by Linda Madl
"Oooh, that's ghastly. Really dreadful. Almost appallingly loathsome,” she muttered to herself with glee. Wrinkling her nose she stared appreciatively at the bottle of cloudy vinegar the cook had set before her. “Yes, this will do nicely for a start. What else?"
She looked up at the cabinet shelves above the table. What to sprinkle into this concoction to make it truly convincing? She thoughtfully tapped the empty, blue glass bottle and looked up at the drawers of spices in front of her: ginger, pepper, saffron, cloves, cinnamon, and mustard. The steward had unlocked the cabinet for her, fully believing her excuse that she was concocting a headache remedy for Lady Leandra. This might be her only opportunity to make a potion, ever. She must do it well. She must allow Leandra no reason to complain.
Brenna gave a determined nod. She mixed and stirred, pretending she was a wise woman like Vivian—beautiful, knowledgeable, and experienced in the ways of magic, witches, and the devil.
Wait. Did wise women meet with the devil? She gave her head a haughty shake. Of course, and he'd better beware when he deals with Brenna of ... whatever.
"Did you find what you wanted, my lady?” The gray-haired cook appeared at Brenna's elbow, wiping wet, pudgy hands on her apron.
Brenna started like a child caught licking out of the honey jar. “Oh, yes.” She leaned against the table in an attitude of detachment. After all, one didn't dare let on that one was creating a potion, especially to the castle underlings. “Found everything I need. What's here will do nicely. Thank you, cook."
"Good. Good.” The ham-armed woman turned away, her eyes lighting on other duties that begged attention. “I'll leave you to it then, my lady. We have our hands full with this hart to prepare and the wedding banquet."
As Brenna watched the cook bustle away, she saw Wystan enter the kitchen. She turned her back to him, hoping that he wouldn't see her, but he spotted her immediately and started toward her.
"Oh, rot me.” She covered the bottle and vinegar with a linen towel and muttered. “When I wanted to spend time with him, he was too good for me. Now he's everywhere I go."
"Is Lady Leandra well?” Wystan asked as soon as he reached her. “Garrett wants to know."
"Of course she is well.” Brenna sniffed. Sir Perfect did not need to know that although her cousin had been relieved to have her ring back, she'd wrung her hands and muttered constantly about the look on Garrett's face when she'd returned it to her finger. “Leandra has faced brigands often, Sir Squire. What makes Sir Garrett think she'd become faint of heart now?"
Wystan shrugged. “Why has she kept to her rooms all afternoon?"
"We've been having a talk.” Brenna decided to add to the lie. “Naturally she's disappointed that the wedding has been put off a day while a search is made for Leofric."
The news of Leofric's unfortunate kidnapping had troubled the wedding guests—a bit. He was not a man well-liked. Nevertheless, Lord Reginald had been incensed that such an outrage could happen on his own lands, to his guest. He'd immediately sent men out to track the outlaws and rescue Sir Leofric.
Wystan moved to Brenna's other side and lowered his voice. “Garrett wants to see Lady Leandra. Alone. Is there a time when she might take air in the orchard or stroll in the garden?"
Brenna smiled to herself. Perfect. This might work better than she and her cousin had thought. “Leandra wishes to see Sir Garrett also. In the orchard. She has something for him."
"Truly?” Wystan looked at her in surprise. “Name the time."
"Tomorrow morn, after we break fast, when Lord Reginald is busy with his bailiff and steward.” Brenna and Leandra had already discussed this plan. “Tell Sir Garrett to be in the orchard then."
"I will.” Wystan nodded, but still he didn't leave.
She fingered the towel. What was he waiting for? “Is there something more?"
"I was just wondering if you will be staying in Tremelyn with your cousin after the wedding?” He leaned against the table and toyed with the edge of the linen towel, his hand near hers. “I mean, you did a brave thing going to Garrett about Leofric. I thought maybe we—"
"Ah, well.” She eyed Wystan's hand so near to discovering her new potion. “You and your brother are sailing for France, are you not? That's what Leandra said."
