When Lanella did, Meg asked, “Seem they too cool to you?”
Lanella glanced up. “Aye. Certainly too cool.”
“And her heart. I can just feel it here, in her throat, but if you touch under her breast you should feel it.”
Lanella did, and her face grew paler. After a moment, she lifted her head. “Surely tis too slow?”
Meg grimaced. “Aye—so I’m thinking.”
The old woman looked at Alaun, her bright eyes worried as they searched his. “But what think you, lord? You should know more certainly than any other.”
It was a battle to breathe. Alaun forced himself to the bed, then laid his fingers across Eloise’s brow. The smooth skin felt like marble, cool, almost chill. He knew her heartbeat as well as his own; pressing his hand beneath her breast confirmed beyond doubt that her pulse had weakened dramatically. He dragged in a breath that shook. “Her breathing is also too shallow.”
Her chest was barely moving.
Lanella was frowning. “Was she well this morn, or is this a sudden thing?”
Alaun scrubbed his hands over his face and looked at Meg. “She was well and still asleep when I left her an hour ago.” He was sure for he’d woken to find himself slumped over her. He had turned, taking them to their sides, cuddling her while he’d sought for the words to confirm his hopes. She’d smiled in her sleep and mumbled something, then had snuggled back down to doze. She’d been warm and very much alive.
Now she was slipping away from him.
And he felt helpless.
“Did she have any food or drink?”
Meg’s question halted his incipient panic. “I know not,” he replied. “We’ll have to ask.”
“What about that?” Roland pointed to a plate and cup on the chest.
Frowning, Alaun crossed to see. “It was not here when I left.” He wiped a finger across the plate. “Crumbs. Bread—same as we had.” He picked up the empty cup and sniffed it. “Ale.” It didn’t smell quite right.
“Bring the cup here, lord.” Meg beckoned from the bed. “Tis likely that was how it was given her—few poisons act so fast eaten.”
“Poison!”
Alaun turned at Lanella’s gasp. Her eyes were wide; shock etched her face. Roland went to her, but she refused to let him lift her. She held tightly to Roland’s sleeve as she stared, first at Meg, then at Alaun.
He felt her gaze; for a long minute, he studied Meg’s stoic expression, then, resigned, he faced Lanella. “Tis likely. I know of nothing else that would act so—unless tis some odd woman’s problem, but that you and Meg would know. I believe tis poison that has made her so.”
“But—” Lanella struggled with the question that was already high in his mind. “Who? Why? No one here has any reason to wish her harm. Twas plain she was to be your wife—the people have taken her to their hearts.”
Tears stood in her eyes.
“There must be something we don’t know,” Roland said.
“Be that as it may,” Meg interrupted forcefully. “Tis the what, rather than the who, that we need to know first—and the sooner the better. If you will give me that ale-cup, lord?”
Alaun yielded it without a word.
And watched as Meg inserted a finger, wiped it around the pewter cup, then, closing her eyes, placed that finger in her mouth.
Lanella hissed in shocked surprise.
Meg sighed and opened her eyes. “There’s no taste I can sense through the ale, but tis too sweet. If old Carrie has a bad brew, tis sour or bitter, not sweet.”
Roland beat him to the question: “But what does that tell us?”
“Why, that twas not just any old potion or herb-juice that was added.” Meg looked at Alaun. “Our lady was poisoned with a syrup—and only the likes of her has money for to use sugar like that, nor yet the time to make such.”
Alaun turned his head. “Bilder!” Instantly, the squire appeared in the doorway. “Find Roseanne.”
“Try my chamber,” came from Roland.
A quick discussion established the advisability of tracing the source of the cup and plate. Sitting on the bed, one of Eloise’s limp hands on his knee, trapped beneath one if his, his anguish concealed behind a mask of stone, Alaun explained their fears to Edmund, who had arrived, his face grave, moments before.
The steward paled, but squared his thin shoulders. “I’ll go at once to the kitchens. Cook does not dispense ale freely other than at meals, so tis likely she’ll know who has requested ale this morn.”
