Devil of Kilmartin

by Laurin Wittig

  Ranald looked nervous, which did not bode well for his news. “It took some doing, but I have discovered who exactly Dougal of Dunmore is.”

  chapter 14

  A candlemark later the flagon was empty, and Symon was pacing the wall-walk atop the battlements, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of Dougal of Dunmore. The prophecy ran through his mind. When flame and madness mingle. That part had come true in more ways than one. When cast out thorns grow strong. That riddle was solved, too, though he did not see how there were any old wrongs that could be righted with Dunmore.

  That part of the prophecy would make sense eventually, just as the others had. For now, though, at least he knew whom he faced. He would not be lax in his vigilance. ’Twas no wonder the daft bastard vowed to kill whoever stood between him and Elena, for he had ever been so.

  Ranald had implied that Elena was in league with Dunmore, a spy of sorts, seeking out MacLachlan weaknesses, then feigning the violence of her encounters with Dunmore, when in fact they had arranged those meetings for her to pass him information.

  For a moment Symon had been beguiled by Ranald’s tale of deceit and disloyalty, but then he remembered all that Elena had done for him and for their clan during Ranald’s absence. He had very nearly told Ranald of the discovery not only that he was being poisoned, but that the poison had been found.

  But he didn’t tell Ranald any of this. Nor did he tell him that Elena had cleared the poison from him, nor that they had become lovers. It did not sit well with him, this feeling of uneasiness with his brother, but he held his counsel, at least for now. He did however tell him he had asked Elena to marry him, telling Ranald only that it was necessary to keep her safe, not that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

  Elena’s laughter tinkled up from below. Symon peered over the edge of the wall to find wee Fia dancing about her, laughing and giggling. He smiled, realizing how everyone seemed to be laughing and smiling of late. ’Twas a wonderful change, and one he would ensure continued. No matter what Ranald suspected, or Dougal of Dunmore threatened.

  Symon quickly found his way down to the bailey. He picked his way through the people, carts, and animals so that Elena would not see his approach. As he neared, he caught Fia’s eye and quickly raised a finger to his lips, recruiting her into his game. The lass’s eyes twinkled, though a tinge of sadness still muted them from their usual brightness. She continued chattering away with Elena and another child. Slowly Symon crept up to Elena, then deftly grabbed her about the waist and lifted her off her feet, swinging her around in a circle.

  Elena squealed. Fia and the other child laughed and clapped their hands. Smiles met Symon from every corner, except for the glittering green eyes of his brother, watching from a shadowed corner nearby. Symon did not care if his brother approved of his choice of wife. He wanted her. He would have her, and together they would insure that laughter and joy always overcame sorrow and sadness within the walls of Kilmartin.

  Elena pummeled his arms, laughing and demanding to be put down all at the same time. Symon obliged, then spun her in his arms and kissed her soundly in front of the entire crowd. There was hooting and hollering, whistles and impertinent comments, until Symon realized that she had gone still in his arms. Alarmed, he pulled back. Concern filled her brown eyes.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Aye, lass. Can’t a man kiss his intended?”

  He expected a denial, but instead she placed her hand upon his chest. Her eyes went hazy, as if she didn’t see what was before her. At that very instant a vise twisted in his gut, sweat popped out on his brow, and the world went black around him.

  Elena desperately tried to hold Symon upright when he doubled over. The pain in his gut echoed so strongly in her own she had trouble keeping them standing. The people who had gathered close only a moment before, scattered, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and their stricken chief. Sweat poured from Symon, and he staggered, nearly pulling them both to the ground. Panicked, Elena looked around for help. Murdoch was loping toward her, concern etched on his face.

  “Help me lay him down,” she said when the giant reached her side and took Symon by the shoulders. Symon jerked, trying to break free of the other man’s grip. “Wheesht,” she said to him, “lie down, Symon. ’Twill be right soon.” She murmured to him as Murdoch struggled to get him to the ground. When he would not lie down, Elena put her hand upon Murdoch’s arm. “Sit behind him. Hold him still.” The giant did as she instructed, pinning Symon’s arms back when he would have escaped and wrestling him down.

