by Jessi Gage
Och, all he wanted was to see his wife safe, but she was here in front of his enemy. She’d put herself directly in the path of danger. He was helpless to rescue her if the bishop called for her arrest. He’d been more at peace when he’d thought she returned to her familiar time.
“Any citizen here would vouch for the earl.” Ruthven made a face like he’d tasted somat bitter. “This is Inverness, after all. Your Holiness, you must order her arrest. I doona ken Lord Turstan’s purpose, but he’s clearly protecting a charge of the devil.
“That woman is a witch and a spy. I witnessed the proof with my own eyes. Why, she attempted to control my men and I with a hag stone! Every one kens that to wear such a stone is to align oneself with the devil. How shall our great Scotia remain pure if we fail to deal harshly with such evil?”
The onlookers shouted mixed messages. “Burn the witch!” “Go back to Perth, baron!”
’Twas difficult to determine whether the majority were for or against Ruthven, but it seemed every soul had an opinion. The lawn of the citadel buzzed like a riled hornet’s nest. Even the children cheered, though for what they probably didn’t even ken.
Turstan appealed to the crowd. “Lord Ruthven speaks true.” He motioned to the baron as the crowd quieted. He’d gotten their attention by agreeing with his enemy. “He speaks true. Evil must be dealt with harshly, no?”
Several of those gathered shouted their agreements. The man had a talent for arguing before many. Would that Wilhelm could have met him under different circumstances. Perhaps he might have been a mentor.
“What’s Turstan doing?” Terran asked. “What’s your wife doing with him?”
He shook his head, wishing he kent the answer.
Turstan spoke into the weighty silence. “Those who embrace evil should be dealt with harshly,” he repeated. “Especially those who put their faith in objects of demonic power. Do you nay agree, Your Holiness?”
“Say what you mean,” the bishop growled.
“If you would be so kind, gentleman—” Turstan motioned forward a pair of guards in plaids, who strode toward Ruthven.
The baron edged behind the bishop. “What’s this about, Turstan?”
“I have it on good authority the very man who accuses women of witchcraft for wearing hag stones himself wears one. Men, inspect the baron for implements of demonism.”
“Preposterous!” Ruthven sputtered, backing away.
When he trod close to where Wilhelm lay, he was sorely tempted to trip the man. But he refrained. He rather enjoyed seeing Ruthven retreating with panic in his eyes.
“Your Holiness, ye canna allow this! I refuse to be manhandled!”
“Yield to them,” the bishop ordered.
Turstan’s guards cornered Ruthven, each grabbing an arm. The bishop himself plucked at Ruthven’s collar, treating the linen none too gently. He froze.
Wilhelm couldn’t see the bishop’s face, but Ruthven paled. “’Tis no’ mine. This is the hag stone that witch was wearing.” He jabbed a finger in Constance’s direction. “I was just keeping it out of the hands of those who would abuse its power.”
The bishop tore somat from Ruthven’s neck and tossed it away. The object skittered along the planks like a dead snake. When it came to rest, Wilhelm saw ’twas a stone the size of a doe’s tail with a woven leather cord making it into a necklace. It landed at Constance’s feet.
Wilhelm did not miss how her eyes lit with recognition when she saw it. Och, he prayed no one else had noticed.
But the moment was fleeting. She quickly returned her gaze to him. They’re eyes locked, and the connection between them went taut as a bowstring. How he loved her! Dare he hope Turstan would succeed in whatever plot he and Constance had hatched? Dare he believe he might hold her again? Kiss her? Have a life with her?
“Furthermore, Your Holiness,” Turstan continued as if denials weren’t still falling from Ruthven’s lips. “With all due respect, your area of oversight is Perthshire and her surrounding counties. As magistrate of Inverness-shire, I have full authority to carry out or stay executions within the county’s borders.”
