by Ruth Kaufman
But he hesitated. The serving maid, Alba, had been the most recent one to run screaming from his room. The terror he had seen in her eyes was a hot barb against his heart. So many now feared the Demon Laird. That was why he walked the halls only at night, unable to remain a prisoner in his own solar. He could not tolerate remaining trapped in one room for so long, not after what the English had done to him.
He paced before the loophole, his heart at war with his common sense. He should be down there, he needed to be down there. But if he suffered another attack . . . it was only by God’s good grace that his people hadn’t voiced their fears to the Church. He had worked hard assuming the duties of laird after his father passed. He had earned the loyalty of his people through blood and sweat, through shared tears and laughter. But Ronan knew the terror the common people possessed, that he had bartered his soul to the devil in order to free himself. A memory forced itself upon his vision, he had clawed his way to freedom from the black earth, covered in muck and slime. The stench still filled his nostrils. He shook the vision away, his heart racing. Aidan had told him of what happened during these new attacks, how he foamed at the mouth like some diseased animal.
That this was demonic was the farthest thing from the truth. Yet as he fought to deny it, he felt the hatred growing within him. It was a black, foreign thing. It had never been in Ronan’s nature to hate. But there it was, festering in his soul, growing in power with each day, forcing him to acknowledge its existence. It terrified him that he could not control it, he could not rid himself of it. Perhaps he truly was a demon now, for surely only a demon could harbor such darkness.
The nobles of allied clans also doubted his ability to remain as laird. Ronan shivered. Although he knew he had not made such a terrible pact, he wondered if the English had somehow managed to curse him. He had known blackouts in his childhood, but they had subsided to rare occurrences as an adult. Since his torture, the blackouts now came more frequently. He thought over the details his brother had given him of the attacks that had followed. This was something completely new, but they didn’t always happen after a blackout, just as one had not followed when he suffered a blackout when the Sassenach had arrived.
Damnation, he had been mortified that she had witnessed the event.
You are wrong. You have great need of a healer.
The Sassenach had not recoiled in terror, instead, she had stepped forward and touched his shoulder when she should have run screaming. He swallowed hard and tried to force down the strange emotions rising within him. He could not afford to have anyone see him like that again.
Ronan shook his head, suddenly discovering that he struggled to catch his breath. The sounds of crying from the bailey grew louder, as haunting as the terrifying memories of his nightmares. To bloody hell with it, he had to escape his solar. He needed to be down there helping his people. He grabbed his cloak and donned it then yanked the door open.
He took two steps down the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane while his injured leg protested. He heard a noise and only then realized his mistake.
A young maid ascended the stairs—not Alba but a lass he recognized who delivered bedding to the washer-women every morning. She carried a full basket of linens and she hummed softly as she walked. Ronan froze. With his lame leg, he could not move fast enough to return to his solar before she spotted him. He swallowed hard as she looked up.
Her gaze locked on his. Her eyes widened and her face drained of color. He saw the tremor pass through her.
He took a breath to speak, but her eyes widened even more. She screamed and her foot slid backward involuntarily.
“Nay, lassie,” he whispered. His own eyes widened as he realized if she shifted her weight any more she would topple backward down the stairs. She dropped the basket and her entire body contorted as she teetered.
“Nay!” Ronan lunged forward to grab her, to stop her fall.
But she flinched violently away from him and fell. Her head slammed into one of the wooden stairs and she tumbled like a broken doll down the flight. She came to a stop on the stone floor of his keep and remained unmoving.
Horror coiled through Ronan as he stared at the blood on her face. “Nay, lassie.” But he suddenly could not move, shock rooting him in place.
Other servants ran toward her. “Fetch the healer!” one cried. He looked up the stairs and saw Ronan. His face turned a ghastly shade of gray. “Nay,” he whispered. “How could ye?”
More servants gathered. The horror and fear Ronan saw in their expressions was more than he could bear. He turned and quickly limped back up the stairs.