Grim-faced, Edmund strode out, passing Roseanne as, hesitantly, she edged into the room. Her eyes were wide and still blinking away sleep, her hair tousled, her chemise all awry where it showed above her gown.
“You wanted me, lord?”
His face was a graven screen behind which violent emotions surged. “Aye.” Rising, Alaun walked to the bed’s end to face Roseanne. “My lady has been poisoned. Meg thinks twas with a herb syrup.”
For an instant, he wasn’t sure Roseanne understood him, then her gaze flicked to the still figure on the bed. Her eyes widened, then, pupils dilating, rose to meet his.
“Nay, lord.” Roseanne backed. “Twas not me, I swear it!”
Alaun blinked, then frowned. “Nay. I do not suspect you.” With an effort, he drew patience to him. “You had no reason—had, in fact, many reasons to wish her well, did you not?”
Roseanne nodded. “Aye. She has been good to me, lord.”
“And she’s taught you something of herbs. You’re the only one here who might guess what it is she’s been given.”
Roseanne looked doubtful. “I know but little, lord. She has only just started to teach me, and that mostly in the simple remedies. I know not much of her more potent drafts.”
“But you know more than we.” Alaun fought for calm, desperation very near his surface.
Meg snorted. “Stop dithering, girl! Just come and take a look at her—no one’s going to bite you if’n you can’t guess what it might be.”
Literally pushing Alaun aside, Meg beckoned to Roseanne; she took the girl’s arm as she came forward and hustled her to the bed.
“Now see—she’s chilled and her heart is slow. What herbs give that effect? I know tis not valerian—does not give the chill. But what else makes a body so?”
Almost reverently, Roseanne touched one of Eloise’s cold hands; her brow furrowed. “Tis none of the simples she has taught me, certainly. But she has many others in the stillroom—she warned me some are dangerous.”
Muttering a curse, Alaun swung to Roland. “I want a lock on the stillroom door. Immediately.” After the horse had bolted maybe, but who knew what else might come? Besides, giving an order for some specific action was something he could actually do.
Roland left, but returned within a minute; no doubt Alaun’s sergeants were waiting in the corridor. The whole castle would be tense, expectant, hanging on the outcome of events in this chamber.
Roseanne was still frowning, Meg still hovering. Alaun struggled to harness his impatience, his desperation, the urge to roar and bellow that this could not be—that they had to fix it and make her better—immediately. Now.
Lanella was still perched beside Eloise, her eyes fixed frowningly on the pale, still face. “Tis almost as if she was asleep—deeply, deeply asleep.”
Roseanne’s head came up; she stared at Lanella. “Syrup—syrup of poppies!”
Flushing in triumph, Roseanne swung to face Alaun. “Twas only yesterday she showed it me—three little vials that she unpacked from her case. She said twas not as strong as the Eastern poppy—though I know not what that is—but twas used to bring on sleep.”
Roseanne paused, clearly summoning more of her memories. “She said it must be used judici…judici…”
“Judiciously?” Lanella asked.
“Aye—that is it. It means carefully, does it not?”
“Aye.” Grim-faced, Alaun kept his gaze on Eloise’s slim figure, on the fractional rise and fall of her breas
ts that told him she yet lived.
“She also said that if too much was given the person may sleep unto death.”
Silence fell, engulfing them all in the dread embrace of that one word.
His gaze on the proof that life still remained, that death had yet to claim her, Alaun was the first to break it. “We know not how much she was given. Tis possible she will sleep, and then awake.” He looked at Roseanne. “But if twas only yesterday the vials were unpacked, it seems unlikely that any save you and she would know they were there.”
Again, it was obvious Roseanne wished herself elsewhere. She shot a glance at Old Meg.
Meg frowned at her. “Tell all you know, girl. Spit it out—he’ll not eat ye, whatever it be.”
With another nervous glance, Roseanne ventured, “Tis that we were not alone when the lady unpacked her box and told me about each of her specifics. Mistress Elspeth was there—she asked to stay and listen, and the lady allowed it.”
“Elspeth?” Lanella’s face showed her surprise—then her shock as the implication registered. “Oh, no—surely, no. Why, there’s no reason for her to dislike Eloise.”
