“Some are.”
“As are some women,” she said, tossing her head and sighing while the wind tugged at her curls.
“Aye, as are some women.” He lapsed into silence, and Sorcha did not disturb him. ’Twas enough to be free and unconfined by the castle walls. They rode for nearly an hour before he turned onto an overgrown path where the ferns and berry vines crept over the seldom-used trail. Wide enough for only a horse, the path wound deeper into the woods, through the leafless trees and into the gloom of the dank forest.
“Where are we going?” she asked, but he didn’t answer, and she had to duck to avoid hitting a branch that hung over the trail. She watched his horse’s even gait and the way he swayed just a little in the saddle. His hips were flat, his shoulders broad, and his hair near black in the dark forest. He rode a horse well, and she sneaked a peak at his buttocks moving with the animal. His legs, tight against Wind, were long and muscular, and an unwanted heat settled somewhere in Sorcha’s belly. She felt her cheeks warm to crimson and forced herself to drag her gaze from his strong thighs. Instead she concentrated on the land, and wondered if this path would be a wise choice for escape—probably not since Hagan himself knew of it. She chewed her lip in vexation.
Eventually the woods gave way to a clearing, a tiny meadow with a stream slashing through the trees. On the far shore was a stone house, long in ruin, with moss growing upon the chimney and the thatched roof having disappeared to show rotting rafters and walls that were beginning to crumble. Stones, once attached to the building, now littered the ground.
“What place is this?” Sorcha asked as they crossed the stream and left their horses to pluck at the weak blades of grass that grew near the banks of the brook.
“ ’Twas the home of a witch.” Hagan stared at the walls and rubbed the back of his neck.
“You brought me here to frighten me?” she asked, thinking he was teasing her.
“Nay.”
“Then why?”
He dismounted. “I know not. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Tell me of her.” Sorcha climbed off McBannon.
Hagan studied the ruins. “Her name was Tullia and she was born of noble blood, the daughter of a Welsh prince, or some such nonsense. She was related to Enit of Wenlock, who herself professed to know magic. Anyway, Tullia was banished by her father for the practice of witchcraft and she settled here years ago, becoming a medicine woman—one who seemed more comfortable in the isolation of the forest than with men and women. People, peasants and noblemen alike, came to her if they were ill,
or if they wanted to know the future, and she would help them.
“My mother visited Tullia,” he said, finally turning to face Sorcha. His expression was thoughtful as he tugged off his gloves and rubbed one hand over the smooth stones of the walls that had yet to fall down.
“She was ill?”
“Barren,” Hagan replied. “She could give my father no heirs, and worried that she was not pleasing him, she went to great lengths to get with child. So she finally ended up here, at Tullia’s doorstep, with her lady in waiting sworn to secrecy. Tullia listened to her troubles and, for a few pieces of gold, gave her a potion, which my mother drank.”
Sorcha was enthralled by the tale. “And your mother conceived.”
“Aye. Ten months later she gave birth to twin boys. Heirs. My father was so pleased, he even gave up his other woman … well, at least for a while. But two boys were not enough for my father, he wanted more sons, and so my mother visited Tullia again. This time the cost for the herbs was more, but still my mother paid, and though she did not conceive, she went back yet again and insisted upon a stronger potion. By this time she knew my father was keeping another woman, and Mother was desperate to get with child.”
“Did she?”
“Oh, yes. Anne was born the next year, but the birth was complicated and infection set in. Mother died a horrid death within weeks after Anne’s birth.”
Sorcha felt her throat grow hot. Her mother, too, had died young, during the birthing of Leah.
Hagan’s forehead furrowed and his eyes darkened. “From Mother’s lady in waiting, my father found out about Tullia. He came here, accused her of killing his wife, and forced her to drink some of her own potions.”
“Oh Lord,” Sorcha whispered, fearing the rest.
“Aye, she, too, died, and no one has lived here since. My father ordered the cottage destroyed, but the soldiers who came to burn it and tear it down were set upon by outlaws and killed. Rumor had it that the forest was infested with ghosts and demons and that the spirit of the witch Tullia still walked between these old walls.”
“Yet you come here,” Sorcha said.
He frowned. “I find it comforting. There was an uprising soon after—with Prydd—and my father turned his hatred away from here.”
“And to Prydd?”
“Aye.” He leaned against the bark of an ancient oak and gazed up to the sky through the leafless branches. “There has been little peace between our castles.”
“Where is Tullia buried?” she asked suddenly, glancing around for a gravestone.