The Stench of Blood
A priest on a white mule. Sorcha couldn’t see his face. He stood in a barn, brandishing a long sword. The place was gloomy, reeking of mold and urine.
The scene faded, replaced with another.
Sorcha stood in a tower, looking out at a river meandering through a glen.
A rustle of autumn wind caught the leaves falling lazily from the trees, fanning them out over grass still remarkably green.
The skies were gray, heavy with rain. The castle gates opened.
A party of horsemen issued forth. Montgomerys. Their green plaids furled in the wind.
‘Twas a peaceful enough scene, but the impending sense of dread made her cry out as yet again, the vision shifted.
The priest—this time on a black horse—broke through the trees.
A handful of men followed with raised swords.
They rode through the river, the water splashing up to their knees.
The priest raised a bow, and the arrow flew straight and true, burying the shaft to the feathers, directly into the heart of the Montgomery leading his party. More arrows rained. Chaos ensued.
The Montgomerys fell into the river, staining it red with their blood. Her stomach churned at its coppery scent.
“Blood!” Sorcha choked, feverishly tossing from side-to-side. “The blood!”
There was a crash.
Gellie screamed.
Sorcha sat up, drawing a horrific gasp of air.
Alec stood over them with his powerful legs splayed wide apart, his dirk raised and ready. “Where are they?” he thundered.
Footsteps pounded in the hallway outside, and then with a rasping of steel, Taran and Andrew appeared behind him, weapons drawn.
“Nay, nay,” Gellie was saying in a rush. “’Twas only a dream. A dream! I couldna wake her. She was crying out, moaning of blood.”
“Blood?” Alec frowned, seizing the word.
Behind him, Taran visibly relaxed and sheathed his blade as Andrew yawned outright.
“Aye then, I’m back to bed,” the younger Montgomery muttered churlishly.
Sorcha swallowed and scrambled to her feet.
There would be no sleep after such a dream.
Nor could she stay in the tiny, stifling chamber.
She had to get out, to fresh air. Ignoring them all, she pushed past grasping hands reaching out to stop her.
Gellie’s? Alec’s? She didn’t know. She only knew she had to get outside, to open space.
And then she suddenly was.
A cool mist caressed her skin. The sky was gray to the east, announcing the impending dawn, and above, the waxing moon hung high, barely discernable through a thin layer of clouds. The rain had stopped. She shivered, becoming aware she stood barefoot, clad only in a slightly damp shift.
The scraping sound of boots on stone caused her to turn just as Taran’s hunting plaid slipped over her shoulders, and she looked up into Alec’s concerned, bewildered face.
“Best wear these, aye?” he asked, holding out her worn leather shoes.
Taking his advice, she slipped them on and pressed the soft wool of the plaid against her cheek, seeking to calm the jumble of thoughts swirling in her mind.
It wasn’t just an ordinary dream. She knew that. The visions of the Second Sight were too strong, too real to be confused with just ordinary dreams. She could still smell the coppery scent of blood and still see it mingling in the water.
Montgomerys were going to die, unless she could stop it.
Christine had told her time and again that it was impossible to stop such things.
The hand of fate, she’d called it. But, was it true?
Aye, she’d nearly met with disaster after ignoring the wise-woman’s advice to hide her knowledge of medicinal herbs, but she had stopped Seton from torturing Gellie as a witch, hadn’t she? What would Christine say about that?
A particularly potent wave of longing washed over her then. Aye, Christine. Heather House. What she wouldn’t give to be back in the peaceful cottage, to be tending the garden and milking the goats.
“I want to go home,” she whispered, tears threatening.
“And where is home?” Alec’s deep voice queried softly.
She jerked a little, having forgotten he stood by her side, but the thought fled as the web of nostalgia ensnared her once again.
“Heather House,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion.
“My mother called it a haven hidden deep in the forest. ‘Tis a place of peace. There’s a stone circle there, and an old willow. Sacred things that hold wise spirits some say. And Christine—” Her throat closed.
Aye, she knew she missed the wise-woman, but she’d only just realized how much.
“Then, why dinna ye go back?” Alec asked in the ensuing silence.
If only she could. She shivered, though if it was from the chill or emotion, she couldn’t tell.
When she’d left Heather House, she’d been too stunned to truly understand what it meant to never return.
Now, the thought horrified her. Was she destined to spend her life suffering from dreams, to witness events she could never change?
Would she spend her days wandering about, turning into an old crone who scared people away with disturbing portents of the future?
