Haunted Ground (11 page)

September 1650

England

Rowan pulled a blanket over Brendan, tenderly brushing a strand of hair out of his face.  The morning sun was shining brightly through the small window, a golden shaft of light filled with twirling dust motes casting a square of light onto the wooden floor, but the cot where Brendan lay was still lost in shadow.  Rowan collected the blood-soaked bandages that she’d removed from Brendan to wash out at the creek.  They’d be dry by the time she needed to change bandages again tomorrow.  He gritted his teeth as she carefully peeled the bandages off to administer more salve and check for putrefaction.  The torn flesh looked raw and swollen, but thankfully, not hot to the touch.  She hated to leave him, but Uncle Caleb had come to collect her bright and early, so no one would suspect that she hadn’t spent the night at home.

“She’ll be back tomorrow,” Uncle Caleb said as he turned to leave.  “Rowan is good with potions and such, and will see to your injuries.  It would look odd if Joan or I kept coming by to see the reverend, so if you need anything, you just tell Reverend Pole and he’ll pass the request along.  For now, just rest, and then we’ll put our heads together and come up with a plan.”  Caleb patted Brendan on the shoulder in an attempt at a fatherly gesture, before disappearing down the ladder followed by Rowan, who threw one last look at Brendan before leaving. 

The large quantity of mead had dulled the pain somewhat last night, but now rest would not come easily.  Brendan would have liked nothing more than to surrender to the oblivion of slumber, but thoughts were racing through his mind, stumbling over each other and colliding in unwelcome conclusions.  He tried to accept what happened and make some sense of it, but his heart wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t be reasoned with.   His mind kept replaying images of himself and Jasper as children, playing hide and seek in the woods, fishing, splashing in the stream on a hot summer’s day.  Sure, Jasper had squealed to his father when Brendan had sat on the pig at the age of six and broke its back, and let him take the blame for the broken pitcher that his mother left on the kitchen table and the pie that he’d pilfered from the windowsill and ate all by himself in the barn.  Brendan had taken the punishment in silence, feeling a certain sense of pride at being able to protect his little brother and set an example, but these were all childish things, things that had nothing to do with the man Jasper had grown into.  What would drive Jasper to murder? 

Brendan supposed that as the eldest he never really pondered the laws of primogeniture, but Jasper must have given his “younger son” standing a great deal of thought.  Brendan would inherit the whole estate, while Jasper would be allowed to live there with his family, but never be master, only tenant.  He would have shared in the profits and anything that Brendan had, but clearly it wasn’t enough for him; he wanted it all.  Brendan sighed, closing his eyes in resignation.  He supposed if he had been killed on the battlefield Jasper would have played the grieving brother, but Brendan ruined all his plans by returning home to claim his inheritance. 

And Father…  Had he really died at Jasper’s hand, as Meg claimed?  He hadn’t believed it, but now he had cause to think otherwise.  He was only alive by God’s grace, but his position was precarious.  Brendan broke out in a cold sweat as a wave of panic washed over him.  What was he to do now?  Where was he to go once he was back on his feet?  If he went home, he’d have to confront Jasper and possibly do him an injury; besides, Father had signed the estate over to him, so there was no real reason to return.  He had nothing except his wits and his ability to fight.  He supposed he could try soldiering or maybe join the court of Charles II, but what could he offer His Majesty, especially after years of supporting Cromwell and his crusade against the monarchy? 

Brendan carefully reached for the cup of mead Rowan had thoughtfully left by the bed and gulped it down, desperate for rest.  His worried mind finally surrendered and allowed him to float peacefully on a cloud of intoxication; magnified by the tincture of poppy Rowan had added to the brew.  Brendan closed his eyes and took deep breaths, the smell of clover no longer cloying but soothing as he began to drift off, grateful for a respite from his troubled thoughts.

