Spirit of the Mist Read Free

fought the waves for a very long time.”  
    “Please! We’ve been out here long enough!” she cried and reached up to wrap her cloak around his shoulders. “What sort of hospitality is this that Dun Farraige offers to an unarmed stranger, leaving him hungry and cold at our shores? Come with me. We are taking him back with us right now!”  
    The four men of her dun looked at each other. Finally Ronan and Flannan each pulled one of Brendan’s arms across their shoulders and began helping him walk toward the hill.  
    “All right,” said Ronan. “We’ll take you back to the dun. In the morning King Murrough and his druids will decide what’s to be done with you. If you are a prince, as you say, then you will be treated to the finest hospitality we can offer. But if you are a slave—well, then, your life will never hold uncertainty again.”  

Chapter Two  
    The men shoved open the door of Muriel’s little round house. Inside, Alvy nearly dropped the iron poker into the hearth fire. “Mistress!” the old woman cried, hurrying over as quickly as her bent back would allow. “I was so worried about you—Oh, what is this?”  
    Muriel stepped into the deep clean rushes on the floor of her house and moved Alvy back near the shuttered window. “Put him there,” she said to Ronan, pointing across the room to the fine rope-and-wood-frame bed against the white clay wall.  
    Ronan and Flannan pushed their way through the door, still supporting Brendan between them with his arms up on their shoulders. They got him to the bed and let him fall on his back to the straw-stuffed mattress, his long, bare legs trailing off to one side. A fur on the bed was left beneath him.  
    “Thank you,” Muriel said. She hung her wet wool cloak on a peg in the corner. “We will take care of him and bring him to the king in the morning.”  
    The two warriors glanced at her, then at each other, then filed out of the house. Muriel closed the door tight behind them. Alvy remained where she was, safely behind the central hearth, staring wide-eyed at their guest. “Lady, what is this? I have never seen this man before! Who is he? And what’s wrong with him?”  
    Muriel hurried over to the bed. “His name is Brendan,” she answered, easing the man’s long legs up onto the mattress. “His boat wrecked on the beach. He nearly drowned.”  
    “He doesn’t look like much,” Alvy commented, coming closer. “So pale…dressed in rags…no gold…” She paused. “Is he a slave?”  
    “He’s not a slave. I’m sure of it.” Muriel got her arm beneath Brendan’s shoulders and helped him to sit up. “Alvy, pull that wet fur out from under him—that’s it—and bring another. Stir up the fire, too. He’s cold to the bone. We’ve got to warm him up, or else—”  
    “Thank you for your help, Lady Muriel,” whispered Brendan. “I am so sorry to trouble you…”  
    Muriel took the dry, warm fur that Alvy held out to her, and smiled briefly. “It is no trouble. We could not leave you out in that storm. But if you don’t get these wet clothes off and let us warm you, we may as well have left you there on the beach.”  
    He gave a slight nod. Slowly he reached up for his ragged linen tunic as if to begin pulling it off but then his head fell forward and his arms dropped back to the bed.  
    Quickly Muriel eased him back down. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. His skin was paler than ever, and his lips were almost blue. Most frightening of all, his shivering had stopped.  
    Muriel pulled her small knife from the small leather scabbard at her belt and used it to rip away the man’s wet tunic.  
    She started to tear open the heavy linen pants, but an indignant voice stopped her.  
    “My lady! You cannot!” Alvy came bustling over and lifted the knife from Muriel’s hand. “Here. Let an old servant woman get the britches off him. You go and stir the fire, and see about getting him something hot to