Morag's Tears (Celtic Storm Series Book 5) Read online

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  ~Morag stood on the battlements of MacCollum Keep. A riding party had been spotted hastily making its way up the Highland road toward the edifice that seemed to be hewn from the rock itself. A biting wind cut across her face as winter had refused to let go of its hold on the land. From her bird’s eye view, she could see the riders bore the MacCollum colors and her heart melted when she realized that Ruiri was returning home at last. She hoped that some of his demons born from years of grieving had finally been put to rest. The poor lad had carried the burden of the untimely death of his intended for nearly ten years and she could see time was passing him by, like it had in her own life. The culture of death and grieving had become a way of life for not only herself, but for Laird Caleb and ultimately for his son.

  Morag sighed. Though she had not sought to change her lot, she felt growing sorrow that men like Caleb and his son Ruiri shared in holding onto their grief instead of allowing love to filter back into their hearts. She understood it well as the years passed one into another until she was an old woman, widowed in her prime. She hoped that it would not remain so with Ruiri.

  No sooner had she pondered these sad thoughts, did she spot Ruiri’s warhorse riding as if the minions of Satan were hot on his heels. It appeared he was holding onto a woman.

  “What in the world,” Morag wondered. As she leaned on her walking staff for support, she carefully made her way down from the parapet and vied to greet MacCollum’s lost son when he arrived. Something pulled at her and she had a feeling her skill as Healer would soon be needed. There was something amiss with the girl in Ruiri’s arms and Morag knew that whatever it was, it would be quite serious.

  As the horses were stabled, Ruiri carried the unconscious woman in to MacCollum Keep. He was met by his brothers, father and old Morag. Good, Ruiri thought. He was going to need Morag’s help. He had found the young woman on his journey home after coming upon a terrible wreck. The driver of the carriage was dead and only the girl remained just barely alive, cold and injured at the side of the road. He had done what he could at the site of the deadly accident and he found no broken bones upon the lass as far as he could tell, but he worried about injuries to her innards and there was a terrible knot at the back of her head. Ruiri suspected that she had been tossed from the confines of the carriage as it made its arduous decent on the mountain road. The lass was cast out as the carriage splintered around her. God only knew how she had survived. As he saw Morag’s concerned eyes rest upon the injured lady, he knew that it was probably even worse than he had feared. Morag was well skilled in the knowledge of healing and by the look on her face, Ruiri could see that the broken little angel he carried was in far worse shape than he had imagined.

  Morag’s gaze ventured onto the face of the unconscious woman within Ruiri’s arms. Her eyes flitted to his and she said in Gaelic, “You have brought us a broken bird.”

  “Angel,” he muttered. “She is a broken angel. Please help her, Morag. She is badly hurt. I cannot bear for her to suffer.”

  Patting his arm, Morag felt the work of the Ancients. So they had found Ruiri’s mate after all. Now if only the girl would live through the night. Surely the Old One’s would not be so cruel as to take this one, too, especially so soon after Ruiri had found her.

  “Bring the lass to a room where I can tend to her. I will be up shortly to see what I can do.”

  Ruiri’s face seemed set like flint and he said, “I will put her in the room beside my own, so I can keep watch on her. Please hurry, Morag. I fear she is gravely injured.” He swallowed deeply and added, “I am afraid she is dying.”

  Morag nodded and said, “I will do all that I can for her.”

  It was true; the lass was in terrible shape. One look at her could prove that. Morag gathered her healing ointments and balms and she made her way up to Ruiri’s private apartments. It was going to be a long night. ~

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  Aye, Ruiri’s broken angel would become his greatest love, in the guise of his greatest enemy, for she was the Campbell’s own granddaughter. There is more to tell on that story later, for sometimes it is in one’s facing of one’s own hatreds and prejudices that one finds contentment. Such was the way of it for Ruiri and Gabrielle Campbell but there are others I wish to speak of as late.

