by Willa Blair
He had tapped into the expensive cask of French burgundy, one of the few benefits of the Auld Alliance with France against England. That treaty had led James IV and many Highland lairds to attempt to divert England from its war with France by attacking the border, which had led to their deaths at Flodden three years before. The dead included the old MacAnalen and Toran’s father and older brother. Toran had never expected to become the Lathan. But now he was, and he had things he must deal with.
He took another sip and savored the taste, letting the wine roll around on his tongue before he swallowed it. So different from mead or ale or whisky. Like velvet in the mouth, warm and soft on the way down. It was proof that there were desirable things that came from outside of the Highlands. There were many, actually…spices, fabrics, books...and an unusual woman whose kisses tasted warm and soft like the wine but were so much more intoxicating. Which was why he sat here staring into the fire, soothing his troubled mind with a rare glass.
Some of his people feared Aileana was a witch. He kenned it. That was only fair, given what so many had seen down by the postern. And the tale grew as it spread, as tales often did. The way she saved Jamie’s life would be as fearful to some as it was wonderful to others. But some even reviled her for the fact that Jamie still lived! Toran shook his head. How anyone could see anything but good in what Aileana had done that day was more than he could fathom.
He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Glancing away from the fire, he saw Aileana crossing toward the hallway to the kitchen and Senga’s herbal. She was intent on her destination, looking neither right nor left. After spending one day resting and regaining her strength, and another alternating with Senga sitting vigil at Jamie’s bedside, she seemed revived. A touch of color tinted her cheeks. Her movements had regained their former regal grace. Toran stood and started after her. The wine held not nearly the attraction that the woman did.
As he reached the entrance to the long hallway, Coira stepped out of the kitchen and challenged Aileana.
“What are ye doin’ here?” she snarled. The memory of Coira’s icy glare as Aileana swooned in his arms after healing Jamie flashed before his eyes. He’d been warned by several of the clan about Coira’s ambitions, and about her arrogant treatment of the fosterlings and the serving folk. But it was that glare that had burned its way into his memory because she’d never shown him that expression until then. Toran feared that this chance meeting would develop into a confrontation that Aileana was not yet recovered enough to withstand.
But as he watched her square off with the other woman, he also knew she wouldna appreciate his interference, so he paused just out of sight beyond the entrance to the hallway and listened.
“Are we to accept yer witchery because ye healed Jamie?” Coira continued, with barely a breath. “Or did ye? Why has no one seen him since ye bespelled him?”
Aileana’s reply was barely audible, her voice soft. She seemed unbothered by Coira’s accusation. “You haven’t seen Jamie because he took a fever and Senga has confined him to bed until it passes,” she replied. “He’ll be fine.”
Toran peeked around the corner in time to see Aileana gesture down the hall toward the kitchen and Senga’s herbal. “You can ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. She’s preparing some medicine for him.” At Coira’s snort, Aileana clenched her hand into a fist and brought it down to her side, but continued calmly, “I am what you see: a healer working with Senga. Nothing more. What do you think I’m doing?”
The volume of her voice had risen, so Toran ducked back out of sight.
“That remains to be seen, does it no’?” Coira’s sarcastic reply sounded as if she was ready to spit into Aileana’s face, or worse. Toran was tempted again to intervene, but just before he stepped into the hallway, he heard Aileana’s even reply.
“It does, I suppose. Only time will prove my place here.”
“Time is something ye’ll no’ have, no’ if I have anything to say about it.”
“Anything you have to say, you’d best take up with your laird.”
“My laird, is he? I’ve seen yer gaze on Toran. And ye’ve managed to catch his eye, too, it seems. I won’t have it. Stay away from him, if ye know what’s good for ye. He’s to be mine. He seems to have forgotten that of late, but mark my words, I’ll soon remedy that.”
“I prefer not to,” Aileana replied evenly, much to Toran’s amusement. The Healer had depths he had not suspected, and greater strength than he had imagined. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she continued, “I’ve work to do. Senga expects me.”
