by Lizzy Ford
The thought of leaving with Richard filled her with despair. “I will not leave with him.”
“Ye wish stay here, m’lady?” he asked her.
“I have no intention of remaining.”
“If ye doona plan t’ leave and ye doona plan to stay, then what is yer plan?”
“I assume you will murder me when I try to kill you,” she answered truthfully.
“You choose death over a life with your betrothed?”
“I choose Hell over a life with him,” she said with rare anger in her voice. “For I shall surely burn for my attempt to kill another. I never intended to return to England. This journey was, and remains, my end.”
“If ye ask it of me, I’ll allow ye t’stay.”
She stared at him. “Did you not hear me? I plan to kill you!”
“Yea. I heard.” He seemed to be trying not to laugh. “Yer hands tell me ye’ve never held a dagger, and yer eyes tell me ye’d never kill a man.”
She looked away. “You are wrong, Laird Cade.”
“Yer brave and beautiful,” he said softly. “I ken what it is to have no home, nowhere t’return to. But I believe here is better than the home ye’ll return to, if ye wed that Englishman.”
Embarrassed by the common knowledge of how Richard treated her, Isabel almost corrected Black Cade for speaking on a matter he should not. She did not want to feel more of a connection to him than she had at the river, when their fates, and bodies, had been locked together. “If you want to help me, then you will allow me to kill you. I shall never know peace until I do.” With a hasty bow, she strode away, once again unsettled by her interaction with him.
“I havena finished speaking t’ye, Lady Cade,” he called after her.
“But I am done with you, Laird Cade!”
“Then ye doona mind me sharing the contents of yer bag with your betrothed.”
She froze, her breath caught in her throat.
“You need yer rest today and t’see the healer fer yer leg. I will tell him so,” he said. “Meet me tomorrow morning, before we break our fast, and we will talk.”
What is there to discuss? She almost spoke the words aloud but stopped herself. As pleasant as his words sounded, no part of what he said was a request. She could ill afford to anger the man she meant to kill, but it was the relief washing over her, the knowledge she was at least safe in his home for one more day where she could heal, that left her even angrier.
Why had her enemy chosen mercy once more? Why did it almost sound as if he were protecting her?
Black Cade said nothing more, and she turned to see him walking away. Her eyes lingered too long on his body.
Why can I not hate him? she asked herself quietly. It was a sin, yes, but if any man had earned her sin, it was the one granting her refuge against her own countryman and betrothed. Shame brought warmth to her cheeks this time, and she turned away from him.
At a loss as to how to handle Black Cade or the flurry of unnerving emotion she experienced around him, she did as he bade and returned to her chamber.
An older woman with mostly white hair and bright blue eyes stood immediately from her position seated near the bed. She carried a small basket and offered a quick curtsey.
“My lady, I am the healer. Laird Cade sent me to attend you,” she said with a heavy French lilt to her speech.
Isabel sat on the bench at the bottom of the bed and stretched out her leg. “I doubt there is much you can do,” she said.
“My skills are legendary here,” the healer said and knelt. “I can heal any wound or break.”
Isabel clasped her hands in her lap and watched.
The healer pushed her skirts up to her knee and touched her calf with cool fingers. Isabel hissed at the light touch.
“You are strong, my lady,” the healer said with a concerned smile. “This is broken. You should be in too much pain to walk.”
“If I have learnt anything, it is that women bear pain more quietly and more steadily than men,” Isabel responded.
The healer ducked her head to hide her smile. She lifted Isabel’s leg by the heel and moved it gently.
I am also accustomed to it. Pain radiated through her, but she said nothing, thoughts on the father who hit her as he plunged into madness and the betrothed who beat her out of anger.
“The break is clean and it has begun to set itself,” the healer reported and released her leg. She sat up and leaned forward to touch Isabel’s forehead. “You have a fever, albeit a light one. Black Cade was right. You need to rest.”
“Black Cade …” Isabel started to refuse and then clamped her jaws closed. It was unbefitting of her rank to belittle a laird to his servant. The fact she even considered it supported the healer’s claim that she was ill, for she would never be tempted to voice such words otherwise. “… is wise.”
“He has a sense for these things,” the healer said and rose. “He was meant to heal not kill, but it was not his fate.” She retrieved a satchel laying near the door and began to pull various poultices, herbs and jars from its depths.
Isabel cared little for the curiosity bubbling within her. She managed not to ask about the enigmatic laird. Her eyes went to the herbs and pendants dangling in the window, tossed about by a cool breeze.
“What are these charms?” she asked.
The healer glanced towards them then back at her, hesitating.
“They are beautiful,” she added.
“Talismans of sorts,” was the reply.
“Talisman? For what purpose?”
“It is said they hold magic,” the healer answered.
Isabel gasped. She looked once more around the chamber, and she noticed what was missing the first time she searched it. Of all the trappings in the room, there was no cross or bible.
“Your chieftain is a pagan?” she whispered.
“Yea, he is.”
She crossed herself. “Have you no priest to teach you of the one god?”
“We have a priest,” the healer said and knelt beside her once more. “He teaches us his ways, and we teach him ours.”