  Now my story would nay be complete if I did not also tell ye’ about my precious little Jenna and how she restored faith in an old woman such as m’self. She gave me back the hope and dreams I had long lost when I was but a young lass, but her story comes later. So I will first tell you about her mother, Bronwyn, who was so much like a daughter to me. I could not have asked for a better prize than she, really, had she indeed been my own.

  Chapter Nine – Bronwyn

  A woman’s tale is not just fraught with tears. Nay, there are joys and events that bring happiness amid the struggles and heart aches. Bronwyn MacCollum Brandham was such a person who filled a woman’s aching heart with love and turned sorrow into joy. She was born on a cold winter’s day to the Great Laird Caleb and his wife Mairgred, through many hours laboring. She was the first daughter brought into the MacCollum keep after a brood of strapping sons, her brothers preceded her, and I knew she was a treasure from the moment I laid eyes on her. She had eyes touched with golden rays of the sun and from that first day, she seemed to smile at whoever held her or tickled her. She became the beloved rose amid a briar patch of thorny boys, to be certain.

  Her brothers loved her instantly and she soon had them all twisted around her tiny little fingers. Shawn and Ruiri were closest to her in age and so, they became her immediate champions. Ruiri most of all, it would seem! Some would say she was coddled, but I say she was blanketed in love and that love caused her to thrive. She thrived even in the face of the great fever that took her beloved mother Mairgred from us all.

  That was a loss I thought Caleb would never recover from, but he did. He had to. He had five bairns to raise and a clan to lead. There was no time to allow the swells of grief to swallow him up. I dunna’ know if the boys doted on Bronwyn more to compensate for the loss of their mum or if they saw their mum’s beauty in the face of Bronwyn. Either way, Bronwyn was cared for and nurtured and she grew into a beautiful, strong young woman.

  Bronwyn was a MacCollum, through and through and like many of her clan, she was rooted to the old traditions that ran so deeply in our lineage. I saw so much existing ability in her that I wanted her to be my acolyte in the Ways. Not having a daughter of my own and Bronwyn no longer having a mother to guide her, it was only natural that I tutor her in the Ways that had long given purpose to my life.

  As a child, Bronwyn was biddable to the lessons of the Ancients and she learned quickly. She had Gifts of her own that even I could not teach her. She had to foster them herself and hone them. Alas, sometimes when a child moves into the time toward her betwixt years, things such as the Ways would start to hold less interest to her.

  Near the twelfth spring of Bronwyn’s life, she started to turn from the teachings and the lessons of the Ancients. Oh, she went along with an old woman’s coaxing, but I did not miss the way she wrinkled her nose or sometimes hid the giggles that gave her true feelings away. She thought these lessons were old fashioned and superstitious. She did not want any part of them really, but she indulged me and continued to let me guide her in the Path of the Ways. She liked to think she was not as old fashioned as I was and she discounted the Path as silly coincidences. I felt that I owed it to her and to her poor dead mother, may she rest in peace, to teach her to the best of my abilities. I had promised her ma on her death bed, to give Bronwyn all I could and to keep the traditions and the teachings of the Ancients in the heart of Mairgred’s only daughter. It was as much a promise to Mairgred as it was to my own mother; for in passing on the traditions to Bronwyn, I also honored my mother’s sacrifice.

  Sometimes the things that run so deep in all of our pasts dinna’ need to be taught. Caleb’s and Mairgred’s sons all had leanings toward
it, but a daughter is the one who practices the Path. The MacCollum lads kept the beliefs where they counted most, I suppose, and that was in their hearts.

  While they all had Christian weddings eventually to their respective wives, they also took the Ancient binding rites when the time came. They never questioned it. Once the Ancient Binding takes place, no one, not even death, could break the bond. Why even Ruiri took the Binding when his heart was no longer his own.

  Nay, Ruiri did not do the Binding with his betrothed, Caitlyn. Instead, he took the sacred oath with that one who was the most unlikely of mates and their love for each other could no longer be denied. Neither could I deny loving the mate of his heart, for she also brought comfort to this old woman in the days that followed their union. Ah, but my mind strays again.

