Medieval Romantic Legends

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Medieval Romantic Legends Page 87

by Kathryn Le Veque

“Poison!” Jossalyn said with frantic horror.

  The entire table erupted.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Who did this?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Do something, lass!”

  “Silence!” Garrick bellowed over the desperate shouts of the others. “Lay him on the table.”

  Instantly, several hands were helping to clear the table and spread the King’s limp body on it. Garrick turned to Jossalyn, whose breath was coming fast as she stared at the Bruce’s form in concentration. He spoke quietly to her, like he would a scared animal. “Jossalyn, what do you recommend we do?”

  “Horehound,” she muttered to herself. Then she raised her eyes to Garrick. “My satchel. It is in the tent.”

  Before she had finished speaking, Colin had darted out of sight toward their tent.

  “I need a feather. Like a quill, with a long hollow shaft.”

  Angus didn’t bother to find the door-flap to the Bruce’s tent, which was right next to the dining table. Instead, he lifted the bottom of the canvas wall straight up, tearing some of the material and toppling two of the corner poles. He returned with a quill in his hand just as Colin sprinted back to the table with Jossalyn’s satchel.

  “Cut the feather’s shaft so that it is a few inches long, and make sure the hollow interior is clear,” she said to Angus.

  Then she turned to Colin. “Find some boiling water, and put all of this—” she grabbed the satchel from his hand, rummaged through it, and pulled out a grayish plant that looked like mint, but with smaller leaves “—into it. Boil off as much of the water as you can to distill it, but we won’t have much time.”

  Colin nodded and bolted off in the direction of one of the camp’s fires.

  Then she turned to gaze at the Bruce, who lay motionless and blue-lipped, for a fleeting second. “Heaven help me,” she murmured, then reached toward her ankle. When she stood upright, she had Garrick’s fletching dagger in her hand and was moving it toward the Bruce’s throat.

  Instantly, Finn shot to her side. He clamped a hand over her wrist and jerked the blade away from the Bruce’s throat.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, you English witch?” Finn shouted as he twisted her wrist farther back.

  She yelped in pain as her wrist torqued. Suddenly, all the remaining men had their swords drawn, but none seemed to know at whom to point them.

  Garrick darted to the two of them but held up his hands so as not to startle Finn. “Let her go, Finn. She is with us, remember? She is trying to save the King,” he said in a low voice.

  “Like hell she is. She put a knife to his throat!” Despite his vehement words, Finn repositioned her arm so that he was no longer twisting it painfully, but he still held firmly to her wrist, not letting the dagger move an inch.

  “Garrick, do you trust me?” Jossalyn said, completely ignoring Finn and locking her gaze on him. Her wide greed eyes pinned him with a searching look.

  “Aye, with my life, and with the life of the King,” he said without wavering.

  “I need to make a small cut in his throat to let air in. It is dangerous, but he’ll die in a matter of minutes if I don’t act now,” she said with calm certainty.

  “Finn, unhand her now, or the King’s death will be on your head just as much as it is on the poisoner’s,” Garrick said, shifting his gaze to Finn.

  Finn met his stare, a battle waging silently between the two of them. Finally, he released Jossalyn’s wrist, but said darkly, “And if the Englishwoman slits our King’s throat, you will be responsible, Garrick.”

  The moment Jossalyn’s wrist was free, she blocked out everything around her and let herself be completely consumed by the task at hand. She had never done this operation herself before, but had seen her old teacher Meg perform it successfully on a man who had suffered a stroke.

  She stepped to the Bruce’s side and raised the dagger to his throat, just below his Adam’s apple. She made a small vertical incision in the soft flesh of the King’s throat, then another horizontal one inside the first cut. She left the tip of the blade inside the flesh, and without taking her eyes off the incision, she extended her free hand toward where Angus had been standing. “The feather.”

