“Please,” Meg whispered. “I beg of you. I sensed danger and I ran here and was told Dominic had been felled by a blow to the head from your sword.”
Simon fought to control his temper. “Watch your tongue, vile witch.”
Vile.
Witch.
Meg realized Simon wouldn’t let her go to Dominic no matter how carefully she pleaded. A wild anger swept through her.
“Why should I watch my tongue?” she demanded. “Does the truth hurt so much? Or are you hoping to inherit the keep if Dominic dies and thus don’t want me to tend him?”
The accusation was so unexpected that Simon was struck speechless. Meg suffered no such handicap. She wrested her hands free of his grasp and continued flaying him with her tongue.
“If that is so, my brave knight,” she said with fierce disdain, “hear me now. I will tear down Blackthorne Keep stone by stone with my own hands and poison the well before I let you profit by your brother’s untimely death!”
“Hell-witch,” Simon whispered. “I would slay a man for even suggesting that I was such a cowardly villain.”
Simon’s voice reminded Meg of Dominic at his most coldly furious. At any other time she would have bowed to the male anger and withdrawn, but not now. Dominic was dying. Next to that, nothing mattered.
Hell-witch.
Meg’s free hand came up and ripped the frail Glendruid smock from neck to waist, revealing the fine, creamy skin and the smooth swell of her breasts. Between them shone the golden cross that had once been her mother’s.
“Could a true witch wear God’s cross?” Meg demanded. “Could she?”
For three long breaths there was silence.
“No,” Simon admitted finally.
With one gauntleted hand he carefully pulled the smock’s edges together, covering Meg’s breasts completely.
Meg waited, but still Simon made no move to step aside.
“Let me by, Simon the Loyal. Use your brains instead of your brawny arms to aid your brother. Who else in this keep can help Dominic but me?”
There was a taut silence while Simon stared at the girl with the uncanny green eyes. Ever since he had come to Blackthorne Keep, the vassals had told anyone who would listen what a magic touch Meg had with the sick or the wounded. They called her Glendruid witch.
White witch.
A cross lay cool between her breasts. Dominic lay ill unto death.
Never had Simon been more frightened for his brother, not even when Dominic had ransomed twelve knights by turning himself over to a sultan whose cruelty to Christians had to be endured to be believed.
“If my brother dies,” Simon vowed quietly, “you will die by my hands an instant after Dominic draws his last breath. I swear this before God.”
“So be it,” Meg agreed, sealing the vow.
Surprise showed in the fierce lines of Simon’s face. He had expected many things from his brother’s witch-wife, but not such unflinching acceptance of danger to herself. Whatever else might be said of her, she didn’t lack courage.
Simon stepped away from the door. Before he could turn around, Meg was in the room and leaning over Dominic’s canopied bed. A huge fire burned in the hearth, making the room hot.
“He barely breathes,” Meg said in a low voice.
She touched Dominic’s skin. Her breath caught in the vise of her clenched throat.
“Dear God…’tis cool as water.”
Bending low over Dominic, she breathed in deeply of the air he had just exhaled. A stillness came over her body. She forced air from her lungs, then breathed in deeply again.
Simon stood without moving, listening to the small golden bells Meg wore shiver and murmur among themselves as though mourning for their dying lord.
Slowly Meg straightened, pushing aside hair that had come free during the wild run from Harry’s cottage. A golden cascade of music trembled in the silence from the long chains of bells still tied around her half-unraveled braids.
“Lady?” called Eadith from beyond the door. “Here is the water and smock you requested.”
“Get it from her,” Meg said in a low voice. “Do not let her in. She has a taste for gossip. If the Reevers were to hear that Dominic was ill…”
Simon was turning away before Meg finished her sentence. The door shut quite rudely on Eadith’s anxious questions.
“Put bowl and smock by the hearth,” Meg said quickly. “Then turn your back while I prepare myself.”