There was a brief pause, then Toran heard Coira taunt, “Oh, ‘Senga expects me,’ indeed. Does she now? I won’t excuse ye, except to see ye marched out the front gate and back to the invaders’ camp where ye can starve with the rest of ’em.”
The silence that followed Coira’s last cutting remark worried Toran enough for him to step from his hiding place into the hallway. He half expected to see Aileana’s tear-streaked face downcast from Coira’s spite. But the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. He caught a glimpse of Aileana disappearing into the herbal. Coira stood alone, her back to him, hands on hips, fairly vibrating with anger.
It seemed that Aileana had returned the favor Senga had described to him after Coira had rudely turned on her heel and left Aileana in the garden. Senga’s tale wasn’t the first hint he’d had of Coira’s temper, but coming from Senga, he hadn’t been able to doubt the source. And now this. Well and good. He’d seen her anger with his own eyes and heard her venomous words with his own ears. She could not deny it after this.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest, content to wait to be noticed, knowing that would unsettle her all the more. Nay, this shrew was not the face Coira showed to him; rather he got all of her sweetness and light, fawning over him, tempting him to her bed. But perhaps it was just as well that he saw this side of her now, before she got even more out of hand. He didn’t like her threatening Aileana. He wouldn’t accept it from anyone, certainly not from Coira.
At that moment, Coira turned and found him watching her. She paled, but tried a small smile and hesitantly stepped toward him nonetheless. He glowered at her, and his expression coupled with the fact that he had yet to speak, clearly worried her. Good.
“Toran? I didna hear ye come up behind me.” She put a tentative hand on his wrist and brushed her fingers up and down. “Well met, then. Perhaps ye’ll join me…”
“I heard ye.” Toran’s flat statement cut her off in mid-sentence. “Every bitter word.” He removed his forearm from under her touch and held up his hand instead. “Have done, Coira,” he said, so sharply and coldly that there could be no mistake about his intent. “I’ll no’ have ye treating my guest as ye just did. She doesna deserve yer ire. Nay, yer display of temper, and yer superstitious drivel, does ye no credit.”
“Yer guest?” Oddly, Coira seemed to take heart from his anger as she rounded on him, hands on her hips, and Toran saw that her temper was once again about to get the best of her tongue. “Yer guest, ye call her? What does that make me, I wonder?” Suddenly, as if she finally took heed of the thunderous expression on his face, she modulated her tone, but her words were just as harsh. “Donal has warned ye that she will do us harm, healer or no’. Have ye lost all sense over her, then, Toran?”
“Nay, Coira, but it seems ye have.”
“How so? Would ye set me aside for the witch? O’course, if ye’d rather have her skills in bed, then I suppose ye’ll have her as whore instead.”
“Remember yer place, lass.” Toran kept a tight rein on his temper as his anguish over the very conundrum that Coira named rose to clog his throat. He narrowed his eyes and kept his gaze steely as one tear trickled down her face, then another. False tears, he had no doubt, as false as her heart.
“My place is at yer side, Toran. ’Tis why I was sent here. Or have ye forgotten the alliance others intend for us to make?”
“I havena forgott
en,” he finally spat, his words following one on the heels of another, allowing her no chance to interrupt, and no chance to mistake his meaning. “But ye seem to have forgotten that yer presence here was an enticement only—one that I’ve yet to agree to. We’re done,” he growled, “but make no mistake. It’s no’ because of Aileana. Yer behavior has been related to me.” Her actions had burned away any hint of ardor he’d ever felt toward this woman, nor could he summon any compassion. He would not tolerate her lies. “It’s because ye show a nasty streak to others that ye’ve kept from me while ye tried to seduce yer way into the laird’s bed. Aye, I ken yer ambition to become the lady of the clan. It willna happen, Coira. ’Tis no matter whether I ever have the healer or no’. I’ll no’ have ye. Is that plain enough for ye?” Any alliance he’d contemplated with her distant clan was of little value if her duplicity reflected what he could also expect from them.
