She would investigate wild thyme’s powers as well, the better to understand the smith’s meaning. What manner of allies did Murdoch have? What did they have to do with wild thyme? Isabella was certain she had been warned, and she would know of what.
First, back to the baker’s abode, then the chapel and its crypt.
To Isabella’s dismay, her quest was not to be pursued as yet.
For Moira came running from the keep, her manner distraught. “My lady Isabella! Praise be to God that I found you. Come quickly! My lady Eleanor has need of your care!”
* * *
Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, felt his burdens were heavy in these times. The sight of his sister Annelise – sweet, gentle Annelise – playing with his son in the hall upon his return sent a pang through his heart.
He did not doubt that the Earl of March would become more determined to see Kinfairlie’s daughters used to secure alliances – and to provide rewards. Alexander had had a reprieve these past years with so many men journeying to France to fight the king’s war, but now they returned, and the earl would be determined to secure their loyalty. The earl had already proposed two matches for Annelise, who was, after all, the eldest of Alexander’s unwed sisters and thus the most eligible to wed. That she was yet young, lovely and sweet of nature only made her more desirable.
But to condemn Annelise to be the wife of a hardened warrior, a man who had gained the spoils of violence and doubtless become convinced of its merit, was not a deed Alexander could willingly do. Would she be beaten? Raped? Treated with disrespect? Isabella would have faced down any who dared to treat her badly, but Annelise had not such steel in her spine.
It would have been one thing if Alexander had known the men in question, or even if he had been given the opportunity to meet the candidates and take their measure, but the earl simply sent names. Alexander had declined the earl twice since the Yule, but knew he could not continue to deny his liege lord’s will forever.
He could take his sisters to the king’s court, but he feared they would be desired by men he had no wish to welcome into his family. The court might well be rough this year, even when the king returned, due to the number of warriors arriving there. His sisters might merely be despoiled and abandoned.
He wished they were older.
He wished they were more plain.
He wished they were already wedded.
But mere wishes would not see the matter solved. Alexander had to find a solution while respecting his pledge that his sisters should wed by their own choices. He wanted to build a dozen curtain walls around his keep, each taller than the last, fill the spaces between with deep moats, and ensure the safety of all beneath his hand forever. He wanted Ross and Malcolm to return unchanged, men but not warriors hardened by battle. He never wanted to argue again with Ross as he had at the Yule, and he feared the silence of Malcolm’s fortunes.
He wanted Eleanor to survive this pregnancy, to be hale and happy by his side once again.
But Alexander feared his desires might not come true.
He knew his party had chased the brigands from Kinfairlie’s forests, but he was certain that Murdoch Seton would return. That man believed his complaint had merit and Alexander did not imagine that he would be easily dissuaded of that view. Indeed, he had some admiration of Murdoch’s persistence.
As inconvenient as it might be.
Alexander did not know why so many relics sold at Ravensmuir had been stolen, but there was no doubt that they had been. He did not know where they had been taken and he did not know who might be responsible. He did not know how the thief could know the location of so many relics without looking in the record of the auction locked within this very room.
But he had a suspicion and he feared it might be true.
He would not condemn his aunt Rosamunde, not without knowing the truth of her involvement. But he feared that his aunt, who had been the most successful of the family in trading relics and a woman with a keen memory who had attended that same auction, had returned to her old trade.
She would not have told Alexander, for she might have guessed he would disapprove.
But to return to the trade, she would have need of an inventory to sell, and the relics that had once been stored at Ravensmuir might be the simplest inventory to obtain. For all Alexander knew, Rosamunde still considered them to be her property even though Tynan had sold them. She might reason that the reclamation of the relics was simply a restoration to their rightful owner.
It was also possible that Ross had gathered many of the relics at the command of their aunt. Why else would he leave the service of the Earl of Buchan so abruptly? Why else would he leave Scotland for the life of a mercenary on the continent? They had argued bitterly at the Yule because Alexander knew Ross had not told him the truth.
Could his own relations be in alliance over this matter? Could they be the ones who threatened his future?
Alexander could not say. He could not reveal his suspicions about Rosamunde, yet he dared not risk protecting her any longer. Murdoch was routed for the moment, though that might not last. Alexander had to seize the opportunity.
His thoughts churned even as he celebrated the day with his men. The horses had been stabled and the men rewarded with ale in the hall. Alexander shared but a quaff with them in the spirit of camaraderie before he climbed the stairs, the sight of Annelise and Roland haunting him.
He took but a moment to see Eleanor and kiss her brow, and was most relieved to find Isabella in attendance. His sister knew more than she told, he was certain of it, just as he was convinced that any admiration she had for Murdoch Seton was the harmless whimsy of a maiden.
Eleanor was pale again and her smile was weaker than Alexander would have liked. He hoped with all his heart that she would not lose this child, but he worried more for her welfare – and the demands she placed upon herself. Moira sat beside the bed, fretting sufficient for three women, and the solar was filled with the scent of the herbs Isabella was grinding in her pestle.
