“She told me to run to the keep and tell you that she was sick,” Gavin provided. “But she was not sick. I said so, and she said I was wrong. She ate it.” His face crumpled as he fought tears. “Then she was sick.”
“The root in her hand?”
The boy nodded.
Fergus recalled well enough the speed with which monkshood did its deadly business. “Where did she get it?”
“She smelled the herbs after you left and found it there.”
“Was your mother a healer?”
The boy shook his head, his eyes wide. “Nay, sir. It is Helga at Dunnisbrae who tends the sick.”
“Did your mother name the root she ate?”
The boy shook his head again.
Was it possible that Isobel had chosen a root on a whim and had the misfortune to choose the most toxic one? Or had she been intent upon destroying Fergus’ happiness, because he had denied her? He could not say, but the shadow of dream seemed very dark in this moment. He sent the boy to the kitchens with Murdoch, for he knew he would be treated with care there. Fergus stood outside the hut, considering his course, then Leila joined him. He told her what the boy had said.
Leila nodded. “Was she sufficiently angry to kill herself in order to cause you trouble?”
“Who can say?”
“I did not know her, but she did not strike me as a woman who would willingly endure such torment. There were other herbs that would have been more kind.”
“What else was there?”
“There was the milk of poppies, which surprised me. I know it well from home. It offers a gentle death. One sleeps deeply and, with sufficient dosage, never awakens.”
“She might not have known it.” Fergus nodded. “I will ask this Helga, the healer of Dunnisbrae, when I take Isobel’s body home.”
Leila frowned. “Are you certain you must take her there yourself?”
“I would rather not, but I fear that Stewart may be insulted if I do otherwise.”
“I suspect he may be insulted either way,” Leila said, her manner pragmatic. “His wife is dead, after she fled to you.”
“And after I brought her a rich gift.” Fergus grimaced. “I should have taken your advice, Leila, and forgone the gift. I fear it encouraged Isobel to believe that more was possible between us than could be. I thought only to be kind, and to show her the respect to tell her of Kerr myself. He was under my protection, after all.”
Leila nodded. “You are kind, Fergus, but there are others who are not. I understand why you would take Lady Isobel home, but I fear for your reception. Will you take as many men as possible with you as escort?”
“You think Stewart will assault me?” Fergus considered what he knew of his neighbor and had to admit that it was a possibility. “I will take your advice this time, Leila, though I hope that you are mistaken. I will take Yvan and Murdoch with me, as well as Hamish.”
Leila’s lips thinned but she said no more.
“Tell me,” Fergus prompted.
“I know you think it prudent to show such courtesy to your former betrothed.” Leila’s dark eyes flashed. “But you cannot be surprised if there are those who imagine me to be your whore and little more.”
“What did Isobel say to you?”
“That a handfast suited a man’s convenience, just as I suspected.” Leila shook her head. “I am not certain that I can make a home here, Fergus, though perhaps I am simply tired in this moment.” She turned away and he sensed that she hid some detail from him. Then she spoke and he guessed that she was shy. “Perhaps you should stay in the hall this night. My courses have begun and I cannot welcome you abed.”
Fergus thought there was more to sharing a bed than the efforts to create a child, but bit back his words. He thought Leila looked smaller than was her wont. More fragile and in need of his protection.
“I am sorry.”
“As am I,” she said softly.
Had Leila found another man who could claim her heart? Fergus hoped it was not so, but he had noted how much time she spent with Murdoch.
Would she request a release from their handfast now that there was no chance of a child to bind them together? Fergus hoped not but he sensed her withdrawal and wished to speak to her.
Yet, he would not decline her request.
If she loved another, he would release her so that she could be happy.
Fergus was vexed that he had duties to attend the next day and resolved to do whatever was necessary to hear all of her doubts and fears upon his return.
“As you wish,” he ceded, hoping his agreement would please Leila but she gave no indication of her thoughts. “We will ride out before the dawn and return as quickly as possible. I pray it will be just after midday.”
Leila nodded, but her concern was clear. “Do you see the shadow yet?”
“I do,” Fergus admitted, though he did not tell her that it had become much darker. They would each keep their secrets, though he regretted the change. “But do not tell my father of it. I hope it will dissipate when Isobel is home forever.”
“As do I, Fergus,” Leila murmured. “As do I.”
He claimed her hand in his and kissed her fingertips, holding her gaze. “When I return, Leila, we must talk of our present and our future. You must tell me your hopes and fears, and I vow I will see that all evolves as you desire.”
She stared into his eyes for a long moment, but he could not guess her thoughts. “Aye, you will,” she agreed quietly. “For you are a man who keeps his vow, regardless of the cost.”
“Will you tell me about your home in Jerusalem?” Fergus asked, not wanting to be spent the night apart. Leila cast a glance at him that made her look vulnerable. “You never have. I did not wish to prompt sad memories, but I would like to hear of it.”
Leila considered this for a moment, then nodded. “If you desire, my lord.”
“I will come to you after I have arranged all for the morning.”
She shook her head with a resolve he recognized. “You will need your rest before you depart. I will tell you after you return.”
