Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens

by Suzan Tisdale

  Brogan found that information peculiar to say the least. “And then?” he dared ask.

  “It all falls to Aymer.”

  It all began to fall into place then. He could see it with perfect clarity. Aymer had killed as many people as Reginald suspected, including James and Connell. All so that he could inherit the Mactavish lands, keeps, and holdings.

  The bloody bastard.

  His fury returned with the realization that his wife was in grave danger. Looking at Reginald, he said, “I want ye to go to every village within fifty miles of here — one hundred if ye must -- and hire every able-bodied man ye can.”

  Reginald stared in amazement.. “Why?”

  “We need to finish this bloody wall before Aymer returns. We have what, three months before he gets back from France?”

  “If we’re lucky,” Reginald replied.

  Brogan stomped across the grass to where his mount was grazing. “Leave at once. Take at least five men with ye. I do no’ care what it costs, but ye find men. Able-bodied men. Bring them back here.” He mounted his horse, and turned to look at Reginald. “Pull the men off the quarry and have them start felling trees. ’Twill be faster to build a wall of wood than stone right now. We will work all day and all night, but we will get it done.”

  “Where are ye goin’?” Reginald asked.

  “First to Iariann,” he replied gruffly.

  Reginald felt just as anxious about Aymer’s return as Brogan did. “And what of Mairghread?”

  Brogan pulled rein, and went back to Reginald. “I can no’ believe she just suddenly went mad,” he told him. “There had to be somethin’ that happened. And I be goin’ to find out what the bloody hell that was.”

  Brogan rode straight to the smithy’s barn. Iarainn was working on another cooking pot, which today, infuriated him to no end. Cooking pots!

  “M’laird,” she called out as he approached. When she saw the fury on his face, she carefully sat her tools aside and looked at him with an expression of true confusion.

  “Beginning immediately, ye are to start forgin’ weapons,” he told her. “Broadswords, knives, dirks, arrows. Ye will no’ forge another cookin’ pot or anythin’ else, do ye understand?”

  With furrowed brow, she wiped her hands on her heavy leather apron. “May I ask why?”

  He could not very well tell her the truth without clear and convincing evidence. “I have a suspicion that we might come under attack in the comin’ months.”

  “Do ye ken by whom?” she asked.

  Resting his fingertips on his hips, his anger burning almost as bright as the fire in her forge. “Does it matter?”

  Twisting her lips to one side, she thought on it for a brief moment. “I suppose no’,” she replied. “But what am I to tell people when they see me makin’ weapons? Word will undoubtedly get back to Aymer.”

  His nostrils flared as his eyes turned to slits. “Aymer be no’ the chief of this clan. Mairghread is.”

  “She is well, then?” she asked.

  Genuine concern filled her eyes, softening his anger just a bit. “She will be soon enough. But it matters no’. What does matter is that we are defenseless. With no walls, no towers, and no bloody weapons, if we are attacked, there be no way we can win.”

  “I have been sayin’ that fer more than three years,” she replied solemnly.

  “Then ye be with me on this?”

  “Aye, m’laird, I am. But what do I say if anyone asks?”

  Frustrated with the hold Aymer had on this clan, he let out a heavy breath. “Ye can tell them to mind their own bloody business! And if they have any questions, they can come see me. Ye are workin’ under Mairghread’s orders.”

  “Ye ken word will get to Aymer,” she said.

  Waggling his brows and grinning, he said, “I hope the bloody hell it does!”

  They spoke for a little while longer. With her orders clear, he took his mount back to the stables and asked one of the stable boys to tend to it. The lad did as asked without question.

  As he thundered back to the keep, he made a solemn vow to himself. “I will no’ rest until I find out what happened to Mairghread.”

  He had his answers in less than an hour. They were able to piece together the events that led up to Mairghread’s mad frenzy.

  He stood now in the kitchens, speaking with Lowrens, who looked fit to be tied. “I did no’ ken what she was goin’ to do, m’laird, I swear it! I only gave her the hot water and cup she asked for. ’Tis Hargatha. Sometimes it is best no’ to ask her too many questions.” Rubbing the top of his head, he looked positively sickened by the part he unwittingly played. “Had I kent I would ne’er have given it to her.”

