The Selkie’s Daughter

The Selkie’s Daughter

Deborah Macgillivray

The Selkie’s Daughter

Copyright© 2015 Deborah Macgillivray

Cover Design Deborah Macgillivray

Prairie Rose Publications

www.prairierosepublications.com

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

A lost knight and a Scottish witch discover Yuletide wishes can come true…if you only believe…

Rhys de Valyer felt the arrow slam into his shoulder.  His stunned warrior’s mind corrected: a
bolt
not an
arrow.  The unseen attackers were using crossbows.  White-hot, blinding pain exploded within him and clawed its way through his muscles, his blood boiling until he nearly lost consciousness.  He reeled in the tall war saddle, desperate to stay upright.  A second wave of pain followed on the heels of the first impact, an agony so intense he lost power to grip the reins of his destrier.  No longer able to hold the leads on the bridle, the leather straps flapped loosely about the animal’s neck.  He flexed that hand, fighting against losing all feeling in the left arm.  There was no time to judge how badly he was wounded.  Life now hung in the balance.  A single thought drove him onward: to reach cover and try to stay alive.

On journeys he usually rode a sure-gaited palfrey, and allowed his squires to lead his powerful warhorses.  Expensive animals, one did not foolishly grind them down by using them for traveling.  Unsure why––some odd presentiment had brushed against the back of his mind this morn, sending a chill over his flesh.  People oft spoke of that sensation as someone
walking over their grave
.  He had wanted to laugh at the bit of fae nonsense.  Instead, he obeyed the impulse and ordered Justin to saddle
Spirit
for this leg of the passage.  That change might now afford him a fighting chance. 

Trained to fight in battle, his destrier was controlled by only Rhys’s knees and heels giving him commands.  The powerful animal pranced on his hooves, as chaos rained down on them in the blinding snowstorm.  Fortunately, the horse’s pale dapple grey hide blended with the blizzard.  He failed to present an easy target as the riders mounted upon the blacks or browns.

Three squires on his right went down, one after the other––young Jarvis took an arrow in the neck and toppled from his palfrey.  Rhys just barely guided his mount away from trampling the poor lad.  The fate of his other men he could not discern.  A rain of bolts screamed through the air from all directions.  Rhys heard the hard thuds when they hit muscle and bone.  Heard his soldiers scream.  The driving snow made it impossible to see anything, friend or foe.  Far off to his right came shouts,
“To Valyer!”
  By that point, everything was so confused in the blowing snowstorm that Rhys had no idea who was left standing, or to where they were rallying.

Another quarrel sliced straight into his hip, through the slit in his mail, not too deep for it hit bone.  Instinct pressed him to pull the arrows out, but he knew in a bizarre way the arrowhead actually plugged the flow of blood.  Extract them and he would likely bleed to death before he could deal with the wounds.  Pain built upon pain, until he could no longer stay in the saddle.  The world spun.  He was aware of falling and then slamming into the ground.  The suffering exploding within him somehow felt distant.  Barely conscious, he lay there in the snow, feeling the wet, heavy flakes hitting his face. 

Unable to close his eyes and will the nightmare away
…

Rhys sensed movement off to his left: dark shadows advancing swiftly through the white storm.  Then, there were shrieks of his men being slaughtered.  The attackers were making certain they quit the field with everyone dead.  Since he had just ridden ahead to scout a suitable shelter for the night when the attack came, he was farther away from the main body of his party.  Even so, it would only be a matter of time before the enemies came to put a sword to him.  There was naught he could do to defend himself.  He could not even blink.  Still, he struggled to move his right hand, trying to reach the dirk in a sheath at his belt.

His middle three fingers flexed.  By working them, he was able to keep focused to where he finally lifted his lower arm.  Raising it, his trembling fingers tried to close around the hilt of the knife and pull it from the sheath.  The first try he could not tug it from the leather scabbard fastened at his belt.  On the second go, he gritted his teeth and managed to get the weapon out, only to drop the bloody thing at the side of his body.  He was fast losing his remaining strength, as his fingers shifted through the wet snow.  He could not find it. 