"But a war doesn't last forever.” Wystan stepped closer, and she got that tingly feeling that came when a man stood close. “We will return, one day, and I was wondering whether you might still be here?"
"I don't know.” She was unable to look him in the eye. She'd already begun to look higher than a mere squire. During the hunt she'd briefly ridden beside the young man in yellow who'd bowed to her on her first day at Tremelyn. She'd learned that he was the first son of a baron. She'd liked him. He would inherit a fief along the road to London with a toll bridge that yielded a nice revenue.
"You'll find a lady in France,” she said to Wystan. “Rescue her from some danger and wed her to keep her safe."
"Maybe.” He was clearly unconvinced. “Brenna, at least promise you will dance with me at the wedding banquet."
She couldn't keep the smile from her face. “My pleasure, sir."
With that, he left.
Humming the tune of a romance ballad to herself, she pulled the towel off her potion and went back to work. She added several ingredients. It must be bitter. Leandra said specifically that it must be bitter. She added another pinch of mustard. After a good shake, she sampled the concoction. Her throat closed and she almost gagged. It was truly vile.
She paused to let the choking pass. Then, pleased, she corked the bottle. Humming once more, she tucked it under her arm inside her surcoat and left the kitchen. This stuff should do the job nicely. Leandra would be satisfied.
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Chapter Twenty-One
THE NEXT MORNING, Leandra broke her fast as usual though she had no appetite. Then she went to the castle orchard to sit in the sun, where she suspected she appeared to others as shaken as she felt. She was thankful for the delay of the wedding, not because she was distraught about Leofric's kidnapping but because she could not face the prospect of marriage to Reginald until she'd brought this sad episode to a just conclusion.
When she'd first returned from the ordeal in the forest, a few of the ladies had kindly offered their services. They brought her wine, patted her hand, admired her courage, and whispered that she was fortunate that Sir Garrett had been there to protect her. But her silence bewildered them, and eventually they wandered away to take part in a game of ball.
Leandra owed the outlaws much, she decided, as she twisted her betrothal ring on her finger. They'd whisked Leofric away, averting a danger to her and Garrett. They'd given her an excuse to look pale and distressed. They'd given her another day to save Garrett.
His heartfelt confession over the ring had nearly destroyed what little composure remained to her. His every word had pierced her heart and weighed like a stone on her conscience. Loving her had endangered everything he took pride in, his loyalty, his reputation, his ambitions—for himself and Wystan as well. She'd ridden from the clearing with her betrothal ring on her finger and the knowledge in her heart that she must free Garrett from the belief that he loved her. Nothing else was fair or just. He did not deserve the unhappiness that she and Brenna had brought to him.
The orchard gate squeaked. Leandra looked up to see Brenna marching across the grass, her dark curls bouncing with each hasty step.
"Well, here's the antidote,” she said, plopping down on the bench.
Leandra took the blue glass bottle from her cousin, shook the container to assure herself of the contents, peered through the glass, and finally uncorked it to sniff the concoction.
"Whew!” she waved the stench away from her nose. “What did you put in this?"
"Spices and things from the kitchen,” Brenna said. “You told me an antidote to a love potion should be bitter."
"You've done well. ‘Tis dreadful,” Leandra agreed wit
hout hesitation. “Sour. Sharp. Sir Garrett won't believe this is a real antidote if it tastes nice and sweet."
She studied the blue bottle. In it was the solution to all her problems. Creating it had come to her on the ride back to the castle after the hunt, when the pain and astonishment on Garrett's face as he tried to replace the ring on her finger was still fresh in her mind. The suffering in his eyes had twisted her heart.
That's when she realized that if she and Garrett had received no potion—only the idea of a potion—then they needed no antidote, only the idea of one.
Brenna leaned toward her and whispered, “Do you really think a fake antidote is going to work? Even if Sir Garrett takes the stuff and falls out of love with you, won't you still love him?"