“I’m cursed,” she whispered, sadness coloring her words. “I’m alone.”
“Cursed?” Alec repeated gently, his voice filled with sympathy. “Nay, you’re too bonny a lass to fear such things as curses and being alone, aye?”
She looked at him then, suddenly aware of how much she’d shared. He stood close by her side, tall and protective. The gray light of morning illuminated his handsome face and underscored the dimple on his chin. He was a braw man, and kind, too.
“Stay away from the river,” she said, throwing caution to the wind. Aye, she’d not have his blood flowing with the other Montgomerys. Not if she could prevent it.
Her words had a startling effect upon him. He drew back uneasily and asked, “And what did ye say now?”
Sorcha caught her lower lip in her teeth. He most likely thought her daft. “What do I know?” she asked bitterly. “I’m fated to be a rambling crone ye meet on the road.” If she wasn’t burnt as a witch first.
She moved to leave, but he caught her by the shoulders and gently twisted her back to face him. “Nay, speak to me, lass. Ye moaned of blood in your sleep, no? Tell me what ye mean of this river,” he insisted with a sense of urgency.
Alarmed by how uncannily close to the truth he was, she chose to evade instead. “I canna recall the words of my sleep.” It was the truth—but of the hairsplitting kind.
His shrewd gaze pierced hers, and she wondered if he read the deceit there.
She faltered under his inspection. What was she doing?
She seemed to be making a practice of misleading the man when he showed her only kindness in return, and the morrow would reveal the first of her lies.
Ashamed, she fortified herself with a deep breath and said, “I must confess to ye of this Alec of Lainshaw—”
“Nay, not a word,” he interrupted her quickly, placing a finger over her lips. “I dinna want to hear of the man. Truly.”
“But—” she began.
“Ye’ve stunning eyes, lass,” he continued, speaking over her words. “I fear at times ye can read a man’s soul. What things do ye see now?”
His words were surpassingly strange. Taken aback, she muttered, “Cursed eyes.”
A sudden thump by the brewery door startled them both, and as Alec swiftly drew his dirk once again, a small shadow darted their way to stop, purring, before their feet.
A cat. A white one.
“’Tis only a cat,” Sorcha smiled in relief, kneeling beside the soft, furry animal. “’Tis the same as Christine’s.”
Sheathing his dirk, Alec dropped onto one knee beside her. “And who is this mysterious Christine ye speak of?” he asked.
She laid her cheek on her knee, her unbraided hair falling over her shoulders like a curtain. “The wise-woman of Heather House.” she said, stroking the soft ridge of fur along the cat’s spine. “She took us into her home after the raid.”
“’Tis the raids that torture ye in your sleep, aye?” he asked softly.
Surprised, she remained silent and rose to her feet. He followed suit. She didn’t want to mislead him again, but perhaps there was more truth in his words than even she knew herself.
A sadness crossed his face, and he reached over as if to caress her cheek. She held still, searching the depths of his jade-green eyes as slowly, his fingers brushed her jawline and then trailed up her ear to pluck a straw of hay from her hair.
“This river ye speak of,” he began.
“’Twas only a bad dream,” she said, willing it to be true. Nay, the Montgomery she’d seen with the arrow in his chest hadn’t been Alec. Had it? There were many Montgomerys in these parts. Surely, he hadn’t been amongst the ones in her dream.
Alec stared unseeing at the sky, his thoughts clearly far away.
They stood there, and Sorcha wasn’t exactly sure for how long until suddenly, the brewery door creaked open.
Sorcha pulled away from Alec, alarmed.
“Who goes there?” the brewer’s wife hissed, but she recognized them a moment later and snorted. “Ach, ye gave me a fright, what are ye doing out here in the cold and at this hour?”
Alec sent the woman a charming smile. “Aye, I’m one for a jaunt in the dark before dawn,” he chuckled, his breath turning into clouds of steam in the chill air as he rubbed his hands together.
The woman smiled in return, but then she spied the cat weaving around Sorcha’s ankles. “Shoo that beastie away now, aye?” She frowned and, showing her teeth, flapped her hands at the animal. “Hssst, be gone, beastie!” Shaking her head, she said, “She’s ill luck, that one. Cursed.”
The cat hissed, apparently thinking the same of the brewer’s wife and then dashed away.
Sorcha frowned, but there was little time to think on it as Alec slid his arm about her waist and guided her forward to say, “’Tis time to wake the others. We really should be off for Lainshaw afore the first cock crows.”
* * *