  Brogan had seen Mairghread moments ago. Though she was no longer fighting as strongly as before, she was still behaving like a woman possessed. Her eyes were glassy and dark, her pupils so large and black one could barely tell she had emerald green eyes.

  “I do no’ ken what she gave her,” Brogan said. “I have no idea how to help Mairghread. But none of this be yer fault, Lowrens.”

  “I should have kent somethin’ was wrong when she thanked me fer the cup and water,” he said between gritted teeth.

  A young lass of no more than four and ten stepped forward. “M’laird,” she said, her voice a bit shaky. “I do no’ mean to eavesdrop, but mayhap I can help.”

  Brogan lifted a curious brow. “How?”

  “Well, me mum, she be a midwife, ye ken. But she be also right smart when it comes to herbs and such. Mayhap she can help ye.”

  Brogan needed all of one heartbeat to think on it. “Aye, please!” he told her. “Fetch her straight away, lass.”

  She glanced at Lowrens as if asking permission to leave. He rolled his eyes and waved his hands. “What be ye waitin’ fer?” he snapped. “Go fetch Martha!”

  The girl didn’t even bob a curtsey as she all but fled from the kitchens.

  “Martha be a fine woman,” Lowrens said. “I ken the womenfolk like her. Our lady used to help her with the birthin’s.”

  Brogan was relieved to hear it.

  “I imagine she’ll be spittin’ mad when she finds out what Hargatha has done,” he added.

  Brogan doubted anyone’s anger over Hargatha’s actions would match his own.

  Gertie entered the kitchens then. She took one look at Brogan and averted her eyes.

  “Gertie,” Brogan called to her. “Come here.”

  Like a child being led to a bath, she drug her feet as she stepped forward. Brogan offered her his arm. She gave him a peculiar look before accepting.

  In silence, he led her out of the kitchens and back to the keep. When they were inside and he was certain they were away from ears that could overhear, he stopped. “How be Tilda?”

  “She has a nasty cut on the top of her head, and one on over her brow,” she replied. “Seamus stitched her and Charles up.”

  “Why did ye no’ seek out Hargatha, the healer?”

  “Bah!” she exclaimed. “I do no’ trust that woman!”

  Brogan nodded his understanding. “Did ye ken that Hargatha had given Mairghread a tisane?” he asked.

  Her eyes grew wide with horror. “Nay! I would no’ have let her near Mairghread, m’laird.”

  “Do no’ fash yerself,” he told her. “I have only just figured it out myself. She tricked Liam into taking a tisane into Mairghread. She gave him the impression that ’twas on my order, which I can assure ye, it was no’.”

  Gertie’s eyes grew wider. “That mean, nasty, foul woman!” she cursed.

  Brogan agreed with her assessment of the healer’s character. “The other day, Hargatha told me I needed to call a priest. She said she was certain Mairghread was possessed.”

  He watched as her countenance changed, from anger to horror. “Dear, God!” she exclaimed, as if a something had just occurred to her. “Nay,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “Nay, it can no’ be.”

  “What, Gertie?” Brogan asked
, growing more curious by the moment.

  She shook her head and stammered. “When NAME was ill, with the wastin’ disease, she said the verra same thing!”

  “I do no’ understand,” he said with a raised brow. “Who said what?”

  Gertie swallowed and fought back tears. “When NAME was ill, och, he was just a lad. Only two and ten years old. He came down with the wastin’ disease. Hargatha said ’twas because he was possessed. The day he died,” she could no longer hold back the tears. “He did just what Mairghread did! We had to tie him to the bed! ’Twas as if he was possessed by the devil.”

  Brogan’s head began to spin. Was it a poison that Hargatha had given her and not just something to make her go mad?

  Brogan regained his composure long enough to give Gertie an order. “Gertie, please, go find one of me men. I do no’ care which one. But find them and send one to me!”

  “Where be ye goin’?” she called after him.

  “To Mairghread’s room.”

