Sybilla darted across the bailey, and then she faulted in her step. The blacksmith’s forge was fired up and coughing black into the blue. Never had such filthy smoke gladdened her heart so much. She skipped past the smithy and on towards the bakehouse. Yes, she heard movement inside there, too. And the smell—fresh-baked bread—there was nothing to compare. Mayhap she could steal a slice for little Ben and Greer. She shoved hard on the oaken door, and the wonderful warmth of baking nestled around her.
She walked towards the great stone oven. “Thora, you’re baking bread.”
“Aye.” The woman’s smile outshone her own. “We must eat. No sense in going wanting.”
Sybilla spied the ready buns hiding under a cloth. “And your family is staying well?”
Thora looked away. “My Joc is well, m’lady.”
Sybilla bit down on her lip. Come to think of it, Gus had mentioned that Thora’s eldest daughter had died.
She’d need to begin conversations with more care. “I’m so pleased Joc is well still.”
Thora withdrew the hot bricks from the mouth of the oven and used her paddle to remove a slumping loaf from the heat. The smell made Sybilla’s stomach growl.
“Joc says it’s thanks to your nettle tonic that we’re all here still.”
“Nay,” Sybilla said, her cheeks pinking with the compliment. “Well, I must be away. I’m off to check on little Ben and Greer.”
Thora lifted the corner of the cloth. “Here, m’lady. Take them two buns for your wee charges. Happen they’d like somethin’ hot and fresh, instead of all that green you feed ‘em.”
Sybilla laughed. “I’m sure they will. Thank you, Thora.” She turned and left the bakehouse with the two ryebread rolls tucked into the crook of her arm.
Sybilla found the two children asleep in the cosy solar. Strictly speaking, it was Gus’s relaxing room, but he’d given it over to her. She enjoyed having her babes with her in the sweet, warm room, so unlike the draughty dark chambers in the rest of the castle.
Little Ben and Greer were asleep in their cots when she entered. She buried her face next to Ben and took a deep breath, loving the smell of the little boy and dragging in his warm baby scent. As she did every day, she rubbed her hand over Ben’s arms, legs, and his torso, too. There were no black marks to be found, nor even a water blister, and he was blessedly cool to the touch. She did the same with wee Greer.
“Thanks to the Lord,” she whispered with relief, content that the children were still well and untainted.
Greer woke and stared at Sybilla. Greer’s eyes were the richest brown Sybilla had known. Her pretty face was as fresh and beautiful as a field of meadow flowers.
Sybilla kept her voice low so as not to wake little Ben.
“How are you, Greer?” She stroked the girl’s dark plaits. “Look what I have to share. A fresh-baked ryebread roll. Can you smell the rye grass and buttery goodness?”
Greer bolted upright and nodded.
Sybilla tore off a wedge and handed it to the eager girl. She ate it greedily and with haste. Greer did not stop asking for more till the roll was finished.
Little Ben awoke too and cooed and clapped, drawing her attention. “In a snippet, little man. Just let me soak this crust in goat’s milk, and you, too, shall have your fill.”
“We’re off on an adventure today, my wee ones,” she said. “We’re going paddling. What do you say to that?”
Sybilla strapped little Ben to her back and helped Greer pad down the tall stairwell and beyond. Soon, they were outside the keep. They took their time ambling across the meadows, all the way out to the stream. By time they arrived at the little brook, she and Greer were scratchy and hot. It was indeed a wondrous day for late-leaf fall, and it was likely the finest weather they would get in a long while.
Sybilla removed the children’s clothing and set the bundle on the bank away from the splashing. She removed her own tunic and hose, and she waded into the stream in only her shift. Little Ben sat nestled in the shallows, splashing the water with his chubby baby hands. He cooed and cried out when the water ran over his plump legs. Greer, so beautiful with her dark curls and rose-blossom cheeks, stomped about in the shallows, too, trying to touch the tiny fish that darted between her legs.
The sun warmed Sybilla’s face, and the breeze billowed her shift, reminding her again of the beauty of Scotland. She moved back to little Ben and sat beside him, enjoying the feel of his chubby leg pressed into hers. He sucked his fist, lapping at the clear mountain water. Greer ran in the water, chasing a dragonfly until she slipped and landed on her bottom with a plonk. She and Sybilla laughed. The chance to be one with nature was a glorious heady freedom. She had not known such peace in a long time.
Greer wanted to collect stones, and Sybilla got caught up in finding her charge the prettiest stones she could. Thus, she did not hear the soft fall of footsteps as they flattened the grass.
Startled, Sybilla dropped her stones. Her hands flew to her wet shift, her arm desperate to cover her dampened breasts.
Gus stared at her, long and hard. He should have seen her situation and immediately looked away. Surely, he realised how embarrassed she was. He could hardly miss her desperate attempts to cover her nakedness. But, he neither moved nor averted his eyes.
“You startled me,” she blurted, using her other arm to cover herself lower down.
After an age, he finally spoke. “I came to make sure that you and the babes are safe.”
Sybilla glanced downward and saw what the water had done to her linen shift. The retched garment had grown thinner and now was almost transparent, like a lacy decomposing leaf. To her horror, she noted that the dark thatch of hair betwixt her thighs was showing.
