Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
13
ANOTHER TASK
“YE HAVE DONE well, daughter,” Colina’s voice drifted across the hearth. “The details ye have gleaned will aid us greatly … and tomorrow, we shall take action.” The High Bandruì paused then, her soft features tightening. “But tonight, a more pressing task awaits. I must cast the bones.”
Nessa frowned. She’d just finished telling Colina of what she’d learned at Dunfermline—and the High Bandruì’s lack of excitement was a little deflating. However, looking at the woman’s tired face, she realized that Colina was distracted.
“Shouldn’t ye rest tonight, mother?” Breanna asked, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “After yer dream, it’s best that—”
Colina shook her head, raising a hand—bones rattling—to cut her daughter off. “This cannot wait. My vision of Robert Bruce’s destiny was clear … yet we must know more if we are to aid him in any way.”
The High Bandruì swiveled on her heel then and started walking toward the rear of the cavern. “Come … all of ye … and bring candles.”
Abandoning their suppers, the guardians rose to their feet and did as bid, gathering up candles and following their leader to the open space at the far end of the cavern. A few feet from the curtain that led into Colina’s alcove there lay a pentagram—a five-pointed star inside a circle—drawn with chalk upon the stone floor. Each point of the star represented the elements: spirit, water, fire, earth, and air. Often the High Bandruì cast the bones upon the pentagram, for doing so gave her divinations more clarity.
Wordlessly, the druidesses set the candles down at the points of the pentagram before they all took their places in a circle around it. Colina knelt at the base of the star, Eclipse still perched upon her shoulder. She then reached into a pouch at her waist and withdrew a handful of bones—her ‘telling bones’. Each yellowed lump of bone bore a symbol. There were many symbols: the moons in all their phases, the four elements, the five senses, and the four seasons, among others. Their meanings changed depending on how they fell and which bones lay nearby.
Colina’s fist closed around the bones as she whispered ancient words. She then shook her hand gently, and the rattling of the bones filled the now silent cavern. Two figures flanked her, Sima and Crissa—the oldest and youngest members of the order. Sima was frail and bent, her eyes milky with cataracts, while Crissa had just passed her sixth winter. The trio stood together in honor of The Three: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. When Colina undertook an important divination, she always asked for assistance from the goddesses.
Leaning forward, the High Bandruì cast the bones across the pentagram.
Nessa watched them bounce and roll—and, like her sisters, she craned her neck forward to gain a better look. All of the bandruì knew how to read the bones, yet none was as adept as Colina.
Growing up, Nessa had discovered that witching wasn’t a ‘gift’ or a ‘curse’ but something that could be learned. Yet they all had their strengths, and Nessa had realized early on that hers was the healing arts.
“All women have witching in their blood,” Colina had told her once. “They just have to learn how to bring it forth.”
Nessa cast a glance at Breanna, who stood at her shoulder, to see her sister’s face was taut with concentration, her gaze sweeping over the scattered bones. Like the High Bandruì, she was skilled in divination.
A heavy silence drew out, and then Colina sat back on her heels. A frown marred her brow, lines of tension appearing around her mouth.
“This wasn’t what I’d hoped to see,” she admitted softly.
Breanna shifted uneasily next to Nessa, a scowl marring her face. “Robert Bruce’s path ahead will not be an easy one,” she murmured. “Will it?”
Colina’s attention snapped to Breanna, surprise lighting her dark-blue eyes. She clearly hadn’t expected her daughter to read the bones as clearly as she had.
After a moment, the High Bandruì shook her head. “A shadow lies over him. The bones carry a warning.”
Nessa stiffened, alarm flickering to life in her breast. Why was it that The Three gave with one hand and took with the other? “I thought he was to be our savior?” she whispered, voicing her worries aloud.
“He is,” Colina replied firmly. “But the bones warn us to be vigilant … he will need our help.”
“Aye, we must help him fulfill his destiny,” Sima spoke up then, her whispery voice echoing off the walls. “We cannot let the enemy prevail.”
“But what of William Wallace?” One of the other sisters asked. “Can he not help us?”
Colina’s mouth thinned. “The Wallace’s time is ending. With no king at present, Scotland has never been weaker. Bruce is our only hope.”
“Then we must do all we can to protect him,” Breanna replied, her tone sharpening.
Silence followed these words, and then Colina rose to her feet. The movement was slower and stiffer than Nessa recalled. The bitter winter had taken its toll on their leader.