  Brogan raced up the stairs as fast as his legs would allow. He was afraid to ask if this day could get any worse, for he didn’t doubt that it would. When he reached Mairghread’s room, he was covered in sweat and out of breath. Liam was still at his post, but now, he stood inside the room, between the bed and the door. He looked up when he saw Brogan and his shoulder’s relaxed.

  “How fares she?” Brogan asked breathlessly as he entered the room in a rush.

  “God’s teeth, Brogan!” Liam exclaimed. “I have never seen anythin’ like this in me life.”

  Mairghread’s pupils were still large and black. Her body glistened with sweat as she thrashed about the bed, though ’twas no’ nearly as bad as earlier. Her wrists and ankles were bleeding from where she fought against the ropes. But thankfully, she was no longer screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Dread, trepidation and heartache were nearly his undoing. Nay, he told himself, ye will be no good to her if ye fall apart now.

  “How be Tilda and Charles?” Liam asked in a low, hushed tone.

  “Seamus, the stable master, stitched them up,” he told him over his shoulder.

  “Do ye ken what happened yet?” he asked.

  Brogan let his breath out in a whoosh and raked a hand through his hair. “’Twas Hargatha, the healer,” he said. He gave him a quick rundown of what he knew thus far. The woman had convinced Liam ’twas by Brogan’s order to give Mairghread the tisane. “What we do no’ ken was what was in it.”

  Liam began looking about the room, for what, Brogan didn’t know. He was too focused on his wife. Kneeling beside her, he brushed his hand across her forehead. She smelled of sweat, urine, and things he wished not to think of. He felt as though his heart being cleaved in ‘twain. “Wheest, lass,” he whispered to her. “I be here.”

  For a moment, but only a moment, she stilled at the sound of his voice and turned to look at him. For the tiniest moment of time, he would have sworn she both heard and saw him. But just like that, she was gone again. Mumbling incoherently, tossing her head from side to side. Her breathing was harsh, as if she had just ran all the way from Edinburgh.

  Liam came to stand beside him again. “Brogan,” he said. “I think I ken what she was given.”

  Brogan looked over his shoulder, puzzled. Liam was holding the broken cup in his hand. He held it out. “Smell this.”

  Brogan sniffed. ’Twas a foul, noxious odor, but he had no clue as to what it was.

  Liam took it away and shook his head. “Me brother studied with monks in Italy for a time. He be a healer, ye ken, fer the MacFindley clan, up near Aberdeen way.”

  Brogan remembered him speaking of that once.

  “I think this be Devil’s Herb.”

  Liam had no sooner uttered the words, than a very bonny woman came rushing into the room. She had dark brown hair, twisted into a braid. Her pale blue eyes held a seriousness that Brogan rarely saw in someone so young. Behind her was the maid Brogan had met earlier in the kitchens. “Ye be Martha?” he asked, just to be certain. They looked more like sisters than mother and daughter.

  “Aye, m’laird,” she replied as she took the cup from Liam. Doing as they had done, she took a sniff, then another. “Aye, it be Devil’s Herb,” she said. “Mixed with a bit of Monkshood.”

  Liam’s eyes grew wide with horror. “God’s bones, that could have killed her!” he exclaimed.

  All Brogan heard was could have. He shot to his feet. “Will she live?” he asked hopefully.

  Martha pursed her lips as she went to the opposite side of the bed. She looked into Mairghread’s eyes, then placed her ear against her chest and listened. “I will do me best, m’laird,” she told him.

  “Evelyn,” she said, looking up to her daughter with an outstretched hand. “Give me me bag.”

  Reaching across the bed, Evelyn handed her the worn, brown leather bag, then took a step back. “Fetch me a pitcher of cold water, and a pot of boiling,” Martha directed as she began fishing through her bag. “I also need two bowls, fresh linens, and sheets.”

  Evelyn nodded and left the room to do her mother’s bidding.

  Martha looked up at Brogan. “Evelyn tells me ye did no’ ken what Hargatha was givin’ her?”

  “I ordered Hargatha to keep away from Mairghread. I was no’ here when she came back. I would never have allowed her to give her anything.”

  Martha studied him closely for a moment. “Ye’ve ordered the rebuildin’ of the wall?”

