For Love Of Rory. Barbara Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ the sign of Woden. Never had he seen such a lay of the Runes and it unnerved him to think that Woden might have decided to disrupt Drojan’s life by sending a woman emissary.

      Scooping up the Runes, he returned them to the bag and destroyed the circle. As he left the building his eyes searched the faces of the village women. Which of them might have been chosen by the war god of the North, and how would Drojan recognize her? Sometimes he wished he had not been given the powers that had catapulted him to the most respected and sought-after authority in Corvus Croft. It was a heavy burden to bear knowledge of the future, especially when the future concerned oneself.

      * * *

      Voices drifted through Rory’s mind. Women’s voices, soft and comforting, and one disturbing in its hint of sensuality. The sensual voice caused him to fight the darkness of unconsciousness and try to open his eyes and return to the world of the living. But the world of the living was a world of heat and pain. It was the pain that convinced him that he was not dead, although the features of the woman that swam before his eyes seemed lovely enough to be those of the Valkyries of which his friend Drojan spoke.

      Though he clamped his lips tightly shut, Rory sometimes heard his own voice calling out against the pain and fever. Then blessed moisture touched his lips and warmth seeped down his throat. His mind returned from the passages of the past and he fought to hear and understand the words bandied above his head. English voices, speaking English words. He must hold to his consciousness long enough to discover his whereabouts and, hopefully, the fate that awaited him.

      “He has said nothing that would give us the name of his village,” the sensuous voice said. “He calls for a woman named Brunda, but hers is the only name he has uttered.”

      “We will stay with him. He may yet give us the information we need,” the other voice responded.

      A cool hand touched his brow. “He is burning with fever. If we cannot break it he will die, and we’ll never know from whence he came.”

      The hand slipped down beneath his ear. The voice, no longer sensuous, cried out, “His neck is swollen. Here!”

      “God save him, the poison has gone into his body. We must soak him in tepid water and bring the fever down as quickly as possible, else he will die.”

      Rory wanted to scream as he was dragged from the bed and lowered into a tub of water that seemed more icy than the winter streams. Too weak to fight, he remained still, suffering in silence. To his amazement, in only a matter of minutes the water did not seem so cold and his mind fought to clear itself. It was then he first realized that his life was forfeit should he, in his delirium, call out the name of his village. He must fight to keep from entering delirium again, though the effort drained his body of his last vestige of strength.

      If he hoped to survive he could not give these people the information they desired. And survive he would, if only long enough to look upon the woman with the cool hands and the sensuous voice. A woman he linked to the sea nymph he had held in his arms just before he was struck down. As the lovely body floated in the eye of his memory, Rory relaxed.

      “We must put compresses on the swelling in his neck,” Old Ethyl said as she soaked a cloth with the liquid before handing it to Serine.

      “It will be impossible to tell whether the swelling has gone down with his beard in the way,” Serine fussed. “There is nothing for it but to take care of his facial hair.”

      Rory heard the woman’s remark. He was proud of his beard. As with all Celts, his beard was the symbol of his manhood. Thick and rich and luxuriant, he wore it well and washed and combed it often. And although he trimmed it regularly, he had not been without facial hair since puberty. It boded well for him that the woman who had his care appreciated the virility indicated by his beard. He felt gentle hands brush the hair on his cheeks and he drifted into sleep as a feeling of well-being overcame him.

      A well-being that Serine did not share, for she knew what she was about to ask Old Ethyl might well bring about the end of their friendship. Steeling herself against the reluctance that slipped insidiously through her body, Serine managed to form her request.

      “Ethyl, shortly after you came here as a bride, you mentioned a mixture of herbs you had learned from a woman in the land of your youth. Do you remember?”

      Old Ethyl closed her eyes. “Yes, I remember. I remember all too much, and all too well.” She remembered the kindly woman who had spent her life concocting harmless potions that made life happier and easier for those around her, only to come upon a mixture so potent it all but brought the dead back to life, and ultimately brought down the wrath of the other healers, who coveted the recipe.

      The woman did not know how to write, and made her brew with a handful of this and a pinch of that. All good herbs from God’s own garden. Gladly she gave the others the names of the herbs she used, but she was unable to give the exact measure and their potions were useless, and more than useless...deadly.

      In anger and frustration the unsuccessful healers accused the woman of witchcraft and she was burned in her little hut along with her herbs and her secret.

      “If this man came from the land of which you spoke, perhaps that mixture might cure him more quickly than the simple things we have available.”

      “It is against the law to make that brew,” Ethyl said without meeting her eyes.

      “But you have done so, Ethyl.” Serine turned her steady gaze on the woman. “If you have some of the mixture, I beg you let us use it to make this man well so that he can lead me to Hendrick.”

      Ethyl walked over to the window. “I saw the bitter brew made many times. She would take powdered wormwood, and a pinch of myrrh and saffron. To that she would add senna leaves and camphor. Then came such herbs as manna, the roots of rhubarb, zedoary, carline thistle and—” her voice faded to a whisper “—angelica.”

      “But there is nothing poisonous or sinister in those ingredients. We use them all the time for one thing or another,” Serine mused aloud. “Was it in the way she prepared them?”

      “The herbs are placed in a container half-filled with fruit spirits and set out in the warmth of the sun. You are right. There is nothing sinister or magical about it. As she did with all her herbs, when she worked she recited her ingredients in a singsong voice. Some of the other healers felt they could improve on her concoction and tried adding herbs and berries. The additives did more harm than good and people became ill rather than being cured. A woman died after taking what was said to be the exact duplication of the recipe. They went after the healer who had made the original brew. They accused her of being a witch and burned her. It was believed her recipe was lost with her, and an edict was handed down that no one was to experiment with her concoction on pain of death. That edict has never been lifted.”

      “But surely it was only in the land where you lived,” Serine argued, sensing that her only hope of saving the Celt’s life was slipping away.

      “The edict was accepted by pagan and Christian alike, and the punishment ultimately the same regardless of the name of the god they worshiped.”

      “Ethyl, for the love of that God, please help me to save this man and find my son.” There were tears in Serine’s eyes. “I know how greatly this request must disturb you. Still, I must ask it.”

      Ethyl’s hands shook. “You cannot know unless you could have heard the woman’s dying screams. You cannot know the fear I have felt each time I did more than make tea from the herbs I gathered. Yet СКАЧАТЬ