It was a rebuff and one that stung.
With a nod, Leila turned and left him there. Fergus watched her go, his gaze clinging to her small figure, unable to fight the sense that something precious slipped through his fingers.
* * *
Leila did not sleep.
It was not solely because she had lied to Fergus. She felt as if her tale about her courses planted a stake between them, the beginning of a barrier that could quickly become an insurmountable wall.
She felt as if she had erred in beginning the construction of that obstacle.
On the other hand, she tired of his persistent consideration for beautiful Isobel. Even in death, the other woman drew his attention and his time. Leila suspected Fergus did not understand how difficult it had been for her to try to make allies in a strange land, with unfamiliar customs, where people spoke a language in which she was not fluent. She missed having a friend or a confidante, and though she had hoped that might be Fergus, it seemed that it was only abed that they had a perfect union.
The fact was that she would have done as much as she had done already and more besides, simply for the promise of winning his heart. Her determination faltered because she began to fear that his heart would never again be his to surrender.
Isobel had died with it securely in her grasp.
She knew from Radegunde that it had taken Duncan twenty years to dare to love again after the death of his beloved. Leila knew she was not so patient as that.
Did she desire too much too fast? Was she overly impatient? Perhaps her dutiful attempts to be the wife Fergus needed were not sufficient to win him truly.
Perhaps they never could be.
She would never be tall, beautiful or blond, after all. Aye, as Leila stared at the canopy overhead, her doubts redoubled and redoubled again. Should she tell him that she had conceived? She did not know. She was not even certain herself.
She feared that Fergus would make theirs a marriage in truth, then, but for the sake of the child’s legitimacy, not out of any affection for her.
And she would be trapped in this land, trapped with a man who forever yearned for another, trapped amongst strangers.
Alone.
It was unlike Leila to be indecisive, but when it came to the matter of Fergus, she was torn. Could he ever come to love her? She was not interested in half-measures and she did not need his complete commitment immediately—what she did need was hope. She wanted her husband to be Fergus, and for Fergus to love her as completely as she loved him. She wanted their children to be conceived in love and raised in a loving household. She wanted all of him and was prepared to surrender all of herself. But though she made progress with others at Killairic, she felt that Fergus still regarded her as a comrade.
Was it true about the babes in his family all having red hair? Or had Fergus denied Gavin to avoid a confrontation with Stewart? Leila wished she knew. Could there be more to the matter than that? There might well be a custom of which she was ignorant.
She rolled over, vexed with her own endless questions.
Had Fergus lied to her about the import of the handfast? Leila doubted as much, but after Isobel’s words, she wondered. It was likely the other woman had intended to cause dissent, but that did not mean there was no truth to her words.
Leila exhaled mightily. The truth was that she was prepared to accept less for herself, in the hope of the future bringing more, but she was not willing to compromise the future of her child. She might be second-best, a substitute for the dead Isobel, but her child would not stand second to Gavin. She would leave Killairic, Scotland, and Fergus before she let her child grow up with the conviction that he or she was not good enough.
The possibility that she had conceived changed all for her.
Was that selfish? Did she make too emotional a choice? Leila’s thoughts spun and she knew it was because she had no anchor, no friend, no one to hear her worst fears and dispel them, either with laughter or practicality. She had no one in whom she could confide, no one she trusted fully, no one who would tell her when she was wrong.
She ached to see Aziza again, to talk to her just once, to pour out her worries and have her cousin laugh at her, then help her to see the solution.
Leila’s heart clenched and she closed her eyes against unwelcome tears, refusing to recall her parting from Aziza. She would think of her cousin’s life on this day instead.
It was yet dark here, but the first tinge of the sun was on the horizon. It would be morning at home by now and Leila envisioned her cousin there. Aziza would be in the kitchen, where the sun shone brightly in the morning, warming the room. Leila’s uncle would be in the adjacent smithy, greeting his neighbors and starting the fire in his forge. There would be the sound of horses being brought to the smithy, and those stabled there being fed by the two boys who worked for her uncle.
Karayan would be telling the woman who helped in the house what to do, though Noura knew her labor well enough. Noura would roll her eyes at his bossiness even as she complied. Aziza and Noura would have started the bread already and the house would be filled with the scent of it. Aziza would be playing with her son, Kamal, in the sunlight, and Noura would halt her tasks to admire the baby at such frequent intervals that Karayan would chide her for her laziness. They would bicker, as familiar with each other as a married couple, though in truth they were not.
Leila smiled, able to perfectly envision the house.
Kamal had been a new babe when Leila had touched her lips to his soft brow in farewell, the dark tangle of his baby hair tickling her face. He had chortled at her, his dark eyes wide, not understanding that they parted forever.
Kamal would be crawling by now, chubby with Aziza’s good care, strong and tall for his age. He had been a long baby, and even then, the cousins had agreed that Kamal would take after his father, Husain.
A handsome man and a hard worker, Husain was soft spoken and kind, as well as honorable. His eyes shone when he entered Aziza’s presence, and Leila’s cousin always smiled at the sight of her husband. The love between them had been so strong from the outset that it was clear they had been meant for each other.
