Love’s Magic

by Traci E Hall

  Nicholas delegated his bucket duties to Willy and then came in to ask Viola some questions. “How are you feeling?”

  Celestia rolled her eyes, but the maid answered with a quavering voice, “Like I am dying, my lord. But now that Lady Celestia is here, for certes, I’ll be fine.”

  “Of course, you will,” Celestia said.

  “It was the Scottish rebels, my lord.”

  Nicholas pulled a stool over to the pallet and sat so that he wasn’t towering over the injured maid. “How do you know?” His pulse sped.

  “I saw a plaid,” Viola whispered, her big brown eyes wide with fright. “And then I heard a ‘thwack,’ and then I saw I was hit. The edge of the forest should be safe, Lord Nicholas. I was but looking for berries.”

  “I see.” Nicholas hated not being able to protect his people, and he folded his hands over one knee. Then he saw the discarded cloak on the floor by the bed. Bloody and torn, Nicholas’s gut knotted as he picked the thing up. “Celestia, isn’t this your cloak?”

  Viola tried to rise from the bed. “Lady Celestia said I could borrow it against the chill, my lord. I didn’t steal it!”

  “Calm yourself, Viola. Of course, you didn’t steal it.”

  Nicholas looked up and saw the warning in Celestia’s eyes. She was right, again. Viola needed to stop dying before he could question her so hard.

  “Nicholas, would you go see what is taking so long with the water, please? Beatrice should have had some boiling in the kitchen. Two separate buckets.” She turned from Viola’s side, pushing Nicholas toward the door.

  She tugged his head down, and whispered in his ear, “I will use my hands to heal the wound, but not in front of the new servants. They know me not, and I won’t harm you by people saying that I am a witch.”

  Even in the midst of a crisis, she thought of him. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her nose. “Would you not concern yourself about me and my reputation? Heal Viola, as only you can. I have grown used to her.”

  Because wherever Viola is, Celestia was near at hand. And, indeed, just knowing that made his blood warm, he realized with a start.

  “Go, then! I have much work to do. But only you or Petyr can enter the chamber once I begin.”

  “I don’t want Beatrice in here,” Viola agreed weakly. “All she did was wring her hands and cry. If anybody is going to cry around here, it is going to be me.”

  Celestia pushed Nicholas out of the room and shut the door, certain he would follow her orders.

  Trusting he would keep them all safe.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed as she worked over the maid’s wound. It was deep and ragged, and it tore in exactly the same way that Sir Geoffrey’s wound had.

  Celestia took extra time cleansing the area, looking for the poisoned pieces of feather. She couldn’t think about who was behind the attack, not yet.

  A healer had to concentrate. She’d given Viola an infusion of coltsfoot, balm, and yarrow, to help with internal bleeding and pain. Her family was not certain how their gifts worked, only that they did. Whenever possible, they combined their powers with herbs.

  Whispering a prayer, she rubbed her hands together. She visualized the four humors of the body, then focused on the tear in Viola’s side. When her hands were warm, she placed them over the wound. Bending her head forward, she prayed to all the saints to help her heal Viola. She frowned; the wound was deep.

  The crimson red of the gash pulsed with gray. Celestia went deeper into her own spirit, moving her hands over the afflicted area, time and again. It was a challenge, and she had to reach deeper and deeper until she wondered if she was using the last of her powers.

  But she could not let Viola die.

  She kept rotating her hands in a circular motion, hovering a half inch over the skin, until finally the gray burst like a pus bubble and dissipated. Sighing with relief, she wiped the sweat above her brow. “My thanks,” she whispered, keeping her warm hands over Viola’s side until the tissue was a healthy pinkish-red and her hands cooled.

  A ceramic pot crashed to the floor. Startled, Celestia rocked back on her heels, neglecting to cover Viola’s healed wound in her surprise. Beatrice stood at the door, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with terror, and Celestia could do nothing but stare at the new cook. Where was Nicholas?

  Beatrice opened her mouth and shouted, “Witch! Ye’re a witch, I knew it. I heard that you practiced the black arts, and now I’ve seen it with me own two eyes. I should never have listened to that addle-pated priest—a woman can sense evil. Witch!”