"Yes, forever.” Leandra spoke from her heart. Her love for Garrett was real and true. She prayed that his love for her was less profound. “But how I feel is not what's important here. I have to set Garrett free to find another. ‘Tis the only fair thing to do."
She stopped to take a deep breath, pained by the thought of Garrett in another woman's arms. The image had haunted her dreams all through the night, leaving her exhausted when dawn broke. But she was certain that she was doing the right thing.
"There's Wystan,” Brenna said. “Sir Garrett must be on his way. I'll wave from the gate if anyone is coming.” She rose and hurried away.
Leandra looked eagerly to Garrett as he walked through the orchard to the bench where she sat. His dress was casual and light, his blue tunic open at the neck. The wind ruffled his tawny helmet of hair and flapped the tunic edge about his well-turned knees.
His expression was bland: pleasant, ready to charm, without betraying his true mood or emotion. How proper for an earl's knight.
"My lady,” he said when he reached her. “I trust you have recovered from the shock of our encounter yesterday with the outlaws."
"Yes, indeed.” Their words sounded brittle to her. “Please sit with me a moment, Sir Garrett."
The walls of the castle towered over them, gleaming gray-white in the morning sun. She knew, as she was certain he did, too, that they were visible to anyone who cared to look out of windows or from the battlements above. She had no fear of being seen in his company. He was her knight, after all. But in the orchard, where the spring-green leaves of the pear trees already rustled in the breeze, there was little opportunity for them to be overheard.
"You wished to see me?” He inclined his head impersonally toward her, refusing to meet her gaze.
"Yes.” She took a deep breath and dived into the story she'd made up. “Garrett, yesterday while we were out hunting, a messenger arrived from Master Thomas, the alchemist. Good news. He has sent us the antidote."
His head came up, and interest gleamed in his eyes. “Is that so?"
She nodded and drew the blue bottle from her sleeve. Slowly she held it up so that the morning light flashed against it. With great effort she kept her breathing normal and her hand steady. She prayed for the strength to still the fluttering of her heart, to quell the panic that was creeping over her. She didn't want to hear her own words—her own lies so carefully created to send him away forever.
"Master Thomas swears in his message that this will break the hold of Vivian's potion in a matter of hours.” She took another deep breath and stared at the phial she held up between them.
Garrett studied it, too, but she could not look at him. She did not want to see the hope grow in his eyes.
"This is the answer,” she said. “We share a few drops of this, and all of our problems will be gone."
Guardedly, he took the phial from her, turned it over in his hand.
"Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice low, his gaze on the bottle. “To end all between us with the antidote?"
His question surprised her. Her throat tightened. She feared her voice would break, betraying her emotions when she replied. “Of course, ‘tis the release we've searched for. ‘Tis the freedom you talked of the morning we left the inn. Remember? We can take the antidote here and now. The deed will be done. In only hours we will be ourselves again. Without betrayal or dishonesty. Free. No smear against you or your family. No uncertain future for Lyonesse."
"In only a few hours?” he repeated with wonder. “So quickly. So simply?"
"Yes, that's what Master Thomas said in his message.” If she were going to tell an untruth, it might as well be a big, practical one.
"I can hardly believe after all the searching we did that he found the antidote. That here in this tiny bottle is the end to our torment—to our joy."
"I know.” She stole a glance at him. How grim he looked. How stony his jaw. How cold and questioning his gaze when it met hers. She looked away. Her heart began to race. Did he detect the lie?
"In the days since we visited Master Thomas, I've had a lot of time to think, Leandra.” He turned the bottle over in his hands again. “Loving you has changed my life, brought me something I never knew I was missing."
He paused, and she was uncertain as to why. She said nothing. Staring at her hands, she waited for him to speak the words that he seemed to be withholding.
"Not being able to take you ... as wife is painful. Still, I have truly loved you. I have learned to value another's life and happiness more highly than my own, for more reasons than mere honor and riches. I know I must travel to escape the pain of seeing you beside Reginald, for I cannot bear to remain here and watch your wedded bliss."
