by Anita Mills
But she’d already removed the stopper. Smelling of it, she shook her head. “Nay. ’Tis as sweet as any.” Dipping her finger into the neck, she would have tasted the wine, but he snatched the skin away so quickly that she dropped it, spilling it over her and onto the floor. The stain spread down the front of her dress.
“ ’Twas clumsy of me,” he muttered, turning to find a cloth for her. There was no water in the ewer or the basin. “Sit you down and I will get it wet,” he promised. “And I will bring more wine to you.”
As he went out, she dropped to her knees and used the skirt of her already ruined gown to sop at the puddle ere it seeped through the wooden floor. Moving on all fours she dabbed at that which ran beneath the table, and it was there that she saw the black berries. Two of them. She touched them gingerly, recognizing that they were of the deadly nightshade, then her fingers closed over them. Rising, she tucked them into the pouch that hung from her girdle. And as she looked down, she could see the tiny specks of black that clung to the stain on her gown. The wine she’d spilled had been poisoned.
Deadly nightshade. The belladonna. That which convulsed, then paralyzed, ere it killed. It was as though the hairs at her neck stood on end and her blood ran cold in her veins as horror and fear mingled within her. Was this the strange malady that had claimed four people and the dog? And yet even as she asked, she denied the answer. The priest had no reason.
He came back, a wet cloth in one hand, a new skin in the other. “ ’Tis sorry I am for the gown,” he murmured, bending to rub at the hopeless stain. “Mayhap the woman …”
“Aye. I will have her wash it.” Even her words, when she said them, seemed strained. She pulled her skirt away and tried to speak more lightly. “Mayhap if I give it over now, the spots are not yet set and will come out.”
“Do you come back that we may share the cup? I have found a better, sweeter vintage I brought from Edinburgh.”
Edinburgh. He’d been to Edinburgh with William and Jamie, and he’d returned alone. When all is said and all pain is past, there will be another to love you. The words so lately said echoed within her ears. Had they perished already, and she did not know of it? Nay, for that would not explain why Wat had not come back.
He’d not gone to Edinburgh until after Edmund of Alton came back.
“Art all right, lady?”
“Ah … aye. ’Tis that I am overtired, I fear.”
“Would you that I helped you to your woman?”
“Forgive me, Father, but I’d be alone with the thoughts that plague me. When William comes home, I will be better.”
He watched her go uneasily, wondering at her change of mood, then sat to drink, alone. ’Twas the babe that overset her, he decided finally. Leaning back, he drank deeply of the good wine, wondering if William of Dunashie had suffered as he’d died.
Arabella walked quickly to the tiny solar, then dismissed all of the girls who worked there ere she showed her discovery to Ena. Barring the door, she dug into the pouch and drew out the berries, holding them in her open palm. “What see you here?” she asked the woman.
Ena stared for a moment, then without hesitation answered, “I see poison, my lady.”
“As do I.”
“But…. where…?”
“I found them upon Father Edmund’s floor.”
“Sweet Jesu! You do not think .. ?”
“If William comes not home, if word arrives he is dead, I will have Lang Gib arrest Edmund of Alton,” Arabella declared.
“Ye canna accuse a priest!”
“Ena, do you remember Brut? Do you remember my lord’s dog? Think on it: He drank the wine Father Edmund brought me, and he died.”
“Father dinna let ye drink it,” Ena reminded her.
“Why? Was it that he decided not to poison me also?”
“ ’Tis yer babe as oversets ye.”
“Now he as much as says mine husband does not come home, Ena. ‘When all is said and when all the pain is past, there will be another to love you,’ he told me. Ena, he was in Edinburgh with William and Jamie and Ewan, and he came back alone.”
The woman paled visibly and turned away. “Nay, I’d nae believe it, lady.” Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “I’d nae lose another—I canna bear it.”
“That first night we were here—the night the gatehouse guard died—do you remember that?” Before Ena could answer, Arabella continued, “I could not sleep for worry over Jamie, and I went outside. There was none but me and Father Edmund there when word came that the man had suffered a seizure and died.”
“It doesna mean—”
“And the girl Avisa? Do you remember her?”
