by Ruth Kaufman
Lachlan led her away from the high table and helped her pick her way through the sick.
Lia glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze again focusing on the shadowed alcove. Something within the darkness moved. She quickly turned away and swallowed hard. It was only her weary imagination. It had to be.
Ronan slowly exhaled and wrapped his cloak more firmly around him as he watched the Sassenach cross the room to speak to Connell. So, she was extremely sensitive to the area around her. He would do well to remember that. The blackness of the alcove he stood in, only a few feet behind her, had cloaked his presence better than the garment he wore, but he had been surprised when she had turned around. He had seen the intensity in her gaze as she searched the shadows, and for an instant, he had been certain she would discover him. But now that she had moved away from the high table, he could examine the sheets of vellum she had left there.
He was surprised the Sassenach could read. Her clothing did not indicate nobility; neither did her bearing nor manner. But as he examined the notes she had made on the vellum, he frowned. He recognized letter groupings: Latin, Common, and French. As laird of his clan, Ronan was fluent in all three, but as he gazed at her writing, he realized none of it made sense. There were also images, simplistic drawings intermixed with the letters. Very strange. Almost like some sort of . . .
“Cypher,” he snarled under his breath.
Had the English sent a spy in the guise of a healer to reside within the walls of Ronan’s keep?
It made more sense than Ronan wanted to admit. How she stated she could not return, her unwillingness to deny his question of her banishment that first night, and now this strange cypher. The English had sent the healer to bring this plague upon his people and report the results. Just as Aidan’s birds sang their songs, this one wrote hers in nonsensical words and images in order to avoid discovery. Ronan gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to step from the shadows and snap the Sassenach’s neck.
Instead, he reached out with one long arm, snagged the sheet of vellum she had just been writing on, and tucked it into the folds of his cloak. Silently, he faded back into the darkness and disappeared.
Chapter Four
Lia knelt beside Connell’s wife and looked at her in alarm. She appeared so very young. Her eyes were closed and her face was deathly gray. Connell knelt on her other side, gripping her shoulders, and Lia realized her body was convulsing, he was trying to keep her still lest she inadvertently strike her sleeping son next to her. The convulsions were weak, and Lia felt the girl’s forehead, gritting her teeth. It was as if she were on fire.
“This . . . this be the same as the MacGrigor,” Connell whispered, terror in his voice. He looked at Lia, his brilliant blue eyes wide with horror.
So the MacGrigor had more than just passive fits. But Lia couldn’t worry about that now. She shoved the information to the back of her mind for later contemplation.
“If you say one word about a Demon Laird’s curse, I will personally haul you out of this keep,” Lia growled. Connell blinked at her, but Lia shook her head. “Connell, I am sorry, her fever is the cause of this. It has gone too high; there is nothing more I can do.”
The convulsion ended and the girl slumped back on her pallet, barely breathing. Connell released her and looked at his brother a short distance away. “My brother?”
“His fever is also high. He is not responding to my medicants.”
Connell’s worried gaze continued to his son. “And William?”
Lia checked his fever and the boy opened his eyes. Sweat dotted his brow, but he looked at her and then at his mother, his intense blue eyes also aggrieved.
“Mum?” His youth and previous good health made him the most likely to survive. And his fever had responded to Lia’s medicants, dropping significantly earlier in the day.
Her hand closed on William’s, but she looked at Connell. “Only time will tell,” she said softly. With her free hand she reached out and gently stroked his long blond hair away from his face. “I am so sorry, Connell.”
“Ye are trying,” he said tightly. “I’ve seen how hard ye’ve been workin’ to save them. I thank ye, lass.”
Lia rose and returned to the high table. William needed another dose of his medicant. Her gaze fell on her sheets of vellum.
She was certain she had started a new sheet of notes, but for the life of her, she couldn’t find it among the others. Lord have mercy, was she already so addlepated she couldn’t keep track of something as simple as a sheet of vellum? This was only the beginning, and Lia knew she had not yet come close to the exhaustion that awaited her. If she was already losing her focus, that did not bode well for those whose lives depended on her. She gritted her teeth and vowed she would pay even closer attention.
