EREA WAS TURNING a haunch of venison on a spit, when a heavy knock sounded. She straightened up, her gaze flying to the door. Made with rough planks of pine and barred from the inside, it was sturdy enough. However, it was not unbreakable.
Thud.
Thud.
“The Hag protect me,” Erea whispered, hailing the goddess who watched over the bitter season. Heart-pounding, she reached for the knife at her waist. “Who is it?” she called out.
Her voice sounded unnaturally loud inside her dwelling. It caused the tawny owl perched on a ledge beside the window to stir. The bird regarded her with unblinking golden eyes. If there was someone outdoors wishing to do Erea harm, Screech would not be able to help her.
“I’ve lost my way in the snow.” A man’s voice, muffled by the door, reached her. “Can you help me?”
Erea did not move.
A man … here?
She had lived a sheltered existence—had seen few men, or women, over the years.
“Hello … are you there?” The stranger called again after a few moments. “I mean you no harm.” Another long pause. “I’ll die out here overnight without shelter.”
Erea’s mouth thinned. He probably would.
Who travels alone in the wilderness in this weather?
Still she did not move. If anything her grip on the bone handle of her knife tightened. She was vulnerable here. She did not know what kind of man lurked outside her door.
On the few occasions she had traveled west with her mother, to barter and trade with villages on the border of The Stag and Wolf territories, she had found the men to be loud and rough. They had watched her mother with hungry eyes. Erea had always been relieved when the pair of them had departed for home.
She did not want to open the door—and yet she did not like the thought of anyone remaining outside on a night like this. The snow had come much earlier than usual this winter.
Heaving in a deep breath, she moved toward the door, her feet crunching over rushes. Then, still grasping the knife in her right hand—while taking care to hide it from view in the folds of her plaid skirt—she lifted the bar from the door with her free hand.
Erea opened the door.
A young, handsome warrior stood before her, a shaggy pony nudging at his shoulder. He was tall with wild curly brown hair and a short beard, and he wore a fur mantle that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders. His youthful face was pale with cold, emphasizing sharp blue eyes. He carried a bow and a quiver of arrows over one shoulder.
The beat of silence between them drew out as they stared at each other—and then the man blinked.
“Sorry to disturb you.” He favored her with a boyish grin, “but I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
Erea did not smile back. “Who are you?”
His grin did not slip. “Tadhg mac Fortrenn at your service … although you can call me Tad.”
Erea went cold.
Fortrenn—she knew that name well. It was one her mother had cursed often over the years.
“You’re The Stag chief’s son?” she whispered, taking an involuntary step back from him.
Perhaps her horror had shown on her face, for his cocky smile did fade then. “Aye … do you know my father?”
Erea shook her head.
The warrior was watching her closely now, his blue eyes assessing. “My father would be grateful to learn you showed his son kindness,” he said slowly. “Will you give me shelter?” He gestured then to the carcass slung over his pony’s back. “I’ve a deer you can have …”
Erea was tempted to slam the door in his face. Her mother might no longer be with her, but she would turn in her cairn to know Fortrenn’s son was staying under her roof. However, the snow was now falling thicker than ever, and that poor pony the warrior led looked miserable. His offering of the deer was tempting too—such a gift would make surviving winter much easier.
“Aye … just for tonight then,” she said finally. She sheathed her knife, reached over, and took her fur mantle from its hook by the door. “There’s a lean-to behind this dwelling—you can stable your pony there.”
Erea crunched out into the powdery snow, blinking as snowflakes settled on her eyelashes. The gelid air hit her like a blow to the face, and her eyes watered.
No one outdoors would survive long tonight.
Leading the warrior to the lean-to, she cleared a space for his pony next to a pile of recently-split wood that she was leaving to season over the winter. It was not warm under the shelter, but at least it would give the pony some protection from the snow and wind.
She watched as the warrior heaved the deer off the pony’s back and strung it up by its hind legs at the far end of the lean-to. He then removed his mount’s saddle.
“I don’t have any hay for your pony.” Erea poured some of her precious supply of oats into a pail. “But he can have these.”
“Caorainn thanks you,” the man replied, smiling. “Do you mind if I throw some of that sacking over his back? It’ll help keep him warm.”