  Nicholas ran to the door and stopped behind Beatrice, a look of intense displeasure on his face. “She’s no witch. Stop your yellin', woman.”

  But it was too little, too late. Celestia sensed the malevolence in the air as if it were a foul smell. She quickly covered the sleeping maid. The new servants, the ones they’d paid extremely well to come work at the “haunted” keep, had heard every word and were fighting to get into the room and look.

  Beatrice gloried in the moment, her small brown eyes gleaming with accusation as she faced her fellow villagers. “I saw it all, I say.” She glared at Nicholas. “The apple never falls far from the tree, my lord. Your mother was crazy, and you must be, too. They say that the Baron Peregrine isn’t even your true father. A bastard and a witch, a match made in hell!”

  The servants all listened with their mouths gaping open.

  “My healing is a gift,” Celestia tried to explain, knowing that she was wasting her breath.

  Celestia heard the clatter of shields and swords as their knights came up the stairs, drawn to the ruckus.

  Petyr pushed his way through until he met Nicholas’s gaze, then he glanced at Celestia and Viola. “What is going on here?”

  Beatrice drew herself up tall. “She is a witch—I demand that you bring her to the priest.”

  Viola chose that moment to wake from her herbal stupor. Before anyone could stop her, she stumbled from her bed with the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her face as pale as death, her brown hair clouded around her head. “What goes on here? Can’t a woman get some rest?”

  Beatrice shrieked as if she’d seen Viola rise from the dead.

  Celestia sighed and looked to Nicholas. “Do you see why I hate to meet new people?”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  Reclining against the propped-up feather pillows, Viola sniffed. “I’m so sorry, my lady. How was I to know that everyone was standing there?”

  Nicholas jabbed at the fire with a poker. “Who would have thought those servants could be so damn sneaky?” He rubbed the back of his head where a thin stream of blood showed through his ebony hair.

  Celestia finished wrapping Viola’s side in linen. “Who would have thought that people have been calling me a witch all through the village? Do you think that Maude started those rumors?”

  All three sighed out loud.

  Nicholas’s stomach growled. “I’m getting hungry. What are the chances those vile peasants will allow us bread and water?

  “Would you really want to eat anything from Beatrice now?” Celestia huffed. “And to think I admired her marzipan!” She stalked over to Nicholas and bade him sit down.

  “I’m too furious to sit,” he grumbled.

  Celestia tugged on his arm. There should be a patron saint for difficult husbands, she thought with a sigh. “It will take but a moment to fix this.” Celestia lightly touched the back of his head.

  “Do you think that the villagers won’t notice that I no longer have a cut on my head after they brained me with a rock?”

  Celestia burst into tears.

  Nicholas pulled her into his lap and held her close. Since she liked it there, she stayed, letting the rumble of his chest beneath her cheek comfort her.

  “I’m sorry, Celestia. This is my fault. I never should have walked to the end of the hall … I was simply stretching my legs as I waited. I never even heard Beatrice wa
lk up the stairs. This marriage has been a disastrous union from the start.”

  Hurt anew, Celestia sprang from his lap. “Father Michael will be here shortly, and this whole mess will be sorted out.”

  Viola scrubbed at her leaking eyes. “So long as he doesn’t demand to see my wound, we’ll be fine. I won’t let them burn ye at the stake, my lady, I won’t.”

  Knees trembling, Celestia raised her chin. “Thank you, Viola. I appreciate that.”

  Nicholas was up and pacing the room, so Celestia followed him. Perchance pacing was a good way to sort a mind humming with one chaotic thought after another.

  “Are you following me?”

  He turned and stopped so that she ran nose-first into his chest. “Ouch!”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Don’t yell.” Celestia rubbed her sore nose. “I’m pacing, if you would get out of my way.” She pushed against his stomach, which was as hard as his chest.

  His lips twitched, and his dark eyes, for a mere second, glittered with amusement. He looked, heaven help her, very full of the devil.