Addressing the onlookers, he said, “It is my ruling that these two men are guilty of instigating, but with fair cause. The beatings they’ve received shall suffice as due punishment. They are to be released at once. It is also my pleasure to place Lord Jacob Ruthven, Baron of Perthshire, under arrest for failure to follow the laws proscribed by the crown regarding the administration of justice and for dealing in witchcraft. Officers, if you will.”
Turstan’s guards still held Ruthven by his arms. Though he struggled against them, they had little difficulty leading him away.
The bishop curled his lip, looking furious to have been dragged to Inverness for this. With a sweep of his robes, he stormed off the platform and disappeared into the crowd. Good riddance.
Constance broke free from Turstan and rushed toward him and Terran, knife in hand. Sobs feathering from between her trembling lips, she sawed through his ropes first and then Terran’s.
“Honestly, boys,” she said in her English way, now touched with a bit of Scots. “I canna take you anywhere without you causing trouble.”
When the ropes fell free, his joints screamed, but he ignored the pain and dragged his wife into his arms. Breathing in her scent, he assured himself she was truly his Constant Rose and not some illusion. When he ran his hands over her hair, his palms came away blackened.
“Saddle polish,” she whispered in his ear. At his questioning look, she said, “’Tis a long story.”
Terran picked her up and swirled her around, no worse for wear after the beating he’d taken. “I look forward to hearing it, lass. I kent ye were a loyal one. Didna I say to you, Will, that lass of yours is loyal.”
Wilhelm chuckled, but pain stole his breath.
Constance was there, supporting him as he sat on the platform.
While the spots cleared from his vision, he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a wee monkey in trews leaping onto the platform and running off with the hag stone necklace. He blinked, wondering if he was seeing things, but when he glanced at Constance, he found her smiling and following the monkey with her eyes as it disappeared into the crowd.
“Let’s get you back to my house, son.” Lord Turstan stood over him, offering a hand.
Wilhelm clasped it. “My thanks, my lord.”
“You’ll call me Robert. I hear ye have a judicial act you’re seeking support for. I’d like to hear about it while we break our fast.”
With Terran under one arm, helping him walk, and Constance under the other, they followed Turstan to a waiting pony cart. All the aches of his beating couldna keep the grin from his face as he said to his wife, “You are my miracle, lass.”
“I don’t know if I believe in miracles,” she replied, her natural speech low so only he could hear. “But I’m beginning to believe in magic.”
Chapter 29
“What are ye doing out here, lass?” Robert Turstan’s voice came from a window above as Connie stood on the narrow ledge separating the backs of the row houses from a branch of the River Ness. “’Tis no place for a lady. Come inside. Mrs. Felt’s got supper ready.”
While Wilhelm and Terran slept the day away, beginning their recovery from Ruthven’s cruel treatment, she’d ventured outdoors to inspect the sewage handling systems of these late medieval homes. Robert and Mary’s home had a latrine on the second floor, a room with a shelf where a person could sit and relieve themselves into a pot.
Twice a day, Chester would pull a cord to empty the pot into a chute that would carry the waste directly into the river. The chute was like a chimney, constructed of mortared stone. She’d asked Chester what happened if it got clogged, and he’d said, “I capture some rats and send them down. They always find a way to come out the bottom.”
Surprisingly, the river didn’t smell of sewage. It ran north to south, and the Turstans lived in what she suspected was one of the
nicer parts of the city in the north end. Neighborhoods further south would see more pollution. She would have to ask Chester to take her tomorrow so she could see for herself how the less privileged residents of Inverness handled waste removal.
But for now, dusk was coming. She’d learned a great deal today, and she had more questions, but discovering answers would have to wait until morning light. “I’m coming,” she called up to Robert, who smiled fondly at her before closing the shutters.
Sometimes, the earl looked utterly lost, as she would expect after losing his daughter only the day before. Other times, she would catch him smiling to himself. Remembering Tarra? Thinking about how he’d given Ruthven a very public taste of his own medicine? Once she had walked by Mary’s bedroom on her way to check on Wilhelm and Terran, and heard Robert in there talking quietly with his wife.
