Splashes of color drew her eye. As the very edge of the midden, toward the rear of the heap, grew a new sapling, nearly as tall as she was-a hawthorn tree. Already it showed a display of beautiful white blooms. The delicate flowers of five petals was so beautiful, and oddly, in stark contrast with where its roots drew nourishment. One of the three sacred trees-the others being the oak and ash-people called it the May Tree or the White Thorn. Often they hung a rag or a cloth from someone’s clothing on the limbs, and made a wish upon it, for lore spoke the trees were magical and would grant them if the person had a pure heart.
On impulse, she undid the ribbon from around the end of the braid, and with trembling fingers carefully tied it in a bow on the thin branch of the sapling. “There, my lovely White Thorn, who grows strong from the refuse of Glenrogha. Beauty from ruins. I ask no wish, just hope you grant me your blessings. I certainly need them. Come autumn, when your leaves drop, I shall return and move you to a place of honor at Coinnleir Wood, give you the love and care so that you grow strong. I shall not pick your blooms, though I would dearly love to take one back with me, as I ken ‘tis a sin to harm you in form.”
Behind the hawthorn grew a fat bush of broom, the flowers not as prettily formed, but a brilliant yellow. Her people used broom for protection. Obviously, Cook who tended the garden and came to dumb the refuse in the midden would pluck anything considered to be weeds before they had a chance to grow very tall and take over. He deliberately left these two, knowing they were special and granted protection to Glenrogha.
Aithinne plucked a sprig of the brilliant yellow blooms. “I ken ‘tis considered wrong to use your blossoms in menial ways. Rest assured I very desperately need your protection. Mayhap to save me from myself.”
She inhaled its wonderfully sweet fragrance, a nice mix to the tangy scent of the Hawthorn flowers. So strange to find the beauty of these two plants growing out of trash. “I wonder if there will be something beautiful to come of the refuse of my life.”
Her hand cradled her stomach, thinking of the child slumbering there. A secret smile crossed her lips. There was the indeed the seed of something very special, rooting to take life within. Despite the misery flowing through her, she wanted that child-his child-craved to hold it. The bairn would come as winter lost is grip on the land, as the earth warmed and awakened to spring.
Life beginning anew.
She had come out here in pain, seeking a spot no one frequented so she could have privacy with her sorrow. Living in large fortress saw so few places were one could truly be alone. The midden seemed the site to come shed her tears. Instead of crying, the beauty of the hawthorn and broom gave her a wee shard of hope, the will to carry on.
“He must not fight tomorrow,” the voice barely more than a whisper from the shadows.
Aithinne’s head turned, trying to adjust her eyes to see who spoke to her. The words had scarcely been more than spoken on the breeze, so faint, she almost feared she had imagined it. Then the mist seemed too gather form and a women materialized from it. Evelynour of the Orchard. The rising fog almost haloed her long white hair, lending her the appearance of an angel descended to earth. Named after the goddess of the orchard, no elder could recall a time when she was not teaching and protecting Clan Ogilvie. Despite being one of the oldest members, she appeared ageless, her years scarcely marring her serene countenance. Pale lavender edging toward gray, her eyes were so translucent many oft mistook her as being blind. Her milky skin burned easily under the sun, so few ever saw her except at dawn or in the gloaming. She seemed most at ease in the haar, as if her grayness made her a part of the fog. The strongest of the Three Wise Ones of the Wood, her second sight beheld far-reaching visions that none dared doubt. Chiefs of other clans traveled great distances to court her wisdom.
She had trained Aithinne in the lessons needed to face life, guiding her in the ways of the stones and ravens. Through her, the oral history of their ancestors lived on.
After the death of her lady mother, Auld Bessa, Oona and Evelynour had each played an important role in molding Aithinne, as well as Tamlyn and her sisters. Yet, in some ways Aithinne always felt closer to Evelynour, more like mother-daughter than teacher-disciple.
“Evelynour-”
“I came with words of import for you to hear, Aithinne Ogilvie. Heed them well or sorrow will own you on the morrow. He must not fight on the field of honor when the sun rises. He dies if he picks up the weapon in the stead of another. Please, child, listen.”
Aithinne started toward the elderly woman. “I always listen, great mother. Your words show us the way.”
As she drew near, Evelynour switched the tall white hawthorn staff from her right hand to her left, so she could cup Aithinne’s cheek. “My beautiful daughter, child of the stones, terrible danger rides this land in the form of a leopard. A man of great power, he destroys, maims, his ugliness leaves ravens feasting on the bodies of the dead in his wake, rivers run red where he has been. You and only you can stop him from sweeping through Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Nothing will be left standing-nothing. Our castles will be raised, our women raped and murdered. Our men butchered. Before he is through, these two valleys will bleed.”
Tears poured down the smooth, unlined cheek, summoning echoed emotions within Aithinne. “Tell me what I must do…what is happening? I do not ken what this is about. Why would we be in danger?”
“Your man will fight on the morrow…unless you prevent him. If he fights, he dies. Before his final breath he will kill another-justly, but that shall not mean aught to the leopard. He will come, with fire and sword, and all of Clan Shan and Clan Ogilvie will perish.”
“Evelynour, I believe you, but do not ken-this leopard-King Edward? Why wouldst he come to destroy our clans? He has sent his dragons to hold these valleys for him.”
