Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,63
above.
The wise woman’s hovel was easy to find. As Elizabeth had explained, it sat apart from the other houses, ringed by a high fence made of planks of wood. Pushing open the gate, Draco led the way into an overgrown garden and up a narrow dirt path to the door.
The woman’s dwelling was indeed a hovel. Unlike many of the homes of the port itself, this one wasn’t made out of stone, but wattle and daub. It had a shabby sod roof. Smoke drifted lazily from the smoke-hole at the top.
“Stay a few feet behind me,” Draco warned, lowering his voice. “Till we know it’s safe.”
Gavina complied, although she thought he was being a trifle over-cautious. She didn’t think the woman they’d come to see posed any threat.
Halting before the wattle door to the cottage, Draco raised a hand and knocked on the lintel.
Tension filtered through Draco as he waited for someone to come to the door.
Just the sight of this hovel put him on edge. It reminded him of another hut, many years previous, where he’d been trussed up like a hog ready to be slaughtered. He, Maximus, and Cassian had sat in a corner, watching while a woman—coldly beautiful with pitiless eyes—cursed them.
It was ridiculous really. It was so long ago. But even so, his pulse quickened and every sense went on alert when he heard the scuff of footfalls approaching the door.
The door creaked open, and a face peeked out. The wise woman was younger than Draco had expected—no older than thirty—with a pretty face and shrewd pine-green eyes. “Aye?” she greeted them.
“Are you, Nessa?” Draco asked. “The wise woman of Stonehaven?”
The woman nodded, as her gaze raked up and down the length of him, taking in his measure. “Aye … some folk call me that.” She opened the door farther, revealing a tall, curvaceous form encased in a deep-blue kirtle. Thick red-blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders. “And who might ye be?”
“Good evening, Nessa.” Despite that Draco had told Gavina to stay back till he was happy with the situation, Gavina moved up to his side now. “My name is Lady Gavina … and this is my husband.”
Nessa stared at her, momentarily poleaxed. “The Lady of Dunnottar?” she asked, finally finding her tongue.
“Aye.”
“But ye are just recently widowed.” The wise woman’s gaze snapped back to Draco, curiosity suffusing her face.
“May I present Draco Vulcan. We wed just a few days ago.”
Nessa’s eyes went wide, her gaze flicking between the faces of the two individuals before her. A moment passed, and then she stepped back, throwing the door open to reveal a messy space and a smoking fire pit. “Ye had better come in,” she murmured.
XXVI
SHADOW AND STARLIGHT
“OUT WITH IT then,” Nessa said as she bustled across to the fire pit and lifted a cast iron pot from the fire. Draco wrinkled his nose. Turnip and onion pottage from the smell of it—they’d interrupted her supper. “What brings ye both to my door?”
She wasn’t a woman to bandy words. Draco liked that. Even so, he wasn’t looking forward to revealing his secret.
In general, folk didn’t respond well to the story.
“I must have yer word … nothing of what we are about to tell ye will ever be told to another living soul.” Gavina spoke then, her voice surprisingly firm and calm. If she was nervous about the meeting, she wasn’t showing it.
Nessa turned, a frown creasing her brow. “Ye have my word, My Lady. Nothing folk say to me ever leaves this cottage. I know how to keep secrets.”
Draco drew in a deep breath. Just as well. Nonetheless, her assurance didn’t make him dread this any less.
Gavina’s gaze cut to him. “Do ye want to tell her about the curse, Draco?”
No, he didn’t. Yet it was his story, and he’d known he’d have to be the one to recount it.
Nessa’s pine-green eyes grew wide once more at the word ‘curse’. “Please … take a seat.” She motioned to two stools behind the fire pit. The wise woman then took another stool opposite, her gaze settling upon Draco. “Go on … I’m listening.”
Draco began the tale. He told her how he hailed from southern Spain, how he’d been born over a millennium earlier, and how a Pictish bandruì had cursed him and two others to immortal life.
And to her credit, Nessa didn’t interrupt him, didn’t order him out of her hovel for spouting lies.
Instead, she continued to watch him, her face growing tauter with each passing moment. Those