And yet, the High Bandruì’s expression was determined when she squinted across at Nessa.
Tensing, Nessa stared back at her. She knew that look. “What is it, mother?” she asked warily.
A look of regret flickered across Colina’s round face, but her attention didn’t waver. “I know ye have only just returned to us, Nessa” —her voice was low yet with an iron edge of determination that they all knew well— “but I’m afraid I have another task for ye.” The High Bandruì paused there, and Nessa’s heart started to thud against her ribs. That pause and the tension that filled it told her she wasn’t going to like what was coming next. “I must ask ye to mend things with yer English lover.”
“Are ye not up the task, Ness?”
Glancing up from the glowing embers of the hearth, Nessa frowned across at where Breanna sat, watching her under veiled lids. It was late, and most of the bandruì, including their leader, had retired to their alcoves. Only Nessa and Breanna sat around one of the hearths as the evening deepened into night.
“Of course I am,” she replied, her tone clipped. “I just hoped to have a breather for a few days … that’s all.”
“None of us can rest at present,” Breanna reminded her with a shake of the head. “Not while the English are busy making this land theirs.”
Nessa’s mouth thinned. She was well aware of that—but it didn’t stop her feeling bone-weary in the aftermath of Colina’s divination.
She felt sick at the thought of returning to Hugh de Burgh.
“Ye must go back,” Colina had insisted. “Become our eyes and ears, Nessa … any threat against Robert Bruce is likely to originate within the English camp. Ye must keep alert. I will send Eclipse every couple of weeks to ye … so ye can pass word on quickly.”
“Ye are one of our best, Ness,” Breanna said then, intruding on Nessa’s whirling thoughts. “And if ye are prepared, ye will be able to insert yerself back in the knight’s favor without too much difficulty.”
Nessa pulled a face. “He’s a sharp one,” she replied. “Even with witching, he won’t be easy to fool.”
A groove furrowed between Breanna’s dark brows. She then gave Nessa a probing look. “Ye aren’t soft on him, are ye?”
Nessa jolted as if stung. Crone’s tears, why would Breanna suspect such a thing?
“Of course not,” she replied, scowling. “What gave ye that idea?”
“I don’t know.” Breanna continued to watch her intently. “Ye are different … that’s all.”
Nessa huffed a deep sigh before rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m just tired, Bree.” Heaviness pulled down at her at the admission. She’d hoped for a slight reprieve. Yet Colina was sending her—and others, Breanna included—back into the field the following day. There would be no rest after all.
Silence fell between the sisters, stretching out before Breanna eventually broke it. “So what’s he like, this knight?”
Nessa shrugged, glancing at her sister once more. “Just a man.”
Breanna arched a dark brow. “Was he a brute?”
“Not particularly.”
“Handsome?”
“Aye.”
Breanna flashed her a wicked grin. “That would have made yer task easier, I’d wager.”
The following morning, Nessa stood by the fire, fingers wrapped around a cup of hot broth, while the High Bandruì allocated specific tasks to her daughters. Small brown fowl pecked around the hearth, in search of any spilled food from the night before, while goats bleated from their byre nearby, demanding to be milked.
A faint headache, a dull pain behind Nessa’s eyes, made it difficult for her to concentrate this morning, yet she tried to ignore the lingering fatigue. She’d slept like the dead the night before, but it had been an effort to rouse herself from her alcove.
Watery dawn light now filtered in from the crevasses above, illuminating the High Bandruì’s determined face. Colina’s attention was resting upon two auburn-haired young women standing by the fire. Alike in form and features, the twins had just passed their seventeenth winters. “Erica and Cadha … ye are to ride south to Ardvreck Castle … ye know what must be done.”
“Aye, mother,” Erica murmured before casting her sister an impish smile. Cadha grinned back.
Watching them, Nessa suddenly felt old—as old as their ‘grandmother’, Sima, the oldest living member of their order. Once she too had bubbled with excitement when Colina charged her with a mission. Once she’d been eager to prove herself to the order. But this morning, she felt like a candle that had burned down to its stump, as if she had little left to give. The sensation was new to Nessa—and it bothered her.
“Only three weeks remain. We must move quickly,” Colina continued, oblivious to Nessa’s unease, while Eclipse surveyed the blue-robed women gathered around the fire with unnerving intensity. The High Bandruì’s sight was failing, yet her familiar had become her eyes of late. “Someone must warn Fyfa about what is afoot.” Squinting, Colina looked to Nessa. “Pay her a visit … on yer way to intercept the English.”