How much would Kamal have grown by now? How much more silver was in Noura’s hair? Had Aziza conceived again? What of Husain? Was his business thriving? He had wanted to put his olive press in the house, a matter of great contention with Leila’s uncle, though Hakim well understood the urge to keep one’s eye upon one’s trade. She wondered if those two had found a solution. Aziza had been adamant that she would not move from her father’s home to her own. Perhaps Hakim had built that small addition to the back of the kitchens, as Karayan had quietly suggested one night as a compromise.
If only Hakim could have chosen such a good man for Leila as he had selected for his own daughter.
If only the cousins’ dreams of raising their children together could have come true.
But it was not to be, and Leila would not mourn what could not be hers. She was more pragmatic than that. As the sun brightened the sky, she thought of the donkey in the tale and smiled. She recalled all that was good about her life, instead of dwelling upon the lack. She was handfasted to Fergus, a good and honorable man who treated her well, and resided in his home. She reminded herself that the smith thought well of her, as did Hamish and Murdoch. She, Hamish and Fergus had ensured the safety of the reliquary, and Calum was kind to her. She had been in Scotland a mere month.
Instead of reassuring her, that fact made her realize that she might have only eleven more months with Fergus as her husband.
Still, she did not know whether to tell him about the child. She might be wrong, after all, and she would not raise his hopes. Perhaps, she should wait until she missed a second bleeding, to be certain.
It felt like a deception, another post in that barrier—though it was an omission and not a lie. Still, it seemed like splitting hairs to note the difference.
Leila heard horses and rose from the bed, standing at the window but ensuring that she was hidden by the shutter. She caught her breath when Fergus glanced up as he mounted Tempest. The sight of him, she feared, would always have the power to stir her. She watched as they made their preparations.
The small party rode through the gates just as the sun slipped over the horizon. Fergus rode Tempest, Hamish rode a palfrey, Yvan rode his destrier and Murdoch rode another palfrey. A third palfrey pulled a wagon with a shrouded bundle in the back, and Gavin sat alongside the villager who rode in the wagon. Was it the young miller? Leila thought as much but could not be certain.
Leila watched the party until it were out of sight, still snared in indecision. Then she shook her head and decided to act rather than fret. She bathed in the cooled water from the night before, then dressed. She picked up her small rug, hoping the day ended with more promise than it had begun.
It should do so, for Fergus would be returned.
* * *
It was late morning when Fergus and his party reached Dunnisbrae.
Stewart came to the gates himself to meet them. He was dressed for battle, as seemed to be his custom, and there was now a patch over his right eye. His expression was grim. “Where is she?” he demanded, then his gaze fell upon the bundle in the cart and he paled.
Fergus knew then that Stewart had cared for Isobel.
Gavin jumped from the wagon as soon as it stopped and ran to his father, who swept him up immediately. “She is dead, Father. She died!”
“What is this?” Stewart demanded. “Where? When?” He came to the side of the cart, and held the boy’s head against his shoulder, then flicked a finger. The miller’s son pulled back the shroud so he could see Isobel’s face and Stewart’s jaw clenched. He crossed himself and stepped back, obviously shaken.
“She came to Killairic yesterday,” Fergus said, choosing his words with care. “She said you had had a disagreement but I bade her to return home to res
olve matters with you. It was too late for her to complete the journey before darkness fell, so she was to sleep in an empty hut in the village, then ride out this morning.”
“Not in the hall?” Stewart demanded.
“Not in the hall,” Fergus confirmed.
The other man winced. “Whatever killed her was not kind.”
“She ate a root,” Gavin said.
“What manner of root?” Stewart asked and the boy shrugged.
“I believe it was monkshood,” Fergus said. “My question is whether she knew the healing plants. Did she err in choosing this one, or did she select it apurpose?”
“You infer that my wife sinned and took her own life by choice? How dare you say as much!” Stewart’s voice rose. “Of course, she erred! What manner of hut did she occupy that such a root was even there?”
“It was the abode of the former healer of Killairic, and the sole one empty,” Fergus said with growing impatience. “I sought to give her shelter, naught more, Stewart, and to ensure that she was not riding during the night, when ill could befall her.”
Stewart took a deep breath and stepped back. “Of course, Fergus. I would ask your forgiveness for my sharp words.” He ran a hand over his head and looked almost lost. “This is a most unwelcome surprise.”
Although Fergus could appreciate the sentiment, it seemed most odd for it to have been expressed by Stewart. That man had not shown any such sensitivity or tact in the past, but he dared to hope that there was a change. It was clear that he was distraught by the loss of Isobel, which indicated that he had loved her. Perhaps there was more to his neighbor than he had glimpsed in the past. At Stewart’s gesture, Fergus’ company rode through the gates, where the villagers came to their doors to watch their passage.
“My lady Isobel is dead,” Stewart cried and the tale was repeated, the news spreading through the village. “I ask you all to name her in your prayers. She will be buried on the morrow.” He indicated the chapel ahead to Fergus. “Let us take her there, that the candles can be lit for the vigil. Summon the priest!” he called and a boy ran to do his bidding.
The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance Page 29