rest on that question.”

That was a good first step, though it was far from satisfying his curiosity.

Holding the bag up to the side of the bowl, he carefully slid the contents inside, tapping the bottom to encourage every bit out. Almost every bit. When Orabilis turned her back, he slipped a handful from the bowl and tucked it away in the pouch hanging from his waist.

Orabilis might not think there was anything harmful in the mixture, but he’d like to know that for a fact. While he might not know one herb from another, his friend Hall knew more about them than anyone he’d ever met, these two women included.

There was only one way he could think of to discover Christiana’s secret that might be better than asking Hall’s help.

He could ask Christiana.

E
ighteen

W
HAT IS THAT?”

Halldor strained in his saddle to focus on the tiny colorful dot outside the walls of Tordenet. If not for the evil dwelling inside those walls, he’d swear it was a wagon belonging to . . .

“Tinklers,” Ulfr answered, his disgust showing through clearly. “Though I canna imagine why they’ve come to Tordenet. They’re no welcomed inside
our
gates.”

“You say that as if it’s something to take pride in. Tinklers bring luck to man’s home. If they’re welcomed, that is.”

“Bah.” Ulfr turned his head to spit on the ground. “They’re naught but filthy thieves and whores. Our lord Torquil has forbidden them entry.”

Halldor doubted their exclusion was because they were thieves and whores. No, he’d guess Torquil had other reasons for avoiding the Tinkler folk.

“Old tales say they’re favored by the Fae. What say you to that? You’d willingly anger the Faeries?”

“No such thing,” Ulfr mumbled, but the wild fear dancing in his eyes belied his claim.

The captain ended their conversation with a kick to his mount’s sides, forcing the animal to a run, telling Hall all he needed to know.

Ulfr knew, just as Torquil did. Tinklers weren’t just the Fae’s favored people. More often than not, where you found Tinklers, you were likely to find the Fae themselves. They were as real as the Norse gods the MacDowylt clan claimed to honor. As real, and every bit as vindictive.

If Torquil was what Hall suspected him to be, it was little wonder that Torquil forbade Tinklers entrance to Tordenet Castle. They, too, would recognize what lived inside those walls.

“Here, now! What’s this?” Ulfr called from ahead of him, his horse already disappearing into the open gate at a gallop.

Hall urged his own mount to greater speed, easily reaching Ulfr’s side as they entered the inner courtyard of Tordenet.

“Why have the gates been left open?” Ulfr demanded, sliding down off his mount.

“To allow the minstrels access,” Artur, the one who claimed to be Ulfr’s right hand, answered. “Our lord Torquil has bade it be so.”

“But the Tinklers—” Ulfr began.

“No, my captain. The Tinklers are but a means of travel for the minstrels. Our lord Torquil has bade
the minstrels to remain here to perform for the return of his sister. . . .” Artur’s words faltered as he looked around. “But where is—”

“Keep to yer own business. Where is our lord? I’ve urgent need to speak to him.” Ulfr didn’t wait for an answer, already hurrying off toward the main keep.

“Minstrels, eh?” Halldor asked.

“Aye. Come see them. They’ve brought out their instruments for our inspection. And”—excitement rolled off Artur in great, palpable waves as he leaned in closer—“they’ve a woman who dances while they play.”

“Indeed? Well then, lad, take me to them. I’d very much like to see these amusements.”

Artur led the way, pushing through a throng of men circled around the newcomers. Two men stood in front of a display of instruments, along with two women. One of the women was seated, a small harp held in her arms, while the other hung back, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Warrior
. The description reverberated inside Hall’s head as if he’d said the word aloud. She was tall and lithe, her brown hair gathered into a long braid hanging down her back. Doubtless this was the one who danced, though she hovered in the background like a guard set to attack rather than a performer for the crowd’s amusement.

A beauty by Halldor’s standards, though too
young for his tastes. But a beauty who would bear watching.

“Y
OU SIMPLY LET
them ride away, unchaperoned, without making the slightest effort to stop them.” Torquil hardly knew how to respond to the news Ulfr had brought him.

What if Christiana’s injuries were fatal? What if she managed to escape? What if the man who had taken her ended up being the very one he needed for his own plans? Christiana would know that, and could easily enough prevent his return just to thwart Torquil’s desires.