  He placed the trimmed and hollow quill in her hand. She brought it in front of her and gave it a cursory glance. It was the right shape and size for the task. She slid the shaft of the quill along the dagger’s blade, pulling open the incision slightly with the tip of the knife. Then she inserted the quill into the incision and removed the blade, positioning the quill so that it was inside the cut but stuck out several inches from the Bruce’s neck.

  Just as she had prayed, she heard a gust of air through the quill, and the Bruce’s chest rose slightly. Almost as if in echo of the Bruce’s inhalation, a gasp swept through the men surrounding her. She felt all her breath leave her as relief swept through her.

  “Christ, lass,” Garrick whispered. “You did it. You saved the King.”

  His words brought her back to reality. “That was only the first step,” she said grimly. “The poison caused his tongue to swell and blocked his airway, even to his nose. Now he has an airway, but the poison is still inside him. Someone fetch Colin.”

  Within moments, Colin was at her side, holding a pot of steaming water and boiled plant matter.

  “Help me get the King upright,” Jossalyn said. Several men lifted the Bruce’s still-limp torso so that he was reclined but more vertical. Jossalyn grabbed one of the stray spoons left on the table and scooped up some of the liquid brew. She forced the Bruce’s jaw open and poured the tea inside. Most of it dribbled out, since his tongue was still so swollen, but she thought some of it managed to slide down his throat.

  “Er, lass, forgive me, but won’t that liquidy stuff just come out of the hole you made in his throat?” Angus said softly. He was one of the men propping the King up, and he looked worriedly between the spoon in her hand and the quill sticking out of the Bruce’s neck.

  She kept her eyes on her task, but said, “Different tubes,” as a simple reply. She continued to slowly spoon the brew into the Bruce’s mouth. Even if he didn’t swallow much, just coming in contact with the brewed horehound should take the swelling down in his mouth and tongue, she reminded herself for reassurance.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the sound of the serving wench sobbing.

  “I did not know, you must believe me!” she wailed to someone.

  “I believe you, lass, but think. Did you see anything unusual?” Finn asked urgently.

  “I didn’t think it strange at the time, but the cook insisted on making something special for the King,” she said through her sobs. “I thought it was an attempt to get into the King’s good graces, since the cook was new. He only just came up from the Lowlands a few days ago.”

  “How did he know where to find the camp? Who admitted him?” Finn’s voice was tight with frustration.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!” the woman moaned.

  Garrick, who was also holding up the Bruce, shot a look behind him to where the server and Finn were talking. He motioned for another man to take his place at the King’s shoulder, then joined the two out of Jossalyn’s line of sight. She could still hear them as she continued to spoon the horehound brew into the Bruce’s slack jaw, though.

  “Where is the cook now?” Garrick said.

  “I haven’t seen him since I took the King’s tray from him,” the server said frantically.

  “I’m going after him.” Though she couldn’t see his face, Garrick’s voice was steely and hard, just as his eyes would be now.

  He strode to her side, and she paused in her ministrations.

  “How does he fare?”

  “I think the swelling is going down slightly, which means I may be able to get more of the horehound into his system. It’s an antidote to some poisons, and it is also used to reduce swelling and help with breathing, but since I don’t know what
the King was poisoned with, I can’t be sure it will work.”

  “I’m going after the cook,” he said heavily.

  “I’m going with you,” Finn said as he approached the two of them.

  “And so am I,” Colin interjected.

  “You two will only slow me down,” Garrick said tightly through clenched teeth. “I work better on my own.”

  “There is no way I am letting you leave without me,” Finn responded flatly. “You need someone to watch your back.”

  “And I can track better than both of you,” Colin said.

  Garrick ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t have time to argue with the two of you. I am leaving as soon as I can get Fletch saddled. Either you are with me when I ride out of here or you’re not, but the man already has a lead on us, and I don’t plan on letting him live through the night.”

  The other two men simply nodded and disappeared into the falling twilight of evening. Garrick turned back to Jossalyn, his eyes tight with worry.

  Before he could say anything, though, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Go. Find him. We will be here when you get back.”

