Page 42

Chapter

T he day, though cool, was not overly so.

Thankfully the path to Aberdale was mostly along a well-worn old Roman road with only one easy stream crossing.

As they were avoiding any climbs—the trail was also mostly flat, though the mountains surrounded them—he was confident of an easy trip, which was one of the reasons he’d had no hesitation in accepting her offer to accompany him.

If the short journey was perilous in any way, he’d not have done so.

Though still unsure why she’d decided to join him, Kieran would admit his companion was lovely to look at.

To talk to. They’d not been riding for long when Maisie told him a story about a patron that had him laughing so hard his mount danced beneath him, likely startled by such a sound.

There had been no cause for him to laugh of late, and it was a welcome respite from thoughts of his family’s betrayal.

“You must have stories aplenty?” he asked as Maisie rode beside him on her palfrey.

“Of all sorts,” she said. “Would you care to hear another?”

“Indeed.” He could listen to Maisie talk all day.

Her voice, at the same time lilting as it was commanding, a sound to which he could become accustomed.

She told him of a couple that had come to the Red Stag to marry, only to learn the priest in the village had taken ill.

So they’d resorted to handfasting, Maisie and her staff overseeing the ceremony.

“They were in love,” she concluded. “But their parents dinnae condone the union.”

He did not wish to pry, but Maisie spoke little of her own family. “Tell me of them. Your parents.”

“As you know,” she began, somewhat surprising him, “they are from Ainsley Moor. My father, a farmer. By the time I’d formed anything but childhood memories, some good and others not as much, though naught as distressing as my marriage, both my brother and sister were married themselves.

Neither remained in Ainsley Moor, so having siblings of the same age as myself was something I’d always wished for. ”

“I’d always considered myself lucky to have Niall,” Kieran said, and stopped. For a moment, he’d almost forgotten.

“Tell me of your brother.”

“Of Niall,” he amended.

“Nay, of your brother. He dinnae become less so simply because you learned something of your past.”

“Aye, he did just that.”

“If he had told you, would you feel the same? That he was less of your brother just because your parents held back information about your past?”

It was a question he’d asked himself often. “I may not,” Kieran admitted.

“Had he the opportunity to tell you?”

“Aye,” Kieran said. “He spoke of it to his wife, though not me.” He offered her some honestly. “’Tis Niall’s betrayal that pains me most.”

“Perhaps you should have spoken to him before you left.”

“Or,” he offered an alternative, “perhaps not.”

Maisie shook her head. “Perhaps we should speak not of our families but our futures instead. When you learn the information you’ve come here for, where will you go?”

“I know not,” he admitted. “Perhaps I will hire out my sword arm.”

“You would become a mercenary?”

“I’ve considered it, aye.”

“You do not plan to return home?”

He smiled. “I thought we were not to speak of our families.”

“‘Tis not so easily done, it seems.”

“Nay,” Kieran admitted. “‘Tis not.” He pointed ahead of them. “Aberdale Village. Just on the other side of that ridge. Have you been there before?”

“Just once,” Maisie said. “When my husband brought me to the Red Stag.”

The way she said “my husband” roiled his insides. It was another topic they did not discuss, nor did Kieran wish to. If they were memories Maisie wished to forget, he would allow her that. Kieran understood well the need to forget.

He tried, and failed, each day to do so.

“Come,” he said, spurring his mount forward.

Maisie, a competent rider, followed. Indeed, they met no travelers on their journey and entered the village without incident.

Situated along the river and surrounded by lush farmland, Aberdale was a fairly small village.

Thatched-roof timber buildings were interspersed by blacksmith and weaver’s shops with a large well serving as the center of the village.

Chickens and children abounded in equal measure, but it was the alehouse he sought. Apparently, the healer kept a room on its second floor. Both he and Maisie dismounted in front of a building with a tankard of ale, and naught else, on the wooden sign hanging above it.

“I was told she would be here,” Kieran said by way of explanation as he tied both horses to the posts. By the time he fetched them water and escorted Maisie inside, he was ready to meet the woman who might have the answers he sought.

“A fine establishment,” Maisie said, glancing around what looked like a cross between the hall of her inn and a large house. Exposed wooden beams and barrels for seats, only a few of which were occupied this time of day, gave the alehouse a very functional feel.

“Aye,” he agreed, approaching a counter, behind which the alehouse keeper wiped off the wooden slab in front of her. The white-haired woman’s eyes narrowed as they approached.

“You’re lookin’ for the healer,” she said with a quick, distrustful glance at Maisie.

“I am,” Kieran confirmed, having spoken to the alewife the day before.

“Two ales,” she said, pouring without asking whether either he or Maisie wanted them. By way of explanation, she added as she pushed the ales toward them, “She’ll be back. Blacksmith’s son was burned.”

“I could go to the blacksmith’s shop,” he mused aloud, but the alewife cut him off.

“Sit. Drink. She will be back. Fiona willnae speak to you if she’s treatin’ the boy.”

After hesitating for a moment, he finally did as she bid, taking both ales in hand. Making their way to a table in the front window which consisted of a wooden slab over one barrel and two others for seats, he and Maisie sat.

“At least ‘tis not an inn,” he said, aware that Maisie rarely escaped the Red Stag only to find herself in a similar establishment.

“I do not mind,” she said. “I’ve no patrons to control and none here to do my bidding. Though I do hope all is well without me. If MacBrannigan or someone similar comes to the inn—”

“You’ve a plan for such an occurrence,” he said, knowing Maisie had offered coin to a man from the village whose sword skills were renowned. In fact, they’d been spoken so highly of, Kieran thought to ask the man to train.

Something he and Niall had done almost daily.