“Aye, Laird Lathan,” Coira replied, her tone haughty despite her damp cheeks. “Ye’ve made yerself quite clear. Go to yer witchy whore, then.”
Toran held onto his temper with both hands. He wanted nothing more at this moment than to draw his dirk and silence her malicious mouth forever. But he could not, would not, treat one of the clan in that way, even one merely fostered here. He was no Colbridge, to shed the blood of those who displeased him, no matter the provocation. Instead he made his next words a clear command. “Stay away from Aileana.”
Finally seeming to come to her senses, Coira backed away as he spoke, then paused, poised to answer him.
He stopped her with a glare. “Say another word to her, or to anyone else about her,” he warned, “and I’ll ken it. Ye’ll no’ like the consequences, Coira, I can promise ye that.” Toran clenched his fists by his sides, which should have been enough of a caution for her to make herself scarce.
But she ignored him, chin up, eyes flashing. “I only mean to warn ye, Toran,” she said, her tone a contrite lie against the fury in her gaze. “She’ll see ye dead or ruined, and someone else will be laird o’ Clan Lathan.”
“Are ye a witch now, to tell the future with such certainty?” he taunted, bemused by her lack of sense.
“We dinna tolerate her kind where I’m from.” Was that fear he saw now, behind her anger?
More gently, he replied, “We do.”
Coira didn’t deign to answer, but brushed by him into the Great Hall. He watched as she mounted the stairs leading to her chambers, silently daring her to turn back or to speak her venom to anyone else. He was glad he had not allowed her tears to sway him; he knew they were as false as the rest of her. A breath escaped him. That was done, then.
Or was it? Coira had made friends among the clan, and her wiles were effective. His interest in her had proved that. She’d nearly snared him in her web. She’d soon have a new champion and be stirring up trouble for him, no doubt, and for Aileana. As much as he wanted to stay away from her, it would be best to keep an eye on Coira, at least until the siege was over and he could send her back to her home or marry her off into another clan—preferably one far, far away.
****
Aileana entered Senga’s herbal with her head down and her ears still ringing with Coira’s taunts. How was she supposed to deal with someone who treated her like that? With all she’d done for the clan, who was Coira to tell her she had no place here? Worse, she’d threatened Aileana with the one thing that Aileana feared most: labeling her Talent witchcraft and condemning her to banishment or death.
Aileana had forced herself to calmness while Coira railed at her, but that calm exterior was rapidly unraveling. She lifted a hand to see it shake, then clenched her fingers into a fist and dropped it to her side.
“Healer, whatever is the matter?” Senga asked her. “Ye’re trembling.”
The question startled Aileana. She turned toward Senga’s voice to see the old healer standing at a low cabinet crushing green herbs between her hands. She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery that she had forgotten that Senga would be in the room, waiting for her. And the sympathy in her voice further unraveled Aileana’s control. Had she heard what Coira said? Was calling Aileana “healer” Senga’s way of reminding her of her value? A tear slipped onto her cheek and turned away from the older woman, too embarrassed to let her see it.
“’Tis naught but a bit of rudeness I must swallow,” she answered.
“Why do ye think ye must allow anyone to be rude to ye?” Senga asked kindly, brushing bits of green leaves from her hands and turning to regard Aileana.
“Because I’m a stranger here. And I bring strange abilities that many do not trust.”
“But in time, ye’ll no’ be a stranger, and all will learn to be glad of yer skills, dinna ye ken?”
“Not if some have their way.”
“Pah,” Senga hmmphed, waving away the idea. “Some will have far less say in the matter than they think.” After a moment, she continued. “Dinna let the likes of Coira fash ye, lass. She’s more jealous of the attention Toran has paid to ye than any fear she might have of yer talents.”
So Senga had heard—at least some of it. “That may be so, but if she calls me ‘witch’ and spreads that libel then I may never have the chance to make a place for myself here.”