Isabel reached into her pocket to retrieve the sacrilegious pendant. She held it up before her eyes. “Magic does not exist,” she stated. “Those who speak of it are heathens.”
“This one spoke to you?” the healer asked.
“Of course not. But I found it charming, and it seems almost to glow.” By every divine law, she should burn the pendant, confess and wash herself until the taint of her sin was gone.
But her hand would not let it go, and her eyes were unable to lift from the tiny spark within the depths of the pink gem.
“This magic is for the heart,” the healer said and placed her hand beneath the dangling pendant. “If it speaks to you, you have known the kind of suffering that leaves no wounds.”
Isabel lowered the pendant, gaze riveted to the healer.
“The magic wants to help you. To heal you.”
“Magic is not real,” Isabel whispered.
“Perhaps in England. But in the Highlands, magic surrounds us, my lady. It is clear you came from elsewhere. You left your world behind, as I did many years ago. This world is unlike those we left.” The healer’s voice was warm, friendly. She worked on Isabel’s leg as she spoke, creating a sturdy brace around her calf and tying it in place with leather strips.
Isabel had heard tales – mainly from Aisla – of the magical creatures called seillie said to inhabit the wild northern lands and the magic they possessed. But these were fables similar to those told to her by her wet nurse when she was a child.
Still, some part of the healer’s speech touched her on a level that kept her from throwing the crystal away or ordering the heathen out. She was in a new world with people unlike any she had ever met. God was everywhere, for certain, but was it not also an insult to God to judge those who believed differently? Was that not His place, not hers?
What would Father Henry advise her to do when the heathens had shown her kin
dness and mercy?
He would claim their compassion came from God. She decided with little certainty.
“This will support you and protect your bones,” the healer said in satisfaction and sat back from her braced leg. “I have herbs for pain and poultice for your face.”
Isabel tested her leg. The brace was awkwardly heavy but not so much that she could not walk. The healer had smeared something on her leg as well, an oil by the gleam.
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked as the woman took her arm and began to examine her for bruising.
“I do,” the healer replied with a laugh. “I have seen it heal wounded men and grow wheat during a drought. I have seen the members of Laird Cade’s clan speak to the trees and coax water from the ground. His clan has had no home for five years. When he returned from the Crusades two years ago, he wept upon learning the fate of his people, and forest creatures lay down their lives at his feet to feed his starving family.”
Isabel listened, awed by such tales but more so by the idea of Black Cade weeping for his kin. “What kind of a man is he?” she asked. Hearing her question, she flushed and rushed on. “Forgive me. T’was unbecoming. I fear my fever is addling my head.”
The healer touched her forehead once more. “I have a tonic for this and pain. When I have finished with your injuries, I will make you some.”
“Thank you,” Isabel said. She sat quietly as the healer dabbed poultice onto her bruises and scrapes.
“I can help you undress, if you would like to rest?”
She nodded and rose, pleased when the brace around her calf prevented the shooting pain from earlier.
The healer lifted her gown over her head and helped her into a kirtle before moving to the fire to place a kettle of water at its center.
Isabel sank into bed, unaware of how weary she still was until she was off her feet. Her forehead and the back of her neck were clammy. She shifted pillows to prop her upper body up and rested back with a deep sigh.
The healer brought her tea smelling heavily of herbs. Isabel sipped it. The pungent flavors mixed together to create something barely tolerable. She downed the mixture and handed the goblet back to the healer, who held out the pink encased gem.
“You dropped this,” the healer said.
Isabel hesitated then stretched for the pretty trinket. “Thank you.” She placed it around her neck. “Laird Cade will not mind if I borrow it for a short time?”
“For certain not,” the healer replied. “He respects magic and knows he must listen when it beckons him. The crystal has chosen you, and so, you must not part with it. Laird Cade would never fault you for accepting it.”
The talk of magic left her uneasy, but Isabel was able to appreciate the sentiment behind the custom. She blinked heavily, her mind growing suddenly sleepy.
“The tonic will help you rest. I will send up food this evening,” the healer said with a smile.
“What is your name?” Isabel asked, struggling to keep her eyes open.
“Marie.”
“Thank you, Marie.”
“It is my pleasure, my lady.” Marie curtseyed once more and opened the door, paused, and closed it. “My lady, Laird Cade is the greatest warrior in the Highlands and a just, kind laird. He knows no limits when protecting his kin, and he never breaks an oath. But he bears darkness from his time away. I fear some days it will swallow him, and I pray daily to your god and ours this does not happen.”
Isabel tried to speak. Her lips here too heavy and her eyes drifted closed.
Chapter Ten
When Isabel awoke for the second time in Laird Cade’s bedchamber, it was dark. Moonlight shone through the windows while firelight glowed across from her. A cool chill reached her, and she snuggled beneath the coverlets, breathing in the scent of heather and the Highlands.
Her body no longer ached, though she remained more lethargic than usual. She tested her injured leg, surprised to feel no pain when she lifted it. Shuffling to the edge of the bed, she swung both legs down and stood carefully.
