Elizabeth McBride (19 page)

He looked to the water for a slim ship with a dragon's
prow and square sails, but saw none.

Two men hurtled toward him. He pierced one with his
sword, and warm blood splattered his face. He felled the
other with a heavy axe blow that cleaved the man's shoulder, sundering muscle from bone.

Other foes replaced them, and Drosten heaved his weapons against them. His killing was methodical, emotionless,
as it was in every battle.

They were outnumbered, and he sensed his soldiers
struggling. They hurled no victory yells, no fiercesome battle cries. One man may battle two or three, but for each to
fight off four at once would take a miracle.

Drosten shouted for his men to regroup around him, but
they were too engaged in fighting for their own lives to
hear. And then he was surrounded-five men, axes held
high, mouths gaping open.

The first one lunged. Drosten knocked away his sword,
then skewered him in the gut. He fought off the second
with the hilt of his axe, even as he pulled his sword from
the first. A third man came at his right, and Drosten lashed
out again with his sword, slicing his enemy across the hand
and setting off a yowling that made the others even more
furious.

Two hurtled toward him at once. He beat them back. But
there were two others now, behind him. Dread cloaked
Drosten like Satan's black wings, and he braced himself
for a death blow.

Suddenly, a man screamed. Drosten turned and saw him
fall face down into the mud, like a tree in a storm. Then the other stiffened, his mouth a startled 0, and crumpled
beside his comrade. Swiftly, Drosten faced forward again,
but his attackers were running toward the gate. So were
others-to the gate, over the wall-and his warriors were
chasing them. Panting, Drosten scanned the courtyard. It
was littered with bodies. And most of them had an arrow
in their back.

An arrow.

Fear-the fear that Drosten's dream would not releasefilled his throat again. Someone, who should have been safe
inside the hall, had been out amidst the terror shooting arrows. He ran, each breath a knifethrust to his chest, looking
for the archer. He found her at the base of the wall, face
down in the mud, motionless, her long, curving bow
clutched in her hand.

Drosten and Alfred carried Mhoire into the hall. Her
pulse was rapid and weak, and her breath as shallow as a
fledgling bird's.

With her bow and quiver, she had positioned herself on
the wall. It had given her the best vantage point for shooting, but had made her an easy target. An enemy arrow had
found her there, after she had felled nearly a dozen men,
turned the tide of the battle, and saved them all.

The arrow had pierced her left shoulder just above the
heart and was lodged there still.

But it must come out.

Drosten swallowed hard. He had taken out many an arrow on the battlefield, but never had his palms sweated so.
He wiped his hands on his tunic. "Let's lift her up." Alfred
took Mhoire's weight on one side. Grainne, tears streaming
down her face, braced her friend on the other.

She whimpered as Drosten tugged the arrow out, but her
eyes stayed closed. God was kind and had taken her past
feeling.

Nila laid a poultice of plaintain against Mhoire's shoulder. Then she took a strand of linen from what was left of
Mhoire's nightshift and wrapped it tight around her torso.

"We must lay her down by the fire," Nila said. "Can you
carry her, Drosten?"

Nodding, he gathered Mhoire close with one arm and
slipped the other under her knees. He rose to his feet. She felt like a kitten in his arms. But her body held no animation, and her face was deathly pale.

"What can you give her for the pain?" he asked, as he
lowered Mhoire onto a heather mattress. "Valerian?"

"She is past that, Drosten," Nila said.

He looked up, brow furrowed. "But she will need it when
she rouses. We should have it ready."

Nila put a hand on Drosten's shoulder. "This is a grievous wound."

He turned back to Mhoire and watched as Elanta drew
a blanket up to her chin. "I have seen worse. I have had
worse."

Nila and Elanta exchanged glances. "I have no doubt,"
Nila said gently.

Drosten let Nila bathe his own wound, which had opened
in the fighting, and stitch him up again. But exhausted as
he was, he would not rest. He saw graves dug for two of
his men and examined the others' injuries. He stationed
those who were least hurt on the wall and sent four men
to the woods to fell trees for a stockade. Whoever had
attacked them would likely come again, and they must raise
a higher defense.

Finally, when he had done what he could to protect the
fort, he drew off his filthy clothes, poured a bucket of water
over his head, and pulled on a clean linen shirt and tunic.
His entire body trembled now, and it was taking all of the
energy he had left to keep it under control. Pale and silent,
he walked back into the quiet hall, sat down next to Mhoire,
and buried his face in his knees.

He prayed. First in Latin, as the priests had taught him.
Then in Gaelic, which he had learned at his mother's knee.
And finally, in Pictish, the tongue he was born to and the
language of his heart.

The fever came in the evening. Unquenchable, consuming. Helpless in the sea of heat, Mhoire rose and sank, in
and out of consciousness.

She was hot, hotter than she had ever been, hotter than
she thought a person could be.

The pain in her chest was a different kind of heat, a fiery
knife that plunged deep into her body. It hurt to move. It
hurt to breathe. But her body wouldn't stop breathing. And
every breath was a sob.

Her tears lay cold upon her face and offered no relief.
They ran down her chin and puddled damply on her pillow.

She was alone. So alone. Alone in the sea of heat and
relentless pain. Alone when the death dreams came.

