The Virgin Spring

Arlys shot him a nasty look then flashed her blue eyes at Rachel. “And what chores have ye assigned her?”

Rachel started to speak but Alex interrupted her. “Rachel is our guest, and is still recovering from her…accident. She need no trouble herself with work.”

“Ha!” Arlys said.

“But, I’d like to work,” Rachel said and took a step toward her. “I’m not used to idleness.”

Alex stepped between the two of them, worried, no doubt there would be a repeat of yesterday’s sparring.

“Well, I’m sure Alex can find plenty to occupy yer time.”

Before Rachel could respond, Arlys stepped into the cottage and began to close the door. She paused and glanced briefly at Alex. Her venomous expression softened. Rachel caught the barest hint of tears glassing her eyes before the door slammed shut.

She looked to Alex who stood motionless, eyes fixed blankly on the cottage, his smile faded. There was something in his face that surprised her.

Regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve upset her.”

Alex shook off his momentary melancholy and moved toward her, transforming himself in three strides into the delightful escort he’d played at all morning. “Bah, ’tis naught. She’ll come ’round.”

“She has every right to dislike me.”

Alex took her arm and guided her down the hill and into the maze of small cottages that surrounded the castle. Arlys’s accusation still nagged at her.

“Peg told me the story of the virgin’s spring,” she said.

“Och, dinna listen to those old wives’ tales. The girl is a simpleton. She knows naught of what she speaks.”

“Peg is sweet, and has been most kind to me.” Rachel looked from one woman to the next, as they made their way through the tiny village. None returned her hopeful smile. “In truth, she’s the only one who’s offered to call me friend.”

Alex stopped before a small structure at the end of the last row of cottages. “Come now, Rachel, have I not been a friend to ye?” He raised his brows in question and the corners of his mouth turned up in a handsome smile.

“You have,” she said and felt grateful for it.

“Well, then, come—there is someone who’d like to meet you.”

Alex led her to the door of the small cottage. “This is my mother’s house.” He tripped the latch and bade her cross the threshold.

Rachel entered and let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The cottage was tiny and ill kept. A table stood in the center of the room. An old woman sat on a crude stool near the hearth, rocking herself back and forth, seemingly oblivious to their arrival.

“Mother,” Alex called to her. “I have brought ye a visitor.”

The woman looked up and, as she met the eyes of her son, a dazzling smile broke across her wrinkled face. “Alex,” she said and rose from the stool.

“Mother, this is Rachel, the woman of whom I have spoken.”

Rachel took a step forward and smiled as the woman turned her attention to her.

“Ahh, Rachel.” The old woman’s eyes lit up as she studied her with surprising alacrity.

“I am pleased to meet you.”

Alex hung back as his mother greeted her. “You may call me Moira,” the old woman said.

“Moira,” Rachel repeated. “’Tis a lovely name.”

The woman chuckled. “’Tis ye who are lovely, lass. My son never spoke of your beauty.” She glanced briefly at Alex, whose face colored at his mother’s words. “Only that ye canna recall a thing about yourself before your fall in the wood.”

“’Tis true,” she said. “Except for one thing.”

“What?” Alex said and moved quickly to her side. “Tell me.”

Rachel hesitated for a moment. She did not like the overzealous look in his eyes. “I—I’m a healer,” she said finally.

Moira’s eyes widened.

“How d’ye know that, if ye canna remember?” Alex said.

“I just know,” she said. “And there are other things—not so much things I remember, but things I see in my mind, like a picture.”

“What things?” Alex asked, his voice a bit unsteady. He took her hand and bade her sit on the bench that flanked the table. Both of them hovered over her, waiting for her response. ’Twas odd, their interest in her.

“Well, when I close my eyes,” Rachel began, “I see a place—a high place.”

“A high place,” Alex repeated.

“Aye, bleak and windswept, with a half circle of stones at its crest.”

Moira leaned closer. “Standing stones.”

“Aye, standing stones.”

Alex squeezed her hand tighter. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “This place,” he said, “d’ye know it?”

The both of them leaned closer still. Rachel felt warm all of a sudden, and uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “I…not so much know it, as feel drawn to it. It calls to me, in a way I can’t explain.” For a moment she thought the two of them would devour her, so near did they hover.

Then a smile graced Alex’s face; he abruptly let go her hand and stood tall, hands on hips. “’Tis nonsense,” he said. “Ye must put such thoughts out of your mind, lass. Your recovery depends upon it.”

Moira moved a wrinkled hand toward Rachel’s face and let her thin fingers come to rest in her hair. The old woman smiled. “My son is right. Forget this vision.”

Rachel felt oddly comforted by their response. She would like to forget about the high place. The image disturbed her, frightened her almost.

Moira ran her hand through Rachel’s hair. Her touch was cool, soothing. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and felt the old woman fist a handful of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Lean forward, lass,” Moira whispered.

Not questioning why, Rachel complied. She felt Moira’s fingers rake her thick tresses. The dark fall of hair spilled forward onto her lap.