“It seems you were right, and I should remain abed,” Eleanor murmured.
“You are never so kind to yourself as you are to others.”
She gave him a thin smile. “Well, there is so much to be done.”
“And my three sisters to do your bidding.” Alexander brushed the fair hair back from her brow with a tender fingertip and kissed her again. “Sleep, Eleanor. ’Tis all the child wants of you.”
“I know,” she admitted and her lashes fluttered reluctantly to a close. Alexander looked hard at Isabella, wondering what she saw that he did not. To his relief, she nodded and smiled, her confidence reassuring him.
“It is her stomach,” Isabella confided quietly. “I believe this is common early in the pregnancy. When she drank the posset yesterday, she was able to eat and felt stronger.”
“Can you make it for her daily? Or is it a potion that should be used sparingly?”
“There is no concern with her drinking it even several times a day. I shall prepare more of the herb mixture, then any soul could heat milk and add a measure of herbs to it.” Isabella smiled again for him. “Otherwise she seems well enough. I will show Moira the proper measure.”
“And me, if you please,” Alexander said. At Isabella’s nod of agreement, he glanced again at Eleanor. “I will return in but a moment.” Then he retreated to his office to write a missive to Rosamunde.
Alexander had to dispatch a messenger before Murdoch was returned.
* * *
Murdoch felt the cold grow with every step he took toward Kinfairlie’s forest. It was evening before he reached the perimeter of the woods and he was chilled through, despite walking at a brisk pace. He stepped into the forest and the cold settled over him like a shroud, making him shiver anew. He could feel the mark on his flesh growing, and his future becoming more dim by the moment.
He made his way to the camp they had abandoned that morning and was glad to find Gavin already there. The boy wa
s excited to see him and filled his ears with chatter about their adventure during the day. The tale had already been embellished in Murdoch’s absence, and he knew that by the time it was recounted to Stewart and Hamish, it would grow even more wondrous.
Still, it was harmless for the boy to have enjoyed their deed, and his enthusiasm spared Murdoch from needing to make conversation. His very limbs felt leaden from the cold, but he could see that Gavin was not so affected.
It was the Elphine Queen.
Or whatever she did to his heart.
The sky was falling dark and the chill of night made them huddle in their cloaks, but Murdoch dared not light a fire as yet. He would be certain of Stewart and Hamish’s welfare and their return first. The forest was devoid of the sounds of men, which was a relief. Indeed, Murdoch was certain that no human eyes watched him and Gavin.
The Fae, though, were everywhere. He kept his eyes narrowed and his gaze fixed on the ground in front of himself, as if in deep thought. Gavin finally tired of recounting his tale and fell silent, as well.
The splash of water made Murdoch’s head snap up. He held out a hand to keep the boy from speaking and straightened with care. Gavin watched him with such a lack of understanding that Murdoch feared the boy had lost his wits.
That could, though, be the work of the Fae.
The shadows seemed to have filled the forest like a dark mist, making it impossible to see far in any direction. Murdoch could hear that the splashing came from the direction of the river that passed through Kinfairlie’s woods. It could not be fifty feet away.
Who approached them?
Who dared to move so noisily?
On stealthy feet, Murdoch worked his way to a better vantage point. The splashing continued, evidence that whoever was in the river remained there – and was unaware of Murdoch.
Or did not care.
Murdoch approached the bank of the river and halted in the shadows. A woman bent over the water, her back to him. She was old and crooked, and murmured to herself intelligibly as she worked. She looked to be washing a garment in the river, which made little sense.
It was evening, in the heart of the forest, and no one lived near this place. A thin layer of ice glistened as it formed on the surface of the water in the evening’s chill, its frosty edges outlining rocks like white lace and the smooth expanses of it reflecting the stars like a mirror.
Gavin appeared behind Murdoch, his eyes round. “What is it, sir?”
“An old woman washing,” Murdoch answered quietly.
“Where?”
Murdoch glanced at the boy. “Directly before us. Can you not see her?”
The boy granted Murdoch a look of such doubt that Murdoch could make no sense of it. Gavin made a show of scanning the river, then shrugged. “I see no one, sir.”
“But you must have heard the splash of the water.”
The boy shook his head, uncertainty filling his gaze. “Are you well, sir?”
“I am hale enough!” Murdoch turned and raised his voice. “Woman! Rise and show yourself! What is it that you wash in the river?”
She lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder, halting her labor. Gavin made no acknowledgement of this movement. The old woman straightened as much as she apparently could and turned to face him, still crooked with age. Her hood fell back to reveal her face in the same moment that she lifted her washing to show him.
One side of her face was ravaged with age and scarred, while the other was devoid of flesh. That side was a skull with no eye, and her hand on the same side was skeletal. She lifted the garment higher as her grin widened and Murdoch saw that the shirt was stained with blood. The water dripping from it was red, and a crimson current swirled in the river about her knees.
Then he recognized the garment. It was his own tabard she washed.
Murdoch stumbled backward in his shock and dismay, but the woman merely nodded and returned to her labor.
