Page 23 of The Guardian's Bride
“Does it hurt?” She touched it gently. A tingle shivered through him.
“I took the wound in a melee,” he explained. “Loch Ryan, if you have heard of it. Battle on a sea loch. A terrible day for the Scots. An enemy sword caught me just where I braced my shield. Another blade caught my leg. I fell, and went overboard, and was hauled aboard another ship. We got away.”
“I am so glad you survived.”
Memories flashed like stars. Cool hands on his brow. A balm poured over the gashes, stinging and soothing. A voice, honey and wine. Gray eyes like clouds. He blinked.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” she murmured, peering at the angled scar.
“The healing woman at Holyoak.” He stared at her, heart beating fast. Rowena Keith, the very lass he had nearly married, was the bonny young healer who had treated him at Holyoak. Not Robina, but Rowena—the woman he had ached to find.
“Your arm has healed nicely, though it is just three months.”
“I am much better.” Sometimes the bits of one’s life could suddenly converge, he thought, stunned; it was the mystifying work of angels.
“A robust man can recover quickly. Though I was concerned you might not make it. You were so ill by the time you reached Holyoak.”
“Whatever you did made the difference.”
She watched him, her eyes solemn gray, slim fingers resting on his forearm. He remembered that kind gaze, that soothing touch; he recalled silk stitches like tiny thorn pricks, thecleansing sting of wine, the comfort of cool cloths and warm compresses. He had clung to the sound of her voice, her presence a balm when he feared he might die. She had been a blur in candlelight then. Now he saw her clearly and felt as if his heart opened, warmed. He was very glad to find her and thankful he could help her.
“You were with the monks at Holyoak. I took you for a nun at first.”
“A widow. Sometimes I help in Holyoak’s infirmary. When you came there, the abbot sent for my help. I am pleased to see you well again.”
“Sometimes I feel aches in rain or cold, but that is all. I am in your debt.”
“You are not. I am in your debt today for bringing me out of that tower. What is that sound?” She gasped at the blast of a ram’s horn followed by shouts. Aedan went to the gap in the front wall to peer out. Rowena Keith followed.
“They are sounding the alarm,” he said. “They must have gone to the cell, so they know we left. Wait. Be silent.” He hunkered low, watching through a gap in the wall. He set a hand on her shoulder to pull her down too. She sat, curled small beside him.
Men ran to the stables and soon a few rode out. The sky was growing dark with the threat of rain. Aedan thought it was time to move to the shelter of the forest.
“They left without looking in the chapel,” Rowena said.
“They were fool enough to believe we rode for Berwick. They did not count the horses.” He chuckled. “We should go into the forest. Wait a bit to be sure they are gone.”
She peered through the gap, then sighed. “I am a little hungry.”
“As am I. What do you have besides scissors in that magic bag of yours?”
“Some dried plants, a couple of stones. A few coins.”
“Plants and—stones?” he asked quickly. A memory sparked.
“Charm stones,” she replied. “They are often used in healing in the Highlands.”
“I have heard of such. Did you use one when you treated me?”
The memories crowded his mind. The girl singing a chant, hands graceful in the air. A crystal glinting in the darkness. Stones, crystals—the days of his injury and illness were blurred, memories out of reach, returning without warning.
Stones. Thomas. The Keiths—
The day the Rhymer visited Fife, Aedan had been fifteen, feeling privileged to be included at a meal with the venerable soothsayer. He and his brother Duncan, the sixteen-year-old earl—how he missed him, every memory tinted with that—had been wards of Bishop Lamberton of Saint Andrews, who had tutored the boys. Now they sat with Keith, the Rhymer, other Scottish earls and barons. Aedan heard a discussion of his possible marriage to a daughter of Keith of Kincraig, kin to the Rhymer. But Lamberton argued that Aedan should study for the priesthood.
Yet Aedan had been more intrigued by the leadership council being formed, a group of earls and warlords who would govern Scotland as regents until a new king could be found. King Alexander’s fatal fall from a horse on a rainy night had left Scotland in turmoil. Edward of England was already prowling and growling at the gate, and something had to be done. Until a solution was found, the council of guardians would oversee Scotland’s laws and sovereignty.
