by Mary Wine
Another snap popped from the long worktables, and Jemma turned to see Anyon gaining the cook’s attention once again. This morning Anyon wore her linen cap correctly. It was tied securely beneath her chin like the other maids’ and her hair was tucked up into its gathered back. Although Anyon’s chemise was tugged up to cover her breasts more properly, the cook was still riding the girl unmercifully. With another snap from the cook’s fingers, Anyon carried a small copper pitcher toward the high table where Jemma was seated.
The girl’s lips were white from being pressed so tightly together, but she lowered herself before carefully refilling the cider mug. Jemma felt her stomach sour, but she clamped down on her own pity. Anyon had spent too many days acting as a better to everyone, and now she would have to face those she had spit in the face of.
But the unease in Jemma’s belly persisted, so she rose from the table and went to find the estate books. It was time to begin the duties of a wife.
Gordon wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled. The afternoon sun was bright with no sign of the rain that had blanketed the countryside yesterday.
“Whoa there, laddie, who’s that dreaming the day away?”
It was Kerry who teased him. His captain tossed up another bundle of thatch before climbing up to help him secure it to the roof supports.
“Ye’re jealous, Kerry, and I’ll tell ye straight, ye have every right to be.”
“Och now, that’s unkind. Just unkind in the worst way.”
Gordon bent over and felt his back give a twinge of discomfort for the number of hours he’d been working on the roof. They were nearing the top of the house now, and soon he’d have the right to ride home to the woman he’d been thinking about since he left. The sound of children drew his attention. He straightened back up to see the family’s four youngest playing in the yard. They wore bright smiles while they watched their new home being built.
“It will be a blessing to have a few of those following ye around.” Kerry shot him a smirk. “Hopefully all girls, because if they’re boys, the poor sods will look like ye, and that would make them ugly creatures for sure.”
“Kerry, I have a fine memory, and ye are going to marry someday.”
“I could never choose between all the lasses that adore me, Laird. ’Tis a fact that I can’t bear to give up any of them in favor of the other.”
Gordon bent back over. “Ye just wait, Kerry, the Church is going to lock ye in the stocks yet and nae release ye ’til ye repent and wed.”
“Not if I keep slipping the priest the wine he likes so well.”
Several men snickered in response because their priest was a plump man in spite of his vows of poverty. His robes were fuller than most of their kilts, but the man was fair, taking what was offered and only taxing those who could afford it. There had been worse clergy on Barras land before.
A sharp whistle drew Gordon’s attention back to the ground.
“Rider coming up fast, Laird!”
Every man stopped to watch the youth riding his horse like the son of Satan himself was chasing him. Dust rose up behind the horse in a dull-colored trail.
“That’s young Travis.”
“Aye.” Gordon climbed down from the roof, his neck muscles tightening. Travis was only twelve and not yet old enough to ride out with the retainers. But the lad could sit a horse and stay in the saddle better than some of his men. If someone had sent the lad out, time was essential.
“Laird, yer bride is ailing!” Travis began yelling before he even stopped his horse. The animal walked in a circle, trying to cool off. The youth pulled hard on the reins to turn the animal so that he was facing his laird again and might be heard.
“The cook suspects poison.”
Jemma opened her eyes and stared at the blurry haze in front of her. Voices surrounded her, but she couldn’t seem to force her brain to make sense of the sounds. It was almost as if she had suddenly been taken off to a land where no one spoke English. Everything moved too slowly, swirling around her in nightmarish motion. She wanted water, but her hand shook when she stretched it out, her strength failing her before her arm reached out far enough to gain any attention. Instead her body felt like it was falling through the air. Down, down, and still farther down. She waited for the pain that would be hers once she hit the bottom of the abyss but it never came, because she never stopped falling.
Gordon threw someone out of the way and didn’t know who it was. He didn’t care, either. His room was full of people once more, only today they lacked the sense of joy that had been present on his wedding night. No one was doing much but watching and waiting. His attention shifted to the priest, and Gordon felt his mouth go dry.
The priest was already there. His vestments on and his lips muttering the final words of last rites. He finished, and the assembled people all raised their hands to cross themselves. Two of the church nuns knelt near the bedside, their fingers moving on their wooden rosary beads while they concentrated on saying prayers for the woman lying there.
“I’m very sorry, my son.” The priest passed him by with two younger priests in training following him.
Several of the maids began wailing, the sound driving a stake through Gordon’s heart. He staggered, lacking the strength to cover the remaining distance to the bed.
How could she be gone?
“What are ye crying for?” The cook burst through the door, her hands full with a steaming pot. “Get out of my way, ye useless lack wits!”
“But the priest gave the mistress her last rites.”
The cook scoffed and kept moving toward the bed. “Well, that’s well and good, but no one’s dead yet so stop yer whining. I don’t abandon hope so quickly, else I might have sent half of ye back to yer mothers on the second day ye served in this house.”
The cook suddenly noticed him. “Good, a pair of hands that are strong enough to help me.”
“Help?”
“Aye.” The cook reached into the bed and whisked the covers away from Jemma. Her lips pressed into a hard line. “She’s too hot beneath all of this. Poor lass has enough to deal with without being smothered.”