Nessa nodded, warmth spreading across her breast. She hadn’t seen Fyfa in years. It would be good to catch up with her, even in the current circumstances.
Colina’s attention then flicked to Breanna. “Travel to our allies in Inverness. Alert the warriors who have been wintering there, awaiting our call.”
Breanna’s dark gaze gleamed. “I will see it done,” she promised. Nessa viewed her sister for a long moment, silently in awe of her unwavering strength. Breanna was the toughest of them all: stubborn, spirited, and as adept with a longbow and dirk as any man.
Raising her cup to her lips, Nessa took a measured sip of broth. They all had to be strong. It didn’t matter how tired she was, the order came first. It always had.
Nessa understood why. So much was at stake. For years they’d been keeping the lines of communication open with the Highland clans who’d agreed to support them. Few knew of the Guardians of Alba’s existence—only of the mysterious blue-robed women who brought word from the south and then disappeared like morning mist. Their allies had been awaiting this moment for a long while—a chance to strike back against the English, a chance to liberate the lowlands.
“We are fortunate this time, my daughters,” Colina spoke once more, her voice carrying across the cavern. “For years now, the English have always been one step ahead of us. But now, thanks to Nessa’s hard work, we have the advantage. We know where and when they will attack next … and if we move fast, we can thwart them.” The High Bandruì’s unfocused blue eyes turned even more distant. “Invaders have long plagued these lands,” she murmured. “It started with the Romans. They marched into Caledonia in their red-crested helmets and forced our countrymen to kneel to them.” Colina drew in a deep breath. “But Bedelia, our founder, helped bring down the fated Ninth Legion … and she then cursed the last three survivors of that army to immortality.”
Colina halted there, and the fine hair on the back of Nessa’s forearms prickled. Of course, she’d heard this tale many times, yet Colina told it periodically, to remind them of their beginnings, of the purpose they carried from generation to generation. It seemed fitting that she would repeat it this morning.
Like all those of the order, Nessa knew of their founder, Bedelia. But unlike the others, even Colina, Nessa had actually met the men the Pict bandruì had cursed. Three years earlier, in Stonehaven, just outside the fortress of Dunnottar, on Scotland’s northeastern coast, she’d encountered Draco Vulcan—one of the three cursed centurions—and advised him. And then, once the curse was finally broken, she’d saved his life.
All three men now lived mortal lives at Dunnottar.
But Nessa had told none of her sisters, or the High Bandruì herself, of what she’d done. At the time, she’d wondered if her actions could be seen as disloyal. Yet when she’d met Draco, and seen the desperation and unhappiness in the man’s eyes, she’d decided that one thousand years was long enough for him to wander lost and alone in the world.
The Romans were long gone from Scotland’s shores. She bore them no hate—not like the English. Not like the man she’d set out to seduce.
Only, did she really hate Hugh de Burgh?
Oblivious to the turn of Nessa’s thoughts, Colina pressed on. “Years later, we were behind ‘The Barbarian Conspiracy’ … we helped unite warring tribes against the Romans. Next, the Angles pushed north to harry the Kingdom of Fortriu … but when they were forced to pull back to Northumbria, we were there.” Colina halted once more, her features tightening. “When the Norsemen arrived in their great ships to burn and pillage, we did our best to thwart them … but their numbers were too many … and now Norse blood runs through our veins.”
Silence fell then, while the gathered druidesses waited for their mother to finish her tale. The High Bandruì favored them with a tired smile. “Through the ages, the Guardians of Alba have always been here … watching and waiting in the shadows,” she said softly. “Our own Tara” —Colina motioned to the bandruì standing to her right— “provided worthy counsel to John Balliol … although the man was too weak to heed it.”
Nessa tensed at the mention of Scotland’s last king. Indeed Balliol or Toom Tabard—Empty Coat—as he was derisively known, had been chosen to rule Scotland by a group of men hand-picked by The Hammer himself. Tara had inserted herself into the king’s inner circle, and had done her best to help Balliol develop a backbone, yet the English king had undermined him at every turn, and eventually, the Scottish nobility deposed Balliol and appointed a Council of Twelve to rule instead.
“Never have the Guardians faced such a challenge,” Colina concluded. “The Wallace has disappeared … our people no longer have a freedom fighter to rally behind. The Hammer will make us all kneel … make every Scot a vassal of England. We must stop him.”