He’d had an emotional couple of days, and she wasn’t sure he’d slept much. Her worry for him was more than what she should feel for a near stranger. He and Mary felt oddly like family. Might they be distant relatives?
Considering the possibility, she entered the dining room and stopped short. Mary, who was almost always in bed, was sitting in a chair at one end of the table, Robert beside her, holding her hand.
He motioned to the seat across from him. “Sit,” he said. The creases at his eyes made her feel welcome when she was tempted to feel like a burden.
This couple had no reason to be kind to her, but they’d done absolutely everything in their power to help her and Wilhelm. She owed them—and Gravois—heaps of thanks.
She went around the table to sit. The dining room was a narrow room covered in wood paneling and furnished with simple, sturdy furniture.
“How are you feeling,” she asked Mary. She couldn’t begin to guess what ailed the woman, but weakness and pain were evident in the lines on her face and her stiff movements.
“As well as God sees fit to make me,” she said with a brave upturn of her lips.
Mathilda and another older woman in an apron served the first course, an oniony, creamy soup garnished with carrot shavings. Beer was served, and a pitcher of milk was set on the table. Robert poured milk for Mary, who didn’t take any beer.
Connie drank the beer. It had been a crazy week. Alcohol was most welcome. Robert had seen her fed generously at lunch time, so she wasn’t as ravenous as she had been, but she did start shoveling in the soup at a rate that was probably less than ladylike.
“How’s your young man,” Mary asked.
“In pain,” Connie answered. “But I think the only broken bones are his ribs.” She’d learned from Chester, who had experience tending minor injuries, that as awful as Wilhelm looked, bruised and even bloodied in places, he wasn’t bad off enough to need a doctor.
“Broken ribs will heal with tight binding,” he’d told her, and he’d proceeded to wrap a folded sheet around Wilhelm until her husband had protested he could hardly breathe. “That’s the point,” Chester had said. “Got to keep those bones still so they can heal. Breathe from below.”
Wilhelm had obeyed and found that the bindings helped his pain quite a bit. Not to mention Mathilda had brought him wine spiked with henbane and rue, which Connie had learned helped with pain and preventing fevers. Wilhelm had gulped down the generous cup and fallen into a deep sleep soon after. Terran was in better shape and hadn’t required any dressings, but he’d availed himself of the medicated wine and was sleeping as soundly as Wilhelm in another room.
“Difficult to see our loved ones hurting,” Mary said, her eyes watery.
Connie gave her a sympathetic smile and said for what must have been the hundredth time, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” The phrase was so inadequate, but it’s all she had to offer.
The frail woman pulled herself up in her chair. “Robert and I will never forget Tarra, but we believe you were sent to us at this most difficult time for a reason. We both consider you our daughter, now, and—well, Robert, would you like to tell her?”
Robert set down his spoon. “We had a dowry set aside for Tarra. She willna be needing it where she is now.”
“Bless her,” Mary interrupted, crossing herself. “My grieving is lighter because I ken I’ll be with her soon. But poor Robert…” She held out her hand, and her husband took it. Tears had sprung to Connie’s eyes at the tenderness flowing between them.
Robert cleared his throat. “As I said, she willna need it. But you do have need of a dowry.”
Connie had begun to protest, but he cut her off.
“Your husband is heir to a barony. Your lineage will be scrutinized as with any noble match. If no one kens where ye hail from, that’ll reflect poorly on the lad.”
She’d given some thought to her lack of legitimacy, but she hadn’t considered it might hurt Wilhelm since he’d assured her his parents would approve a love match.
“’Twas not a decision we arrived at lightly,” Robert had said. “But Mary and I have decided to give you Tarra’s dowry and her place in our family. Only those in this household ken Tarra’s gone—”
“And the doctor,” Marry interrupted. “But he can be convinced not to file the death certificate with a bit of currency, I suspect. He’s an auld friend of Robert’s and kens better than to ask questions.”
Connie balked, but Robert waved away her concern.
“Tarra was a loving lass,” he said. “Generous of spirit and highly affectionate. She would want this.”
