Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (31 page)

"R
onan, you would try the patience of a saint!"
Alyson said, exasperated. "The start of winter is no time to be setting
off. Stay at least until the spring!"

"I thank you, but no," he answered firmly,
fumbling with his pack. He muttered an impatient curse, glaring down at his
all-but useless left hand.

Alyson stood in the doorway of his chamber, watching
him struggle with the ordinary task of tying a single knot. Though she longed
to do it for him, she did not offer any help.

He managed it at last and picked up the piece of wood
he carried always now, squeezing his weak fingers around it.

But getting stronger, Alyson reminded herself. Ten
days ago he could not move his hand at all.

"Do you have the letter for Sir Robert?" she
asked, and he patted his pack.

"I do."

"He will be glad to meet you," she said,
smiling a little. "Remind him to sing you the ballad he made when he last
visited us. I think you will be amused."

"I look forward to it."

He spoke politely, but she knew it was a lie. Ronan did
not look forward to anything these days. But at least he had made it through
Deirdre's wedding, even managing to smile as he kissed her cheek and shook
Alistair's hand. That he had been dead drunk when he did it was known only to
Alyson and Jemmy, who had devoted himself—quite against Alyson's wishes—to
keeping Ronan well fortified with wine throughout the day.

Alyson had expected Ronan to sleep the clock around,
given all he had drunk the day before. But he had been up at dawn, a bit pale
but still quite determined to begone.

"Come in, lady," he said now. "You make
me jumpy hovering in the doorway! No, don't try to lift that," he added
sharply, taking the pack from her hand. "Sit down here—you should have a
care for the babe."

"The babe will do quite well," she answered,
though she did as he bade her, sinking down on the edge of the bed with a sigh.
"If not for you, it would be dead, and its mother with it."

He gave a half-shrug and looked uncomfortable, as he
always did when she tried to thank him for what he had done for her that
terrible day outside the chapel.

"'Tis a long way to London," she said. "Do
you have enough for food and lodging?"

"I can still sing, lady," Ronan answered
with a shrug. "And soon I will play again, as well."

She bit her lip and looked down at his harp. "Aye.
But," she added tactfully, "it may be some time before you're healed
enough for that."

If ever
. But
if Ronan heard the words she could not speak, he ignored them. That was a
possibility he refused absolutely to consider.

"Oh, Ronan, won't you stay a bit longer,"
she pleaded. "Give yourself a chance to mend!"

He shouldered his pack and picked up the harp.
"Nay, lady, I cannot."  His head bent, he ran his fingers across the
strings, producing a plaintive little air.

"I need time. I
am
happy for Dee." 
He glanced at Alyson and smiled wryly. "At least I'm trying to be. But
'twill be a good bit easier when there is some distance between us." He
stared down at the harp, then burst out bitterly, "I feel enough of a fool
as it is. All those years—loving her—and it was all a waste, for nothing!"

Alyson clenched her hands together, wondering what to
say. At last she decided no words of hers could make things worse—or better—for
him. She might as well tell him what she really thought.

"Love is never wasted. Think, Ronan, it was your
love for Deirdre that helped her survive all those years with Brodie Maxwell. Was
that a waste?"

"Well, no, if you put it like that—"

"And even if you did not get what you wanted—or
what you thought you wanted—can you really say she gave you nothing?"

"No, I cannot say that," he said at last.

She nodded, pleased he could admit that much. It was a
beginning.

"You are right, you know," she said. "Much
as I hate to say it. You
do
need time. But use it well. And remember, if
you need anything—anything at all—you only have to send to us. Or better still,
come yourself. Jemmy and I had hoped you would stand godfather for the
babe," she added, and he glanced at her, surprised.

"There's no need for that."

"'Tis custom for a babe to have one," she
said lightly. "And who better than you? It won't be here until spring. Perhaps,
by then, you will feel differently."

"Perhaps. Though I would not like to
promise..."

"No need for that. If you come, we will be glad
to see you." She stood and hugged him quickly. "Any time, Ronan. Whenever
you can visit, you will always find a welcome here."

T
he morning was cool and bright, more like April than
November. As Ravenspur faded into the distance, Ronan's heavy heart lifted a bit
and he felt the first faint stir of the excitement he usually experienced when
setting off on a journey.

By mid-morning he reached the cleft in the hills
Alistair had described to him two days before. Ronan had not been able to find
a polite way of refusing the favor Alistair asked, and now he must stop and
deliver sundry gifts to an old man who dwelt here. With an impatient sigh, he
turned his horse's head and cantered up the gentle slope.

At least his errand would not delay him long, he
thought with relief as he spotted the bent figure standing on the crest.

"Good day to you, Grandfather," Ronan called.
"I bring you gifts from Ravenspur."

"From Alistair?"  The old man's voice was
surprisingly strong, deep and rich and musical. "So he remembered. Let us
see what he sent me."

Yet he made no move to unpack the saddlebag Ronan laid
at his feet. He stood leaning on his staff, thick white locks blowing about his
high brow, dark eyes fixed on Ronan's face.

"I am Fergus of the clan McInnes."

Ronan bowed politely. "Ronan Fitzgerald, at your
service."

"Fitzgerald, is it?  Now that's a fine Norman
name on an Irish tongue!  Which one might ye be?"

Once, not too many years ago, Ronan could have
answered easily. "I am Irish," he would have said, and he would have
laughed that anyone thought it necessary to ask. But that was before King
Edward had issued his Statute of Kilkenny, declaring that his 'wild Irish'
lords needed to be brought to heel.