“Not if you discount jealousy.”
It was Roland who’d spoken. Alaun turned, lifting a brow.
Roland grimaced. “You no longer notice, but Elspeth always looks at you as if she owns you. I make no claim to know what goes on in what passes for her mind, but I would wager she resents Eloise’s position here, at least with respect to you.”
Alaun’s expression darkened. “You should have warned me!”
“But Elspeth’s never shown any signs of doing anyone harm before!” Roland ran a hand through his hair. “I hoped she would be gone soon—I would have spoken if I’d suspected her of this.”
For a pregnant moment, Alaun held Roland’s gaze, then he sighed and dropped his challenging stare. “Aye, well. I should have noticed myself.”
Meg glanced up as, compelled, he returned to the bed. She yielded her place to him, fluffing her shawls over her old shoulders. “Tis my thought, lord, that we need to be sure tis the poppy juice and how much she had.”
Taking Eloise’s hand, he nodded. “Roland—accompany Roseanne to the stillroom. If the vials are still there, mayhap we have got this wrong.” He had to own to a difficulty in casting Elspeth, incapable Elspeth, as a murderess.
But Roland and Roseanne were immediately replaced by Edmund with further proof of Elspeth’s likely guilt.
“The cup is the one sent to Mistress Elspeth this morning—Cook is sure for there’s a small dent in the side. Cook remembers the incident for twas long after breakfast. Mistress Martin came down, saying that Mistress Elspeth was hungry, and had asked for bread and ale.”
Feeling increasingly numb, Alaun nodded. Across the bed, his gaze met Lanella’s, shocked and already grieving. But he couldn’t yet grieve—wouldn’t let such a negative emotion take hold. Eloise still lived, still breathed—there’d been little change since he’d brought her in. “Fetch Mistress Martin.”
Edmund left.
As the minutes slid by, Alaun found it more and more difficult to focus on Elspeth’s guilt or otherwise, on his duty as lord to determine it. His mind felt sundered, torn in two, the larger part centered on the still figure on the bed. All that mattered was that she lived—he cared for nothing else. All he wanted was to sit with her, holding her hand, willing her to live—doing whatever it took to ensure she did.
But Mistress Martin was discovered in conference with Sir Howell; Alaun had, perforce, to resume his investigation.
“Where is your charge, mistress?”
Mistress Martin blinked. “She has gone hawking, lord.” She hesitated, then added, “Her groom is reliable.”
Stony-faced, Alaun asked, “I understand you fetched bread and ale at Elspeth’s direction this morn.”
“Aye. Twas mid-morning, but Elspeth swore she was in dire need.”
“And you took it to her and she consumed the bread and ale?”
“Nay.” A frown clouded Mistress Martin’s face. “When I returned to our chamber, she was gone. I left the plate and cup on the table and went to find her. She does that frequently—slipping away—just to annoy me.”
“And you found her?”
“Not immediately. Twas only when she returned for her gloves before riding out that I saw her again—a half-hour or so ago.” Martha Martin looked around and saw nothing but grave faces. “Is there something amiss, lord?”
Alaun kept his temper shackled although it cost him dear. “We have reason to believe that your charge has poisoned Lady de Cannar.”
Martha Martin paled. “If I may ask how she did this thing, lord?”
“Ale was given to my lady this morn. We believe the poison was in it.”
Alaun watched as Martha Martin considered his words, her expression grave. “Perhaps I should see if the cup and plate I delivered to Elspeth are still in our room where I left them.”
He shook his head. “Cook has confirmed that the cup found here was the one she gave to you.”
“Oh, I still can’t believe it!” Lanella wrapped her arms about herself and rocked. “How horrible—how will I tell Lucilla?”
“Do not worry, maman. If tis proven that Elspeth has done this thing, as seems very likely, twill be I who will tell my godmother.”
His tone, unfortunately, did little to soothe Lanella. Agonized, she shook her head. “I know Elspeth’s strange, but oh, how could she do such a thing?”