“That’s fine,” Erea replied, avoiding his gaze. She did not like the way this Tadhg mac Fortrenn looked at her. He was too bold—too sure of himself. She brushed by him. “I’ve got supper to tend … see you inside when you’re done.”
With that, Erea left the warrior with his pony and went indoors. Stepping back into the warm, smoky interior of her hovel, Erea looked across at where Screech perched, silently watching her.
“Mother forgive me,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
Tad kicked the snow off his fur-lined boots and opened the door to the hovel.
The aroma of roasting venison made his belly growl. He was hungrier than he had realized. He stepped inside, leaving behind the swirling snow and bitter wind, and entered a warm, smoky space.
Low beams hung overhead, and he had to stoop slightly to avoid knocking into the bunches of dried herbs and objects hanging from above. Straightening up, he shrugged off his quiver and bow, placing them against the wall. He then removed his fur mantle and hung it behind the door. The warm air was a balm on the numb chapped skin of his hands and face.
Tad turned from the door, his gaze sweeping over the interior of the hovel. It was a small yet well-kept space. Fresh rushes sprinkled with heather felt soft underfoot. A neatly stacked pile of firewood sat against the wall to his right, and a hearth burned a few feet from it. A scrubbed wooden table sat under the window, piled high with cooking utensils and clay jars. A mound of furs sat at the back of the dwelling, in the shadowy recesses where the roof sloped down.
Perched upon a ledge to the right of Tad sat a large brown owl. The bird watched him, its golden stare unnerving.
Tad ignored the bird, his gaze shifting instead to the comely figure now bent over the fire pit. His gaze devoured her, taking in the long black hair that fell in a dark curtain down her back, almost reaching her bottom. He admired her milky skin and the way that leather vest she wore clung to the generous swell of her breasts.
Lovely … this is no witch woman.
In any case, she was too young to be the sorceress folk warned lived in these woods. The female before him was at least two or three winters younger than he was.
What’s she doing living out here on her own?
Tad cleared his throat, and the young woman glanced from tending the roasting venison. Their gazes met, and Tad stared, momentarily enchanted—as he had been when she had opened the door to him. She had delicate features and moss-green eyes. She would have been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, if she had not been scowling at him. A deep groove appeared between her dark, finely-drawn eyebrows as she watched him.
Despite that she had agreed to let him shelter in her home, the girl’s welcome was decidedly frosty. She had not smiled at him once.
Tad was not discouraged though. His mother had once told him he could charm The Hag herself. He’d soon get this girl to warm to him.
“I introduced myself earlier,” he said with a grin, “but I don’t think you told me your name.”
“I didn’t,” she replied, tearing her gaze from his and lifting the venison from the fire. She then carried it over to the table behind her, where she thumped it down upon a wooden board ready for carving.
“And may I know it?” he asked, undeterred.
“Erea,” she replied ungraciously. She reached for the knife at her waist and began to carve the meat.
Erea …
It was a beautiful name. Even so, Tad was intrigued as to who she was—and why she lived here.
“A strange woman—a sorceress—is said to live in these woods,” he said casually. “She was exiled from Dun Grianan. Have you ever seen her?”
Erea put down her knife and glanced over her shoulder at him. Her expression was cold. “A sorceress?”
“Aye, a hag called Olwen … the warriors back at the broch say one look at her face would turn a man to stone.”
“The girl’s face hardened, and her lips thinned. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at him.
“Do they?” she murmured. Her face had gone pale, except for the high spots of color which had suddenly appeared on her cheeks. “That’s cruel of them to say such things.”
“Not if it’s true,” he answered, lowering himself to a stool before the hearth and warming his hands. “Folk say she was a wicked woman … that father should have had her stoned to death rather than casting her out.”
The girl turned to him, and Tad saw that she was shaking. Her eyes glittered now, and he realized she was on the verge of tears. “Folk are wrong,” she gasped out the words. “They have black hearts and lying tongues.”
Tad’s own gaze narrowed, and he grew still. “Really?”
Erea fisted her hands at her sides. “I know not this wicked ‘hag’ you speak of, this sorceress.” A beat of silence stretched between them then, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the whine of the wind outdoors. And when the girl spoke once more, her voice trembled. “Olwen was my mother.”