“I do, but . . .” She shrugged.

Despite more than a few glances between them as they rode, he and Maisie had avoided talk of kisses and pleasure, but he was certain she could easily see the desire in his eyes.

Kieran could not ever remember wanting a woman more.

There was something about Maisie that made him wish to reach across the table between them and kiss her until she begged for him.

“When you look at me that way, it makes me desire another of those kisses we agreed not to discuss.”

Kieran laughed at her candor. “I will confess to have been thinking the same,” he said, despite himself.

“As I suspected.”

“You are an astute woman, my lady.”

“And you—” She stopped. Took a sip of ale.

“And I?” he prompted, very much wanting to hear what she had been about to say.

“You’ve many fine qualities,” she concluded.

“As do you,” he said. “I find I very much enjoy talking with you, Maisie.”

“You seem surprised by such a thing.”

He shrugged. “I spend much of my time with men, training or in battle. My time with women . . .” He stopped. There was no polite way for him to finish.

Maisie did not seem offended. “Is not spent drinking ale and talking of your past? Or future?”

“Or any of my life between the two,” he added, laughing. “You are different than most women, Maisie.”

“I do not know if you offer a compliment or a slight against me?”

“’Tis very much a compliment. In fact—” What he’d been about to say would remain unsaid.

Because it would lead them down a path Kieran should not go down and because the healer had returned.

From the look of the woman heading toward them now, there was no doubt the woman was very much a healer.

He could not place the reason for such a thought, but she had a look about her.

Just as she reached them, a loud crack of thunder in the distance announced the arrival of a storm Kieran worried would threaten their return.

“You wish to speak with me?”

Kieran stood. “Very much, my lady.” He gestured toward his seat. “If you would?”

The healer, a woman even older than the alewife, who herself was quite advanced in years, made her way to Kieran’s seat. Gripping the table, and the arm Kieran offered, she sat with some difficulty. Instead of addressing him, she attended to Maisie.

“You are his wife?”

He and Maisie exchanged a glance. How could they not have anticipated such a question?

He’d thought of it earlier that morn on the journey here, but they had not spoken of it, unfortunately.

She was a widow, but even so, should not be traveling with a man unescorted. At least, one who was not her husband.

“Aye,” he said. “And I do wish to speak with you.”

Maisie did not dispute his claim.

“Go on then,” the healer said. “The baker’s daughter willnae make it through the night without my assistance.” The woman turned to Maisie. “Her first babe. Do you have children?”

“We do not,” Maisie said. “Yet,” she added with a smile.

Kieran shoved the thought of how that might occur from his mind. Or tried to, the vision of Maisie beneath him one not so easily shaken.

“Hmm.” The healer seemed displeased by that news. Kieran thought to distract her.

“I was told,” he said, “there are none who remember more of Clan MacKinlay’s history than you.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “I would suspect such is true.”

“Will you tell me then”—he steeled himself for her answer—“if you know of a boy who disappeared around the time of the Great Battle?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps not.”

This healer knew something, but she was reluctant to offer her knowledge. Why?

“I would be grateful if you could share any information you might have about the boy,” he tried again.

The healer, mistrustful, frowned at him, the wrinkles around the corner of her mouth more pronounced than ever. But she did not answer.

“We’ve spoken to so many,” Maisie added, “and will gladly accept any information you can offer.”

For a moment Kieran thought the healer might soften.

“The babe is coming,” a man’s voice called from the door.

“Fiona,” Kieran tried again using her given name, “before you leave, will you tell us if you know of the child?”

Though he did not wish for her to go, it was clear the healer meant to and struggled to stand. He aided her, reluctantly, wishing to gain the information he sought first.

“It seems I will be getting wet.”

“Come quickly,” the man at the door said. From the frantic tone in his voice, it seemed that might be the babe’s father. “Here.” He took her arm as the healer approached him, Kieran at her heels. “Let me aid you.”

She slapped away his hand. Apparently, an arm when sitting or standing was welcome, but anything more, was not.

Kieran did not have to beg the woman for information. His expression surely did that, for the healer looked at him with some measure of pity. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I do not speak freely with strangers. Come back on the morrow.”

With that, she turned and left.

Kieran stood at the door and stared after her. It slammed shut, the rain now pouring down. He watched as the man covered her head with a cloth, but it would soon be soaked through. At her age, a chill could be deadly.

He shook his head at the bad luck of finding someone who might aid him but was unwilling to do so. He returned to Maisie.

“Well, wife. It seems I will be returning on the morrow.”

“Or,” she said, “perhaps we stay the eve and you speak to her in the morn. Unless you relish returning to the Red Stag in that.” She nodded toward the wooden shutters, still open, the rain seeming to fall even harder than before.

“I would not keep you all night from the inn,” he said.

“’Tis my choice. All will be well. We can speak with her again in the morn and then be off straightaway.” Maisie added, “She knows something.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “She does.”

“So you’ll be needing a room then?”

Where had the alewife come from?

“Indeed,” he said. “There is an inn at the edge of town, is there not?”

“There is,” the alewife said. “But I’ve a room if you’re needing one.”

“One room?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yer man and wife, are ye not?”

The woman had good ears. Though it mattered not. Many already knew his purpose here. It was how he found the healer.

“Aye,” he said, with no other acceptable answer.

“I’ll send fresh linens and clothing up for when ye need them. Now sit, I’ll fetch some stew.”

“Seems alewives are as forthright and capable as innkeepers,” he said.

“In some villages, they are one and the same,” Maisie answered.

“I will sleep on the floor,” he said, quietly.

Maisie said naught to that. “I think,” she said finally, “we will need more ale.”

Kieran very much agreed.