Alaun shut his eyes. He didn’t have strength to spare to comfort Lanella—he had to keep it all for what was to come, for what might yet have to be faced. This morning, all had seemed won—victory had been his. Now, his whole life hung by a slender thread, by the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his lady’s chest—and death hovered, waiting to take it from him.
“Lord, I crave your indulgence.”
It was Mistress Martin who spoke. Alaun opened his eyes. “Speak, mistress. If you have any light to shed on this matter, now is the time to reveal it.”
She nodded. “My duty is not straightforward, lord, for I am employed by Mistress Elspeth’s parents, yet tis my belief that while we are resident here, I owe you some degree of loyalty, too. Thus it is that I see myself free to speak.”
He nodded briefly, acknowledging her difficulty, absolving her of any charge of disloyalty.
Martha Martin clasped her hands tightly and cleared her throat. “Twas only a few days ago that I realized twas so, but Elspeth believes herself betrothed to you, Lord de Montisfryth. Such is her state that, from my considerable experience in handling such as she, I know well tis impossible to convince her otherwise. If I had known her mind had settled thus, I would have spoken strongly against her coming here, and would certainly not have agreed to act as her keeper in such circumstances. I have endeavored to bring this matter to Sir Howell’s attention for the past three days; I regret he would not view the matter with the seriousness I felt it deserved.”
Alaun was thunderstruck. “There has never been talk of a betrothal between Elspeth and myself. How came she by this idea?”
Mistress Martin paled. “Sir Howell and Lady Davarost told me…”
Alaun saw red. “There has been some mistake—”
He was cut off by Lanella’s groan. “There was, there was. My pardon, Alaun, but twas so long ago, and came to naught—your father and I never thought to mention it. Forgive me, but I never imagined…” She broke off, her eyes on Eloise’s still figure.
Seeing the tears in Lanella’s eyes and the fear in her face, Alaun hauled hard on his temper. “Nay, maman, do not blame yourself. But tell me now, if you please. What is this about?”
Pressing her lips together, Lanella blinked rapidly. “Elspeth was born while you were away with Gloucester—that’s why you never knew. Lucilla was so happy, and when your father and I went to the christening to stand as godparents, we discussed the possibility. It seemed a fair match at the time—your father was not
an earl, remember.” She paused, then continued, “But Elspeth’s strangeness soon became apparent and we talked of it no more. And it was just talk, Alaun—no more, I swear.”
“Aye.” Mistress Martin nodded. “Tis what Lady Davarost said. But tis not as Elspeth choses to interpret it, and that is the crux.”
For several moments, Alaun considered, then, lifting his gaze, fixed it on Martha Martin. “Are you saying that Elspeth is beyond reason—that she cannot discriminate fact and fantasy?”
Mistress Martin hesitated, then said, “Tis more that she accepts only certain facts and will not see any that do not fit her picture. She’s incapable in that. Her world is her own creation, but is based on some real facts. The others her mind supplies. Such as she now is, she cannot be brought out of her world because, for her, it is the real world and ours the fake.”
“You’re telling me that she’s insane—of unsound mind?” His voice had assumed the tones of a judge.
Mistress Martin bowed her head. “That is my belief, lord. I fear her actions this day must confirm it.”
“What will you do?” Lanella, eyes wide, fixed her gaze on his face.
Alaun looked back at the bed, to where Meg sat wedged in a corner by the bedhead, the fingers of one hand pressed to the pulse at Eloise’s throat. “For now, Elspeth must be confined. Twill be time enough to decide her fate, and hear all the evidence against her, once we know if my lady will live.” Or die. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word aloud.
“If it please you, lord, Mistress Martin and I will see to Mistress Elspeth.”
Alaun turned at Edmund’s words, and nodded curtly. “If you would.”
The older man hesitated as if he would say more, but then turned and ushered Mistress Martin to the door. They left, conferring in hushed tones in the anteroom before, their strategy settled, they went to find Elspeth.
Alaun ignored their whispers, his mind focused on Eloise. She still lived, but for how long? Lanella was sobbing quietly into a kerchief; Meg’s face was unusually grim.
Then there was noise without and Roland entered, Roseanne close behind. Alaun lifted his head and looked his question.
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