While Lia worked on the medicants, a soft, choked sob caught her attention. She looked over to Connell as he bowed his head and squeezed his eyes closed, his entire body quivering. He opened his eyes then gently placed his hand on his wife’s brow, his lips moved as if whispering a prayer. Tears filled his eyes and he pulled the blanket to cover her completely.
“Da?” William asked, his voice tremulous.
“She’s gone, laddie,” Connell said as he moved to sit next to the boy.
“Nay,” William whispered then started to cry.
Connell pulled the boy tightly to his chest, not allowing him to look up while Lachlan and another young man stepped forward and removed the body.
Lia sank in to her chair, tears burning her eyes. Nay, she had to keep her wits. She could not get her emotions so entangled. But Connell had been so kind to her on the journey north. His and Robert’s banter and humor had helped while away the hours. Her heart grieved for him. Lia tamped down her rioting emotions and brought them under control. She had to find the answer to this. She just had to.
Aidan stared at the vellum Ronan had handed him. “I’ve ne’er seen the like,” he muttered and dragged a hand through his hair.
“I’ve ne’er seen a cypher such as this either, Aidan.”
Aidan’s thoughts scrambled. Ronan was certain the healer was an English spy, and from the look of this strange script, Aidan honestly didn’t fault him. For the past two days, Aidan had watched Lia fight to save lives, but it seemed the harder she fought, the faster people died. That also did not help Ronan’s opinion of her.
“Are ye certain she isna killin’ our people?” Ronan growled.
“Aye, brother, I’ve watched her closely, I’ve heard her words.”
“And so have I, brother,” Ronan said softly, pinching his bottom lip in thought. “I’ve also watched Alba and Marta help her make medicants. They mayna be as learned as the Sassenach, but they would ken if she created a poison rather than a medicant.”
“Aye,” Aidan replied nodding. “If they had any doubts, surely one of them would have said something to me.” Aidan put the paper back on the table. “There must be some reasonable explanation.”
Ronan arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do ye think ye can break the cypher?”
“I need more to go on than that.”
“She has many sheets of vellum. I can acquire more for ye.”
“There be somethin’ we’re no’ seein’ here, Ronan.”
“Aye,” Ronan growled and rose, pacing, his limp plainly evident.
“Ye need to stay off that leg.”
Ronan rolled his eyes and plopped back into his chair. He reached for the wine and refilled both of their cups.
Aidan nodded his thanks and took a drink. “Connell’s wife died last night.”
Ronan squeezed his eyes closed. “And his brother?”
“He fears he willna survive this night.”
“Damnation,” Ronan growled and was instantly up and pacing again. “His son?”
“Now there be a bit of good news. William be responding tae the medicants. He’s still fevered, but it be much lower than before, and he is
beginning tae keep food down. There are people growing stronger and improving. That be our best evidence that the healer is true.”
For a second time, Ronan returned to his chair. He sat heavily, rubbing his temples.
“Headache?”
“Aye. Ye have a valid point, Aidan. This could be a natural plague. But what caused it? I’ve heard tell many believe ’tis God’s judgment on the Demon Laird.”
“Cease,” Aidan growled. “I have heard nothing of the sort.”
“Be ye deaf or daft? I ken ye arena deaf, so ye must be daft.”
Aidan couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Now this was more like the brother he knew. But his gaze fell again on the vellum and his humor faded. He had more news to tell Ronan yet had no desire to voice it. The vellum, in conjunction with his news, empowered his own uncertainty. Was it possible? Had he allowed a viper into their midst by bringing an English healer here?
“Yer birds be singing again,” Ronan said.
“Aye.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Ronan, when we found ye, when we brought ye home, MacFarlane was with me.”
Ronan stiffened in his chair but did not reply.