Without waiting to see whether Simon watched or turned away, Meg ripped off the used smock and threw it into the fire, whispering the old chant beneath her breath. She threw a mixture of soap and herbs into the basin and bathed herself hurriedly, chanting so quickly that the words ran together like a waterfall. When nothing remained on her skin but the astringent scent of herbs, she pulled the new smock into place and turned around.
Simon’s back was to her.
“I’m finished. Now tell me what happened,” Meg said. “Think carefully but quickly. Dominic’s life hangs by a very thin thread. If I give him the wrong medicine he will certainly die. If I give him the right medicine, he could very well die anyway. When did you first notice he was unwell?”
Simon turned to face Meg. His breath came in as though at a blow. It wasn’t Meg’s words that surprised him; it was the slow, soundless fall of her tears down her cheeks.
“When he came out of Harry’s cottage,” Simon said simply. “Dominic said the light was as bright as Jerusalem, but it wasn’t. It was the same as it had been when we entered the cottage.”
Meg’s lips thinned, but she said nothing, only listened as though Dominic’s very life depended upon it.
“Then he stumbled and began talking as though drunk,” Simon continued.
A sharp movement of Meg’s hand dismissed that possibility. She knew Dominic well enough to know he would never yield his self-control to ale.
“He staggered, righted himself, and then would have fallen if I hadn’t caught him,” Simon said. “His eyes looked very strange.”
“How so?” Meg asked sharply.
“Their centers were so wide his eyes looked as black as mine.”
“Did he eat or drink anything in your presence?”
“Food? No. He ate with you. We had a mug of ale.” Simon grimaced as he remembered the taste. “It was a bitter brew.”
“Did you share the same mug?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“Dominic said he was going to his small falcon to take the bitter taste from his mouth. But when he got to your room, you were gone.”
“You say your ale was bitter, too?”
“Yes.”
“But you felt no dizziness or languor, no need to hide your eyes from light?”
“I’m tired and somewhat slow for such a mild workout with sword and shield. And…” Simon frowned. “Odd, but my ribs don’t hurt as they should. ’Tis rather pleasant, actually.”
Meg’s eyes closed against the fear that was clenching her heart. There had been enough pain medicine in the missing bottle to kill many knights. Obviously Simon hadn’t drunk enough to be in danger. The same couldn’t be said for Dominic.
“Send to the garrison quickly,” Meg said. “Find if any other knight is ill. I fear the ale was poisoned.”
Simon stuck his head out the door. Dominic’s squire hadn’t moved from the place he had found earlier, when he had been thrown out of the room. Jameson sat on the floor at the end of the hall, his head in his hands and fear plain on his young face.
While Simon gave clipped orders, Meg pulled the antidote from her basket, eased the stopper from the bottle, and tipped a scant amount into a bowl of water that sat near Dominic’s bed. As she started to stopper the bottle once more, she hesitated. Her husband was an uncommonly large man. She added a few more drops of the bright amber potion, and then a few more after that, before she set the bowl on the table and concentrated on the man who lay so still upon the bed.
“Do
minic,” Meg said in a clear, commanding voice. “Arise. Your brother is in danger!”
There was no response from Dominic. He lay pale and slack, his breath slow and shallow.
“Am I in danger?” Simon asked calmly from behind Meg.
“No. But of all that Dominic holds dear, you are the dearest. If danger to anything would rouse him, it would be danger to you.”
Simon was too surprised by Meg’s insight to respond. He simply watched as she bent over his brother and shook him to no effect.
Without warning her hand lifted. The sound of the slap seemed as loud as a thunderclap in the room. Simon caught himself even as he started forward to prevent Meg’s hand from slapping Dominic’s other cheek. Much as he disliked seeing his helpless brother pummeled, he had no better idea of how to rouse him.
“Dominic,” she said loudly, slapping him again. “Hear me. You must awaken! Simon has his back to the wall! He needs you!”
For a moment Meg thought Dominic might have responded, but the motion was too small for her to be certain. With tears running down her face, she raised her hand and slapped him soundly once more.
“Lord! Your brother is wounded! The keep is under siege! Awaken now or you will never have a son!”