“She would have liked you,” Mary said.
“If you refuse, you’ll insult me greatly,” Robert said, and he picked up his spoon again and dug into his soup. The action had a feeling of finality about it.
She stared at him then at Mary, torn between objecting to this undeserved kindness and feeling deep relief. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I believe ‘My thanks’ would be appropriate.” Robert quirked a grin at her, reminding her not for the first time of her father.
“My thanks,” she said.
“You’ll come down to visit us often,” Mary said.
“And I’ll be paying a visit or two to Dornoch. Doona think I have forgotten the contents of your ‘travel guide.’”
She’d almost forgotten he’d been through her things—her now nonexistent things, since she’d taken Robert’s advice and thrown it all, piece by piece into the fire. She frowned, unsure what, specifically, he referred to. The page on Dornoch had been brief with no pictures, but it had mentioned a few points of interest that she’d been looking forward to talking with Wilhelm about—nothing, though, that held obvious value to helping to free him.
“The marble mines,” Robert said, in answer to her questioning look.
“What about them?” Connie had read a short two sentences about the ongoing mining of a greenish-yellow marble found in Dornoch and nowhere else in all of Europe. She’d assumed this unique marble was the reason Wilhelm’s family seemed well-to-do and had been eager to see the workings of a late-medieval mine.
“They doona exist as yet.”
She blinked in surprise.
“Dornoch is within the borders of Inverness-shire.” Robert gestured with his spoon as he spoke. “I’ve visited once before and met Wilhelm’s father. ’Twas years past. Your husband was at university at the time. Farm land, they have aplenty, and the land produces well enough to support the Murray as a clan and the seat of a barony. But they arena a wealthy clan. At least not at the moment. They will become quite wealthy indeed once the mineral veins are discovered, which I have a feeling will be soon.” He winked and helped himself to more soup.
#
Connie awoke to the sensation of butterfly wings tickling her cheek. Opening her eyes, she found Wilhelm over her, caressing her face.
“I’ll never tire of looking at your eyes, mo luaidh. They are like rocks of gold in a pool of spring water.” Bruises covered his jaw, and his nose was broken. Both eyelids were swollen, one with a cut through his brow that Chester had stitched closed, but he was
still the most beautiful thing she’d ever laid eyes on.
A burst of happiness puffed from her lungs. She had him back, not just from Ruthven but from the deep sleep that had claimed him for nearly two days straight while his body coped with his injuries.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him soundly. His chin bristled with stubble, and his lips were chapped. She didn’t care. This was the first kiss they’d shared since before he’d entered the inn. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Goodness, it was a lifetime ago. She was another person now at least as far as Scottish population records were concerned. She still felt strange about stepping into the role of the Turstan’s deceased daughter, but that didn’t stop her from being deeply grateful.
During these last days with Mary, she’d learned so much about Tarra she felt like she’d known her. In fact, the young woman reminded her of Leslie. Being Tarra helped her feel closer to the twin she would never see again.
She would never be able to thank the Turstans enough for all they’d done for her and Wilhelm.
“I thought I’d lost you, lass,” Wilhelm said. “I thought you’d gone back to your time. I saw the shopkeeper, and then you disappeared. What happened? How did you come to be with Turstan?”
She sat up in bed and pressed him back into the covers, assaulting him with a new kiss, one that she took to heights of intimacy she wasn’t sure his mending body could handle. A rising presence beneath the blankets suggested her fears were unfounded.
“I would never leave you,” she asserted once both their lips were kiss swollen. “I will never leave you.”
“Lass,” he growled, bringing her in for more.
The only thing that stopped her from tearing the blankets off him and giving him a bit of pleasure to take his mind off the pain was the growling of his stomach.
When she climbed out of bed, her body missed his. He was so hard and warm. Even wounded, he made her feel safe and protected, cherished the way she’d never felt before. Wilhelm made her feel like a soft, beautiful woman. She would make him feel like the big, strapping man he was, but first, he needed some nutrition.