Blackness roiled through his mind, a giant ravenous serpent.  Mayhap if he were in God’s mercy, he would lose sense-of-self, and when they came to murder him, his spirit would have moved on and he would not have to suffer such an inglorious end.

Rhys lay there, the snow covering his face, thinking in an odd, detached way, how nature could be so magnificent, and yet in the same breath, so deadly.  The huge fluffy flakes were beautiful, turning the remote forest of Rowenwood into a magical fairyland.  The snowfall was cold, wet.  It was quickly covering him.

It little mattered if they came upon him and ended his life, or just left him here.  He was too far away from traveled paths.  Even if killers somehow missed him in this storm, he would soon freeze to death.

How strange to have his life end in this manner…cold, alone and helpless, leagues away from
Journey’s End
of his new home of Glenrogha, in service of his liege Earl Julian Challon.  Cruelly, it would not be his destiny to see the wild Scottish glen his lord now called home.  He tried to laugh, self-derisive; he probably would not even be buried there as the bodies of he and his men would be dragged off by winter-starved wolves.  In a few days passing, few signs would be left to indicate he, along with ten and seven men, had met their end in this secluded wood on
The Marches.
Before leaving Colchester behind, he had sent a missive to Challon that he would reach Glenrogha a fortnight ahead of Christmas. 
Fate
now whispered the threat he might never see another such holiday again.

Heavy footfalls drew closer.  Rhys’s hand searched through the snow, trying to locate the fallen dagger.  His fingers were so numb he feared he was fast losing the ability to tell if he touched a blade or a twig.

Another set of steps came running.  “Angus, ye needs must come. 
Himself
gave orders to set out.  He spake we be near the grove of the old witch.  No taste holds he for lingerin’ in this becursed place.”

“I ain’t afraid of no hag,” Angus barked.  “One might still breathe.  His horse’s tracks showed him movin’ ahead of the group.”

“Leave him!” the second man barked.  “Took two arrows or more, he did.  Saw that grey beast of his galloping over the ridge.  He be on the ground somewhere, bleedin’ like a stuck sow.  Willna last long a’tall in this damn blow.”  He stopped speaking when the howl of a wolf echoed high up the hill.  “Hear that?  They smell blood.  They’ll be finishin’ up our task here.  If’n Laidlaw leaves withou’ us we’ll get lost in this friggin’ storm.  I want to be far away from here when them wolves come.”

The shuffling of the first man grew closer.  So near, Rhys could hear his assailant breathing hard.  He was unsure whether his tracks still showed, or if he were visible under the curtain of white falling fast about him.  In the gloaming, it might be hard to tell a fallen body half covered with snow from the craggy rocks scattered about the hillside.

As a warrior, he lived with the acceptance that he could always die in battle.  But to lie helpless, barely able to do more than watch as some villain robbed him of life seemed too much to bear.

Accepting divine will, he finally was able to close his eyes against the heavy falling snow.  With his last breaths in this world, he reflected upon things he had hoped to find in his lifetime and never accomplished.  Born a third son, he had been sent to squire for Julian Challon––the Black Dragon––and later his liege had raised him to knighthood after a bloody battle in Wales.  He wanted a place he could call home––nothing fancy, but enough land to raise and train destriers.  Rhys was blessed with a true gift for teaching horses.  That ability was why the Earl Challon had sent for him.  Challon greatly valued the worth of a good steed in battle, a weapon that could see a knight hold onto his life. 

More importantly, Rhys had never known the love of a good woman, someone he could take to wife.  On long winter nights, they could have passed the time before fireside, whispering of their love.  Such a heart’s desire had been pushed back, simply never enough time.  Too much of his life had been spent on the fields of battle under Edward Plantagenet’s banners.  Now, there would be no family to mourn his passing.  No one to place flowers on his grave.