  She blinked, then turned and ran for her herbal medicine bag. Celestia rummaged through some of the tissue-wrapped herbs until she found a dried sprig of angelica. “Mayhap this will help save us.”

  The sound of the door opening had them all hurrying back to position. Viola affected a wan look as she lay back against her pillows, her hand to her brow. Nicholas glared at the doorway, retribution sparking from the ends of his hair. Celestia sniffed into her handkerchief, hoping that sorrow and sadness emanated from every pore. She sent a quick prayer to Saint Vitus, the patron saint of actors and troubadours, that they could pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.

  Beatrice entered the room, looking smug. “See, Father Michael? We have them locked up, just like I said.”

  The old priest shook his large cross in front of Beatrice’s face. “Beatrice. How often do I have to tell you not to meddle? You’ve done it this time! It will be the stocks for three days, woman, no matter what your husband has to say.”

  Father Michael walked quickly to Celestia, who quit sniffing long enough to give him her limp hand. “My lady. I apologize for this disruption. Please forgive my overzealous flock. Your maid was shot with an arrow?”

  Viola lowered her eyes demurely and said in a weak voice, “It was just a graze, good Father, a lot of blood, but not too deep.”

  He got up and knelt by Viola’s side. “Where were you, dear?”

  “At the edge of the forest.” She grabbed his hand, her large brown eyes filling with tears. “It should be safe enough there, Father, to gather berries for a pie. I had Willy and Bertram with me for protection.” Viola cried with more enthusiasm. “To think that they could have been hurt, as well—oh!”

  Celestia found it very difficult to keep a straight face at her maid’s antics, but one look at the severe expression on Beatrice’s face kept her from so much as smiling.

  Father Michael awkwardly patted Viola’s hand. “There, there.”

  Then it was Nicholas’s turn, and he groaned loudly enough to get Beatrice and Father Michael’s attention. He touched the back of his head, making certain that his hand came away covered in blood. “Father Michael, Celestia is no witch. If she were, she could have healed me, for God’s sake.” Nicholas stared at Beatrice. “I will find out which one of you hit me from behind.”

  Father Michael stood, his old knees creaking as he sent a dark glance to Beatrice. The servant was white around the mouth, with anger or fear, Celestia couldn’t tell.

  Not to be outdone, Celestia played her role with gusto. “Let me get something for your head, Nicholas. Why didn’t you say it pained you?” She grabbed her bag, lifting up various herbs. She made sure that the woman and the other servants could see her handling them. She said aloud, “Angelica, garlic, horehound … Viola, where are the blackberry leaves so that I can stop the bleeding on Nicholas’s head?”

  Viola said, “You used the last of them on my wound. We will have to gather more tomorrow.”

  Father Michael’s face was bright red with anger. “Angelica, you said?”

  “Yes, Father Michael,” Celestia answered, lifting her head.

  “And horehound?”

  “Why, yes.” She handed him the neatly tied bunches of dried herbs.

  He took them and showed them to Beatrice, whose entire body was now pale. “Do you see this? If there were any witch’s test, this would be it. It is common knowledge that witches cannot handle these herbs. I am ashamed of you, Beatrice, ashamed.”

  Turning around, he splayed his hands in supplication and said, “My lord Nicholas, I beg your pardon for recommending such a woman to work for you.” He returned the herbs to Celestia and shrugged. “She has a way with marzipan.”

  Nicholas’s lips curved into a slight smile. “So I’ve heard, Father.”

  Celestia’s shoulder’s relaxed as she sensed the crisis was over. Not being burned at the stake was a cause for celebration, but when she looked over at Nicholas to share a smile of relief, her knees buckled.

  He was furious.

  There was no way to ignore the sharp, cutting gaze he was sending to the servants in the hall. If she read him right, he would like to tear them limb from limb. Each step was deliberate, each blink a promise of retribution. Celestia gulped. The servants quaked.

  “Downstairs.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Celestia noticed how they all snapped to attention. “Now.”

  Celestia had never seen Nicholas so driven by emotion of any kind, well, she thought with a blush, except for the few kisses they’d shared that had been enough to curl her toes.