Dominic’s hand twitched as though reaching for a sword, but after that single, futile movement, he lay motionless. Holding her breath, Meg waited for any further sign of response.
There was none.
“’Tis no use,” she whispered. “He is too deep for mere words to reach him.”
Simon hissed a blasphemous phrase.
“Quickly,” Meg ordered without looking away from Dominic. “Lift him so that he might drink.”
Simon pulled his brother upright. Meg held the bowl to his lips and tipped it. Liquid ran from the corners of Dominic’s mouth. His head lolled to one side, further wasting the precious medicine. Desperately, Meg tried again, but to no better effect. The metal bowl clanged against Dominic’s teeth.
“No more,” Simon said roughly, easing his brother back onto the bed. “He’s as slack as a dead eel.”
Meg didn’t bother to answer. She put her fingertip between Dominic’s lips, slid along his teeth to the corner of his mouth, and from there behind his molars as though she were getting a horse to accept a bit.
Dominic’s mouth opened slightly. Meg tipped in a bit of the potion, but more ran out the corner of his mouth than went behind his teeth.
“He swallowed!” Simon said eagerly.
“Yes, but too much is wasted. I haven’t enough to do him any good if so much is lost each time.”
“How long will it take to make more?”
“A fortnight. The plants must grow. I left only enough leaves to keep the roots alive.”
“God’s eyes,” Simon hissed. “Are you certain?”
Meg’s only answer was the slow, relentless glide of tears down her cheeks. Beneath her outward calm, the knowledge that Blackthorne Keep lived or died with Dominic was like an acid eating into her soul.
War again. Yet God promised man that there was a time for all things under the sun. We have seen the time of hatred, of plucking up that which was sown, of battle and disease and death.
Surely there must be a time for harvest, for babes, for love and renewal, for peace.
More medicine trickled into Dominic’s mouth…and trickled right out again.
With an oath, Simon stripped off his gauntlets, threw them to the floor, and began pacing like a caged wolf.
“Think,” he said urgently. “There must be a way to get it down him. A spoon?”
“Send for one,” Meg said.
But there was no real hope in her voice. Dominic needed more medicine, and more quickly, than dripping in with a spoon would allow. Then she remembered another way to take—and give—liquid.
Small falcon. Drink from my lips.
A shudder went over Meg. The amber medicine was very potent. Even holding it in her mouth was a terrible risk. If she swallowed, she would likely die.
And Dominic would surely die if something weren’t done. Quickly.
“Stay with me, Simon,” she commanded.
Startled, he spun toward Meg.
“Help me lift Dominic just a bit,” she said.
With Simon’s help, Meg eased one arm beneath Dominic’s head and shoulders. The coolness of his hair slid against her wrist and his head settled heavily in the crook of her arm.
“Hold his head tilted back,” Meg said. “No, not that much. As though he were looking up at the horizon. Aye! Hold there.”
Any lingering uneasiness Simon might have had about the nature of the medicine Meg wanted to administer vanished when she took a mouthful of the liquid herself. She didn’t swallow. She simply opened Dominic’s mouth again and gave him a small bit of the medicine from between her own lips, sending a few drops of liquid over his tongue so that he must swallow or choke.
Dominic swallowed.
“Aye!” Simon said excitedly. “Well done!”
Quickly Meg gave Dominic another few drops to drink from her lips. Again the drops slid over his tongue, triggering a need to swallow, which he did without hesitation.
The third time, Meg was more bold. She put her mouth against Dominic’s partly opened one, pursed her lips, and fed him a gentle stream of medicine. He swallowed again and yet again. When her mouth was empty, she quickly took more medicine and returned to feeding her husband until there was nothing left in the cup.
As Simon watched the gentleness with which Meg gave Dominic the medicine, he silently admitted that he had been too harsh in his opinion of her. Like the tears that had not ceased their slow welling, her actions told Simon that despite the gossip, Meg felt no hatred toward her husband.