“He witnessed yer attack and grew fearful. I reassured him, begged him to tell the other lairds that ye would survive this, but he was hesitant. He finally agreed but only for Da’s memory, not due to loyalty tae ye. Now I worry. His doubts are great; it is those doubts he voices tae our allies, not reassurances.”
Ronan stared at the floor, his gray eyes bleak. “Perhaps this is all a fool’s errand, Aidan. Perhaps it would be best for the clan if I withdraw and ye become laird.”
Sheer terror shot through Aidan. He was more than willing to help his brother, to step into the role of laird when needed, but only for a time. He had always stood back watching, listening, observing, gleaning information that he would share with Ronan so he could make his decisions. It was there Ronan’s true skills shown. He would take the information Aidan gave him, match it with the problem at hand, understand the people and politics he dealt with in that particular instant, and move forward with a decision—many times one Aidan had not identified but always one that placed the needs of their people first. It was a responsibility Aidan did not want, but one Ronan readily shouldered, and he did it well.
“Nay,” Aidan growled. This time it was he who rose and began to pace. “Ye ken I canna do that.”
“But ye do a fine job when ye step forward as laird.”
“Only because I have ye tae rely on. It is a brief time I stand for ye, and that is the way it must remain.”
“Aidan—”
“Nay,” he snapped. “Ye ken my world is that of whispered words and veiled secrets. I am more than happy that my skills can serve my clan, can serve ye, but bring me out of that world and I will be lost. How will that be best for our people, especially now when Longshanks wages such a vicious war against Scotland?”
Ronan’s shoulders slumped. “I dinna ken if I can do this, brother,” he whispered. “I dinna ken if I can return tae the laird I once was.”
Aidan gently gripped his shoulder, careful to avoid his back and the wounds he had suffered. “Ye can, Ronan, dinna give up now.” He paused and sat next to him, but Aidan’s grip on his shoulder did not ease. “Growing up, ye never gave up on anything. No matter how unattainable it seemed, ye targeted it like a hart and hunted it down. Ye can do this, and God as my witness, I will do everything in my power tae help ye.”
Ronan thought for a long moment then lifted his head. His worried expression eased into a small smile and he slowly nodded. “I . . . I will try.”
“Good man.” Aidan released him and glanced at the loophole, noting the lengthening afternoon shadows. “The church bells will ring soon for Vespers. I will see if Cook has finished our supper and will bring it tae ye.”
“Thank ye.”
Aidan nodded and left the room, descending the stairs rapidly. He had just entered the great hall when a sound caught his attention. He spotted Connell holding his son as the boy cried. Lia knelt next to Connell’s brother, tears streaming down her face as she pulled up a blanket to cover the body.
“Oh, Sweet Jesu, nay,” Aidan murmured. He watched Connell try to comfort William, but he cried just as hard as the boy. Aidan quickly crossed the room, knelt next to his friend, and gripped his arm. “Connell, I am so sorry,” he whispered.
Lia kept a close eye on William and Connell. The boy had finally calmed, sleeping with his head on his father’s chest as Connell sat with his back resting against the wall, his arms holding William securely. She worried over Connell, losing both his brother and wife within a two-day span.
She forced her attention from the two and back to the vellum as she wrote more notes. She was still sorting through others but had a strong sense she was narrowing down the symptoms and getting closer to why this strange plague felt so familiar. But she wasn’t certain yet. She quickly scribbled, trying to catch a thought before it escaped her, but the sound of voices whispering caught her attention and she looked up.
Two men, one who had seen at least fifty seasons and the other probably thirty, sat cross-legged on their pallets, speaking softly to each other.
“Ian, I be too dizzy to do anything, but boredom will soon drive me daft,” the younger one muttered.
“Aye, Seamus,” the elder said and lifted a small pouch. He fished through it and withdrew a handful of dice.
“Praise the saints,” Seamus said in relief and grinned broadly at the older man.