Lia heard the girl’s screams and bolted from the tiny sick room and into the great hall. As she rounded the corner, the girl’s cries fell silent, but she heard others calling for the healer. She fisted her skirts and lengthened her stride. She saw the girl lying still at the base of the stairs, blood covering her face. Oh sweet Mary, what had happened? She slid to a stop beside her, noting the other servants gazed not at the girl but at something upon the stairs.
Lia looked up in time to see the dark swirl of a cloak disappear into the shadows.
“What happened?” Lia asked, trying to push the other servants away so she could check the girl.
“The Demon Laird,” one whispered. “He attacked her.”
Lia stopped and stared at him. “Attacked her?”
“I heard her screaming and ran tae help. I saw him atop the stairs. He didna move, he didna do anything tae help her.”
Lia returned her attention back to her patient. She still breathed, but the wound on her skull was grievous. Lia had serious doubts if she would survive it. “Take her into the great hall and put her on a pallet, but carefully.”
“Aye, milady,” the man said.
Lia rose, her gaze returning to the dark stairwell. Was it possible? Did this young laird just try to kill an innocent maid? Or had the girl been so startled by him that she inadvertently fell? Lia drew a deep breath into her lungs and hurried after the others.
Ronan sat at the table in his solar staring at his wine cup. He tried to dismiss the images from his mind but failed. The terror in the lass’s eyes, the blood soaking her hair and face. He squeezed his eyes closed and a single tear traced down his cheek. Fury cut through him, burning away his sorrow. He bolted to his feet, and with a roar, flung his wine cup across the room. The ceramic mug shattered against the wall.
He stared at it, fighting to breathe, clenching and unclenching his fists. But the soft sounds of his people crying in pain still whispered through the loophole, taunting and tormenting him. He gritted his teeth against the beast that had been unleashed within him. He wanted to scream for it to stop, to cover his ears until their cries no longer resounded in his skull.
A feminine voice rose over the cacophony in his head and heart and gave him pause. He scowled and stepped to the loophole. Ronan saw a tall woman moving among the sick, efficiently directing servants and able-bodied people to help. She wore a plain woolen dress with a full apron covering the front. She had tied her long auburn hair back, but it glowed a rich, burnished bronze in the sunlight.
A different rage shot through him. What was she still doing here? The Sassenach should have been escorted from his keep at first light. Furious that his orders had been ignored, Ronan stepped toward the door. He would bellow for Aidan, and the servants, fearing the wrath of the Demon Laird, would find his brother forthwith. As Ronan’s hand fell on the latch, a knock sounded, and he ripped it open.
Aidan stood before him, scowling. “I ken that look on yer face.”
“Get rid of her.”
“Nay,” Aidan snapped and stepped into the room. He shouldered Ronan aside and closed the door firmly behind him. “We need her.”
“I dinna want her in my home!”
“Ronan,” Aiden growled. “Sit down and be silent, ye sorry cur.”
Ronan spat a curse and did not move. “I am still laird here.”
Aidan studied him a l
ong moment, drew a deep breath into his lungs, and sighed softly, his temper fading. “Ronan, be at ease, I dinna wish ye tae suffer another attack.”
His body relaxed slightly. Aidan was right. Whenever he became enraged it seemed that his attacks struck more suddenly and more powerfully.
Aidan stepped back and moved to the bottle at the table. Pouring two cups of wine, he motioned for his brother to sit. Then his gaze fell on the smashed cup on the floor.
“What happened this morn?”
Ronan flinched and took the cup his brother offered. “I didna attack the lass.”
Aidan sat with him. “I ne’er thought ye did.”
“Ye are the only one.” He paused and gestured to the loophole. “I saw the villagers. I was coming below stairs tae help, damn their fear of the Demon Laird tae hell.”
Aidan took a drink and studied his brother a long moment. “She saw ye and panicked.”
“Aye.”
“That’s why she fell.”
“Aye.”
“Ronan, the fault doesna lie with ye.”