  Anyway, Bronwyn was a different story. As much as she aimed to deny that which had been instilled within her, Bronwyn could nay run from her destiny and that destiny included her ties to the Ancient World. Sometimes it takes a reminder from the Fates that ye’ can nay hide from that which one is slated to see.

  I remember a chill night on a ridge with the girl who was so much like a daughter to me. She had only just embraced her steps into womanhood and so there were rites that needed to be sealed to mark her journey. I could recall a similar night when her own ma was brought through the rites herself and I also held the memories of my own passage from childhood to the next phase.

  I was much younger, ye’ see, when my moon time came upon me. I cherish that memory as it was a special time where magic seemed to fill the air. It was a time that my mother was still with me; before she was taken from me forever. For Bronwyn’s own mother, her rite of passage into womanhood was also a time that was marked so differently than mine had been for it was in secret that the rites were cast for me. When Mairgred’s time came, many other women of the clan gathered around and Mairgred took pride in the welcoming of it. She was ready to leave her childhood behind and she had the acceptance and love of the other women of the clan around her. As the clanswomen shared in Mairgred’s journey from babe to womanhood, she knew that she was destined for great things.

  Mairgred knew that she would one day marry Caleb MacCollum, who was already in place as laird of the clan. On that night, she saw him in her dreams and saw the babes that would become her own. Mairgred was not afraid to submit to the Ways, but for some reason when the time came, her daughter, Bronwyn, was. Bronwyn did not have the rest of the women of the clan to help her mark this event in her life. She only had me and I aimed to make it meaningful for her. Ah, so many events that her beautiful mother could not share with her daughter, but sure as I am telling my tale, I know she watched down on our Highland Rose and smiled that night when the sky was full of the brilliant stars with nary a cloud to be seen.

  So, on that cold night, I knew Bronwyn did nay really want to have the Ancient Rites of passage done. Though she did nay say as such, I could tell, she would had preferred to be tucked back in her warm bed nursing her growing pangs rather than stuck up on the rocky ridge with this old woman. Despite the discomfort of her newly changing body, again, Bronwyn indulged me. She would ne’er openly defy me and so she went along with an old one’s wishes.

  I had prepared myself the entire day, fasting and calling out to those who had gone before me. I carefully had looked to the scrying stones and made certain that the night would be favorable to perform the rites for my girl. The moon was right and it seemed the Ancients had given me their blessing for my dear Bronwyn. I prepared the drink that would help ease her discomforts and when all the prayers and calls to the Ancients were done, Bronwyn would have a glimpse into the life she was destined to find. The wind was sharp that night and it was hard for this old woman to make that trek up to that steep height, but I had to keep my promise to Lady Mairgred and I did, that night, what a mother could not.

  I set Bronwyn out toward the ledge, but did not let her venture too close to the edge of it. The last thing I wanted was for her to plunge to the rocky depths below. I could see she was a bit afraid, but nay, not for herself. Her concern was ever for me. I think she thought I would topple over the side and I had to hide my amusement as she gave pause on more than one occasion. I could nay show the smile that so wanted to beam at her lest the ritual seem trite and a joke to her. It was a happy rite, aye, but it still needed to be solemn. I cast a sacred circle about her. I called upon her ancestors to protect her.

  I think she expected some great change to come over her by morning, but after my supplications, I merely gave her the sleeping draught and settled her amid the pine needles on the rocky floor of that steep ridge. I bundled her inside her cloak while I spent the night in vigil with her, only sleeping sparingly so I could keep watch over her. When she dreamed, I dreamed with her. The images that came to pass were ones I saw too. It seemed that t’was a gift the Ancients granted me in order to peer in to the knowledge they would bestow upon the young woman that night.

  I saw a man; a handsome man riding toward her with a smile so bright it would rival the sun and was sure to make a heart flutter. I knew this man was to be her mate. I knew this man, who was clearly not of her clan, would be her greatest love and though she had not met him yet, there would be no denying it. When the Ancients deem to show ye’ a glimpse of that which is to come, no amount of rebuffing it could make it not be so.

