The Irish Devil

by Donna Fletcher

  The ax came down upon the broken clumps of earth several times before she stilled her actions. She wiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand and looked up at the full sun, bright and warm in the morning sky. Summer was paying its respects to autumn one last time and when it left the cooling days of autumn would be full upon them.

  This was the time when the land prepared itself for winter, dropping the pine needles to nourish the ground through the winter’s cold, thickening the bushes with an extra coat of growth and laying the land dormant with a rich covering of greens and purples.

  She looked down at her plot of land almost ready for the bulbs she would plant for spring growth. Near the castle wall was a pile of pine needles she had collected and would use to blanket and nourish the soil through winter. In the spring she would add the seeds and seedlings she dug up from the surrounding hills and meadows and her garden would flourish in abundance.

  If she was still here.

  The thought annoyed and disturbed her. Was she being obstinate, or was her husband? She could easily settle this matter, so why didn’t she? Why did she cling so tenaciously to the truth when speaking it would set her free?

  She let the ax drop to the ground and walked over to sit beneath the shade of the tree. Rook made his way from behind it and joined her, his large head resting comfortably in her lap.

  A tear suddenly peeked from the corner of her eye and she wiped it away, stubbornly refusing to allow any more to follow. She had shed too many useless tears and she would shed no more. She had foolishly thought that her father had loved her. She had even called out to him when she was being attacked. She never imagined that after surviving the vicious attack, she would suffer a far worse one.

  She momentarily shut her eyes against the painful memories. Her father had entered her room and as she lay bleeding and fearful of death, she had reached out to him. His vile verbal attack so startled her that her fear dissipated and in its place she erected a wall of strength and courage. She had done nothing wrong, and yet she was made to suffer unbearable consequences because of ignorance.

  And though her virginity remained intact, she had been robbed of her innocence. She was not prepared to, nor would she surrender, her honor. She had paid dearly for it and had survived. She had learned to hold her head up high, had gained the respect of the villagers and had diligently restored her pride in herself.

  And with great difficulty she had accepted her father for who he was, a man who spared no love for his daughter.

  Marriage was not a consideration after the incident. Her father had repeatedly informed her that a marriage contract for her would cost him dearly and he was not willing to surrender any portion of his wealth for a marriage merger that would not greatly benefit him.

  Though it had taken time to accept her solitary fate, she had done so and she had not complained. Instead she had educated herself in the art of healing and had taken great comfort in the knowledge that she was able to help people. In accepting her fate, she had discovered herself and she was proud of the woman she had become.

  She had grown strong and held her head high and she would not surrender her hard-earned honor to anyone, especially the devil.

  “My lady.” Bridget’s anxious voice interrupted her thoughts.

  Faith immediately got to her feet. “Is something wrong?”

  “The husband of Mary the cook has been feeling poorly for a few days and she is worried. She asked if you would look in on him.”

  “Of course,” Faith said, feeling she had spent enough time on self-pity. It was much better to live life than to wallow in it.

  The one-room cottage was a short distance away from the kitchen. It was clean and well kept, with everything in its place and the room itself smelling sweet. Faith noticed upon entering that flowers and herbs filled pots, pitchers and whatever Mary could find to hold them. There was a table with two chairs, a worn wooden cabinet, a large bed and a chest at the foot of the bed. A stone hearth remained cold, a sensible choice with the recent warm weather.

  Faith followed Bridget over to the bed on the far right of the cottage. “Stuart, this is Lady Faith. She has come to make you well.”

  The sizable man groaned and shook his head. “Too late.”

  “Nonsense,” Bridget scolded. “You will get well. You probably have nothing more than an ailing stomach.”

  Faith stepped closer to the bed. The mattress was thick with straw, to which lavender had been added to give it a sweet scent. One look at the man and Faith grew alarmed. He was deathly pale; his thick lips were dry, near to cracking; and his large brown eyes had difficulty focusing. He was over six feet tall, had a massive chest and solid legs and a thatch of bright red hair.

  “Bring his wife here quickly, Bridget,” she ordered.

  Bridget looked at her with alarm before hurrying from the room.

  Faith sniffed the tankard that sat on the small stool beside the bed. It seemed harmless enough, mint to soothe the stomach, though it appeared to have little effect on the ailing man.

  She located the rain barrel outside the front door, filled a wooden trencher with water and proceeded to bathe the man’s brow with the cool water. He ran no fever, which alarmed more than puzzled her.

  Mary filled the small doorway with her almost six-foot height and solid weight. She was far from heavy, her muscle tone firm and her weight evenly distributed on her large frame. She had a pretty face and expressive eyes that openly expressed a fearful concern.

  Faith could not help but envision the little giants this couple would conceive.

  “What is wrong?” Mary asked, rushing to her husband’s side. She kneeled next to the bed, grabbing his limp hand in hers.

  “I need to know what you have been giving him,” Faith said gently.

  “Mint,” Mary hurried to explain. “I thought it nothing more than an ailing stomach, or a bad piece of meat or fish.”