“Aye.”
“I know not what passed between them, but I saw her hold his sleeve, and I saw him shake free of her. Whatever ’twas, the girl was overset that day.” She paused, waiting for the import of her words to sink in. “Ena, that night she and her mother died.”
“But none heard anything,” Ena protested.
“There was an empty cup. D’you recall saying you would that you knew of simples?”
“Aye, but—”
“What did Father Edmund speak of when he offered to make me a potion for the sickness?”
“Poppies.”
“Ena, the nightshade kills, and the poppy dulls the senses!”
“E’en so—”
“They slept ere the poison stopped their hearts, I’d think.” As the woman stared with dawning horror, Arabella nodded. “Who would have it that we are beset by a malady that strikes without warning?”
“The priest. Oh, lady—I’d nae live without Ewan!”
“The only thing that would make me doubt it is that he has no reason.”
Tears welled in Ena’s eyes. “But what if ’tis that he is mad? Madness needs no reason.”
“And Lang Gib will think ’tis I who is mad if I accuse Edmund, I suppose,” Arabella mused. “Ena, on the pretext of cleaning for him, I’d have a girl bring me the empty wineskin. And if there is even a drop in it, I’d have Gib watch me feed it to the fowl. When the bird dies, I will ask that he arrest Father Edmund.”
“Ye canna charge him—the Church willna stand for it. ’Tis only they as can judge their own, ye know.”
“If word comes that William or my son is dead, Ena, Gib and I will hang him from Blackleith’s gate. If the fine beggars me, I will pay it.”
“But ye canna know—the burns and rivers is flooded. Mayhap Wat couldna find him. Mayhap they canna cross the waters. I’d nae do it. I’d—” Her gaze dropped to where Arabella still held the poison in her hand. “Oh, lady—I’d pray with ye for Lord William, for Jamie—and for Ewan!”
An oliphant sounded in the distance, but neither noted it. Very carefully, Arabella wrapped the deadly berries before she put them again into her purse. “Ena, I’d have you strain all that we drink through a white cloth. We do not partake of anything that has any black in it.”
“But the pitch as seals—”
“Nay. The pitch can be recognized. ’Tis the berries I mean.”
“Lady, he was going to ask ye to wed me,” Ena whispered pitifully. “He said he was as tired of a cold pallet as I, ye know.” Tears flowed freely down the woman’s cheek. “There’s been nae a one since Thomas until now. Ewan was going to ask Lord William to let Jamie lie separate from us on a pallet of his own.”
“Lady—”
They looked up and both recoiled, for Edmund of Alton stood in the doorway: If he had heard he gave no sign, but still Arabella was afraid. Smoothing her hands on her soiled gown, she managed a wry smile. “As you can see, I have not yet removed my gown. Ena, goose that she is, has finally confided to me her intent to wed Ewan. She’d thought I would be displeased.”
The woman flushed guiltily, then knew she ought to say something to corroborate it. “Aye—when Ewan comes back, we’d hae ye cry the banns for us, Father.”
“Ew
an does not—”
He stopped, aware of the shouting below. Ena ran to the window and threw open the shutters, leaning into the slit. “Lady, I would that ye came—’tis Lord William! Aye, and he brings Ewan! And Jamie and Wat also!” When she withdrew and turned back to them her eyes still streamed, but she was laughing. “We was wrong—we was wrong! Lady, we was wrong!”
Walter’s face froze as the sickness he felt nearly overwhelmed him. By rights William of Dunashie ought to be dead, and yet he came to Blackleith. He came home to Arabella. With an effort Walter regained his composure, only to find that both women had run down the stairs to greet the Bastard. Unable to face Arabella’s husband yet, he watched from the unshuttered window instead.
William reined in at the end of the courtyard and called out to Arabella, “Stay where ye are, Bella!”
She stopped uncertainly and her face fell. Her husband dismounted there and lifted Jamie down. Sweet Mary, but what was that on her son’s leg? The boy teetered precariously, his hand clutching William’s. Despite his words she started forward, but her husband roared, “For once, I’d hae ye do as I tell ye!”