  The knights held themselves stiffly as they surveyed the group of servants. They looked disciplined, yet angry on behalf of Nicholas–he’d truly become their lord, proving himself by word and deed. Yet their tunics of blue and gold were a miserable reminder of Baron Peregrine, and his strangle-hold on Nicholas’s life. Her husband had forced the men to stand down after he had been locked in Viola’s chambers, wanting to prevent bloodshed. Thank all the saints he’d had the presence of mind to send Petyr with Beatrice for Father Michael before the villagers trussed Celestia up with rope and tossed her in the moat to see if she sank.

  She shivered and rubbed her arms as a chill settled against her nape. No, no, not another vision.

  Nicholas stood on a stump at the end of the great room, his anger making him appear even larger than he was. She’d never seen him use his size, nor his looks, to intimidate others before. He looked like the king of his castle. Celestia smiled. It was, for certes, time.

  Like his shoulders, his confidence in his own abilities had grown through hard work and exercise. Was it any wonder that she was so very much in love with him?

  He kept his voice low, yet it boomed off of the stone walls, commanding the attention of all who listened. “I am searching for one good reason not to flay all of you in the courtyard.”

  Celestia’s smile drooped. Nicholas’s dark gray eyes stopped at each shuddering peasant. The knights grinned and flexed their fingers. “So far the only one coming to mind is that then my wife, the healer, would feel honor bound to care for you. I would as soon never see you again. Ingrates.”

  Shy Sally, who worked as a scullion in the kitchens, slowly raised her shaking hand. “Lord Nicholas, we came to work for ye, ‘cause ye paid us well.” She paused, and her friends urged her on. “We’d heard that yer wife was a witch. She has a pointed chin and two different-colored eyes!” The encouragement got louder. “But some of us was so desperate for work that we had to come anyway.”

  There was a chorus of agreement, though most stayed cowering under Nicholas’s stare.

  Beatrice was not willing to give up her time in the sun. “And we heard that she used magical spells.” She lowered her voice theatrically. “We heard she ensnared you with magic, my lord. Why else would you have married such a wee thing?”

  Celestia decided that Beat
rice would look much more attractive with a fat lip. Petyr grabbed her by the shoulder. “Have faith in your husband, my lady. Give him a chance to prove himself.”

  She shrugged off Petyr’s hand and stayed put, but barely.

  Nicholas turned his scowl full force on the arrogant, misinformed cook. “If you ever speak of my wife in such a manner again, you will live to regret it. Where did you hear such nonsense?”

  He gave Beatrice no quarter until she stammered, “The wise woman, me lord.” He started in surprise, but covered it by turning toward the peasants he’d hired. “My wife is no magician,” he spread his hands, “nor is she a witch. An enchantress? Mayhap. She is beautiful. Her eyes? One blue, one green. They beguile, for certes. But she is not evil. Her chin, yes, it is rather pointed, but if she were perfect, then she would not entice me half as much.”

  Nervous laughter filled the room. Father Michael tucked his rosary inside his cloak after kissing the cross. He asked piously, “What will you do with these gossipers, my lord? I am much ashamed to say that they are from my flock. Perhaps I have not been a good shepherd.”

  The peasants looked frightened. Even Celestia wondered if Father Michael might desert them in their time of need.

  Nicholas jumped down from the stump and walked amongst them, his arms brushing theirs. He stopped in front of Sally. “Why were you so ready to believe my wife was a witch?”

  She reddened, two dark blotches against her pale skin. “Me lord!” She scanned the group nervously for aid, but none came forward. She wouldn’t meet his eyes and whispered to her shoes, “Everyone knows the north tower be haunted, me lord. And if ye allow spirits in yer castle, why not a witch for a wife?”

  The others gasped aloud—certain they would all be missing the skin off of their backs come dawn.

  Two tears leaked from the corner of Sally’s eyes as she glanced at him. “I am so sorry, but ye asked, ye did.”

  Hmm. Nicholas folded his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. His volatile fury had spent, leaving a quieter anger that had nothing to do with these uneducated folk. What to do with them?