Chapter Twenty-eight
Who Needs a Man?
One month later …
Hea was leaving the broch, a basket filled with gardening tools under one arm, when Ciara caught up with her.
“It’s too beautiful a day to be indoors,” the woman greeted her in Pictish before an impish smile creased her face. “Can I join you for some gardening?”
Hea smiled back. “Of course,” she answered in the same tongue.
Her proficiency in the Pict language had improved hugely over the past month.
She still got lost when listening to fast-moving conversations but could grasp most simple exchanges and make herself understood. “I could do with some help … come on.”
The pair of them descended the steps and crossed the yard beyond.
Hea glanced up at the sky, a smile curving her lips once more.
Ciara was right, it was a gorgeous day. After a wet, misty start, the summer weather had settled into a stream of sunny days.
It was perfect gardening weather, although the heat did mean she was forever watering the seedlings she had planted.
Walking in companionable silence, Ciara and Hea wound their way down two levels and crossed the last stretch toward Modwen’s cottage.
A group of children, who should have been doing their chores, ran squealing across their path.
A cluster of boys brandishing slimy toads were chasing two screeching girls.
Ciara watched them disappear with a wry smile. “Males,” she scoffed. “They spend years either ignoring us or tormenting us—and then one day that all changes.”
Hea huffed out a laugh. “Aye—although they then become pests of a different kind.”
She saw Ciara’s eyes widen at that, although her friend laughed. “Some of us like to be pestered … why, don’t you?”
Hea looked away. Ciara was cunning—Hea had come to realize that over the past few weeks—she never demanded answers from you directly, but rather preferred to trick them out of you.
Hea was not falling for it. “I prefer to be left alone,” she replied, deliberately avoiding her companion’s gaze.
It was the truth, not just bluster for Ciara’s benefit.
In the past month, she had come to enjoy real freedom.
Each morning she rose early and broke her fast with Bridei and his retainers.
Then she spent the rest of her day either helping Modwen make poultices, tinctures, and healing drafts; or cultivating herbs in the garden the healer had let her manage behind her dwelling. Her days were busy but satisfying.
Slowly, the mantle of guilt she had brought with her from Nechtansmere had begun to lift. She had told no one of the part she had played in Ecgfrith’s ill-fated campaign, and some days she could almost fool herself into thinking it had never happened. Almost.
True to his word, Bridei had neither touched her nor pressured her into sharing his furs. However, his wounded and disappointed looks of late—which she had caught when he thought she was not looking—told her that he was not pleased with the situation.
Their arrangement made her uncomfortable at times, although since she spent so much of the day outside the broch, it was easy to forget about the fact that she slept just a few feet away from a king every night. A young, virile king, who was used to getting his own way.
Let him suffer over it, she thought stubbornly. I care not.
She glanced back at Ciara, to find her watching her. The woman was far too sharp; like Heolstor, she missed nothing.
“I have my freedom, my herbs, and friends like you,” she said. “Who needs a man anyway?”
She had spoken the words merely to throw Ciara off the scent, but as they rolled off her tongue a sense of calm and wellbeing settled over her.
She realized then that she meant them. All her life, she had followed her mother’s lead.
Although the two of them had lived independently—without a man’s protection—Hea had grown up imagining the day her warrior father would ride back into Bebbanburg and take care of them once more.
Then, she had developed an infatuation with Bridei; one that had lasted far beyond girlhood.
There had always been a man—at some point—ruling her life, whether it had been her absent father, Bridei, or King Ecgfrith himself.
Now … finally … she was not looking for a savior. In setting her free, Bridei had done her an unexpected favor. He had let her discover life for its own sake.
Ciara held her gaze for a moment before a smile crept across her face. “You’re right, Hea. We women flutter around our men like moths at times. We should remember that there are other parts of life that matter too.”
They reached the herb garden, a small enclosure on the slope behind Modwen’s cottage, and entered through a narrow wattle gate.
Hea smiled at the sight of her garden—it was her refuge.
Honey-suckle climbed one side of the wattle fence, its sweet scent drifting over the enclosure.
Within, Hea had created circular beds, linked by rows of slate pavers, in an effort to make the most out of this small space.
Hea’s gaze shifted from her garden to the smoke that rose from the healer’s roof. She inhaled the aroma of baking, her smile widening.
“Morning, Modwen!” Hea called out.
A few moments later, the dark-haired woman entered the enclosure, her healing basket under one arm.
“Good morning,” she greeted Hea with a smile, which widened further when she spied Ciara with her. “You have help this morning I see?”