  Elena looked about quickly. Most people had retreated indoors, but she knew the doorways and windows would be crowded with anxious eyes. She regarded Symon; the wild-eyed expression on his face was terrifying, but she knew she had to help him. She could not allow him to suffer, nor could she allow the clan to believe he was mad any longer.

  It would seal her fate, what she must do, but that was no longer important. This clan deserved to know their chief was sound of mind, that the trials that had befallen them were not Symon’s fault. Indeed, that one amongst them was responsible for the calamity that had come upon them. Anger surged through her. Who would do such a thing to these people? To Symon?

  Symon struggled in Murdoch’s grip, kicking out and catching her in the shin. A gasp escaped her, but the fact that Symon, so gruff on the outside, but the keeper of a soft heart on the inside, could do such a thing just proved he was not himself. Murdoch grunted and hooked his own legs over Symon’s, so that he was wrapped about his chief, restraining this man who only moments before had been swinging her in circles, laughing and carefree.

  Elena ignored the throbbing in her leg and knelt in front of Symon. She took a deep, calming breath and began rubbing her hands together. She looked up at Murdoch. “Whatever happens, do not let him go until I tell you to, ken?”

  “Aye, lass. ’Tisn’t the first time I’ve held him down so an herbwife could have a go at ’im.”

  “I am no herbwife. Do not let him go.”

  At that Elena began burning the poison from Symon’s blood once more. She was baffled at how dark the poison felt, how strong, how sinister, when there had been naught there an hour before. She pushed the torment from him, warming her hands again and again, smoothing her palms over his heart, resting her forehead against his. She battled the poison, imagining herself a great red dragon, circling a pool of bile, flaming it with her breath, slowly burning it away, revealing the man below, the whole and healthy man.

  Again and again she struggled to rid him of the pestilence, moving her hands from his heart to his stomach to his head and back again, always finding wisps and traces, needing to eradicate every last drop of the noxious potion from this man she loved.

  She paused, realizing just what that meant to her. Yes, she loved this man, and these people, this place. She was happier, stronger, since she had come here. Brightness filled her as she understood all that had been swirling about within her since she arrived here. She gathered that brightness and joined it with the heat of her gift, cleansing and purging, pouring the lightness of all that she felt into this man.

  She knew she had won the battle when Symon’s strength slowly wakened and joined her own. Together, they burned the last of the bane from him in a joining of their hearts that was as glorious as the joining of their bodies had been.

  At last Elena opened her eyes. Her hands rested over Symon’s heart once more. His eyes delved deeply into hers. She blinked and looked around. The crowd had regathered, mouths agape and the whispers starting. Fingers pointed at her and a kind of dawning horror washed the faces of those around her. Even wee Fia stood behind a woman’s skirts, her thumb stuck in her mouth, uncertainty clouding her face.

  Devastating loss crashed through the momentary joy, pushing Elena perilously close to tears. Never had she been so happy, nor felt so useful, as she had this past sevenday. Yet here, in the space of time it took to purge the poison fr
om their chief, she had lost all of that.

  They would never look at her the same again. They would never allow her that easy acceptance they had shown when they thought her a simple herb healer. ’Twas exactly as she had feared. She would have to leave here now, just when she’d begun to hope she might be able to stay.

  But they would have their chief, safe and whole and able to lead them once more. At least she had given them that.

  “You can release me, Murdoch,” Symon said, his voice raspy.

  Murdoch waited for her permission. She nodded her assent. Even Murdoch looked at her differently now, she noticed. Not fear precisely, but not the easy camaraderie she had come to cherish, either. She rose to her own feet and offered a hand to Symon, who stood, with her help. He looped his arm over her shoulder and together they moved off toward the privacy of his chamber. Silence followed them until they slipped into the castle.