In fact, had Simon not been certain that the marriage was unconsummated, he would have sworn that real affection existed between his brother and the Glendruid witch. She was as tender toward Dominic as a mother to her babe.
“His breathing,” Meg said urgently. “Does it seem slower than it was?”
The hope that had been uncurling in Simon froze as he realized Meg was correct. Dominic’s breath was definitely slowing.
“I wasn’t in time!” she cried. “Dear God, I wasn’t in time!”
Meg flung the bowl into the floor and reached out to shake her husband’s shoulders.
“You must breathe!” she said urgently. “You simply must!”
As though she would give him air as surely as she had given him medicine, Meg bent to her husband once more.
“Take back the breath of life,” she whispered. “Take it.”
She sealed her mouth over Dominic’s and forced her own breath into his body again and again when he breathed too shallowly and too slowly for himself.
Astonished, Simon held his brother and watched for long minutes as Meg fought for every breath Dominic took. Her determination that he live was so great that it was almost tangible.
A tingling sensation went down Simon’s spine, a primal recognition of a will as deeply trained and disciplined as that of Dominic himself. Except for his brother, Simon had never encountered such strength of purpose. He hadn’t even believed it existed.
Simon sensed Dominic stirring almost as soon as Meg did. She gave him a final breath and collapsed onto her knees with her cheek against his chest, trembling from an effort that was as much mental as physical.
“Does he—breathe?” she panted.
“Aye. Slowly, but not fearfully so. And he draws air more deeply.”
The breath Meg took was almost a sob. She lifted her head. Dominic was less pale now. She touched his cheek. His skin was warming where it once had been cool. Yet still his breaths came with painful slowness.
Meg watched anxiously, knowing the antidote should have had more effect. Made from new leaves, it had twice the potency of medicine made in summer.
“Sir,” called Dominic’s squire from the hall door. “A few of the knights are a bit slow, but none complain of it
. They simply say the ale was unusually strong.”
Simon looked at Meg.
“If they were going to succumb, they would have done so by now,” she said without looking away from Dominic.
“Go back to your post,” Simon said. “We’ll call you if we need anything else.”
The squire hesitated. “Sir?”
“Dominic is getting better with every breath,” Simon said through a false smile. “Tell the people of the keep that their lord will be well on the morrow.”
Jameson’s relief was clear. “Thank you, sir.”
The squire turned to go, then turned back. “I almost forgot. Thomas the Strong wants to know if he should let the drawbridge back down in the morning.”
“Nay,” Simon said flatly. “I want no coming or going.”
“Yes, sir!”
Beneath Simon’s baleful eyes, the squire retreated with more speed than ceremony. When Simon turned back to the bed, he saw Meg’s fear written in her pale face. Her hand was resting on Dominic’s heart, but it was his breathing that frightened her.
“It isn’t enough,” she whispered. “He’ll die before he wakes. I must risk it.”
“What? You aren’t making sense.”
Ignoring Simon’s question, Meg pushed to her feet. As she reached for the small, stoppered bottle, her foot kicked the bowl she had thrown aside in her fear. She picked up the cool metal, filled it half full of water, and upended the bottle until nothing of the brilliant amber liquid remained.
When Meg turned back to the bed, Simon moved aside to give her more room. Her fingertip slid along Dominic’s mouth, which opened more readily this time. She drank from the bowl of potent medicine, bent to him, and fed the precious liquid onto his tongue.
After the first searing mouthful, it went quickly, for Dominic was less in the thrall of the poison with every heartbeat that speeded the medicine through his body. When Meg bent to him for the last mouthful, he drew the medicine from her lips as naturally as a babe taking nourishment from his mother’s breast.
Even when the bowl was empty, Meg lingered over the final drops, for Dominic had taught her to enjoy the intimacy and warmth of his mouth.
After a final gliding pressure of her tongue over his gave Dominic both a caress and the last drop of medicine, Meg straightened. When she realized that Simon was watching her with a combination of compassion and surprise, she flushed. Without a word she went to the water pitcher, rinsed the bowl, and then rinsed her own mouth thoroughly.
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