“True, but it was chastisement, not reward. He sent the Earl Challon here as punishment for daring to raise a hand to him. On the morrow, Challon will seek to take the field of honor to avenge his lady. This is the true path. The way it must be. The leopard will accept Challon as the messenger of their God’s justice. Only Lord Ravenhawke will seek to take his place, to fight as his champion. He must not. The leopard will perceive umbrage. Let no hand turn your from this purpose-you have to stop him. Do what you must-whatever you must-he cannot not fight in Challon’s stead. He will die. We all will die-”
“I ought to beat you senseless!” The voice rang out, shattered the moment. “But then that would mean you would had sense to start with, and I have serious doubt on that, lady.”
Shaken to where she could barely breathe, she rotated to spot a furious Damian, stalking down the rows of herbs toward her. “The last person I wish to see-Sir Nodcock,” she said under her breath to Evelynour.
Only as she turned back to pale woman, she had gone, vanished as she had come-with the mists. Aithinne batted her eyes, almost always feared she was losing her mind and imagined the whole incident, so strange were Evelynour’s words. Looking down at the flower in her hand, she stared at the yellow blossoms in her hands. She forced her fingers to relax, not to crush the tender flowers, as she struggled to absorb the warning from her guide. She knew better than to disregard any foretelling of Evelynour. Howbeit, the enormity of the stark warning was taking time to sink into Aithinne’s understanding. She needed a moment alone to absorb it all, try to make sense of the confused words. Time she would not get.
“I should strip a branch off that sapling and thrash you for your stupidity.”
Still trembling, Aithinne stepped between the angry man and the hawthorn tree. “You shan’t touch my tree. Any lackwit with a thimbleful of wherewithal kens to maim a hawthorn tree is to invite a life of nothing but ill-luck.”
“Then I shall use my hand. You will eat your supper standing up for a week, Aithinne Ogilvie. You will sleep on your belly.” His words sounded more a promise than a threat.
Oh, why could the infuriating man not leave her alone, give her space so she could try to use the kenning to twig the meaning of Evelynour’s dour prediction? No, he had to come rushing in, breaking her solitude and threatening her and her tree. Damian was beyond angry with her, though she had no idea why. The man was most fearsome. Instinct was to flee from him, but she was not leaving him to possibly hurt the hawthorn. She titled her chin up in defiance and stood her ground.
“I did not quail before the bloody Dragon when he breathed fire at me, blaming me for I know not what, so I shan’t quiver before you, Lord Ravenhawke. Save your bluster and haranguing for someone who can be intimidated,” she snapped. “I wish to go home to Coinnleir Wood. This day. I have had enough of you highhanded warlords who take sport in pushing women around. Enough!”
As soon as the words were out, Evelynour’s voice reverberated through within her mind. He cannot not fight in Challon’s stead. He will die. We all will die. If she returned to Coinnleir Wood then there would be no one to prevent him from fighting in Challon’s place. Only what place? Why would he take the field of honor? It was to do with Tamlyn, but she had no idea what was going on, and it was making her scared. Very scared.
He paused, closed his eyes and then reigned in his temper. “I am sorry. My annoyance stems from my fear of finding you harmed. No one could tell me where you went. After what happened to Tamlyn-”
“What? What precisely happened to Tamlyn? Neither you nor your ride-over-you-rough-shod cousin have told me anything. You may be Lord Lyonglen now, but I am still the baroness of Coinnleir Wood and I will not stand for this shabby treatment. I-” So frustrated, she gave up and started to push past him.
Damian caught her upper arm and swung her back around to face him. “Forgive me, Aithinne. Men are not the most reasonable creatures when someone they love has been hurt. Tamlyn was attacked by Dirk Pendegast…behind the stables.”
He looked down at the toe of his boot. So sad, his pain was hers, made worse because it was a pain due to him loving Tamlyn. A man is not the most reasonable creatures when someone they love has been hurt.
She finally choked out the words. “Och, Poor Tamlyn. Did he-” Images of the man, with madness tainting his hard black eyes, cornering her in the room yestereve flashed through her mind. He had thought she was Tamlyn.
“Challon and I caught him. Hopefully we reached her in time.” He finally look up, the pale eyes full of tears. “I could not find you…so naturally I jumped to fears.”
She nodded, glancing down at the pretty flowers in her hands, unable to think straight.
“We heard there were stragglers camping on the other side of Lochshane Mòhr. We rode out to make sure they were gone. When we returned, Challon seemed to sense Tamlyn was in peril. Then we heard her scream and followed it.”
“What happened to Pendegast?”
“He and the men are held in the oubliette.”
“Will Challon hang him?”
Damian’s his head gave a slight shake to the sides. “Nay. Challon wants Trial by Combat. God will meet out justice.”
She gasped as she focused on what he was saying. On the morrow, Challon will seek to take the field of honor to avenge his lady. This is the true path. The way it must be. The leopard will accept this as God’s justice. Only Lord Ravenhawke will seek to take his place. He must not. He will die. We all will die.
“Nay!” The word was torn from her.
“I agree. Challon should not fight. He cannot fight. Even since the sacking of Berwick, he has been sick of soul. His mind should not face this. Dirk is too good of a warrior, the best Julian’s has ever trained. Challon is slowing down. I fear even a seconds hesitation from him would give Pendegast the advantage. He will die. Tamlyn needs him.”
Horror washed over her has Evelynour’s words burned in her brain, crashing in her mind like breakers upon the shore. Only now did she comprehend what her teacher had tried to warn her of. Challon sought justice, punishment of Pendegast on the field of honor in trial by combat. Their God’s retribution. In the combat, the righteous warrior was guided by the hand of their God-mayhap.
As she stood staring at Damian, the words echoed over and over within her head. He will die. He will die. He will die. He will die.
The world suddenly spun and then went black.
***
© Deborah Macgilllivray, August 2007
Kensington Zebra Historical Romances
All Rights Reserved