Its purpose had been to remind the Normans of their
glorious heritage, lest they begin to mingle too freely with their Irish
neighbors. Its result had been to divide neighbor from neighbor, family from
family, tearing apart the peaceful society Ronan had taken entirely for granted
as a child.

"Who are your mother's people?" Fergus
prompted when he did not answer.

What business is that of yours? Ronan wanted to say,
but he bit back the rude response. Respect for his elders was too much a part
of him to make such an answer possible.

"The O'Donnells."

"An old name," Fergus said, nodding. "A
great lineage."

"Not to hear Grandfather Fitzgerald tell
it," Ronan said lightly, bending to the saddlebags.

"Ashamed of your Irish blood, are ye?"
Fergus rapped out suddenly.

"No more than my Norman blood," Ronan said,
annoyed.

"I see."

Ronan had the feeling that the old wizard—for of
course Fergus was a wizard, of that he had no doubt—saw far too much, perhaps
more than he did himself.

He thumped a small cask of wine on the rock between
them. "Can you manage this?" he asked, adding pointedly, "I
cannot linger this morning. I must be on my way."

Fergus made no effort to lift the cask. "Where
are ye bound?"

"To London."

"I never cared for London myself," Fergus
said mildly.

I don't like it either, Ronan thought, wondering what
had possessed him to think of going there. He remembered the stench of the
crowded streets, the noise...and all the musicians, some quite gifted and all
with two good hands, competing for a place at court. Once he had no need to
fear them, but now...

"I am afraid I canna lift this," Fergus
said, startling him from his thoughts. "Will ye be so kind as to carry it
inside? Or if ye canna manage it, we could take it together."

Ronan flushed, seeing Fergus staring at his hand. "I
can do it," he said, bending.

"Just in here," Fergus said, gesturing
toward an opening in the hillside.

Ronan looked at the cave's entrance and froze. He had
always hated caves. Though his friends had liked nothing better than to explore
the caverns winding through the cliffs of Donegal, Ronan had always refused to
join them.

Why anyone would willingly venture into such a
terrible place, he had never known. Just thinking of it made his stomach clench.
All his worst nightmares were of being trapped inside the earth with no way
out.

Fergus was watching him closely, eyes hooded and
unreadable. If this was some sort of test—and Ronan felt certain that it was—he
did not need to prove himself. He could just refuse and walk away. There was no
need to do as Fergus asked, no matter how simple it might be.

Yet Ronan had the uneasy feeling that Fergus' request
was not simple at all. Strongly and without reason he feared that once he
walked inside, he would not walk out again unchanged. But would that be such a
terrible thing?  God knew he could use a change, for he was sick to death of
himself, his entire pointless life, and the bleak future stretching endlessly
before him.

Was Fergus offering him a new beginning? Or was this
some sort of trap? Of course, there is another possibility, Ronan told himself,
one far more likely. The man could simply want his wine.

He hesitated, heart thumping wildly in his breast, and
despite the breeze, sweat broke out upon his brow.

"Go on, lad," Fergus said gently. "There
is no harm to ye in there."

Ronan swallowed hard, thinking that Fergus must find
him ridiculous. God knew he found himself both contemptible and absurd. It was
only a cave! But still he could not force himself to move. At last he looked at
Fergus.

"Truly?"

"Aye, truly. I'll never lie to ye, Ronan. There
will be no room for lies between us."

Ronan studied the sky, so clear and blue, and the road
winding down the mountainside toward London. He turned his face up to the sun
and felt it warm his skin as the fresh breeze stirred his hair. Then he looked
again at the opening in the hillside, black against gray stone. It would be
cold in there, he thought, dank and foul, filled with terrifying visions.

"You seemed to be waiting for me," he said,
stalling for time. "Did you know that I was coming?"

Fergus smiled. "Oh, aye. Or to be quite truthful,
I knew someone was coming. I only hoped that it was you."

"How can that be?" Ronan demanded angrily. "You
do not even know me."

"Oh, child," Fergus said, putting one hand
on his shoulder. "I know ye well, though before today I did not ken your
name. I've been waiting for ye a long, long time."

Ronan glanced at him, surprised, and Fergus nodded, as
though answering a question Ronan had not quite dared to ask. His dark eyes
were very kind beneath the tangle of white brows.

"Then I—I suppose I could come in. For a
bit."

"Unpack your horse and stable it in the
shed," Fergus said briskly, turning back to the cave. "'Twill be snow
ere nightfall."

Ronan obeyed. At the threshold he hesitated, took the
harp from his shoulder and ran his fingers across its strings, his face taut
with concentration as the rippling notes danced in the cool fresh air.

At last he nodded. "If you say so," he
murmured, stroking the polished wood. Then he squared his shoulders, bracing
himself against whatever dark mysteries lay within, and pushed back the hide
stretched across the cave's entrance. He took one wary step and stopped short,
staring.

His wondering gaze moved over glittering crystals
piled on the shelves, neat rows of parchments, quills and inkpots, bunches of
herbs suspended from the ceiling. Half a dozen candles shed a warm light over
the homely scene and the scent of fresh-baked bread set his mouth to watering.

"Well, don't just stand there letting in the
cold," Fergus said prosaically, looking up from a small table where he was
slicing bread and cheese. "Come in and sit."

Ronan laughed and let the hide fall into place behind
him as he stepped inside, hands outstretched to catch the fire's warmth.

-The End-

The
Borderlands Trilogy
:

The
Border Bride

Laird
of the Mist

The
Linnet

The
Prince

(originally
published as Elizabeth Minogue)