***

The sun was still streaming through the open window as Brendan woke from his stupor, but it was no longer the bright light of morning, but the slanting rays of early afternoon.  His head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool, flashing lights behind the eyes, and a merciless pounding in his ears completing his miserable state above the neck.  Below the neck, things were no better.  His arm was swollen and hot to the touch; his thigh felt as if someone was holding a hot poker to the torn flesh, and his back was throbbing with agony if he so much as moved an inch.  He nearly cried with relief as Rowan appeared above the opening, raising her skirts above shapely ankles as she climbed into the loft, a cup of something with a thick slice of bread on top balanced in one hand.  He hoped it was more mead.

She gave Brendan a shy smile as she set his meal down and sat on the low stool. 

“Good morrow,” Brendan said, gratified to see her smile at him.  He hadn’t seen her properly the day before, but she was bathed in sunlight now, a golden halo around her pale face.  Brendan nearly forgot to breathe as he looked into her eyes, luminous pools of blue-gray, the color of the sea on a cloudy day.  They were fringed with thick lashes, the same color as her hair, which tried to escape from the confines of her cap.  The curls were a very dark red, almost like the pelt of a fox, strands of gold and cinnamon shimmering among the copper as sunlight caressed her.  Rowan blushed at his scrutiny, averting her eyes and lowering her head. 

“Forgive me,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean to stare.”  He needed to use the pot, but had no idea how to ask her without humiliating himself completely.  She must have read his mind because she reached under the cot, pulled out the pot and helped him to stand up.  Brendan nearly fainted as blood rushed to his head, and he sat back down heavily like a sack of turnips dumped from a cart.  Rowan just placed the pot between his feet and turned away; letting him do his business in private while she returned downstairs for something she’d forgotten. 

Brendan carefully reclined on the pillow, stars exploding before his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.  He’d never felt this weak or helpless in his life, and it left him frightened and embarrassed.  He’d been blooded several times in battle, but it was nothing compared to this.  There had been a field surgeon who tended to the men, his preferred method of healing simply sawing off limbs and leaving men crippled and barely able to fend for themselves.  Most of them died from loss of blood or infection, but Brendan had been lucky enough to escape the physician’s notice since his wounds never festered.  Hopefully, his luck would hold out, and Rowan’s salves would prevent putrefaction and allow him to get on his feet sooner rather than later. 

Rowan returned with a basin of warm water and began to silently sponge his face and hands before holding a cup of milk to his lips and feeding him the buttered bread.  He tried not to stare at her as he chewed, confused by her expression.  She tried not to make eye contact, but when she did, she looked confused
—
no, scared.  Was she repulsed by his wounds?  Caleb said she had knowledge of herbs, but maybe she’d never seen such carnage before, tending only to occasional fevers and cuts.

“How do you know about medicines?” he asked conversationally, not really expecting an answer.  Rowan seemed to stiffen, her cheeks going a bright red before she finally looked back at him.  She folded her arms as if rocking a baby and then pointed to herself. 

“Your mother?” Brendan asked.  She nodded, glad that he understood.  People so rarely asked her anything that she’d forgotten how to communicate, mostly nodding or shaking her head when a response was expected.

“I see.  Are you an only child, then?” he asked.  It was unusual to have only one child, unless the others died, of course.  She wouldn’t be here if she had other family to care for her.  Oh, dear God, why did he bring that up?  He probably upset her even more.  But Rowan just sighed and nodded, then pointed to him while she busied herself with checking his bandages and applying more salve as he answered her question.

“I have a sister, Megan.  She’s a widow with three lads under the age of six.  I’d like to have seen them before I left,” he said, thinking of his nephews.  “I haven’t seen them in four years.  The youngest was just a babe then.”

When he imagined having children of his own, he always pictured them something like Meg’s boys, but he’d like to have a little girl as well.  Brendan sighed.  The way things were going, he wasn’t in any position to think of marriage or children.  All that fell by the wayside when Jasper decided that he no longer deserved to live.

“And then there’s Jasper.”  Brendan was surprised to see a cloud pass over Rowan’s face.  He supposed she knew what happened from Uncle Caleb.  “We were the best of friends once, but that was a very long time ago.  I suppose now we’re enemies – not a path I’d have chosen, but one I must travel all the same.”

