Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Page 3

  Liam vaulted onto the dais but was blocked by a befuddled Sinclair. “Let me past! Ye may think ye found the priestess … they may think they’ve found the sleeping lady; but in truth t’is only my wife ye’ve found.”

  Brenawyn clasped her hands to stem the trembling, but her anxiety spilled over in the tears she shed. She wanted to run, scream, hit someone as she stared at the face of her abuser, her husband—the man she had buried years ago. In her head she knew what he had done, but she had the remnants of the memory binding too, making her doubt herself. When she found out originally it had been so easy to give over to it, mourn the loss of her child, hate herself for so easily forgetting even though it wasn’t in her control; but now looking at Liam she searched the face she had memorized for some hint there were tender feelings for her, but all that stared back was cold and hard. Anger and contempt welled in her gut.

  William grabbed Liam by the collar as he lunged for Brenawyn. “Yer wife?”

  The incredulity dripping from Sinclair’s accented voice drew Brenawyn up short as she remembered where—when she was.

  “Aye, it seems as if t’were in another time, another place; but that is my Brenawyn.”

  A scream filled the hall. It took a while for Brenawyn to figure out it wasn’t from her, but the girl.

  “Guards! Clear the floor. Hall is over. Escort everyone out o’ hall.”

  This might be her only chance to beg for help because women didn’t have the same rights here. She sputtered, grabbing, clinging to Sinclair’s sleeve, “He beat me, led me to believe he was dead, tried to kill me…”

  “Yer his wife, no’ many will interfere. Most will think t’is his job ta discipline ye.” But Sinclair swung on Liam. "Is this true?”

  No response.

  “Answer me.”

  "Aye, she believed me dead for three years.”

  “Why man?

  “I wanted rid o’ her.”

  “Then by all means, she is nay longer yer concern.” Pushing him off the dais, and turning toward Brenawyn, “Milady,” he said, “ye passed the requisite time o’ separation. Ye are no longer married ta this man if ye wish it so.”

  Brenawyn nodded because she couldn’t trust herself to speak. She wanted to throw herself in William’s arms, her savior at this moment, and cower behind him.

  “Escort the Lady ta my solar; and ha’ McAllister tossed out.” He shouted, but he jumped down off the dais and stalked over to where Liam was. “Doonae go far, man. I will be coming for ye shortly.” He turned and in the same tone, instructed another guard to post watch over him until he came. “Dae something with his girl, too. At least take her out and calm her.”

  Brenawyn was being ushered out by the same guard who brought her down to hall. His girl? He was a father? How could that be? She was what, ten years old? How the hell did time travel work? Did he have her beforehand? Afterward? She didn’t understand, and there was no one who could explain it to her, because she as sure as Hell wasn’t going to give anyone else any information. She’d end up dead, and she might even deserve it too, if she managed to make it through the day.

  Alex, where are you?

  Brenawyn needed to regroup. Reassess what she knew about where she was. What, if anything, she could disclose; she’d need to come up with a story before long.

  She arrived at the door to the solar in moments, piloted in by a gentle yet strong hand at the small of her back, and closed within, without a word said. The door locked behind her. She should have been outraged by being locked in, but she was glad to have the protection of the oak door between her and whatever dangers lay beyond.

  It was quiet in the room, well-kept, and manly. These were Sinclair’s personal chambers. There was no reason to put her here other than it offered proximal security. She didn’t think that many saw the inside of this room, so the wealth of the trappings could not be for spectacle. The coffered ceilings and bookcases were of the same dark wood which was so well-oiled it shone in the setting sun’s light granted by the diamond-paned windows. Brenawyn went over to one and looked out. Not having the availability of mass manufacture, these had to be crafted individually and represented hours of exhaustive work to produce something so exquisite in its imperfection.