  It was not uncommon for food to turn bad and stomachs to protest, but Stuart had been ill for a few days, which meant he suffered from more than a piece of food gone bad.

  “What have been his complaints?” Faith asked.

  Mary was quick to reply. “He stopped eating and complained of feeling light-headed.

  “Has he eaten anything today?”

  Mary shook her head. “Nothing in the last two days except the tea I have given him.”

  Faith looked puzzled and worried.

  “Is there nothing you can do for him? Is it the fever?” Mary asked anxiously.

  “He has no fever, though his complaints trouble me.”

  Bridget entered the cottage breathless. “The servants in the kitchen need Mary. The mutton stew needs flavoring and a young servant boy added too much parsley to the bread and turned it green and—”

  “Enough,” Faith said. “Mary, go see to your duties. I will tend your husband and if I need your help I will send Bridget to fetch you.”

  Mary looked torn between her duty and her husband, but Faith knew it would be best for her if she busied herself with work while Faith saw to the care of her ailing husband.

  Faith reached out and placed her hand over Mary’s, which continued to keep a firm grip on her husband’s limp hand. “I promise I will send for you if I need to.”

  Mary nodded and Faith walked over to where Bridget stood in the doorway, still panting. “Bring me my healing basket and have a fresh bucket of water drawn from the well for me.”

  Bridget nodded and left.

  Mary joined Faith by the door. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Nothing I cannot see to myself. Go and do not worry.”

  Mary smiled awkwardly and walked toward the kitchen, her steps reluctant.

  Faith paced the one-room cottage, uncertain as to what steps to take to help the man. It was difficult to make a decision of how to treat an ailing individual when the reason for the ailment was unknown. She could do more harm than good if she was not sure of what troubled him.


  Stuart slept on and off, mumbling incoherently. He seemed worried about leaves, forever insisting he must have them now.

  Bridget announced that it was near time for the evening meal and that she needed to bathe and dress. Faith dismissed her with a shooing wave of her hand. She had no appetite and was too concerned with Stuart to worry about the evening meal.

  She had thought about purging him, but was not certain if it would do him any good in his already weakened condition. She continued to concentrate on all she had learned of herbs and their proponents over the years. She had made several unusual and surprising discoveries and she hoped one might apply to Stuart’s condition.

  Faith lit several candles as night began to fall and she called on the recorded knowledge she kept tucked in her mind.

  o0o

  Eric looked out from the dais on the occupants of the great hall. It was full of his men and their women laughing, eating and enjoying the evening meal. Colin sat with him and even Borg had grown well enough these last two days to join them. But his wife was conspicuously absent.

  The meal was excellent, the mutton stew flavored perfectly, and he had to remember to compliment Mary on the green bread that held the stew; the coloring caught the eye and taste. Normally, he would have eaten the entire bread trencher, but his thoughts were elsewhere, taking his appetite with them.

  He wondered over the whereabouts of his wife.

  Was she purposely avoiding him? He intended to find out.

  He looked about the room for Bridget. Not seeing her, he turned to Borg. “Where is your woman?”

  Borg almost choked on a piece of mutton. “My woman?”

  “Have you not made the servant girl your woman yet?” Eric asked irritably.

  Borg blushed and shook his head.

  Colin laughed. “I think you two are in dire need of instructions on how to bed a woman.”

  Eric silenced him with a lethal look.

  “Where is Bridget?” Eric asked Borg.

  To no one’s surprise he knew exactly where she was. “Bridget is helping Lady Faith tend the cook’s husband. He is ailing.”

  “My wife ignores her wifely duties to tend an ailing man?” he asked of no one in particular, and much too loudly.

  The hall suddenly quieted to a few whispers and mumbles.

  He had had enough. This was his castle, she was his wife and she would obey him.

  “Tell the cook I wish to see her,” Eric ordered a nearby servant girl.

  The poor young girl trembled as she approached the dais. “The cook was summoned to her cottage by Lady Faith, my lord.”

  Eric stood, his towering height casting a menacing shadow over the fearful girl. She quickly stumbled out of his way as he rounded the dais and headed straight out the keep’s front doors.

  “My coins are on the devil,” Colin said to Borg.

  “You will grow poor.” Borg laughed. “My coins are on the healer.”

  Bridget stood outside the closed cottage door and instantly took several steps away as Eric bore down on her. His long, dark hair glistened in the moonlight, his dark garments blended with the shadows of the night and his blue eyes blazed with a fiery brilliance that bordered on anger.

  “Is she inside?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” Bridget answered with a respectful bob of her head. “But she does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “You are dismissed, Bridget,” Eric said with a firm calmness. “You will go attend Borg.”

  Bridget looked apprehensively toward the closed door and at that moment Eric clearly understood where the young girl’s loyalties lay.

  “I will not repeat myself,” he said with a harshness that immediately sent her scurrying.

  He reached for the wooden handle and instead of storming in, he slowly and quietly opened the door but an inch and listened.

  Faith and Mary sat at the table while Stuart slept soundly.

  “He keeps talking of potion, Mary. What does he refer to?” Faith asked the tearful woman.