  “Aye,” he replied, though he did not see the importance of that fact.

  She snorted derisively. “And ye also want her,” she gave a nod to Mairghread, “to take over as chief?”

  Brogan stood to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, I do.”

  Martha nodded once, and went back to her bag. “And what do ye plan on doin’ to Hargatha?”

  Skirting the truth slightly, he replied, “I do no’ ken yet.”

  She humphed once, before turning her attention back to the bag. Carefully, she began removing pouches and jars, and setting them up on the floor at her knees. “If ye be a good and just man, ye’d hang that foul woman.”

  Dumbfounded, Brogan stared at the woman. “Ye think she should be hanged?” he asked.

  “Aye, I do,” she replied bluntly. “She does more harm than she ever did good. She walks around like she be the chatelaine of the keep most days. Amputatin’ fingers and limbs where there be no reason to. Tellin’ people they would no’ be ill if they were no’ sinnin’ all the time. Or worse yet, convincin’ them they be possessed.” She shook her head with a good deal of disgust. “And now this,” she said as she looked at Mairghread. “’Twill be a miracle if she lives through the night.”

  He felt his chest tighten, as if a hand had reached inside his chest and held onto his heart with the grip of death. Holding his breath, his mind begged him to scream and rail.

  Liam stepped forward. “I thought Devil’s Herb usually killed within moments,” he said.

  “If given enough, aye, it can. I do no’ ken what she mixed with it.” Martha explained. “I believe I detect a bit of Monkshood too. What I do no’ ken is how much she gave her. The poor woman could lie here for days, dying a slow, painful death.”

  Refusing to believe she would die, Brogan shook his head. We can no’ have come this far only to lose her now.

  “If that witch had a heart at all, she would tell me how much and what herbs were in that tisane. But I doubt she will. If I only knew, I would be better able to help her.”

  Clenching his jaw, he drew his hands into fists. “Hargatha will tell us,” he ground out. “Or she will hang before the sun sets this day.”

  “I do no’ care if ye have to drag her here, kickin’ and screamin’!” Brogan was barking his order to five of his men. Standing on the third floor landing, his face dark with fury, his hands fair shook with it. “Ye find the healer, Hargatha, and ye bring her to me!”

  Not one man asked for a reason behind his
order. As soon as they left, he headed back to Mairghread’s room. Evelyn had returned with the items her mother had requested earlier. While Martha mixed what she hoped was the right antidote for whatever had been given to her, Evelyn and Liam were straightening up the room.

  The smell of bodily fluids was growing worse and he did not know how much longer he could stand it. “Would it be safe to move her?” he asked Martha. “To a room across the way?”

  “Ye might wait a bit, m’laird. I do no’ ken if the madness will kick in again.”

  Brogan rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, his heart heavy with worry. “Do ye,” he stopped, swallowed once, and began again. “If ye can find the proper antidote, will she…” his words trailed off. He couldn’t bear to ask the question.

  “Will she recover her mind?” Martha asked the question for him. “I believe so, m’laird. But again, it depends on what Hargatha has given her.”

  Hargatha. Just thinking of her name left a foul taste in his mouth. How on earth … much older and wiser now, he knew there were people on this earth who possessed no line they would not cross to get what they wanted. But this auld woman, who was supposed to be a healer? Nay, that was something he doubted he would ever be able to understand.

  “Liam. Evelyn,” he said. “Let us go and set up the room across the hall.”

  Each of them nodded and followed him out of the room. Just across the tiny hall, which was really nothing more than a landing, was another small room. Almost identical to the one in which Mairghread now lay. Arrow slits and one small window, cold stone floors and walls, and that was it.

  “I do no’ ken where Reginald got the bed Mairghread now lies in,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. A numbness began to settle into his bones. Weary, tired to the point of exhaustion, he stood in the tiny space, uncertain of what he should do next.

  “I ken where to get another,” Evelyn offered.

  He nodded, but made no attempt to move. Liam placed a hand on Brogan’s shoulder. “Brogan, let Evelyn and me prepare this room, aye? Ye can go sit with yer wife.”