Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy (18 page)

Assess. What did she know? The two boys, the woman, and those who were in the kitchen knew of her presence. Add to that the guards in the tower—too many, considering by now more people had heard of the bundled stranger. She was locked in this room away from the other residents of the house, five floors up. It might as well be fifty stories up. The likelihood of escape seemed improbable. She’d just have to wait until a chance came her way.

The key rasped in the lock again and the door opened to a barrage of women carrying supplies—piles of linen and down comforters, tapestries, velvets, toiletries. A dozen women, most if not all had been in attendance in the kitchen, shyly dipped their heads and bowed, hurrying to ready the room. The woman who came in last in the line supervised as a brass tub that took four of girls to pull emerged from behind the partial wall. “Aye, and when done with that run ta get water heating on the brazier,” she said.

The room was quickly swept, a feather bed fluffed and placed on top of the rush mattress and covered with linens and comforters. Velvet curtains were hung around the bed and tapestries over the windows to protect against drafts. Only then did the supervisor, Brenawyn’s rescuer, turn to her with a smile on her face.

“I am Mistress Fordoun, I welcome ye ta the Keep.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Brenawyn McAllister.”

She looked askance at Brenawyn but shook her head, “McAllister? Now, that t’is a surprise.” Waving her hand, “No matter, t’is good ta be able ta put a name ta the sleeping lady.”

“The sleeping lady? I think you have me confused … ”

“Aye, the sleeping lady. Were ye not found in the glen sleeping by the fairy mound? Strange clothes. Aye, we’ve been waiting a long time for ye.” She patted her arm, “Himself is out just the now. Messengers ha’ been dispatched. He will return, most like, 'afore a fortnight. Until then, yer every comfort will be seen ta, yer bath will be drawn and clothes set out for ye thaur,” motioning to the bed. A pile of linen undergarments and several layers of what would constitute a dress in the current fashion, made of much richer fabrics than the ones on the women in the room lay over the back of the chair. Her own clothes were suspiciously absent. “Off with yer trews. Ye won’t be needing them.”

Brenawyn looked down, her trouble evidently written on her flushed cheeks.

“Och, modest, are ye? Thaur is a screen yonder, undress thaur, and when the bath is ready I will call ye.”

Much to Brenawyn delight, she saw that the screen was moveable and she repositioned it with little effort in front of the tub, went to the bed, carefully unfolded the undergarments and found what she hoped to be the first layer, was it called a shift in this time? She hung it over the top of the screen and then disappeared behind it.

The tub was deep and the water beckoned her with its steamy tendrils. She instructed the last of the girls, who wouldn’t look her in the eye to leave the bucket. The girl, wild eyed, looked up shaking her head, casting looks over her shoulder at the main room that held the formidable Mistress Fordoun. “No, it’s so I can rinse my hair.”

“Miss, let me help ye, please,” she whispered, still casting glances over her shoulder.

Brenawyn didn’t know why, but she had the feeling that it would be worse for the girls if she dismissed all help.
“All right.
”
She knelt by the tub, unzipping the coveralls to her waist, her bra, the only thing she had underneath, another reminder that she was in a different time. The girl wouldn’t know what to make of it. If she asked, it was a short corset designed to push up the breasts. Hopefully, she wouldn’t look too closely at the details, eye hooks, and the maker tag. Jesus, Brenawyn was going to end up burnt at the stake.

The girl didn’t say anything but reached for the pot of lavender scented soap and lathered it in, massaging her scalp and rinsed it with the bucket. Once done, Brenawyn stepped out of her garments and sunk into the tub, oblivious to everything but the still-steaming water. She sighed and closed her eyes.

When the water had finally cooled, she opened her eyes again. The girl was gone. A fluffy length of wool was folded on a chair by the tub, and Brenawyn got out and dried herself off. The noise brought the girl, wide eyed rushing around the screen, “Miss, ye should ha’ called. T’is my job.”

“Relax. I won’t tell,” she said, holding the towel around herself. “What is your name?”