The lack of bed coverings allowed him to set eyes on Jemma. He stared at her and watched her chest rise and fall. It was a shallow motion, barely noticeable, but it filled him with strength.
“Get out! Anyone who isn’t helping, get ye gone from this chamber!”
There was a flurry of motion toward the door. Several shrieks came from those trampled in the frantic crush of bodies trying to obey the laird’s commands. Gordon dismissed them from his mind. He ripped the bed clothing even farther away from his wife, throwing it toward the nuns.
“Gordon?”
He gasped, sitting heavily on the side of the bed. Jemma’s eyes were open just the tiniest amount. He reached out to grasp her hand.
“Aye, lass, I’m here.”
She nodded and opened her mouth, but nothing came out except a dry rattle of breath. Her face was the same color as her chemise and her lips bloodless.
“Sit her up now, Laird, as gentle as ye would a babe.”
Gordon realized that he was afraid to touch her. His hands shook, and he discovered he was grinding his teeth while he reached for Jemma. Her eyes remained on him, giving him the strength to slip his arms beneath her shoulders and raise her up.
“Now support her head. I forgot that ye have most likely never held a babe.”
“I hope to.” He shifted one hand so that it clasped Jemma’s neck. She felt too delicate, too small now. The woman who had wrestled with him had somehow vanished, and left in her place was this mere whisper of life. But it was the most precious thing he had ever felt. Gordon gathered her up, placing one of his bent legs behind her and sitting behind her to make sure she was steady.
“What do ye plan?”
The cook was stirring something into her pot. Steam rose from it and a bitter scent. He suddenly frowned. “And why don’t I know yer Christian name? Everyone calls ye Cook
.”
“Because I detest me given name, but to say so would be to disrespect me father, so call me Cook. ’Tis a better name than the one I was baptized with, for sure.”
The cook pulled a small ladle from the waist tie of her apron and used it to measure out some of her brew into a pitcher. It was the smallest pitcher in the house, a pewter one used for serving cream.
“We need to help her drink, or she’ll be a ghost by tomorrow for sure.”
The cook gently placed the dimpled part of that pitcher against Jemma’s mouth and tipped just one spoonful of the fluid against her tongue. Gordon’s wife jerked and lifted her chin.
“Forgive me, Mistress, for I know ’tis a bitter concoction.”
The cook placed another measure of it in Jemma’s mouth, and this time she swallowed it. Gordon felt sweat trickle down the side of his face. Every muscle felt as though it was tight enough to snap. The cook kept placing spoonfuls of her brew inside his wife’s mouth until Jemma sighed.
“Better . . .” Jemma turned her head to rub against him before her eyes slid closed and her breathing became shallow. So shallow it sent fear through him once again.
“That will have to do for the moment.”
The cook stood up and blew out a long breath. Her eyes swept Jemma from head to toe, and her face became clouded with serious thought.
“That was an antidote?”
“It’s something I learned when I was a young woman, but I don’t know if it will be doing the job needed.”
Gordon gently laid his wife down and pulled up just enough sheet to cover her.
The cook continued. “Ye see, we don’t know what was used to poison her, so I don’t know if what I mixed up was what she needed or if it came too late. The mistress was working on the books, and no one knows how long she was ill before Ula discovered her. It’s possible that the evil person behind this has already done the wicked deed by stealing her away from us.”
Gordon felt a shiver go down his spine. Anger flashed through him like a spark through black powder. Rage exploded inside him, and the helplessness in his wife’s pale face only made that anger burn hotter.
“Anyon.” He snarled the word.
The cook’s eyes went wide, and horror clouded her face.
“Tell me, woman, why do you look like that?”
The cook wrung her apron with nervous hands. “I sent the girl to serve the mistress cider this morning. I thought it would impress upon her the place she needed to learn was hers. I never thought Anyon had evil in her heart.”
“That bitch tried to drown my wife earlier this week.”
“Lads fight and then they drink together when their tempers have cooled, Laird. I thought Anyon just needed a firm hand to teach her to be content with what God had given her. I never thought she’d turn to murder. It still baffles me; I’ve knelt in church beside her. How could that be—how could so much evil be right there and none of us see it?”
Gordon ground his teeth together. “I don’t know.” He forced himself to think, to make his mind work despite the rage burning in his gut.
“I don’t know, but I do know this. Someone did this foul deed and I am going to see them hanged for it.”
Chapter Ten
“ The Baron Ryppon is on the road with his men.”
Gordon turned and followed Kerry up to the top of the wall. He looked through the spy glass and inspected the flags being carried by the men preceding the baron. Those flags danced wildly because Curan was riding hard. The horses were lathered, and his men were stripped down to only breastplate armor and helmet to lighten them.
“Allow them through!”
There was a hustle along the walls, his men filling the positions in spite of his order to allow the English force to enter. He couldn’t blame them for that, inviting an English party of knights inside the curtain wall would have most of his Scottish neighbors questioning his sanity.
He felt on the verge of losing his mind. He could feel the rage melting his principles until he was nothing but a savage willing to strike out at anything that might have been responsible.