Oddly, suddenly, that vision was so strong.  He could see a warm cottage, snug against the storm, and the heat of the crackling flames began to fill him.  No longer did cold numb his fingers and feet, nor did icy wet flakes cover his cheeks.  Instead, he was resting on a small pallet, relishing the delicious comfort of the hot fire.  A woman was silhouetted against the yellow flames; firelight glinted and flickered over her long tan hair.  She sat and began plaiting the thick tresses, while humming an odd tune, a soothing
fith-fath
.  As if sensing he watched her, she turned and smiled, then reached out to him.  So overwhelmed by love for this woman he could not breathe, could not move.  Eyes shining with happiness, she leaned close and nudged his arm.

His chest swelled with a great sadness, knowing this beautiful woman was meant to be his.  All he had to do was take her hand and pull her to him, and all in the world could be made right.  Rhys struggled to lift his arm, to grasp what he wanted so desperately.  Strangely, he could not move, just experience emotions he had never known.  His trembling fingers stretched, almost reaching her…

Another nudge to his upper arm jerked him away from the beautiful dream.  He slowly opened his eyelids to see his destrier standing beside him. 
Spirit’s
velvety nostrils snorted vapor into the moist air.  Almost white, he appeared a wraith, born of the heavy falling snow.  The stallion had a quizzical expression in his dark eyes, as if he asked what Rhys was doing on the ground.  Once more, the animal reached out with his soft muzzle and prodded him.

Then, he noticed the stirrup hanging… just above his face.  Born upon a surge of hope, he reached up, trying to snag it.  It may as well have been a league away.  With every fiber he strained and attempted once again to catch it.  His fingers brushed the leather and wood stirrup, but could not take hold. 
Spirit
murmured in his throat, understanding how desperate Rhys’s situation was.  The horse shifted, and knelt down on one knee, so the stirrup hung closer.

“Good boy,” the words were barely more than a whisper, lost against the rising winds.  His hand slipped into the stirrup.  Fearing he could not hold on, he slid his lower arm through the opening, and cast his fate to the keeping of his charger.

****

Cracking the twigs, Annys fed them slowly to the fire, fascinated how the hungry flames almost reached out for the fuel.  Once they had caught, she placed a small limb on top of the blaze.  It would push the peat to burn hotter, use it up faster, but this night was daunting.  She felt a rising unease to keep the chill at bay. 

Never had she witnessed such a driving snow, the magnitude of the storm frightening.  The morn had been almost warm, the sun promising a hint of spring.  But then the winds shifted, coming straight out of the north, and brought with them a near blinding snowfall.  Such an early season storm was extremely hazardous.  Travelers would not be expecting it and could get caught out with no place for shelter.  The huge snowflakes were so heavy they seemed to come down in rivers.  The only blessing: it covered the thatched roof so heavily that the snow actually protected it against the pounding elements.  Large flakes scattered in all directions as the winds rose, swirling and dancing as if snow elves had come to welcome the coming of
Yule
.  It whistled through the ancient pines, moaned as if voices from those who had passed to Annwyn.  She fed another branch to the fire, then hugged herself as though bracing against the cold pressing in on the tiny cottage. 

Over the long, summer months of drought, she had prepared for winter, just as Hagatha had taught her, cutting and hauling the peats to the shed where they would stay dry and ready for use.  Curing fruits, herbs and berries and collecting hazelnuts, so there would be food to see her through the winter.  This night, she was glad she had learnt all the lessons her old mentor had imparted.  The passes would soon fill with drifts, and unless the weather shifted bringing warmer air, it might be months before she would be able to venture out of this hidden pocket of the glen.

This was her first
Yuletide
without Hagatha.  Her existence had never been easy, but she was grateful the dear old woman had given her shelter when she had been cast out.  Hagatha had taken her in when she had been but two and ten, and showed Annys a gentle way of life, and for that she had never been able to repay her.  The old woman said the companionship was plenty enough.

“I miss you, my Lady Hagatha,” she whispered to the flickering flames.  “Yes, your friendship was worth a cart load of gold.” 

She glanced around the cozy cottage feeling so alone.  Her days had been hard, even before Hagatha had found her half dead in the woods.  Here in this small shelter she had, for the first time in her life, felt safe and wanted.  Now, there was no one to care.  No one to speak with over a bowl of porridge come evenings after chores were done, no one to laugh with while she cut peats, planted seeds or sheared the sheep.