The boy looked like an elf beside a giant, as he gazed upward for reassurance. Then, when his stepfather nodded, he lifted his leg stiffly and moved forward, not once or twice, but a dozen times, each step halting but determined. The limp was painful and pronounced, but he walked. When they were about twenty feet from her William released the child’s hand, and Jamie took another two steps alone.
“He needs much practice, but with God’s aid and ours, he’ll do it.” Though his own eyes were bright with tears, Will smiled broadly and beckoned her. “Well, ye can come get him now, ye know. ’Tis flood-water we’ve crossed, and the longer road we’ve traveled to see ye.”
Her chin quivered dangerously, and her chest ached with what she felt. She stumbled blindly for her son. Kneeling, she enveloped him in her arms. “God gave us a miracle, Jamie—God gave us a miracle,” she said over and over again as she kissed his hair.
Finally, he struggled free. “ ’Twasn’t God, Mama— ’twas Lord William.”
“Ena, I’d hae ye take the boy up, for he is tired unto death from the ride,” Will ordered. “Aye, and ye can take Ewan with ye.”
Arabella stood, wiping her wet face with both hands, then looked up at her husband. Her mouth twisted as she tried to smile, then she flung herself into his arms. “ ’Twas God, my lord,” she sobbed, “for he gave you to me.” She leaned into him, smelling the smoke, the oiled mail, and the leather as she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Sweet Mary, but I’d feared for you, my lord—I’d feared for you. I prayed to God for another time to tell you how much I love you.”
His arms tightened around her and he stood there, oblivious to all else save her. Rubbing his two days’ growth of beard against her hair, he breathed deeply. “Ye canna know how many nights I’ve wanted to smell the roses in your hair, Arabella of Byrum. There’s nae been anything in mine life I’ve missed half so much as ye.”
He was there in the flesh. He lived and breathed before her. Slowly the sobs subsided, and she was able to step back shakily. “After I found the berries, I was afraid something had happened to you.”
Setting her from him, he looked around the yard. “Where is Father Edmund?” he called out. “I have brought his wine back to share it with him!”
“William, I fear ’tis poisoned!” she hissed loudly. “I found the black berries in his chamber, and—”
“Aye,” he agreed grimly. “And I’d see him drink from the skin ere I charge him.”
Above them they heard Ena scream, and all else was forgotten. William and Lang Gib pushed past the crowd to run for the inner stairs. But the outside door opened ere they’d reached it, and Walter FitzHamon emerged, dragging Jamie. The knife in his hand gleamed in the rare sun. One hand smothered the boy’s mouth, the other arm circled beneath his chin. “Stand away, and you would the boy lived!”
“Sweet Mary—nay!” Arabella cried. “He is but a child!”
Walter’s arm tightened further, holding the blade at Jamie’s throat. “The first man as moves sees the boy die.” His eyes met William’s, and there was no mistaking the hatred in them. “My life for the boy’s, Bastard.”
“I spared ye once.”
“Ye took me to Kelso!”
“And I could have hanged ye.”
“ ’Twas a weakness that you did not.” Walter edged away from him, shouting again to the others, “Stand away from the horses!”
Ena ran out, crying, “He’s stabbed Ewan—afore God, he’s stabbed Ewan!”
Lang Gib started forward, but William shook his head. “And ye kill my boy, Walter, ye’ll die slowly.”
“You cannot touch me!”
“I have been to Kelso—ye took no vows.” Staying well back, he moved sideways, hoping to stall until he could flank him. “What did ye to Edmund of Alton?” he asked.
“The fool could not swim! Nay—stay back, I said!”
“Did ye poison the rest—or was it just me ye wanted?”
“ ’Twas any of Moray’s blood!” Walter pressed the knife harder, and as the boy cried out he thrust him forward again. “I’d delay no longer, Bastard! And you’d have the boy, you’ll let me go!” When none moved, he reminded them, “Aye—four I poisoned with nightshade and poppy, and one I pushed from the wall—now would you see another before your eyes?”
“Nay! Leave the boy, and ye can go!”
“Hamon did not sire a fool! The boy goes with me!”