He was surprised when Rowan sat on the edge of the cot and slid her thumb over his brow, as if to smooth away the lines of worry.  It was such an intimate gesture, and one that brought much comfort.  Almost without thinking Brendan turned his face toward her hand, holding it against his cheek as he closed his eyes for a moment.  He felt her soft lips against his forehead as she kissed him before pulling her hand away. 

Rowan gave him a shy smile before picking up the empty cup and leaving him to his own thoughts once more.  He heard her clattering about downstairs, and Reverend Pole’s soft voice before the door slammed shut and the house sank into silence. Any other time, Brendan would have felt restless, but his body needed time to heal and he sank into a broken sleep, haunted by images of war, and the more recent recollections of the attack.  He surfaced from time to time, and then was dragged back down into sleep, unable to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes. 

It wasn’t until dusk began to settle over the meadow outside the window that Brendan was finally able to shake off the drowsiness.  The pleasant smell of hay and wildflowers filled the loft, carried on the fresh breeze, and the appetizing smell of cooking meat wafted from downstairs.  It was warmer in the afternoon, but now there was a bite of chill to the air reminding Brendan that winter was on its way.  He was hungry and thirsty, but in marginally better spirits.  The mead had done its job. 

Brendan was glad to see Reverend Pole laboriously climbing the ladder.  The old man finally stepped into the loft, wheezing and gulping lungfuls of air until he was finally able to catch his breath.

“It’s cold up here,” he said as he closed the window and shutters and set about lighting the candle.  The darkness was dispelled by a flickering light, which left most of the space in shadows, illuminating only a small circle created by the glow of the candle.  Reverend Pole set the candle on the trunk next to the cot to give them some light.   

“You must be hungry,” he stated, pushing the stool next to the cot.  “Rowan will bring you some supper directly.  She’s making rabbit stew.  I suppose you need meat to get your strength back.  I used to enjoy roast pork and venison, but lately I have no stomach for it.  Porridge with milk is a good enough supper for me.”  He sat down and placed his hand over Brendan’s.  “How are you, my boy?  Rowan added juice of the poppy to your milk to help you sleep.  I hope you were able to rest.”  So, that explained his addled brain.  Brendan had to admit that he was grateful.  Sleep was the great healer, and Rowan had given him that gift.   

“Shall we pray together?” Reverend Pole asked, grinning at Brendan’s shocked expression. 

“Of course,” Brendan replied.  How could he tell the reverend that it’d been a while since he set foot inside a church?  A battlefield did much to tear down a man’s faith, and although he still prayed, it wasn’t in a house of God, but rather at night, when a great silence descended and countless stars sprinkled the heavens, reminding Brendan that maybe there was something above them after all.  He still believed in God, but it wasn’t the God that was portrayed by the Church or its teachings.  It was a benevolent being who was dismayed and shocked by the actions of his children; one who tried without success to stop the madness and bring peace and order to the world.  He couldn’t imagine this Heavenly Father wishing the Papists dead or burned, or bestowing a blessing on the execution of a king and his supporters.  Were they not also his children? 

Brendan obediently repeated the words after the reverend without giving them much thought.  They were second nature, but they held little meaning.  Brendan wondered if the old reverend ever had doubts or a crisis of faith, or was he able to fit everything that happened into a biblical context and still find peace and absolution?  In any case, the old man was doing him a great kindness, so the least he could do was pray with him for a few minutes and show respect.  Reverend Pole genuflected as he finished the prayer and suddenly gave Brendan a mischievous smile. 

“I have something for you.  I thought you might need something to read to divert your mind from your troubles, so I took the liberty of bringing you a book.  I think you’ll like it.”  Reverend Pole pulled a well-worn volume from inside his coat and handed it to Brendan.  The worn leather was soft under his fingers, but he needed to hold the book closer to the candle to make out the title which was nearly rubbed off.  Brendan looked at the reverend with mock shock as he read the words.