“A bean-nighe,” Murdoch murmured, knowing that he was seeing a Fae whose actions foretold his own death. “Are you certain you cannot see her?” he demanded of Gavin, although he knew the answer well enough.
The boy shook his head. “You should eat a morsel, sir,” he said, speaking with the care one reserved for the mad or the delusional. “I shall light a fire and all will be well.” The boy strode back to their camp with purpose but Murdoch could only watch him go.
He glanced back, but the bean-nighe had vanished.
The Elphine Queen’s laughter rang lightly in the distance. Murdoch spun to look toward the sound of her merriment, but saw only a flurry of snow flakes swirl in the air, dancing toward him.
He glanced skyward and saw that the clouds had cleared, that the night was dark and glittering with stars. The moon was nearly full, which meant that he had just over two weeks to choose.
Or have his choice made for him.
An irrational fear seized Murdoch, a conviction that the Elphine Queen’s magic would claim his sanity before she seized his heart. He strode through the woods to the fire Gavin kindled, furious that he had been fool enough to make any wager with her.
How could he have ever looked into her eyes?
What could he do to free himself?
Heat. He had need of heat in his veins. That was the first matter, whether any watched the forest shadows or not. He would have to take the risk. Then he had to find Duncan’s relic and see it restored, if it was the last deed he did in this life.
Murdoch would not consider that it likely would be.
And he would not mourn what might have been with Isabella, had he been a free man.
He would, however, dream of her.
* * *
Chapter Eight
The messenger had been certain that he would be safe. It was yet evening, the sun barely set. He would be through Kinfairlie forest before it was truly dark, well on his way to Newcastle. The brigands had been routed and this would be the safest time to make his passage.
The laird spoke aright, and the laird’s message must be delivered.
All the same, the messenger spurred his horse to great speed on the road that wound through Kinfairlie forest. It was only his memories that haunted him, he reminded himself, and the bandits had not injured him. They had frightened him, no more than that.
He still would be glad to leave the forest behind him.
It was strange how dark it was within the forest, for the trees were bare of leaves and the sky should have been bright overhead. The messenger felt that the woods was filled with peril and ominous shadows. He could see the glimmer where the road erupted into the fields ahead and urged his horse to even greater speed. He thought he was nearly free of the forest’s shadow and dared to be glad.
Then some fool leapt on to the road in front of the horse, waving a burning torch. The horse shied, turning aside to plunge into the forest’s undergrowth. The messenger tried to slow the beast, not wanting it to be injured on the uneven ground. Firelight appeared on all sides of him. He was certain there must be a dozen flaming torches closing around him in a circle. The horse spun and snorted and finally came to a restless halt, stamping its feet in the undergrowth.
And the messenger found the tip of a sword at his throat.
A man, his face dark with soot, smiled at him. He held the sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the other. He was dressed all in black, the flash of his smile uncommonly bright. He looked reckless and dangerous, a brigand to be sure. That circle of burning torches, held by the thief’s companions, ensured that the horse would not obey any command to run.
The villains were back, and with unholy speed.
The messenger swallowed, feeling his throat move against the point of the blade.
“I will have your purse,” the renegade said as if they met in social circumstance. “And whatsoever else of value you carry.” He smiled again, too amiable to be trusted. “I will have it now, and you will have your safe passage in exchange.”
When the matter was
presented thus, the messenger could find no reason not to comply.
* * *
Isabella was vexed. It seemed that every time she thought she might have a chance to visit Kinfairlie’s chapel, some other soul wanted some deed from her. She could not abandon Eleanor in her illness, to be sure. She had sent a preparation to the Siobhan for their son, and she had been required at the board that night for the evening meal as well.
The entire day slid away without Isabella finding a moment to go to the chapel without her sisters knowing of it. Elizabeth in particular was cursedly curious, as if that sister sensed some change in Isabella – or guessed that there was a secret she was not being told. Worse, Alexander insisted upon the gates to the bailey being secured that night, as safeguard against the renegades he had routed but not captured.
And so it was that Isabella defied the belief of all in that household, by rising at dawn to go to chapel. She was always the last of the sisters to leave the warmth of her pallet. On this day, she awakened with the first glimmer of sunlight, realized all were asleep, and recognized her chance.
She would say that she went to pray for Eleanor and the babe she carried, if she was asked.
She would do that, as well as search the crypt.
It was not a holy day, so morning mass would be later in Kinfairlie chapel. With all good fortune, Isabella would have the small church to herself for a precious few moments. She dressed in haste, snatched up her cloak and eased open the door to the chamber, watching Annelise and Elizabeth with care. Their maid Vera snored so noisily that Isabella could have kissed her.
Then she was gone, fleeing down the stairs of the keep, racing across the nigh-empty hall, and into the crisp chill of a winter morning. The portcullis was closed and the gatekeeper started at the sight of her.
“I would pray for Lady Eleanor,” Isabella said, her words breathless. “Before she awakens and has need of my aid.”
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