  A flood of relief washed over his features before they settled back into their hard, determined lines. Without further ado, he turned and headed to their tent for his bow and quiver, and then toward the stables.

  She sent up a prayer for his safety, and another for Colin and Finn. They would be traveling hard through the night, and who knew what awaited them in the dark woods.

  She forced her attention back to her patient. The King of Scotland’s life was in her hands. She raised the spoon to his mouth yet again, pleading silently for the medicine to work, one painfully small drop at a time.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Garrick pushed Fletch into the darkening forest, urging his loyal horse on despite the uneven footing. They couldn’t play it safe, though. They had to find the man responsible for poisoning the Bruce.

  Colin and Finn were fanned out several yards away on either side of him, somehow managing to keep up with his grueling pace. They had departed the stables together without a word, grim determination on all their faces.

  After a quick query with the guards and scouts on the edge of camp, they discovered that a slight man on horseback had left about a half an hour before, headed south. No one recognized him, but a man leaving the camp was far less worrisome than a man trying to enter, so they had let him go unquestioned.

  Another hour later, they reached the outer circle of scouts. One of the men in the area had seen a solo rider heading south, and at a reckless pace given the falling darkness. It would likely be the last piece of information they would get before they caught up to the assassin posing as a cook.

  If they caught up to him, Garrick thought darkly. If the man was somehow able to outpace them, he could potentially make it all the way back to England to spread word of the death of the pretender King of Scotland, Robert the Bruce.

  The thought sent Garrick spurring Fletch once more, though he knew the animal was giving him everything he had. The one small saving grace was that a nearly-full moon hung in the dark sky, giving them at least some light by which to see.

  For the thousandth time, Garrick scanned the stretch of dark forest ahead of him, looking for any sign of movement or the trace of a trail left by the killer.

  A flicker caught his eye in the distance. He blinked, fearing that his weary and straining eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, he saw it again. A rustle in the foliage far off ahead of them, and then—was that a flap of cloak?

  “There!” Garrick shouted to the others, pointing.

  Finn and Colin, already on the alert, jerked their heads in the direction of Garrick’s hand. They must have seen it too, for at the same moment, all three spurred their horses, digging for every last drop of energy from the animals. They fell into a single line so they could move faster, with Colin in the front, followed by Garrick and Finn.

  Like its rider, Colin’s horse was young and spirited. Colin leaned over the animal’s neck, stretching out the distance between him and Garrick little by little. Even still, the three of them were gaining ground on the fleeing rider. Now Garrick could fully see the solitary cloaked figure atop a horse, riding hard.

  The fleeing man must have heard them crashing through the forest behind him, for he shot a quick look over one shoulder, then kicked his horse to try to gain distance.

  “Halt!” Colin shouted.

  The man didn’t slow or even look back. He kept barreling forward through the woods. All four of them, the fleeing man and his three pursuers, were at the mercy of the dark forest. An unseen fallen log or a branch at the right height, even a rock or slight dip in the ground could potentially kill one or all of them.

  As Garrick realized this, he whistled to Colin, who was several strides ahead of him but only marginally closer to the assassin. He reined Fletch in, forcing Finn to halt behind him as well. Colin turned over his shoulder, and when he saw that his two companions had halted, he reluctantly slowed his horse.

  “What are you doing?” Colin shouted at Garrick, his voice loud and tight with adrenaline.

  “We’ll never catch up to him like this,” Garrick said, more to himself than in response to Colin’s angry question.

  He swung his bow off his shoulder and smoothly nocked an arrow. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart so that his pulse wouldn’t throw off his aim. His eyes locked on the lone rider, who was still crashing through the forest several dozen yards ahead of them, the distance growing with each pound of Garrick’s heart.

  Colin said something, but Garrick didn’t register it. His mind was blank, his vision narrowed so that the only thing he perceived was the man, whose cloak hood had fallen back in his flight. Moonbeams flitted across him and his horse as they moved. He aimed at the soft, exposed neck, but then thought otherwise. He wanted the man to be able to talk. Shifting slightly, he targeted the man’s shoulder.