First, the sluagh from the fairy hill. Dark, slithering
shapes that swirled around her like a flock of crows, noisy
and black.

Then Colman. Nay! Nay! She struggled to run, and pain
flashed white like lightning.

Grainne. Worried. Sad. Her friend. Grainne's voice,
steady and true. Near, but far.

Mother. Mother! She reached out. Mother! Eveline stood
at the foot of her bed. Watched silently. Melted away.

Faces. Darkness. Death.

Dying brought memories, and she was too weak to chase
them away. They came like waves breaking against the
shore, one upon another. Dark rooms. Loud voices. Crying.

Secrets.

A still body, lying on a velvet coverlet. The body that
bore her.

And just when she thought that the memories would tear
her apart, leave her broken like a rock under the sea, death
came. And death was an angel. It stood in the house of her
soul, drew its sword, and chased the spectres away. Then
it folded its wings and watched over her with sober, gentle
eyes.

Death gave her time to think.

What had she done with her life? So little.

What could she have done with her life, if she had kept
on living? She ached over the loss and sobbed with selfpity.

Was she ready to die? Nay, sweet Mary, nay.

But death was here.

She must be ready.

She must think of what was important.

She must make things right.

They gave her dandelion water, wringing it from a cloth
and dripping it slowly into a corner of her mouth. And then
wormwood, ten draughts. But still the fever raged.

Drosten sat by her side in an agony of frustration as she
whimpered and sobbed. She grew wild, and he held her
down while Grainne wiped her cheeks with a cloth. Once
Mhoire gripped his arm with shocking strength and halfraised herself from her bed. She cried out for her mother,
a wrenching, heart-rending cry. Nila bent close and laid a
hand upon her face, and Mhoire fell back, motionless.

Grainne sobbed then, deep, suffocating gulps. Alfred
dropped down beside her and took her hand.

Mhoire's wounds broke open. They sponged her, front
and back. Nila made a paste of yarrow-Achilles' magic
herb. She chanted the ancient incantation: "May she be an
isle in the sea. May she be a hill upon the shore. May she
be a star at the waning of the moon."

For a while she quieted. Then she began to weep again,
like an injured animal. Finally, Nila made a concoction of
St. John's wort, the demon-chaser, the Virgin Mary's plant.
Drosten held Mhoire up while they coaxed it into her
mouth, and at last, she slept.

He must have dozed himself, for he woke to the feel of
her eyes upon his face. They were dark as a winter cloud,
serious, and intent. Her lips were blue. She whispered
something, and he bent close.

"A priest," she said, the words barely audible.

"Nay," he countered, shaking his head, not wanting the
death sacrament to fall between them, to take her farther
away. "You are better. You will get well now."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she reached for him. He
found her hand and clasped it. "Please. Marry me."

His breath caught in his throat. "Marry you?"

"Please. The women. They need a protector. Please."

"Mhoire, I-"

"Please." She gripped his hand with the little strength
she had left, and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I have
done such a terrible thing-"

Nay-

"I have thought only of myself. They will all die here
alone. But you will protect them. I know you will."

He could only stare at her. Coldness ate at his gut, like
acid.

"Please, Drosten. You want Dun Darach. You need it for
your people." She was straining now, and sweat dripped
from her forehead. "If you marry me, it will be yours when
I die. You'll take care of the women, won't you? And the
child?"

"I don't want it to be like this. I never wanted it to be
like this." His hand tightened around hers.

"Promise me you'll take care of them." Her voice fell
low, but her eyes clung to his.

The muscles in his throat convulsed. "Mhoire-"

"Please."

Her hand lay cold in his palm. "Aye. As you wish. I
promise," he said.

From somewhere deep inside, she pulled out a glimmer
of a smile.

"Doth thou take this woman?"

"Aye."

"Doth thou take this man?"

"Aye."

To have. To hold. From this day forward. From life into
death.

From the depths have I cried to thee, 0 Lord; Lord,
hear my voice. Let thine ears be attentive to the voice
of my petition. For with thee there is merciful forgiveness. My soul hath relied on His word; my soul
hath hoped in the Lord. From the morning watch even until night, I hath hoped in the Lord. Because with the
Lord there is mercy, and with Him plentiful redemption.

Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis vestris, perducat vos ad vitam aeternam.

Amen.

On the third day, Mhoire opened her eyes, shivering
uncontrollably and as cold as snow. With trembling hands,
she pulled the blanket a fraction closer to her chin.

Her movements caught Grainne's attention, and her
friend's warm, dry hand fell on her forehead. "The fever's
gone," Grainne said.

Others gathered.

"She's soaked."

"And the bedding as well."

"We must get her into something dry."

"But what? Her own things are torn to shreds, and the
only spare shift among us is the one she's wearing now."

"I have something," a man's deep voice said. Awkwardly,
Drosten held out a heavy piece of cloth. "Will this do?"

It was a long tunic of fine wool, the color of primroses.

Hands lifted Mhoire to a sitting position on the bed. Pain
flashed in her chest, and the room went white. Unwillingly,
she cried out.

The women pulled off Mhoire's sodden shift and dropped
Drosten's tunic over her head. It was voluminous. The
shoulders fell halfway to her elbows, and the sleeves covered her hands. But the material was soft against her skin.