She shook her head, fighting back the tears. “I would never ask that sacrifice of you."
"But you see, I have a choice other than taking this antidote. If I leave Tremelyn without taking this, I will part from you knowing that I was once loved."
He touched her heart lightly, then his own.
"I will know that you loved me. That you, brave Leandra, knew me, knew my thoughts and my heart, knew my faults and my virtues, and loved me nonetheless. You cared not for my name or my rank, you cared for me. ‘Tis a treasure I would not give up for all the gold, for all the fiefs, for all the titles in the world. You have given me the greatest blessing of all. For what are honor and riches if one has not loved and been loved in return?"
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Garrett, don't say such things."
He went on without looking at her. Did his heart ache as much as hers? “I want you to know how I feel. I want you to know that I love you. The antidote is of no importance."
Shock vanquished the sob in her throat. Sweet Mary, was he refusing the antidote?
He smiled at her, a thin-lipped, ironic smile.
Without wasting another moment, she signaled Brenna to bring refreshment. He couldn't refuse the antidote. She wouldn't allow him. “Master Thomas went to such trouble for us. You will take it, won't you, Garrett? ‘Tis really the best way."
He said nothing, argued no more. She took the silence as agreement.
When Brenna arrived, as arranged, with a tray bearing a flagon of wine and a goblet, Leandra motioned for her to set it down on the other side of the bench and to pour. Brenna filled the goblet and stood aside, her face uncharacteristically sober. Leandra took the goblet and turned to Garrett.
He held the blue bottle still, staring at it curiously, fingering it thoughtfully. Then, to her dismay, he uncorked it and sniffed. “Whew, what's in this concoction?” He thrust the bottle away at arm's length.
Leandra and Brenna shrugged in unison. “Only Master Thomas knows,” she said, without daring to look at Brenna.
"How could the love potion be so tasteless and the antidote so terrible?” He held the bottle up to the sunlight.
"Who knows?” Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Leandra closed her eyes. Please, Mother Mary, have mercy and let this be over soon, she prayed. “Pour it, Brenna."
"Yes, Brenna,” he said at last, handing the bottle to Brenna. “'Tis fitting that you should be the one to do so."
"Don't be cruel,” she cried. To Leandra's surprise, great tears began t
o roll down her cousin's cheeks. “I didn't mean to cause so much pain. I never did. Truly. You must believe me."
"Pour,” he ordered, his voice harsh now, his patience apparently worn thin.
With trembling hands Brenna took the antidote and poured it into the goblet, the sharp fumes of the elixir drifting up about them.
Leandra seized the goblet and offered it to Garrett. “Hold your breath and drink quickly,” she cautioned. She would allow him no opportunity to back down.
Without protest, he took the goblet, but hesitated before he put it to his mouth. “Remember that I loved you, Leandra. I loved you well and above all things."
"I will remember,” she promised in a whisper. Her heart hammering painfully in her throat.
He drank. When he finished, she took the goblet and sipped the last of the wine mixed with the potion. The liquid rolled sour in her mouth, bitter on her tongue, and stung all the way down her throat. She choked.
"'Tis done,” she whispered when she finished and could speak again.
"Yes, ‘tis done.” He regarded her for a long moment, no pleasure in his face, no satisfaction in his eyes. “If Master Thomas is right, by sundown we will no longer love each another."
* * * *
WYSTAN PICKED UP a battered greave and held it so that the late afternoon sunlight glinted off its dints. “If the smith can hammer these out,” he said, “this piece will be as good as new."
"Umph,” was Garrett's only reply. He stared unseeing at the armory walls, his old chain mail in his hands. He cared nothing about the metal shin guard his brother was examining. He sat heedless of the armor that lay scattered around them.
He was waiting for his heart to stop aching. But the dull pain hammered on, potent as ever.
"If I didn't know better, brother, I'd think your heart isn't in this voyage to France.” Wystan let the greave drop to the table. “You haven't listened to a thing I've said since we began sorting through our equipment for the journey."