  A tumult erupted behind them, feverish voices raised in question. The clan would debate what they had just seen well into the night, she was sure, and then they would come to one of two decisions. Either they would understand what she was, what she could do, and insist their chief use her as her own father, and then Dougal had, or they would brand her witch, banishing her from their midst, or worse. Elena found herself wishing for the latter.

  Symon let Elena help him to the bed they had shared. He sat, elbows on his knees, his head hanging, his mind still reeling from all that had happened in the space of an afternoon. He said nothing, for he couldn’t seem to find the words to say, the words he knew needed saying. She would need reassurance, but he couldn’t think how to begin. The poison was gone, but his body still was not entirely his own to command.

  There was a sound in the doorway. ’Twould be Ranald.

  “You were a great help,” he heard Elena say, as if from a distance. The nasty edge to her voice made him wince. Ranald would not appreciate her tone.

  “There was little I could do,” his brother said, a sneer equally audible in his voice. “ ’Twas best to stay out of the way. He has been known to kill when in the grips of his affliction.”

  Symon managed to raise his head, focus his gritty eyes on the pair before him. Elena stood, fists on her hips, between him and Ranald. He tried to smile at the image of her defending him, angry for him.

  “So you bring him wine? You are a noble brother, worthy of Symon’s loyalty.” Sarcasm didn’t sit well on her voice.

  “Leave him be, Elena,” Symon said.

  She whirled around to face him. The anguished look on her face tore at his heart. She had revealed herself to the entire clan for him, and she was hurting for it now. He held out his hand to her, and she came to him, dropping to her knees and resting her head in his lap. She wrapped her arms about his legs, holding on as if she were afraid to let go. Gently he stroked her beautiful fiery hair.

  “I would have some wine, brother,” he said quietly, pleased that his voice was once more under his command. “The lass could use a wee drop as well.”

  Ranald filled the single cup he had brought. “I’ll call for another cup,” he said as he handed it to Symon.

  “Nay, ’tisn’t necessary.”

  Elena rose, unasked, and sat next to him on the bed, sitting close, so that their thighs met from knee to hip. He was grateful for the trust inherent in that contact, glad that he could offer some comfort.

  It struck him that they were alone together, now. He, separated by the scene he had created in front of the entire clan. She, by revealing her gift in order to relieve him.

  Symon handed her his cup. “Drink.”

  She took it, sipped the spiced wine, then handed it back to him.

  “ ’Tis clear to me the lass is the key to your sanity,” Ranald said.

  Symon took her hand and squeezed it. “Aye, that she is,” he said, more to her than to Ranald, “in more ways than one.”

  “Nay,” she said. The cinnamon flecks in her eyes glinted in the firelight, and Symon found himself regretting the loss of the laughter that had made her shine like a shooting star. “Nay. ’Tis time you told him the truth.” She reached for the wine and took a longer drink.

  “Truth?”

  Symon sighed. “Aye, truth. There has been blessed little of that for a long time.” He broke his gaze with Elena and turned to his brother. “ ’Tisn’t madness.”

  Ranald looked dubious.

  Symon laughed, a sad kind of chuckle. “ ’Tisn’t madness. The truth? ’Tis poison.”

  Ranald appeared confused, then angry. “Nay. How could that be?”

  “Elena cannot heal madness, but this . . . you saw for yourself. This she can heal.”

  “With a touch . . . ’tis more like witchery than healing.”

  “ ’Tis healing, brother. Do not think otherwise.”

  “But who would poison you? And why?”

  “We don’t know yet.” He took the cup from her and contemplated the bloodred wine. “Though ’twould seem to be an easy thing to do, slipping me the poison. It comes from mushrooms, we ken that much. We found a cache in the auld stillroom.”

  Ranald stiffened at that.

  “Do not worry. We found your spice concoction, but we did not disturb it once we knew what it was.”

  Ranald nodded curtly. “Then where—”

  “In another cupboard, mixed among bits and bundles. We know what it is, but we have not yet discovered how I am getting it.” He raised the cup. “Could be anything, food, drink . . .” He sipped.