That was not the way to trap the guilty. He knew it and was trying desperately to maintain his wits. Descending the stairs, he went to meet his friend. Desperate times called for equally desperate measures. There was no one in the castle he might trust. Whoever had poisoned Jemma was one of his own. It infuriated him, it sickened him, but it was the truth.
Curan was out of the saddle and moving quickly to meet him.
“She still lives.”
“I want to see her, now.”
Gordon grunted and turned with an English baron following him. His father was sure to rise from his grave tonight for the fact that he was making an English army welcome in his home, but that was a torment Gordon would gladly suffer if he gained what he desired.
Jemma.
That was it. He needed his wife and didn’t want to think about the very real fact that she might not live to see the next day.
Gordon held up a hand and pushed the chamber doors open slowly to keep them from making noise. Whispers came from inside where the nuns were still on their knees praying. They took shifts with their other sisters, an hourglass set on the bed to mark their allotted time.
“Send them out, Barras. We need to talk.”
“Aye.” Gordon crossed the room and stood near the bed. One of the sisters lifted her face. He pointed at her, and she looked at the hourglass.
“Go, Sister. My wife’s brother would be in private with his sister.”
The nun hastily crossed herself and grabbed the hourglass. “The English are heretics. You should keep them from her and save her soul.”
“That sounds as though you are judging me, Sister.” Curan stepped up closer to the bed and eyed the nun. She grabbed her fellow sister’s arm and pulled her off her knees.
“God will judge us all.”
“Yes, He shall.” Curan leaned forward with his response, and the nuns slipped on the floor because they tried to run so quickly. The chamber door burst open as they hit it hard. Curan shrugged.
“I seem to have forgotten how to deal with nuns.”
“I hear being raised in England has that effect.”
Curan knelt down, and his armor shifted and filled the chamber with the soft sounds of metal moving against metal. He sat his helmet aside and reached for his sister’s hand.
“Open the bed drapes, I need light.”
Gordon slid the drapes back to allow the afternoon light to illuminate the bed. Jemma’s breath was the only sound in the room, and it was far too faint. Her brother lifted her hand, tilting it so that the light fell on it.
“What are you looking for?”
“A blue tinge on the fingernails. It’s a sign of eastern poisons.” Curan continued to inspect his sister’s hand but finally gave a grunt of satisfaction. “There is none, and for that we should be grateful. The Moors brew poison that is deadly.”
The chamber door opened, and several people slipped inside. They walked carefully, mindful of their steps. Curan turned to speak to one.
“Her nails are white but not blue.”
The man was thin and lanky, obviously young. Gordon glared at Curan. “How can someone that young know anything of value when it comes to poisons?”
The knight behind the youth reached forward and lifted the helmet off the youth’s head. It proved an easy task because the youth only measured up to the knight’s shoulder. The helmet had hidden a face that was clearly female. She was quite a beauty, even lacking feminine clothing.
“This is the Lady Justina.” And the woman was dressed every inch like a boy. A pair of baggy britches hid the curves of her hips, and a solid armor breastplate covered up her other feminine curves.
Gordon crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The same lady who betrayed ye by betraying the location of the side gate that yer bride used to escape through?”
“Aye.” Curan nodded. “She has been my guest since
that time for I cannot in good conscience send her back to a guardian who charges her with such tasks.”
“You take too much upon yourself.” Lady Justina sent a hard look toward Curan.
“I disagree, Lady. If the one who sent you wants you back, he can ask me and admit that he sent you.”
Lady Justina shook her head but Gordon had no patience for their quarrel. He only had time for Jemma.
“Why is she here? I have enough people I distrust around me. I don’t need one of yers to watch me back for.”
“She is here because she has spent her entire life at court and knows far more about poison than any of us, because that is the place where such evil is used often.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes, but the lady didn’t crumple beneath his displeasure. She offered him a serene look, but if one took a moment to peer deeper into her eyes, they could see the strength hidden there. She looked delicate, but she was solid like stone. It was something he was more accustomed to seeing in knights. That look which a man gained from witnessing death.
“Reject me if you wish, Lord Barras, but I will tell you plainly that I am your best hope of catching this assassin, and that you need to reconsider sending me away.”
Gordon felt one of his eyebrows rise. “Ye’ve caught so many of them, I suppose?”
“A few.”
“Which is more than I have.” Curan cast a look back at his sister. “If Jemma survives, she will only face waiting for the next attack or returning home with me.”
Gordon stiffened. He clamped down on the denial he wanted to issue to Curan because he had to. Never once had he been defeated when fighting against men he could see coming at him, but this manner of attack was one that he knew no way to challenge.
“What is yer plan, Lady?”
Justina held up a hand and turned in a full circle, inspecting every bit of the room. She began to walk, looking at the floor and pushing at any boards that appeared uneven. It was the sort of inspection that placed confidence in him when he had been so sure mistrust was the only thing he might have for the Lady. Justina finished and came back to drop to her knees and crawl beneath the bed that Jemma slept in. They heard her tapping on the boards with her hands before she emerged from the other side.