“Me mum calls me Margaret,” she answered in a high-pitched voice, hastily curtsying.

“Margaret,” she said, dropping the towel, “was my mother’s name. Can you help me dress?” This is what was customary, as awkward as it seemed. She needed to fit in, who knew who this girl would speak to after she left, besides she wouldn’t be able to dress herself, after the shift.

~~~

An escort came to get her for dinner, a quiet affair with a smattering of people, most of whom she had seen on her arrival. This routine continued for ten days. She spent her days in the tower, at meals someone, usually one of the two boys who initially found her, would come for her, offer an arm, escort her down patiently waiting as she stumbled over her ill-fitting shoes, and be ready to take her again to her chambers afterward, but would not speak to her.

On the eleventh day, early, horns awoke her. She pushed the tapestry aside and looked out the window, but it offered no view of what was happening below. She paced the apartment and when the door opened sometime later, it was to a flush-cheeked girl, eager to be away.

“What is happening? Who has come?”

“My da has come home. He was gone with the baron. They ha’ come home early; they say ta see ye, my lady.”

“Did you miss your father?”

The girl bounced up and down nodding her head, “My da brings me trinkets always.”

“Then you should go to him.”

“But … ”

“No buts, sweetie, go find your father. I expect someone else will come for me.”

She didn’t have to wait long, Mistress Fordoun and her entourage came bustling in with toiletries and arms full of muslin and a gown. They whirled around pulling Brenawyn to her feet but that was all the effort she needed to make, all else was done for her. The shift was whisked off her head and new fine lawn one replaced it. A corset came around her and Brenawyn thought she’d pass out; she couldn’t breathe or sit. “No’ ta worry, my lady, yer going ta be beautiful.”

By the time she was plunked down on a stool in front of the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. The corset whittled her waist to an impossible state, pushing her breasts up until they teetered on the edge of popping out any moment. She hoped not. The boning would probably do irreparable damage to her. The person who cut the strings on this thing would have her undying gratitude, if they burned it with all the rest of these horrid corsets, she’d have his baby. How many years had she complained about the underwire in her bras? It was nothing in comparison to this. The thought made her giggle.
Oof, no giggling either
.

Her hair was brushed by two women, clucking and arguing amongst themselves over the style. They opted to braid it into tiny sections, weaving the braided ropes, so they fit snug against the back of her head, the remainder left to cascade down her back. They left in a hurry leaving Brenawyn with Mistress Fordoun. She hung in the back, distractedly playing with the leaves of flowers set for the braided coiffure.

“The man of the house is home? What can I expect?”

She shook her head, “I doona ken, my lady. Depends on how the request is answered. I had the boys send a note ta their da asking for a private audience. They ha’ ta present ye ta court, but ye couldnae ha’ come at a worse time, my lady. We are a house divided. T’is no’ a tolerant time. The auld ways are dying and ye could be in danger. Thaur has been talk o’ burnings.”

“Then help me get out. I came to find the Merlin. I don’t know how I’ll locate him but my chances are better out there than in here behind lock and key waiting for God knows what. Help me.”

She dragged a chair over to the door and shoved it under the handle and came back to kneel in front of Brenawyn. “My lady, doona fear the master o’ the house. He is compassionate ta yer plight, but gifted he is no’. Doona mention the Merlin, gone these past twenty years, left o’ a sudden with no word. A day hasnae passed without the Sinclair weeping over the loss o’ his brother. A sad fate for the entire clan, the witch hunters rose in this area decades ago and it was decided ta hide Alexander, once he shown the gift. They sent him off ta learn, but publically wiped his existence ta the rest o’ the world. Deid in childhood it says on the tombstone o’ an empty grave.

“It would ha’ stayed that way, had Alexander no’ come back. A strong braw lad he had grown inta, made me weep ta see him again, want ta keep him safe as I had done for all his life, but I couldnae. He had grown beyond my help, the markings on his chest.”

Brenawyn grabbed her arms, “What do, did, they look like?”