No pain shot through her. Isabel took several steps and started to relax. The healer’s tonic and sturdy brace had done better than any healing she experienced at home. She walked towards the fire and paused near its warmth. Tugging up her sleeping gown, she sought some sign of the bruise or bump on her leg but found neither. Her shin appeared to be healed.
What would Father Henry say about heathens using magic on her? Was she tainting her soul by allowing it?
“How can magic that does good be bad?” she mused aloud.
She dropped her skirts, grateful for the lack of pain anywhere in her body. The faint flicker of light drew her attention to the window.
The crystals hanging from the sill were glowing in the moonlight, casting tiny bursts of colors onto the stone floor.
She studied them from a distance, wary of the strange magic the healer claimed existed in the Highlands. The heavy amulet at her chest was warm, and she lifted it to find it, too, glowed, but not from moonlight. Its internal spark kept it lit. At once uneasy and mesmerized, she debated what to do about such a power that should not exist. She went to the window.
“My god,” she breathed and gazed up at the crystals. They, too, were lit from within, brilliant sparks of color swaying in the night breeze.
How was this possible? She drew nearer and started to reach for a purple one when her eyes fell to movement and light outside the second bank of windows. The bedchamber was in a corner of the hold overlooking the bailey and stables on one side and the rolling, grassy moors on the other. She shifted to the windows overlooking the hills.
Flickers of colors – similar to those hanging from the sill – flashed in the night. Except they were not attached to or held by amulets but free to dart around the lone figure of a man in their midst.
His massive sword at his back, Black Cade’s form was unmistakable. He strode into the night without a lantern, surrounded by the strange sparkles of color. It was hard to deny magic existed when she saw it so clearly.
Isabel watched in consternation before she recalled the audience he ordered her to attend in the morning. Not only did he have her precious writs, but Richard was not going to be pleased if he were forced to wait here for her for another day. He would surely not permit her to stay another day longer than necessary, and the skies were too clear for there to be rain as there had been the past several days.
Would she have another chance to confront the man who killed her brother? A better place or time than at night, when she was able to escape and travel half a day before Richard and Laird Cade’s clansmen hunted her down?
Returning to the bed, she dressed herself hastily with no care for the comeliness of her appearance. After all, there was a chance she died this night. The thought stilled her movement until she reminded herself she likely had one chance to seek revenge. The night was hers. Tomorrow belonged to the men who wished to control her.
She shoved the dagger into her pocket. Isabel sat down and carefully untied the brace, laying it out in case she failed in her purpose and needed it upon her return. Tucking the pink necklace beneath her collar, she struggled into her boots then stood and sucked in a breath, waiting for the pain to return. As before, there was none at all.
Her shin felt healed. No weakness, not even soreness, remained.
She left the bedchamber.
The corridors and halls of the hold were silent, and she hurried through to the bailey and past it, to the door in the side of the wall beside the stables where she had seen Cade emerge from. The night breeze chilled her as she stepped through the wooden door into the grass beyond.
The sparks of light surrounding Laird Cade were just starting to disappear into the forest. She lifted her skirts and began to run, praying her leg would hold her. It made no complaint, aside from general stiffness, and she rushed to reach the woods before she lost sight of him. The cold air energized her while a stiff wind tossed her wavy hair around her head.
Breathless, Isabel paused a short distance from the forest, straining to see the glimmers of color indicating where he had gone. She caught one faint flicker of yellow and started towards it. When she was nearly at the tree line, she spotted the narrow path leading into the quiet forest and followed it.
No more flashes of color lit the night. Darkness closed in around her, broken up by bars of moonlight that slipped through the canopy above. She stayed on the trail, fearful of leaving it when she knew not what animals or pits or other dangers lurked in the shadows.
Just when she considered turning back, she caught the faint green spark of light emanating from a point ahead. Her step slowed, and she held her skirts close to her body to prevent them from brushing the bushes and tree branches lining the path. The closer she ventured, the quieter she willed herself to become.
Laird Cade came into view, and she held her breath.
Shirtless, surrounded by flickers of color, he sat beside a small water hole, his sword across his thighs. Moonlight pierced the forest and dusted his muscular upper body with silver, lovingly outlining each curve and dip of his exposed skin.
She found herself staring, jaw slack and mouth open, unable to recall when she had ever seen anyone who set her blood on fire in the most un-Christian way imaginable. His sheer size, the chiseled nature of his warrior form, the physical power such a man commanded, even the golden color of his sun-kissed skin were no less mesmerizing than the strange flickers of light surrounding him. His dark hair was captured at the nape of his neck, his moon-hued eyes closed. His features were heavier than those deemed attractive at court, but even his thick jaw and broad forehead filled her with wonder. The sensation of fire began to burn in her belly.
My mind is addled with fever, she thought. The inexplicable attraction was not natural or holy, and neither was her sudden immunity to the cold night air. If not illness, was this magic affecting her? His magic?
Too enchanted by the mere sight of him, she realized she had not questioned what he was doing out here alone in the forest with his sword, until the sparks of light coalesced into one single, white light of such purity and softness, she had never seen its equal.