“We are quite safe, thank you,” she snapped.
He nodded. “Aye, good.”
She stared back at him, waiting for him to turn away and apologise over the intrusion.
He did neither.
“Are you on your way then?” she asked, hinting that he move on and that it was high time he looked elsewhere, anywhere other than at her womanly parts.
“Nay, this was my destination.”
Her mouth fell open. “Do you expect me to believe you just happened upon us, that you, too, decided to come here to splash in the brook?”
“I don’t splash in brooks.”
She squinted up at him. “Yet, here you are.”
“I’m here, yes. And I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“For your apology, Sybilla. Have I not told you many times not to leave the castle alone?”
“You have, yes.”
“And here you are.”
She rolled her eyes. “No one comes near Caithness Castle anymore, as you well know. Everyone is too afeared they’ll catch our sickness. These meadows are deserted.”
“You assume much.”
“Nay, that is the way of things. No one is brave enough to come within fifty miles of your castle, and you know it.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “I know nothing of the sort. What I do know is that you are taking an unacceptable risk.”
Beneath his unwavering stare, she grew very aware of her nakedness, standing in front of him like a harlot. He was not without blame, either. As he pretended to chastise, he used the opportunity to appraise her naked form. His gaze was searing a hole through her linens.
She should demand he turn and look away. It would be only proper if she insisted he leave at once. But as soon as she’d made up her mind to insist, she knew she would demand nothing of the sort.
Because, instead of feeling shame, his searing gaze had ignited her fire, and it burnt deep in her stomach. The heat spread from her belly to her breasts, and it even warmed her cheeks. What sort of maiden had she become?
She should not be enjoying his blatant hunger.
Yet, she was.
Worse than that, she now feared that he would look away and ride off.
Her breaths grew heavy, her chest rising and falling as she struggled for air. She could think of nothing to say, so addled was her head. Just like one of the loose women, she dropped her arms allowing him full view of her see-through shift. Aye, she was going to hell for sure.
His heated gaze wandered off his face and travelled lower till he studied her breasts and then her mound. She stood perfectly still, letting him look. Worse than that, his heated appraisal was naught compared to the maelstrom burning deep inside her.
Her own eyes grazed across his massive warrior’s chest to the blanket plaid that draped his hips. That strange yearning betwixt her thighs was back again, and this time it burnt with vengeance.
Without warning, he abruptly turned his horse and began to move off. “Get the babes out of the stream and dressed,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I shall be watching you from the tree line. You will hurry back to the castle, and you will never venture out alone again, or I will punish you.”
“What?” she asked, appalled at his threat.
“Aye, I will put you over my knee.” He bolted towards the trees.
Sybilla needed to sit a while to calm. When at last she was in charge of her facilities, she retrieved her charges from the water and dressed them both. She slipped her tunic over her wet shift, not caring one iota about the damp linen flapping between her legs. She felt none of it. The longing, the need to feel Gus’s hard body pressed into hers, his lips against her mouth, those were the feelings she was aware of. She’d rather be put over his knee, than left alone. The rush of excitement at the mere thought kept her warm all the way back.
Once back inside the main gate, she took the children into the kitchen. “Coleen, I smell porridge on the hearth stone. May I have a bowl for the little ones?”
Baby Ben fed greedily from her fingers. And Greer ate with an appetite, too, but Sybilla pushed her bowl away. She was all afluster inside. She could neither take a bite from the leftover roll, nor could she swallow as much as a mouthful of porridge. She nibbled on a late, much-bruised apple, but she tasted little of it, too.
Chapter 18
Four days had passed since the picnic at the stream, and those four days were filled with children’s laughter and happiness. Her waking moments were pleasant enough, but her eves . . . they were overrun with lustful dreams and tossing and turning.
Sybilla took to the children as if they were her own, and she saw afterward the mistake in her way of thinking. It was on the fifth morn that Greer came running to her chamber, even before the roosters had crowed.
Greer rushed up to her bed and patted her arm. “Ben is acting funny.”
Sybilla threw a cape around her shoulders and found her slipper shoes on the stone. “What do you mean ‘funny’, Greer?”
The girl shrugged and began to walk back to the nursery. She clutched Greer’s hand, and together they darted out of her chamber and towards the room the children shared.
Sybilla heard the crib rattling before she clamped eyes on the babe. His sweet little head jerked back and forth and his body rocked in a series of convulsions. Sybilla snatched the covers aside and lifted the tot up and onto her shoulder. She clutched him tight, trying to quiet his fit. But it was to no avail.
Eventually, Gus came and sat with Sybilla and took his turn holding the babe.
“He’s a big strong babe, nearing a whole anon. He’ll fight this, you’ll see.” He spoke the words, but Sybilla could tell from the strain etched on his face that he did not believe them.
Thankfully Greer was in the kitchen with Cook when little Ben slipped away.
Sybilla held him in his final moments. His fist, clenched against her tunic, went limp. Fortunately, he had not suffered long.
“He has gone on now, to a better place.” Her voice trembled as she looked at Gus through her streaming tears.