  When the girl who was so much like a daughter to me woke in the morning, she claimed not to have dreamed; but I knew better. I had seen her dream clearly within my own and I knew she had seen the man who would bring her the joy of motherhood and the comfort of home and hearth. She adamantly said she had not seen him and she insisted my draught did naught but make her sleepy. I, of course, knew she was hiding the truth and at first I did not understand why she would wish to lie to me about such a thing. The man I saw was handsome after all, and he seemed to have kind eyes.

  No details of his visage were left for me to wonder about, for the vision was as clear as if he was there on the ridge with us. He rode tall in the stirrups of his great horse and I could see that Bronwyn was drawn to him; even in the illusion of the dream. Still, Bronwyn denied what the dream had foretold. And then I learned why. It was more out of a childish fear than a wish to face what the Fates had deemed Bronwyn’s destiny. For ye’ see, the man Bronwyn had seen in our shared vision was an Englishman. The very thought of such a thing was so distasteful to Bronwyn that she would rather deny the revelation than to admit she had seen the man who would hold the key to her heart. If she would admit it, she would have to give the premonition merit and she was not going to do that.

  Bronwyn had grown up with the threat of the English and she felt that in drawing that vision, it would soon bespeak of horrors to befall her clan. She would not have it. She would nay endanger the people and the home she loved by bringing the enemy to her doorstep; her destiny be damned. Ah, there is no denying one’s destiny and what Bronwyn had not seen was that this handsome English Knight would never harm her family or clan. In fact, he would embrace her culture to the point of almost losing his own. He would become a full member of the Clan when all was said and done and it would be his love for my Rose that would oblige him to make that sacrifice.

  The Scots are nay the only ones to reject those of another culture, especially the English. So too, would the English have predilections of the nature of Scots. For Bronwyn’s future mate, these things ne’er amounted to much, despite his station as a knight of the Realm, a son of a nobleman and a guard to an equally powerful knight. Nay, for he was willing to lay all of that aside for the love of the Rose. For Bronwyn, even when she continued to see him in her dreams, she would deny it for years to come.

  Bronwyn may not have been happy about whom the Fates had chosen for her as a mate, but I was thrilled. He was bonny and strong and I knew he would give my precious Bronnie beautiful bairns. Bronwyn wanted to hear none of it. She forced the memory of him into the dark corners of her mind and she tried to forget him; the
man she saw on that cold night under the star filled sky as she slept on her bed of pine needles.

  Ah, but ye’ cannot run from that which the Ancients have deemed fer’ ye’. Nay! And though I did nay see the other dreams, I knew she did. I knew she would dream of him time and time again and that she would ne’er be able to purge him from her heart; not the vision nor the man himself.

  When Bronwyn approached her twenty third year, there was a call for Laird Caleb to forge a treaty with the English. The old king was either dying or dead, I canna’ remember now, but there was a need to stop the border skirmishes that threatened both sides. Caleb was loathe to bargain his only daughter in such a treaty; but because of events that would soon leave him no choice, Bronwyn was escorted to the Winter Palace of the king and would be betrothed to a powerful English knight. Ach, that king was a foolish, foolish man, indeed. His vassal was already married and the king thought to make that union null in order for the marriage of the knight, Sir Erik Ragnorsen, and Bronwyn to take place.

  Laird Caleb was furious and he began to plot to rescue our Rose from the clutches of this mad king. Safety of the clan be damned, he was not going to let his only daughter be made a fool of in such a manner. Bronwyn, although disheartened by the prospect, would nay endanger her clan and so she agreed to the betrothal. Ah, she was such a strong and brave lassie. But no amount of bravery could prepare her to wed the Norse giant that the king had found as her betrothed. Though she had tried to forget that vision of her youth so long ago, Bronwyn knew that the blond Viking was not the man who had ever been in her dreams. She knew that marrying him would defy the Ancients and she was dread to do such a thing. Even though she had disclaimed the rite with her tongue, her heart could not.