  Elena went stiff at his side, pulling away the warmth where her body had been tucked next to his.

  “What is it, Elena-mine?”

  “The wine,” she said, concentration marring her beautiful face. She took the cup away from him, sipped again, then closed her eyes as she did when she healed him.

  “What, lass?”

  Ranald moved closer, but didn’t say anything. He glanced at Symon, but Symon just shook his head, waiting.

  At last she opened her eyes, then spit the mouthful of wine back into the cup. Her eyes snapped with fire, her mouth set in a grim line as she stared at Ranald.

  “The wine, Symon,” she said without taking her eyes off his brother. “ ’Tis the wine that poisons you. Your brother’s spiced wine.”

  Symon’s mind went numb as he took in what she said. Ranald? Nay, it wasn’t possible. He rose and looked his brother in the eye. Ranald had been one of the few, indeed the only one to stand by him at first. Murdoch had come around quickly, but Ranald had been loyal, mostly, even when they did not agree over whether Symon should remain chief. Hadn’t he?

  To his credit, Ranald looked as stunned by the lass’s accusation as Symon was. And yet he offered no defense for himself.

  “What say you, brother?”

  “I say she does not know of what she speaks.”

  Symon looked to Elena. She was determined, stubborn, her chin raised, hands curled into fists. He had the odd feeling she would have launched herself at Ranald if he threatened Symon. Slowly she rose to stand beside him.

  “When was the last time you were beset by the devil—before today?” she asked him, but she glared at Ranald.

  He had to think, and realized it was the night they became lovers, the day Ranald had left on Symon’s orders, and Elena had discovered it was poison that plagued him, not madness. He turned and placed his palm against her cheek, gratified when she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. “ ’Twas the day Ranald left.”

  “Aye. And you did not have his fine spiced wine after that,” she said to him. “We drank ale the next morn,” she whispered, cutting her eyes to Ranald and blushing slightly.

  Ranald heard and Symon saw understanding flare in his brother. “You have already become lovers. Have you wed in secret, then? Is this some jealous lass’s attempt to rid her husband of an adviser who does not wish her here?”

  Elena lurched toward Ranald, and Symon caught her about the waist and hauled her so her back was to his chest. He held her
close, enjoying the spit and fire of this unusual woman. “Wait, Elena-mine,” he said, his mouth near her ear. “Let us get to the bottom of this before you scratch his eyes from his head.”

  “ ’Tis not funny, Symon. He has poisoned you.” She struggled against him, but he held her firm, sorry he could not enjoy the situation better. “You said yourself he wished to be chief,” she continued. “He did not believe you worthy of the position since the devil rode your shoulders.”

  He had said as much, but Symon had never thought Ranald would do more than fuss over the circumstance. No, he could not believe Ranald would be so disloyal. There must be an explanation—other than the obvious. There had to be.

  “Could not someone else have put the poison in the wine?” he asked, more thinking aloud than expecting an answer.

  “Then why were you not plagued while he was away? Did he not return today?”

  Symon nodded, still searching for an answer. Ranald was not helping with his scowling refusal to defend himself. “ ’Tis true. You were preparing a flagon for me when I entered your chamber. I drank it while we discussed . . .” He glanced down at the lass. He did not want to involve her in that business. “The flagon was empty when I left your chamber. Now you bring me more, and the lass finds the poison in it—” Sudden fear gripped him. Was her reaction due to the poison? “Elena, the poison—”

  “I’m fine, love. Do not fash yourself. I had to cleanse it from my own body to make sure ’twas the same. ’Tis a subtle poison, that. It lurks about the body for a time before it starts to work. ’Tis another reason you would not suspect the wine, nor your brother. He could give you the poison, then make sure he was elsewhere when it began its work.”

  “Anyone could have put the poison in the wine,” Ranald pointed out. “You said yourself you found my spice brew in the same room as the poison. ’Twould not have been difficult for someone to slip a bit of something more into my brew.”