Lia found herself grinning as well as a huge chunk of weight slid from her shoulders. While the two men had been quite ill, it seemed as if their fevers had not spiked as high as Connell’s brother and his wife. Their battle with the plague had not been quite as intense. If boredom was now an issue, that indicated they were on their way to recovery.
She glanced at the cups full of medicants she had made. Alba and Marta moved through the great hall administering each one to the specific person as Lia had instructed. But there were still so many, and it would take hours for them to make their rounds complete. Lia grabbed the two she had made for Ian and Seamus and quickly crossed the room.
“All right, you two,” she said, smiling down at them.
“Forgive us, lassie,” Ian said, giving her a gap-toothed grin. He accepted the cup she handed him and downed it.
Seamus also accepted his cup and drank. “Ye have worked miracles, lass. I feel much better.” He handed the cup back to her.
“Enough to try some broth later?”
“Aye. My stomach be complaining again, but this time I think it be telling me it wants food.”
“I too, lassie,” Ian said.
“Praise be, that is good news.”
Seamus’s smile faded as he looked up at her. “I saw what happened with Connell and his family.”
Lia’s shoulders sagged and she looked to the floor.
“Nay, lassie, I say this not tae hurt ye. But many of us saw ye . . . we saw how much ye tried to save them, but we also saw ye there for both William and Connell. They be good young lads just like—” Suddenly he snapped his jaw closed and looked away.
“Just like?”
“Dinna mind me, lassie, I speak out of turn.”
Curious, Lia knelt next to him. “Seamus, you may always speak your mind with me.”
He glanced sheepishly at Ian. “I was tae say, just like our laird once was.”
Lia drew a deep breath, deciding to get to the bottom of this. “Once was?”
“How did he escape the English? The wounds he bore—no man could do what he did, crawlin’ through a crack in the earth and all to escape.”
Lia gazed at him wide-eyed. They now held their laird’s courage and phenomenal will to live against him?
“Aye, lassie, those of us who are sappers are a small and skinny lot. Our laird be a braw lad,” Ian said but abruptly frowned. He searched around his pallet then dug through his pouch. He pulled out a small undeco
rated clay pipe and scowled as he looked at it.
“Ian,” Lia said reprovingly. “You’re not recovered enough to smoke that yet.”
“I willna smoke it,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling merrily. “No’ yet anyway.” He jabbed the pipe at her as if to punctuate his statement then clamped the stem between his teeth, giving her an unrepentant grin.
Lia couldn’t help but laugh.
“But Seamus speaks truly,” he said again, jabbing the clay pipe but this time at the younger man. “By all rights, our laird should be dead.”
“You would have preferred the English slay him?”
“Nay, dinna misunderstand. Our laird be a good man, just as good as his da, but his escape and now this plague. It be not natural.”
“’Tis the work of the devil,” Seamus muttered.
Lia sighed heavily. “Gentlemen,” she scolded, “this plague is odd, but I have seen nothing yet to give me reason to think it is from the devil.”
“Ye hear that, laddie,” Ian said and winked. “She called us gentlemen.”
Seamus laughed heartily then clutched at his gut. “Pray, lassie, my belly be no’ happy with me laughing yet.”
Ian’s humor faded as he looked again at Lia. “Ye are a goodhearted lass, but ye canna explain this plague. How be it only the villagers have been stricken? Those in the keep be protected from it, even though the sick fill the great hall. How is it so many at once and with such vile consequences? And how is it that it only struck after our laird returned tae us?”
“Aye,” Seamus said nodding. “’Tis a shame, our laird worked hard. He was such a hellion in his youth, many doubted his ability tae lead us when his da passed. But the laddie stepped into the role and grew into a new man before our eyes. I didna think he could do it, but he did, and he earned my respect in the process.”
“Ye even lost a wager tae me over it, if I recall correctly.”
“Aye.”
“Ian, Seamus,” Lia said firmly, “I understand your fear and worry over this plague. But you just stated your laird’s hard work has earned your respect.”