  He exhaled and let the arrow fly. Time seemed to slow as the arrow sliced through the air, whizzing past the trees toward its target.

  It found its mark. The shaft sunk into the man’s shoulder, slightly more toward the center of his back than Garrick had intended, but it had the desired effect. The man jerked at the impact of the shot and lost his balance, first slumping forward, then falling backward off his horse.

  Finn and Colin surged forward, leaving Garrick behind to take one more steadying breath before slinging his bow back over his shoulder and following them to where the man had fallen. When they reached his crumpled form on the forest floor, they dismounted and moved in on him. He was reaching feebly behind him, trying to grasp the arrow shaft, but the fall had driven it farther into his back.

  “Tell us what you know, and we will make this quick,” Finn said flatly.

  The man sneered, a half-cough, half-laugh escaping him. “Go to hell, you cock-sucking rebels.” He spoke in a Lowland accent, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allied with the English. Not all Scots supported the Bruce and his campaign. Many lived in the pockets of the English and openly opposed the rebellion, and a few even worked as spies—or assassins.

  “Who do you work for?” Colin demanded.

  When the man didn’t answer, Finn leaned down and grasped the arrow shaft protruding from the man’s back, giving it a twist. The man bellowed in pain. Garrick longed to turn away, to have it over with, but he knew this had to be done. Yet still the man wouldn’t break.

  “You can torture me all you like, you shit-eating savages. There will be plenty more like me to cut you down soon enough.”

  The three men exchanged a silent look. Garrick shook his head slightly. They wouldn’t get anything out of him. Without speaking, Finn drew a dagger from his boot. As the blade flashed in the moonlight, the assassin smiled faintly, likely relieved he wouldn’t be tortured or put to a traitor’s death of handing, disemboweling, drawing, and quartering.

  “Long live the Ki
ng,” he sneered under his breath.

  Before Finn’s blade could reach the man’s throat, Garrick said, “You’ve failed. The King of Scotland lives. Our healer has already given him an antidote to your poison.” He couldn’t be sure if the Bruce still lived, and he prayed Jossalyn’s brew was working, but he feared the worst. However, he wasn’t going to give this bastard the satisfaction in the last moment of his life of thinking that he had succeeded.

  The man’s face shifted from condescending resignation to surprise, then horror. Finn’s blade descended on his throat, and likely the last thought the man had was of his own failure.

  Garrick turned away from the scene of the would-be assassin’s lifeblood leeching from him, his eyes going blank and frosted. He walked back to Fletch’s side and mounted.

  “What should we do with his body?” Colin asked.

  “Leave it. The crows can have his eyes, and the rats his heart,” Garrick said coldly.

  The other two mounted as well, and Colin collected the reins of the dead man’s horse. Though he was exhausted, Garrick was suddenly determined to get back to camp and be at his King’s side, even if it was the Bruce’s death bed that awaited him. He reined Fletch northward and pushed him forward with his heels.

  Jossalyn rubbed a shaky hand over her face, pushing some of her loose hair out of the way. The sun was just cresting the horizon, and the King still lived, though barely. She had managed to get all the horehound brew into his system, which took the swelling in his throat and tongue down enough that she had been able to remove the quill that was serving as his airway and stitch closed the hole in his neck.

  She also had another batch of the horehound tea brewing. Luckily, she had found one more stalk of the short, leafy plant in her satchel. Once this batch had been steeped and spoon-fed to the Bruce, though, she would have to scour the area for more of the plant. Blessedly, it wasn’t particularly rare or hard to find. At least the sun would be up to help her search.

  The Bruce lay on his back now, still strewn across his large wooden dining table. Word had spread through the camp like wildfire that an attempt had been made on the King’s life with poison, and many had gathered to watch her work or offer to help. She had more boiling water and brawny men to hold the King upright than she knew what to do with, but she was touched at how so many had wanted to come to her aid as she had worked through the night to try to keep the Bruce alive.

 

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