“Aye,” Ciara replied, glancing around the enclosure, at the riot of greenery and color surrounding her. “Sometimes it feels as if the walls of the broch are closing in on me.”
Modwen nodded. “I’m just off to check on an old woman with a stomach complaint. I’ve got a few other folk to see after that so I’ll be back later.” Her gaze shifted back to Hea. “I’ve made some oatcakes—they’re cooling on the griddle so help yourself if you get hungry.”
“Aye, thank you—we will,” Hea replied with a grin. Modwen made the best oatcakes she had ever eaten.
The healer went on her way, leaving Hea and Ciara to their work. Hea set down her basket and extracted an iron hook, which she passed to her friend. “Here, I use this for weeding. You can start over there next to the rosemary.”
Ciara nodded, taking the hook and crossing to where an unruly clump of rosemary climbed the wattle fence of the enclosure. Thick grass had sprung up around its base, which would soon choke the herb if not pulled out.
Meanwhile, Hea set about tending the long bed of medicinal herbs she had been cultivating the past month: yarrow, sage, betony, chamomile, and comfrey.
All of these had been staples for her mother’s healing balms and potions.
Many of the herbs here had a distinct smell.
The woody scent of sage and the grassy aroma of chamomile greeted her as she knelt and extracted a wooden trowel from her basket.
The women worked in companionable silence, accompanied by the sounds of industry in the fort around them: the clang and hiss of the nearby forge, the cries and squeals of children, the lilting rise and fall of women’s voices, the shouts of men sparring, and the bleating of livestock.
The sun beat down on the back of Hea’s head as she worked, and soon she was sweating. Straightening up her aching back, she untied a skin of water from her belt and took a deep draft. Then she picked up her trowel once more and made her way over to where she was preparing a new bed for seedlings.
A few feet away, Ciara had gone red in the face and had taken shelter under the shadow cast by Modwen’s dwelling. “I don’t know how you manage out here all day,” she grumbled. “This heat is making me wilt.”
“Complaining already is she?”
A male voice drifted across the enclosure, and Hea turned to see Heolstor push open the gate and step inside. The tall warrior was naked to the waist, flushed, and sweating. He looked as if he had come straight from sword practice.
Hea laughed. “I think Ciara’s wishing she was at her distaff right now.”
Ciara climbed to her feet and scowled. “I am not, I was just taking a well-earned rest.”
Heolstor laughed. “Looks like you were slacking to me—letting Hea do all the work.”
“Actually.” Ciara sauntered across to him with a sly look on her face. “We were discussing earlier how useless men are … how women would be much better off without them.”
Hea flushed, panic flaring. “We were not,” she spluttered. “That’s not what I said.”
Ciara waved her protest aside. She had a wicked gleam in her eye now as she stopped before her husband and gave him a challenging look, hands on hips. “What do you say to that?”
The amusement on Heolstor’s face made Hea want to slap him. Actually, she felt like slapping them both and wished she had not spoken with Ciara so openly earlier.
“I’d say that was rot,” he murmured, his blue eyes glinting. “As you well know, wife.” With that, he pulled Ciara roughly into his arms and kissed her, not caring that Hea was standing just a few feet away.
The kiss went on and on. Ciara lifted her hands up, tangling them in Heolstor’s red hair. She pressed her lithe body against his, while his hands slid down her back and cupped her bottom.
It was only when Hea finally cleared her throat that the couple eventually broke apart. They were both breathless, their cheeks flushed.
Heolstor glanced over at Hea, not appearing remotely embarrassed about the spectacle he and Ciara had just put on for her. “The healer, is she at home?” he asked.
“No,” Hea replied. “She’s out seeing patients.”
Heolstor nodded before taking hold of Ciara’s hand and leading her toward the gate. “We’re going to make use of her home for a short while,” he said, flicking Hea a grin. “Make sure Modwen doesn’t burst in on us.”
Hea stared at him, agape. Had she just heard correctly? Was he about to plow Ciara on Modwen’s furs?
“I don’t think Modwen …” she began, but Heolstor and Ciara had disappeared. She heard the thump of the wattle door closing and the muffled sound of laughter, followed by a squeal of delight a few moments later.
Hea snorted in disbelief. If they thought she was going to remain here and listen to them, they were wrong. She was not their watchdog either. If Modwen came back early and caught the pair rutting, it would serve them both right. They had a private alcove in the broch; could they not return there?
A man’s deep groan filtered out of the hovel.
Hea flushed, threw down her wooden trowel, and headed for the gate. Noon was approaching—she would return to the broch and leave them to it.