Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

12

THE SAVIOR OF SCOTLAND

COLINA WALKED BAREFOOT through the mud, her necklace and bracelets of bone rattling. A wet wind caressed her cheeks, and heavy storm clouds hung overhead, turning the day dark. Thunder rumbled nearby, ominous.

Yet her gaze wasn’t upon the approaching storm, or the distant mountains encircling this battleground, but on the dead that lay trampled in the dark, peaty mud.

So many of them—both Scot and English.

And as Colina picked her way across the field, her gaze scanning the corpses, she saw that there had been a clear victor.

Far more mail-clad men, their crimson surcoats stained dark with filth and blood, had fallen amongst the Scots in their quilted gambesons and iron helmets. Arrows and schiltrons—long Scottish spears—protruded from the bodies of the English soldiers and their hapless mounts.

The iron scent of blood and the stench of offal hung heavily in the air. Colina’s gorge rose, and so she breathed shallowly through her mouth. She’d seen battlefields in the past, long ago, before her vision dimmed and her limbs grew stiff—but nothing on this scale.

How is it I can see so clearly?

Indeed, Colina’s vision was so bad these days, it had reduced the world around her to a blur—and yet not so now. It was as if she were a lass again, and she could see every detail of her surroundings.

She halted then, her gaze going to where a banner lay trampled in the mud: three golden lions upon a blood-red field.

The Plantagenet banner.

And a few yards away, another standard flew high, snapping and billowing in the wind: a single red lion upon a sea of gold.

Gazing upon it, Colina smiled.

Wailing Widow Falls

Assynt, Scottish Highlands

A sigh of relief gusted from Nessa when she spied the falls.

Home.

Aye, it was, and yet over the past fifteen years, she had spent little time here. There was always information to be gathered, news to be spread, and rebellions to be organized.

Slowing Honey to a walk, she leaned forward and patted the garron’s sweaty neck. The Highland pony wasn’t the fastest of steeds, yet what she lacked in speed, she made up for in endurance. The pair of them had barely rested since leaving Dunfermline. And now, seven days out, as dusk approached, their destination finally rose before them.

They were in the heart of the Highlands now, with the grey, rock-studded sides of Glas Bheinn rearing up before them, and had just ridden up a steep-sided gorge, following a bubbling burn to its source.

High above her, Loch na Gainmhich gathered like an over-filled pail of water at the feet of the mountain before spilling over its lip into the gorge below.

Tumbling around fifty feet, the waterfalls threw out a heavy mist, and although she had grown up here, Nessa was struck as always at just how silent the falls were; she should have been able to hear their roar from a distance, and yet only a soft rumble intruded upon the twittering of roosting birds.

Drawing Honey to a halt, Nessa’s gaze swept over the wall of water before her.

Inhaling deeply, for there was nothing like the sweet, fresh air up here, Nessa tried to cast off the heaviness she’d carried north from Dunfermline. Guilt had niggled at her during the journey, like a dull toothache, the sensation growing sharp whenever she thought of Hugh.

She tried not to think of him.

Nessa raised her chin, her gaze traveling up the gushing column of water to the top of the falls.

The Wailing Widow—a melancholy name for such a beautiful spot. Colina had told them a few stories linked to the name. However, the one that had remained with Nessa was that of the deer hunter who fell over the top of the falls while hunting during a thunderstorm. He hadn’t heard the soft rumble of the falls over the noise of the storm and had toppled to his death. His wife, filled with grief, had thrown herself from the same spot the following morning.

Colina had told her daughters that, according to folklore, if one sat in the gorge upon a stormy night, the widow’s cries could still be heard.

“Come on, lass.” Nessa stroked Honey’s neck once more. “Let’s get ye indoors with a nosebag of oats.” The garron snorted, tossing her head.

Nessa smiled. It had been an exhausting journey north; her limbs ached, and she was sure she stank, for there had been no time to bathe. She’d only stopped when her body cried out for rest, food, or drink. But Honey had been there with her the entire way, unflagging.

Reaching into one of the small pouches she wore upon her belt, Nessa’s fingers curled around a smooth river stone. Withdrawing it, she held it out upon her palm, so that the last watery rays of sun could touch its surface.

A heartbeat later, she began a soft chant. The words were whispered, and yet the falls appeared to grow quieter still, and the chatter of birds in the surrounding trees died.

The world held its breath, and then the wall of water before Nessa parted, cleaving a path to the bank where she and her pony waited.

Nessa put the stone away, gathered the reins, and urged Honey down the bank. The garron crunched across wet pebbles, unperturbed by the strange sight. She’d entered the falls many times and knew that a warm stall and a good feed of oats awaited her inside.

And as such, she clip-clopped fearlessly into the darkness beyond.

“The High Bandruì has had a vision.” Breanna’s excited voice echoed through the cavern. “She knows who will be the savior of Scotland!”

Nessa, who’d just dismounted from Honey, looked to where her sister strode across the damp stone floor, dark hair flowing behind her. Breanna’s proud face was flushed, her peat-brown eyes gleaming.

“Aye?” Nessa greeted her, excitement quickening in her belly. “Who?”

“Robert Bruce … she saw his banner victorious upon a field of battle … against the English.”

Nessa’s eyes snapped wide. This was the best news she’d heard in a long while. Ever since William Wallace, the Scots had been looking for someone to rally behind. Had they now found him?