“Ye’ve no need for a crippled boy, Walter! Leave him, and I’ll swear to your safety! Ye can ride for England!”
Walter had reached the horses. With his arm still around Jamie, he managed to swing up and right himself ere any could charge him. “I’ll take him with me—to safety or to Hell! And ye want him, I’ll leave him where I cross the Tyne!”
Arabella ran forward before. Will could stop her, and she caught at Walter’s foot. “I pray you will leave him now.”
“Do you come with me, and I do?”
She looked back at her husband, then again to her son. “Aye. For my son’s life.”
He wavered momentarily, for ’twas what he’d always wanted, then he shook his head. “Nay. I’d not be able to keep you,” he decided. “The Bastard would not rest until he killed me for it.” He pulled hard at the reins, making the horse rear above her. “And you’d lie beneath me, wanting him.”
“Leave me my son, and he will let you go!” she pleaded. “He said he would!”
For answer he spurred hard, and the beast shot past her for the lowered bridge. Behind her, the men of Blackleith scrambled for their horses. She turned and stumbled for William. “I pray you—”
But he caught her by both arms and thrust her aside. “There isna any time, Bella! The water’s high, and the roads treacherous!” Swinging up into the saddle of his already wearied horse, he leaned down but briefly. “I dinna bring him home on his feet to lose him for ye.”
“Have a care for yourself also, for I love you both!”
“Aye!”
The big horse thundered across the bridge, and the others fell in line behind him, leaving her to wait and watch again. It was as though God could not leave her happy, she thought. She crossed back over the nearly empty yard, passing the silent kitchen boys and the women who, scarce a dozen minutes before, had been cheering her lord and her son.
The terror she felt was nearly numbing, and yet she could not give into it. William would come home again. He would deliver Jamie safely into her arms once more. She climbed slowly, feeling the weight of a lifetime with every step. Until she saw that Ewan still lay within the solar door. Ena knelt beside him now, cradling his head in her lap, crooning to him as though he were a babe.
There was a rent in his mail, and it took no skill to know the wound was a grievous one. Turning back briefly, Arabella called out loudly, “To me! To me! To Blac
kleith!” And when the first stable boys and scullery lads reached her, she ordered, “Put him into the bed.”
“ ’Tisna meet,” he gasped.
“I’d not get down to the floor to tend you,” she told him. “Put heavy cloths beneath him, that his boots and the blood do not soil the covers. Ena, get both hot and cold water—aye, and heat the poker in the fire.”
When they had him laid upon the bed she began unhooking his hauberk at the neck, pulling it down, but she could see nothing for the blood that soaked his shert. “ ’Twill take two different layers of stitches,” she murmured. “One for the muscle and one for the skin.”
“Aye,” he croaked. “Lady, ’tis sorry I am. I tried to stop him.”
Ena carried up two pans of water and set them on a table near the bed. “He surprised us, lady: Ewan was carrying Jamie on his other shoulder, and there wasna anytime.”
“ ’Tis all right.”
The older woman looked ready to cry again. “Can ye aid him?”
“If we can stop the blood, I can sew him.” Arabella looked to one of the boys who hovered nearby. “I’d have as many cobwebs as you can gather.” Rolling her sleeves, she proceeded to wash around the wound, revealing it more clearly. “His blood clots well, and ’tis a good sign, Ena. God willing, there’ll be enough life left after this that he’ll sire a babe or two of you.”
“She told ye?” he gasped.
“Aye. And I give my blessing. But first you must live.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The way was hilly, the road but mire, and at every small burn Walter had had to turn aside for the high water. Beneath him, his tired mount was made even more so by the mud. Every few minutes Walter looked over his shoulder, seeing those who followed, keeping nearly the same pace as he, always staying just behind him. He doubled back again, unable to cross the swollen river, and took the road westward.
He had to reach the safety of England—he had to—for there he could throw himself upon the mercy of an English lord, saying he fled the maurauding Scots. And mayhap ’twould be William of Blackleith they turned on. ’Twould be almost a cruel jest, Walter supposed, if after all he’d done ’twas the English as felled the Bastard.