Ironheart

Brenna shrugged. “Naught but a minor scuffle, Grandy. My knight did his duty well. The villains were caught.”

“You try me sorely, Brenna, with your recklessness!”

“It is raining again,” Lady Alice said unnecessarily: the sound of it on the horn windowpanes behind them was audible over the conversation in the hall.

“Maybe there’s a reason.” The priest bent and looked straight into Brenna’s eyes, so that her heart beat a little faster. “Mayhap—someone—is responsible for the storms?”

A few audible murmurs traveled around the tables. She heard people mutter—sorcery…

“That is impossible, and I believe you may have the wit to realize that—” Brenna started to protest, but frowned and thought on it, on the rain, the unrelenting winds. Surely no one could control the weather? She stared down at her trencher of thick wheaten bread. “Mortals have no governance over the weather.”

The priest frowned, hearing that. “A jest, if you please. Though this rain is most unseasonable and despite the Holy Father’s decree, the hedge wizards sell their charms in the market and practice sinful acts in private.”

“They need not be sorcerous.”

“That is blasphemous.”

This was a priest, Brenna told herself. A simple district priest. Why were folk so fearful of what they did not understand or what was different?

“Mayhap, Our Lord sends a second flood to show us His displeasure,” she murmured.

The priest nodded piously. “In truth, ’tis a very great possibility.”

Brenna gathered up a thick wedge of sheep-milk cheese and some bread. “Well, ’tis a pleasant conversation, but I fear it must end, or I shall never get to bed this night. I must be off. I will see you all on the morrow.”

“Where to in such haste?” asked Sir Edmund.

A lie tempted Brenna. She rejected it and looked her grandfather in the eye. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m off to prepare a potion and wish the rain on another region.”

Sir Edmund scowled. “Wish a littler harder then.”

Brenna tiptoed closer to the embroidered bed hangings.

“Aubrey!” she whispered under her breath. He made no sign. A prickly aura of awareness breathed over her skin, crisp and distinct as cold air.

Suddenly she was very much afraid…

She shivered and shook her head as thoughts uncalled-for ran like ice melt through her brain. Was he…was he unconscious? Was he…dead? Her doubt turned to sudden, over-mastering dread that urged her forward.

“Aubrey!” she said again, and finding herself close to him she bent and very lightly touched his shoulder. He moved then, and she almost gasped with relief.

“What—?” he said, lifting his head. He blinked, frowned, his nose a handspan from hers. His face was flushed and his lips a set line. Shadows slipped across his eyes as if things moved, troubled, in his memory.

“Drink this. ’Tis but a simple tisane to take away the headache and ease the fever.” She cradled his head in her arms, feeling inside her a warmth that bordered on love. He made a sound between a sigh and a grunt, and obediently swallowed sips of the mixture. Carefully she relaxed her forearm, laying his head upon the pillow. “Now listen to me, I don’t want you out of this bed except to use the chamber pot. Do you understand?”

His eyes closed. “Aye.”

“Good.” Raindrops spattered through the window slit, a sudden gust of storm. She went to close the shutters. “I’m going back downstairs. I have chores to do. You stay in bed, hear?”

“Aye.” Faintly.

She forced a smile to her lips. “See that you do.”

Darkness, and a scent of herbs, and a deep sense of peace pervaded the workshop. Brenna carefully set the lamp on a stand. Its feeble glow barely reached the walls of the herbarium. Neatly arranged on wooden shelves that ran up the wall, sat her herbs and powders and whatnots, each resting in small pottery jars. A large white dog rose from its place by the fireplace and ambled toward her, its tail swinging side to side.