“Which Bruce is it?” she asked. “The elder or the younger?”

“The younger … the Earl of Carrick, and now seventh Lord of Annandale … judging from the banner,” Breanna replied. “His elderly father still lives, yet as eldest son, the Earl leads the clan these days.”

Nessa’s brow furrowed. Robert Bruce. She knew little of the man, apart from that he was one of the Scottish lairds who had submitted to The Hammer. Was he about to change allegiance?

Breanna reached Nessa, crushing her in a quick, fierce hug. “It’s wonderful to see ye, sister.”

Warmth washed over Nessa. “I’ve missed ye, Bree.”

Stepping back, Breanna met her eye. “And I take it ye have news for us too?”

Nessa’s mouth quirked. “I do … although it will appear trifling compared to Colina’s vision.” She paused then. “The English will set off for Stirling on the twenty-eighth day of March … to besiege the fortress.”

Breanna’s jaw tightened, her dark eyes gleaming. “Is that so?”

“Aye … it took me longer than I’d hoped to gain the news … but I got there in the end.” Nessa glanced around her then, searching for Colina. She wished to inform the High Bandruì personally. “Where is our mother?”

“Sleeping,” Breanna replied, motioning to the largest of the curtained alcoves at the back of the cavern. “The vision came to her in a dream … and it seems to have drained her.”

Nessa’s frown returned. Colina had been such a dedicated, stalwart leader of the order that she sometimes forgot the woman was getting on in years. “She’s not unwell, is she?”

“No.” Breanna flashed her a reassuring smile, although her gaze was still sharp in the wake of Nessa’s news. “Just tired … she’ll be awake soon enough.” Her sister motioned to one of the four great hearths that burned behind her. A cauldron of what smelled like mutton and turnip stew simmered there. The aroma drifted through the cavern, mixing with the pungent scent of peat smoke and the musty odor of the fowl, goats, and horses that resided within. “Ye timed yer arrival well, sister … supper will be ready soon.” She then turned to the young woman who was stirring the stew pot. “Cadha … open a fresh barrel of ale … let’s welcome Nessa home properly.”

A short while later, with Honey fed, watered, and stabled in one of the large alcoves near the cavern entrance, Nessa settled onto a cushion before one of the hearths. Outdoors, the light had dimmed, while indoors, the ruddy glow of the hearths, and the cressets burning upon the walls, illuminated the cavern.

Breathing in deeply, as she let herself relax for the first time in a week, Nessa angled her chin up, taking in the cavern’s vastness. It was higher than a cathedral in here. During the day, the slits in the rock above let in streams of light.

In daylight, the cavern appeared cluttered, but the night shadows hid bunches of drying herbs that hung on ropes from the ceilings, and hangings of bones, feathers, and desiccated animals and birds that crisscrossed the wide space.

The murmur of female voices rose and fell as dusk settled over the world. Clusters of blue-robed figures sat around the hearths, wooden bowls of stew perched on their knees.

A smile curved Nessa’s lips. How she’d missed this place. The company of her sisters—old and young—the crackle of the hearths, and the ancient songs that were passed from generation to generation.

The sound of singing drew her attention now, a low husky voice that echoed through the cavern. One of the sisters began a song about the strength and wisdom of women—a beautiful refrain that Nessa hadn’t heard in years.

Turning, she saw that the singer was Tara, a bandruì of around five years her senior. Tall and lean, Tara’s angular looks contrasted with the richness of her voice. Until a few years earlier, she’d been an advisor to the Scottish king—but now that Scotland had no king, she’d returned to the order.

Meeting Nessa’s eye, Tara favored her with a nod. Warmth settled over Nessa then, a sense of belonging. They were a family, the Guardians of Alba. The singing and the company of her sisters were a salve to her tired body.

The song continued while Nessa turned back to her supper. She dug her wooden spoon into the stew and took a large mouthful of tender mutton. Hades, she was starving.

“It really is good to have ye home, Ness,” Breanna murmured then, catching her eye.

“And it’s good to be back,” Nessa replied with a smile. “Everything seems right with the world when I’m once again inside these walls.”

“And yet it’s not,” Breanna reminded her.

Nessa’s expression sobered. Of course, Breanna was right. Nothing would be right until the English were driven from Scotland.

Tara’s singing died away then, and Nessa shifted her attention toward the far end of the cavern, wondering why. A moment later, she heard the rattle of bones and spied a small figure emerge from the shadows, a crow perched upon her shoulder. Colina had mussed, greying walnut-brown hair and wore a sleeveless woolen tunic, dyed sky-blue, with a fur stole around her shoulders. Ropes of bone necklaces hung around her neck and bracelets covered her bare arms.

Nessa set aside her bowl of stew and rose to her feet. “Mother.”

“Is that ye, Nessa?” The High Bandruì of the Guardians of Alba halted, squinting. A dreamy smile split her round face. Colina was now halfway through her sixth decade, and with the passing of the years, her eyesight had worsened. These days, her midnight-blue eyes had lost their sharpness. It was an irony that she was a gifted seer, for Colina’s immediate surroundings had turned into a blur. Indeed, her unfocused gaze often made her appear as if she were leagues away.

“Aye.” Nessa crossed the cavern to the High Bandruì, taking her hands and squeezing. “And I bring word from Dunfermline.”