  She was too far up to consider crawling out the window, even had it been wide enough. Escape this way was impossible. She ran her fingers over the nearest book to her right, pulling it out of place, leafing through it and marveling at its hand-illuminated pages. The next book offered the same, and the third a product of a printing press. Brenawyn had a flash of one of her students, Christina, nervously standing in front of the class presenting her interdisciplinary project. Was that really just a few months ago? The girl had drawn Johannes Gutenberg and the printing press. At the time, Brenawyn thought she would lose her mind listening to monotonous recitations; but something had stuck. She was glad of it because at least it gave her a reference point. How many times did she tell her students that they never knew when information would come in handy? Whenever she was, it had to be after 1440.

  The bookcases ran the entire length of the room, stuffed with similar volumes. A map of the region hung over the massive, cold fireplace at the far end. The stone mantle was flanked by two overstuffed wingback chairs with a table in between.

  Movement had Brenawyn turn to the chair facing the fireplace, and a large grey snout came into view.

  “Well, hello there, puppy.”

  A thwap, thwap, of its tail on the seat, was her answer. She circled the chair to see a large shaggy grey hound curled impossibly tight on the chair. Only then did he unfold himself and come to sniff her hand. “Oh, you’re a handsome boy!” She scratched him behind the ear, and he half closed his eyes as he leaned into her. “Like that do you? So does my Spencer. I wish he were here now, but you’ll do.”

  She didn’t have much time. She needed to find out as much information from her surroundings while she was alone because paying inordinate attention to her environment might draw more attention to that fact that she didn’t fit in. She was in enough danger as it was. It was fortuitous that she was locked into his study. The oak desk beckoned to be ransacked. Not a hospitable move, but necessary. She didn’t want to move anything, in case he noticed. His desk was efficient. A short stack of prized paper lay off to the side with an ink well, quill, and a stub of wax, with what she thought to be his seal situated in easy access. There was a ledger that lay on the other side with sealed envelopes on top. She took a swift look at the door, and down at the dog who stood by her side, panting. “It’s just a quick look. You won’t tell, will you?”

  Brenawyn took the letters off and flipped open the book to the last entry…September 1457. Her hands trembled. 1457.

  What in the world made her agree to this? Her mind flashed back to Alex floating face down in the pond, and the ridiculous promise she made to an impossible figure, a faerie, for Christ’s sake, to save his life. It had seemed like a dream. She recognized that she made her promise based on heightened emotions, but this was no promise to God that she’d go to church more often. She had made those before. Promised God she’d be a good girl if he brought her mom back, saved her dad from his heart attack, or much later be more devout if he'd allow Liam to live. Hers was not a god that took direct action, though she tried her best to be a good Catholic. Her current situation was more than she bargained for. She had accepted the mantle of some official office she knew nothing of, and the next thing she knew she was whisked off to serve in that capacity. In 1457!

  Hysterics bubbled up from her gut, and she was cackling and crying at once. A soft scuff on the other side of the door had her clamp a hand to her mouth. She put the letters back on the journal, adjusting the stack to resemble what she remembered, and quickly dashed to the chair facing the fire. The dog followed in tow, and the minute she was situated he draped himself over her lap.

  There was something reassuring about his warm weight that rooted her spiraling thoughts to the spot. Pet
the dog. Pet the dog. It’s not that bad. The dog would be wary if there was anything amiss. Animals were like that, even if he wasn’t hers. As long as he was relaxed and lounging on her there was no immediate danger. They stayed in that position for a long time, and Brenawyn’s heart eased feeling the steady beat of the dog’s and the cadence of his breathing.

  The grate of the key in the lock pierced the stillness and woke the dog, which readjusted on her. Even her gathered skirts, petticoats, and whatever else she had on as undergarments didn’t protect her fully from his massive paws as they dug in between the muscles of her thighs so he could peer over the back of the chair to look at the intruder. He whined a bit, and the tail thumped in response.

  “Dunmor, come.”

  The dog clumsily jumped down, and Brenawyn felt defenseless and bare, the sudden chill in his absence echoing the tightening knot in her stomach.

  “Would ye like some claret, lass?”

  Not wanting to appear demanding, she answered, “Only if you’re pouring yourself some.”