“It doesna?” He paused and shook his head. “I kenned better, I kenned I shouldna leave the solar. At least no’ during the day.”
Again Aidan fell silent, studying him. “Ronan, as tae the healer, I ken ye dinna want her here, but we need her.”
“She is a Sassenach,” Ronan growled. His intense rage faded to simmering frustration.
“She is a healer,” Aidan countered. He paused and drew a deep breath. “She doesna ken what this is yet, but it seems tae be some sort of plague.”
“How do ye ken she isna trying tae kill every Scot she touches? How do ye ken she didna bring this plague with her?”
“Because I’ve watched her, Ronan. I’ve seen how she treats our people. I’ve seen her caring and compassion.”
Ronan waivered. Aidan’s powers of observation were unparalleled, and there was no one Ronan trusted more.
Aidan took a drink then sat his cup on the table with a thunk. “Come with me,” he growled. He rose and stepped for the door.
Ronan hesitated.
“Ye will be able tae observe from the foot of the stairs,” Aidan said. “They willna see ye.”
Ronan placed his cup next to his brother’s on the table, rose, and followed him out the door.
At the base of the stairs, he stopped in horror. The sick and infirm filled the great hall, many on pallets on the floor, still others huddled against the walls. The Sassenach had taken control of Ronan’s high table and used it to mix medicants.
“Milady,” Alba called, kneeling beside the unconscious maid who had fallen this morning. The Sassenach dropped her mortar and pestle and sprinted to the girl’s side. She checked for a life-beat against the girl’s throat, then her hazel eyes filled with tears. “Blessed Mary, nay,” she whispered and shook her head.
Ronan’s throat constricted and he swallowed against the sorrow rising within him.
“I am sorry,” the Sassenach whispered. She stroked the girl’s hair from her brow with such compassion Ronan felt tears burning in his eyes. She then took a blanket and pulled it over the maid’s head.
Alba covered her face and started to sob. The Sassenach motioned to two braw young lads. They silently approached, their expressions grim. The Sassenach helped Alba to her feet and pulled her out of the way while she cried bitterly. The lads picked up the maid’s body and carried her out.
Ronan choked softly then turned away. Sorrow and guilt nearly brought him to his knees. It was his fault the girl was dead.
“Ronan,” Aidan said, gently gripping his shoulder. “Watch.”
Unwillingly, Ronan returned his gaze to the hall.
The Sassenach guided Alba to a chair, fetched a cup from the table, and handed it to her. As Alba drank, the Sassenach crouched before the maid and took her hand. She spoke to Alba, but Ronan could not make out her words.
Aidan inclined his head slightly. “Alba, I am sorry,” he whispered, relating the healer’s words. Ronan watched him for a moment. His brother had learned to glean what a person said by just watching their lips as they spoke. “I know she was your friend.”
“Why did the Demon Laird kill her? She was a kind soul; she ne’er hurt anyone.”
The Sassenach’s expression grew stern. “Alba, cease. We do not know what happened. ’Tis not our place to judge. He may have simply startled her and she fell. I suspect it was an accident, nothing more.”
Ronan looked at his brother in surprise, but Aidan’s concentration was focused on the healer.
“Alba, I know this hurts your heart, but I need your help. These people, they need your help.”
Ronan watched the gradual change come over Alba. She drained her cup, straightened her shoulders, and rose from the chair.
“What can I do, milady?”
The Sassenach smiled and rose with her, gripping her hands. “That’s my girl. The medicant cups—I have made barley water in hopes it might ease the stomach pains.”
“I will see tae it, milady.”
“Thank you, Alba.”
Alba walked away and Aidan fell silent. But Ronan’s attention remained locked on the Sassenach as she too became a different woman. Tears filled her eyes as she looked over the great hall, and for the first time, her hands shook. She turned away, her shoulders bowed as if under a great weight. She cleaned her hands in a bowl of water, bowing her head.