Gus turned away, so she could not see his reaction, but she heard the waver in his voice. “The Lord lets the little ones slip away more peacefully. Do not stress so, Sybilla, because now he is with his mother and father. Now he can be truly happy.”
They sat near the fire together, Sybilla still hugging tightly to the swaddled baby. Neither spoke for a good long while. She rocked gently back and forth just as she had done when the babe lived.
Gus faced her. “I loved the way little Ben acted first thing in the morn. Did you notice that he was such a happy babe? From the moment he’d awake, he’d be cooing and laughing.”
Sybilla laughed through a fresh stream of tears. “Many babes cry when they first awaken. But not him. He was the cheeriest tot I’ve e’er come across.”
There was a gentle knock on the door. Moira, the castle steward, stepped in.
“Laird, I’m sorry for your loss. Tis a sad day for us all. We thought this petulance had left, but nay, we’re ridden still.”
Sybilla’s lips stretched into a thin line, her anger barely controlled. How she’d dreamed of defeating the illness; she hankered to stomp on it, punch it, and slash the wretched contagion with her small blade. If only that was possible.
Gus turned away, his eyes closed in mourning.
Moira said, “I’ve come for the body. Tavish the Ditcher has dug a nice little home for the wee tot, right over his father. I’ll wrap him in swaddling, and then we’ll have a wee burial this morn, if you please, Laird?”
Sybilla shot out of her chair. “Too soon. Cannot he lay in his crib a while? Little Greer has yet to say goodbye.”
Moira’s face took on a pinched look of disapproval. “The contagion, m’lady.”
Sybilla shook her head. “Contagion? I thought we believed this sickness to be the work of a curse?”
Moira took a moment to answer. “We’re not sure what took his life, m’lady. Mayhap a curse, or mayhap a contagion of some sort. Until we know, best keep Greer away, and best get the wee’ne in the ground.”
Although there was logic in what the woman said, Sybilla was loathe to hand the babe, her babe, over. Moira was altogether too practical. Apparently, burying babes was no different to Moira than cutting hay or pulling carrots.
Again, Moira broke the heavy silence. “No point in rubbing his wee limbs any more, m’lady, he’ll nay warm up.”
Sybilla ignored the woman’s harsh comments and rubbed little Ben’s back more feverishly, hoping to heat his cooling body.
“He’ll nay bust back into life. Best be done with him. Hand him to me and move on.”
Gus stood and gently, one by one, released Sybilla’s fingers from the tot. He took little Ben, cuddling him for the last time before handing him over to Moira.
“M’lady,” Moira said in a softer voice, “I’ll ask the carpenter to fashion a baby cross. You’ll like that, I dare say.”
Sybilla’s arms hung empty by her side. “Thank you. Yes, I would like that.”
Then the castle steward and beautiful, baby Ben disappeared.
As soon as the giant door drifted closed, Gus jumped up from his seat and took Sybilla into his arms. He kissed her damp eyes and her wet cheeks, kissing away her tears. She was not fooled by his apparent control. She felt his own cheek rub hers, damp from his own sorrow.
Sybilla spent the next three days watching Greer, believing that if she kept her eyes on the girl, the cherub would remain safe. But it wasn’t to be.
Greer’s sickness, when it arrived, was more severe and aggrieving to watch. Geer fought like a true Scots girl, heroic till the last. She screamed and sweated, drenching her covers and pallet.
Sybilla fought hard too, trying to spoon her own nettle tonic into the dear-heart. Sybilla sang her old nursery songs and concocted stories about her h
omeland and places even further adrift. She spun yarns of princesses and fairies and of little girls who ruled kingdoms. Greer was most interested in her tale about a rabbit that could speak to girls of only three summers. And she loved another tale, too, about a land made of honey cake topped with blackberries and honey cream.
But in the end, Greer stopped listening. It was during this time that she asked, “Will I go to be with wee Benny soon?”
Sybilla angrily brushed away her own tears. She concocted more stories, outright lies, this time because she did not have the heart to tell sweet Greer the truth. Greer slept more now, although much of it was fitful and distressed. Sybilla did her best to coax the child to drink the nettle tonic, and while Greer slept, she rubbed a nettle salve over the girl’s chest. For three eves, Sybilla slept with the sweetest of all girls.
The other castle folk all stayed away, save Gus of course. He turned up each morn with bread and porridge, and took away yestermorn’s plates untouched. Sybilla could stomach nothing more than apples and herbs from the physic garden. All other foods sat too heavy inside her. Anyway, it seemed wrong to feast when Greer could not.
On the fourth day, Greer mumbled without sense. It was then that Sybilla discovered black on her tiny fingers and toes. Then, she knew. Greer was gone before nightfall.
When Gus came in that eventide, carrying a trencher, he found Sybilla again clutching a we’ne to her chest, a bairn gone on to the next world.
Sybilla wept openly this time. “I could not save Greer either. Now, you must believe me. Do you not see how useless I am? I am no white witch, no cunning woman, not even a clever herbalist. What use was my nettle tonic? Answer me that.”
Gus hung his head.
Hemlock and Honey: Highlander Romance Page 16