  “Och, nay for me. I doonae touch the wine. Makes my head ache. I’m a Scotch man, myself.”

  “Well, if you’re pouring, I’d rather that instead.”

  William chuckled. “Ah, I should ha’ guessed myself that Alex would ally himself with a woman o’ good taste.”

  The dog circled back and sat at Brenawyn’s feet as she turned to face William who eased into the chair opposite her. He scowled as he handed her the glass.

  “You can tell that just from my drink preference?”

  “Well, nay, no’ exactly, but I doonae ha’ much ta go on now, dae I. My dog likes ye, at least. Sometimes I trust him o’er my advisors, such discerning taste he has.”

  “And this distresses you?” She quickly shut her mouth and shifted her eyes away from him, intent on finding the bottom of her glass in a vain attempt to control her responses. Women were not so bold now.

  “Hmpf,” he grumbled. “Let me summarize for ye then. I am called away from an extended hunt ta come back ta my Keep because the Sleeping Lady appeared o’ a sudden. I get here and am made ta hear o’ the circumstances o’ her appearance and how she was pitiful confused and in strange garb. She mistakes me for my brother, but that is only after I decide ta offer my protection and a cover story for prying eyes. Ta make things worse, as I arrange ta dae things proper-like and introduce her in Hall, she demonstrates magic for all ta see, healing a child—thank ye for that, if her mam didnae think ta offer it, but are ye daft?” He waved a hand in dismissal, “Ne’ermind that now. And then one o’ my tacksmen claims that she is his wife, though I cannae see how that came ta be since t’is clear ta all that ye are no’ from anywhere near here. Did I miss anything, my lady?”

  “Just that I thought Liam was dead. I buried him—thought I buried him…I did bury someone.”

  “Aye, I remember, ye said that.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No’ o’ itself, nay, I wouldnae, though ye did look quite shocked ta see him, that’s true enough.”

  “Then why?”

  “I ha’ some reason ta believe McAllister. He’s been known ta me since we were young. Though, ye could ha’ knocked me over with a feather ta learn that he has two wives!”

  Brenawyn was startled at this revelation. “What?”

  “Ye’d ha’ no’ reason ta ha’ met her. I was told ye hadn’t been out o’ the Keep since ye’ve arrived. Is that nay so?”

  “I haven’t been outside. Just the turret room and what you call Hall, and I’ve always been escorted to and from.”

  “Aye. For yer protection, and ours, truth be kent.”

  “For your protection? How do you see that I’m a threat?”

  “I dae no’ see it, but I ha’ the care o’ all who live here.”

  “I understand, I do, but it still leaves me—

  “Aye, it dae.” William nodded his head in agreement. “So ye’re wondering what I am going ta dae with ye? For the moment, I’ve sent McAllister on an errand that t’will keep him a fortnight. In that time, I expect the local magistrate and the bishop ta arrive.”

  “Oh?”

  “There is some danger for ye, and that cannae be helped. Ye were verra public in yer demonstrations, so while I’ve had ta formally request that the bishop come ta keep the peace, I ha’ staggered the missives. The magistrate will arrive sooner, and he will determine which o’ the marriages is valid.”

  “It’s the marriage with the other woman—what is her name?”

  “Then ye kent about it ‘afore?” William looked at her questioningly.

  “No. I am just not going to contest it. You heard him. He wanted rid of me. He faked his death to be done with me. Plus, he has a d…daughter.”

  “That makes it easier. Ye’ll be able ta leave all the quicker.”

  “Leave? Not that I’m not grateful, that I’ll be allowed to leave, but I’ve no idea where to go from here.”

  “As much as that intrigues me, if ye’re here when the bishop gets here, by then he’ll ha’ heard o’ yer exploits with the child. He’ll bring witch hunters.”

  “Oh shit, then that’s my cue to go.”

  “Ye’ll go with the magistrate, Amergin. He’ll know what ta dae. He is a friend o’ Alex. He’ll keep ye safe, safer than I can keep ye here, e’en with my title as clan leader.”