  “I do not know,” Mary said with a regretful shake of her head. “It is important?”

  “It could be. I need to know if he has been adding anything to his food or drink.”

  Mary thought a moment and then shook her head again. “I do not recall seeing him do so.”

  Faith sighed and proceeded as delicately as possible. “Then I must ask you a personal question that might help me to discover if he has been taking a potion.”

  Mary looked strangely at her. “Personal?”

  “Aye, and if you do not wish to answer that is up to you but your answer may help your husband to make a successful recovery.”

  Mary nodded. “I will answer whatever you ask of me.”

  “Good,” Faith said with a gentle pat to her hand and continued with reluctant necessity. “I need to know if your husband has sought his husbandly rights more than usual as of late.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “An illness can cause a husband to seek his wife more often?”

  “Nay,” Faith assured her. “But a certain herb called henbane is believed by some to be an aphrodisiac.”

  “That is why he has not been able to keep his hands off me?” Mary asked with a mixture of surprise and disappointment and answered Faith’s question.

  Faith shook her head. “No, the herb has no aphrodisiac qualities; it is actually poisonous.”

  Mary grew alarmed. “Stuart will die if he took this?”

  “If he took too much,” Faith confirmed.

  Tears sprang from Mary’s eyes, but she volunteered the information most willingly. “When Stuart returned from fighting, he had a problem.”

  Faith listened quietly, not commenting.

  “He tried so hard night after night, but nothing happened. Then he left to accompany Lord Eric to Cork. He had not attempted to touch me for a week before he left. Then he returned, and his first night back . . .” She smiled with pleasure. “It was like when we first wed and has been ever since until he took ill.”

  “Did he bring anything back with him from his trip?”

  “He has a pouch he keeps things in but it is private, I would never intrude.”

  “I would,” Faith said. “Get it for me.”

  Mary hesitated.

  “Do you wish your husband to get well?”

  Mary did not think twice this time. She stood and fetched the pouch from the wooden chest at the end of the bed.

  Faith probed the contents with care. The large leather pouch contained a number of items and she found herself opening leather boxes and unwrapping cloths only to be disappointed with each examination. She thought her search a failure when she came to a cloth pouch tucked in the bottom corner. She opened it slowly and spilled out a small amount of the contents into her cupped hand. She poked at the crushed leaves and then gave a sniff. She drew back her nose in distaste, the fetid order of henbane confirming her suspicions.

  “This is the problem,” Faith explained patiently. “And you can thank the lord that whoever gave it to him had added only a minute amount of henbane to the potion, or your husband would be dead.”

  Mary’s eyes feared again. “Will he be all right?”

  “He should be fine,” Faith said. “He is very lucky. Make sure he rests, drinks the brew you make him and try to get at least some broth in him tomorrow. In a few days I think you will find him much improved.”

  Mary nodded and cast her eyes to the dirt floor as she asked, “Will his problem return now that he can no longer use the potion?”

  Faith reached for her hands, forcing the woman to look up at her. “The potion almost caused him to die. It did not help his problem; he only believed it did.”

  “But now he will believe his problem has returned,” Mary said sadly.

  “Then he will need something to replace the potent potion.”

  “You have something,” Mary asked anxiously.

  Faith nodded and retrieved from her healing basket a small leather pouch. “These leave
s are very potent. You must only brew a pinch in hot water.”

  “And he will have no problem?”

  “No problem at all,” Faith assured her. “Why, I would not be surprised to see you birthing a babe by the summer.”

  Mary threw her arms around Faith and hugged her tightly before realizing her actions were inappropriate. “Oh, my lady, forgive me.” She stepped away, shaking her head and continuing to apologize.

  “Nonsense, I am glad I could help. Now fix yourself an herbal brew and relax. You have had too much to worry about lately. You should rest yourself.”

  “You are truly a gracious woman,” Mary said and bowed her head in respect.

  “Thank you for your kind words,” Faith said and gathered her things.

  “I will see that a supper tray is brought to your room. You have not eaten since morning and must be starving.”

  Faith attempted to protest.

  “Please, my lady, I would like to do this for you,” Mary said.

  Faith nodded. “As you wish.”

  Faith looked the sleeping man over one more time, assured Mary he would be fine and walked out the door, right into the arms of her waiting husband.

  “One question, dear wife,” Eric said quietly, making certain the door was closed behind her. “How do you know henbane is considered an aphrodisiac?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Faith could not help but notice the look of him in the moonlight. A saint would fall to sin looking upon his handsome features, especially with the glow of the full moon bathing him in its silvery splendor.

  “Stare at me with such wanton lust and I will have no choice but to satisfy you,” he said in a rough whisper.

  Her defiance rose with her chin. “Without first satisfying the question of my virtue?”

  His intense blue eyes blazed with a wickedness that could not be ignored. “You forget our brief encounter in the woods.”

  Heat rushed to sting her cheeks as she recalled the pleasure he had given her.

  He brushed his cool cheek against her warm one. “You tempt the devil.”

  “The devil lures the innocent.”

  “Are you innocent?” Eric asked in an anxious whisper.