“Lass, this is the Highlands. Most of us have a greater respect for the old ways here than yer folk do in the south.” Senga gathered the pile of herbs she’d crushed in her apron and brought them to the table where Aileana stood. “Coira is fostered here, didna ye ken it? She comes from the isles to the south and west, where they be too cozy with the Sassenach for my taste.” Senga worked as she talked, placing the herbs in a neat pile in front of her on the table, then dividing the pile into thirds. “And as for the Sassenach…nay, they were too long under Roman rule and have forgotten how to respect the auld ways. They give their priests too much influence over matters best left to those of us who ken the ways of the land, the healers, the seers. Wise women are respected here. Especially auld wise women,” Senga said with a wink. “Yer only problem is that ye’re no’ ancient, like me.”
At Aileana’s sniff, she said, “And dinna worry about makin’ a place for yerself here, lass. Ye’ve already done that.”
“Maybe with you, but not with everyone else. Even Toran has avoided me lately, and he brought me here.”
Senga regarded her for a moment, then moved to her store of dried herbs. “Give ’em time, lass. Give ’em time. And dinna worry about the wee laird. He’s just been a bit busy of late, what with yer former companions due to arrive on our doorstep. And once Jamie is up and around and telling the tale of how close he came to the angels, and how ye saved him, trouble like Coira wants to bring willna have a chance. Now, speakin’ o’ the laddie, do ye want to help me make this potion for him?”
“Aye.” Aileana summoned a small smile. “I’d like nothing better.”
“Take these and put them over there, then,” Senga said and held out several small pots.
Aileana moved to do her bidding.
Despite Senga’s advanced age, she always seemed to be in her garden planting, weeding, and picking, or in her herbal, drying, grinding, concocting—all the things that Aileana had helped her mother do many times. Senga’s grip might be weakened by age and her eyesight dimmed, but neither was apparent to Aileana. She still measured and mixed with the skill of a much younger healer. Aileana had watched her with growing admiration the past few days after she’d recovered enough from healing Jamie to work with the older woman. They were starting to develop a companionable connection that Aileana found a surprising source of joy.
“How long have you been healer to this clan?” Aileana asked when the older woman finally stopped muttering to herself. She was adding a pinch of this and a bit of that to the pile of herbs she was assembling for the decoction that was just starting to simmer on the brazier, giving off a bitter scent. Aileana recognized bits of willow bark among the rest.
“Many years, lass,” she answered, her bright ga
ze meeting Aileana’s. “Since the laird’s da became laird.” Senga stilled for a moment and looked away. It seemed to Aileana that she looked inward to that day so long ago. “Bain, the auld laird, was a fine, muckle…big…man, much like his lad,” she continued, finally. She pursed her lips before adding, “The day I became a healer was the day he became laird, and our fates were sealed.” Senga’s gaze returned to the present and met Aileana’s. “But that’s ancient history and of no interest to a young lass like yerself. Here, stir this while I add these last bits.”
Aileana moved beside her to the small iron pot on the brazier, stirred, and watched the herbs she added swirl into simmering liquid. The steam rose with a scent both fresh and pungent at the same time. “Have a care, now,” Senga cautioned. “Stir, and dinna let it boil. It must simmer for a few minutes, then be set aside to steep. Watch for the color to change from green to yellow, then take it off the fire.”
Aileana nodded and kept her eyes on her task. She heard Senga moving about the room, muttering as she put away the jars and vials her dried herbs and potions were stored in.
When she finished ordering her workplace and perched on a stool next to her, Aileana knew the time had come to ask the question that she needed but also dreaded the answer to.
She stirred the pot whose contents had faded to a pale yellow, then set it off the brazier to steep. “What do you mean, ‘your fates were sealed’? Why did you never marry, never have children of your own to follow your craft?”
“Ach, ’tis the root of the matter ye seek, then, aye?” Senga lifted her hands and spread her fingers out in front of her, then placed them, still splayed, on the tabletop. “So, it happens that long ago, I loved a young lad. But he loved another. So he married her.” Senga tapped a finger distractedly. “They had a son, a fine, braw lad he would become. But his ma died giving birth to him. My lad grieved so for his lost lady that he ne’er looked to another, but devoted himself to his son and his clan. And I remained as I am.”