Ronan swallowed hard, unable to understand the sudden longing that roared to life within him. He wanted nothing more than to comfort and encourage her as she waged her war against death. He gritted his teeth against the impulse.
The Sassenach drew in a couple of deep breaths, and as soon as she turned around, servants helped another sick villager into the great hall, moving straight for her. Again Ronan recognized him. Nay! The man was Connell’s younger brother. He was not married yet but lived on the outskirts of the village as a leather tanner. Ronan’s gaze returned to the healer. The strength that he had witnessed before returned, and she began a new battle to save a life. Ronan turned away, unable to help, unable to watch any longer.
“Well?” his brother asked.
Ronan took a step toward the stairs but hesitated. “She stays,” he growled. For some reason, he could not look at his brother. “Until this is over. After that, I want her gone.”
“Nay,” Aidan said, his voice tight. “She stays and that’s all there is tae it.”
Ronan took a breath to rebuke his brother but then stopped and released it. “What is her name?” he asked softly.
“Lia.”
Ronan nodded and slowly ascended the stairs.
That night Lia barely had time to wolf down some food. The great hall was filled to bursting. She was grateful for Aidan giving her leave to use it but also hated the fact it was so full. It seemed villagers streamed into the keep, able to defeat their terror of the Demon Laird in an effort to seek her aid. She didn’t understand—so many people, their symptoms the same, and all at once. Surely it had to be a plague of some sort. But why were none in the castle sick? This illness struck without regard to station, age, or health, except for seemingly avoiding those who lived and worked in the keep.
Although Lia was not given to superstition, the villagers’ belief in the Demon Laird’s curse made a strange sort of sense. Some aspects of this were very familiar, but she could not place the specifics. She needed to review her journal, but thus far, every time she sat for the barest moment to do so, someone else needing her aid came through the door.
The night aged and the castle finally quieted. Occasionally, a soft moan of pain would break the silence, but for the most part, the sick rested. The medicant she had developed to soothe their aching stomachs seemed to be working, as long as the person could keep it down.
Lia prepared herself a cup of mulled wine with herbs to help clear the cobwebs from her head. She knew her work was only beginning, and it would be a long time before she could get any sleep. But things seemed q
uiet now, and she took the opportunity to fetch her journal and sit at the high table with quill and ink. She quickly made notes on a new piece of vellum.
Lia’s journal was simply loose sheets of vellum she kept between two sturdy pieces of leather bound with a tie across the quarters. When she removed the tie, she was able to sort through the vellum and organize them in any manner she chose. This time she sorted them by symptoms. Why did this plague seem so familiar? Who had she treated? What had been the result?
She was poring over the pages when a soft sound behind her caused her to bolt from her chair. She spun, her heart pounding wildly, but she saw nothing. There were two shadowed alcoves behind her, but the blackness they harbored now suddenly seemed foreboding. Her gaze searched each one. She heard another noise, a soft scrape, and then a chill breath of air whispered through the room and pricked the gooseflesh on her arms.
Lia took an involuntary step back, feeling as if something were watching her, as if the walls themselves had eyes. She desperately searched the shadows for any answer. Surely it was a rat or some other vermin searching for a scrap of food. But the great hall was clean; there did not appear to be anything to draw rats into the keep.
Her heart continued to race, and she struggled to suck in her breath. But the shadowed alcoves did not reveal the source of the noise. The strange sensation of something watching her faded, and she began to wonder if she had imagined it. Perhaps she was more tired than she realized.
“Milady,” a voice said from behind her.
Lia barely bit back a scream and spun.
Lachlan stood before her, looking at her curiously. “Milady, forgive me, I dinna mean tae—”
“It’s all right, Lachlan,” she said, placing her hand on his arm in relief, but it was more to steady herself. She shook like a leaf battered in a storm. “I fear this day has been difficult. My nerves are ready to snap.”
“Understandable, but pray, Connell be worried over his wife.”
Lia’s gaze crossed the great hall. Connell sat with his family, worrying himself to distraction. “What’s wrong?”