  Chapter 4

  Maggie made a show of struggling to sit up, but in truth, it was awkward with her leg immobilized. She had to relieve herself; there was no point in tip-toeing around it. It was either ask for help or soil the cot.

  “Help.” she called pitifully.

  Andy peeked around the door frame, “Yes?”

  “I need to...um… I need to use the toilet.” She feigned modesty. “Can you get the other girl to help me?”

  “She’s busy at the moment. I’ll help you. I am…was…was an orderly at New York Pres…”

  She must have given something away because he clamped his lips shut immediately. She could kick herself. She’d make a terrible interrogator. She could always control her mouth, but she could never control her facial expressions. So he had ties in New York. Perhaps that meant they were still in the state.

  He frowned and disappeared, calling out, “I’ll be right there.”

  Maggie heard heavy objects being dragged and thought that he was clearing a path to the staircase and she’d be carted upstairs. This was a break, for reconnaissance purposes; perhaps she’d be able to discern her location. She didn’t think it would happen so soon; but she was disappointed when Andy brought in a bedside commode for her use.

  “Hold on, let me get set up. I’ll get you situated, and leave you alone to make your toilette.”

  The word seems utterly ridiculous coming out of his mouth in an exaggerated accent, but she saw it as an attempt to lighten the situation. She made an amused snort.

  He hoisted her up, and helped her across the room to the portable toilet and went to lift the hem of her dress. She went rigid, acutely aware of her vulnerability. Someone had undressed her after the local took effect, and left her without undergarments.

  She could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, as he clumsily made his apologies, and dropped the fabric. “I think you can take it from here.” He retreated, tossing her a roll of toilet paper, before he disappeared around the door frame once again.

  She had to be careful, but opportunity never just happened for her. If she wanted out, then she had to orchestrate it, and in order to do that she had to play the part. When making the decision to appear beholden to her captor, Andy, she thought it would be harder, but he found her attractive. He had restraint, or at least he had so far. How far did she take it though, before imploring him to turn a blind eye? To help her escape?

  Wait.

  What the hell was she thinking? She couldn’t trust him. Whatever he told her, whatever he had done previously, he was mental. He was a kidnapper. She was out of her league, best to just try not to
be killed.

  Her new vantage point in the basement gave her more of an idea of the size of the place she was in. The foundation looked newer on this side, a clear color and size distinction in the type of brick used here. That could explain the chopped-up layout too. There was a doorway, but it was more of a hole chopped out of the original foundation; with no header to stabilize it, bits were crumbling away. Someone had swept the broken mortar into piles along either side of the threshold to keep the entrance clear. Maybe that was because of her presence here.

  There was a well in the midst of the new space less than an arm’s length from where she perched. Thank God, the near absence of light had made it indistinguishable from her previous location on the cot, else nightmares of creatures from beneath would have invaded her drugged sleep. Now, she thought sardonically, they will. Of course, that was in addition to the actual danger that lay with her captors. She craned her neck to look over the rim to see if there were actually creatures waiting beneath to slither up over the rim and across the floor, or scurry across the ceiling’s beams.

  Yep, that’s better—attribute additional insectoid traits to what lurks in the dark! She launched herself up from the toilet seat eager to get away from the pit, and gyrated 180 degrees in an ungainly fashion until she caught her balance. The sharp pain at the break radiated out, and made spots dance in her vision. She reached out to catch herself before she fell, but the only thing within reach was the commode. It went down with her, splashing the contents of the bowl on the skirt of her dress.

  At the clamor, Andy came rushing in. “Damn it. Why didn’t you call me?” he said, hoisting her up from her armpits. He was scrawny, but she could feel the lithe muscles as he lifted her up from the floor. She was thin, but she couldn’t offer any help due to the cast, and he hefted her without grunting.

  “Let me get you to the cot. What were you thinking?”

  Irate, and in pain, Maggie sniped, “I was thinking that I could finish taking a piss in private.”