“An ancient script in deepest indigo,” she leaned forward whispering, “Marking him a Druid, one of the Tuatha de Dananns’ own.”

Close, but no mention of the red, Brenawyn sat back disappointed, the name and the markings too much of a coincidence to ignore, but she berated herself for hoping that she had been brought to Alexander’s family. That would be too easy.

“He didna keep a low profile; he couldn’t naturally, looking so much like his brother, quite the formidable, the two o' them, and with his markings, which he made no move ta hide. Very close the two o' them were, inseparable, always ta be found practicing in the lists, his markings out for the world ta see.

Thaur are so many visitors to these parts, it was a growing concern, and it was only a matter of time before attention would be drawn ta the keep. Alex wouldna ha’ gone willingly, his brother at his back in defense, making it worse for the family, but thank the gods he wasna haur when they eventually came. The examiners overstayed their welcome within a day but lingered and once they’d gone, the traitor was dealt with.”

“So what happens if your request is denied?”

“It may be. I couldnae trust ta put inta words what has happened, who ye are.”

“Who you think I am.”

She brushed this off inconsequentially, “I need ta think o’ a way ta explain ye. The boys, gods love them, are boys. Who kens who ha’ heard the story o’ yer discovery? The odd way ye were dressed, yer speech. Aye, a convincing story will have ta be supplied, if ye are presented publically. Mind ye, ye’ll end up that way, but the Sinclair needs ta ken about ye first ta decide what’s ta dae with ye.”

A knock at the door had Mistress Fordoun scurry to ease the chair away. Once she had replaced it in a location that didn’t look suspiciously like it had been used as a safeguard against entry, did she open the door. A young man, just old enough to grow a first, scraggly beard, stood at the door. “Mistress Fordoun, yer presence is required downstairs. I am ordered ta bring yer guest presently.”

His words hung in the air and a panic settled in the pit of Brenawyn’s stomach. She would be going down alone. “

Mistress Fordoun turned to her before exiting, “Take heart, my lady, I will speak for ye.”

It was a relief, but she had to make the descent with this young man she had never seen before, his armament, the sword held in the scabbard at his back, and the blade tied to his thigh, a clear indication that she was in trouble. As she followed him down to the dining hall, all desire for small talk dried in her throat. No need to discern information when the prospect of finding too much about her tenuous situation in a few mere minutes seemed too much to bear. She assessed the various exits, archways giving to nothing more than another stone hallway, what was beyond, out of her sight. A flurry of activity was in progress, the floors were being swept and scrubbed, and trestle tables brought in, tallow candles replaced by fresh, the busy set up for a feast for the lord returned home.

Without turning to see if she followed, the man walked through a small opening at the back of the dais and took winding stairs. She slowed her steps, knowing she was walking further away from any escape. “Doona think about it, lass, I’d be on ye, ‘afore ye made the nearest archway. Come, it won’t be bad,” said the man, his attention attracted by the change in her gait.

Brenawyn looked at him, trying to hide her thoughts; she was quick normally, out of this contraption called fashion. She couldn’t get a deep breath, she was seeing spots in front of her eyes, by the slight exertion of the climb, and he was faster in all probability. Possessing the upper body strength to use that sword, his legs were knotted with muscle. No, she couldn’t outrun him. She smiled sweetly into his face, using her looks to distract. From the resulting look on his face, the gambit worked. She followed him up the stairs to meet whatever fate the universe threw her into.

A knock at the oak door granted them entry, but her escort smiled at her, opening it for her but didn’t enter himself. She heard the door click closed and softly bang against its frame as if he taken his place, back up against it, to guard.

“Would ye like some sherry, lass?”

Brenawyn turned to face the voice, “No, thank y … oh God, Alex?” Taking two steps toward him. The hair greying at the temples marked him as only a close relative after the words were out of her mouth. Urgings from Fordoun screamed in her head. Oh God. Oh God. “I apologize. You look like someone I knew.”