Hemlock and Honey: Highlander Romance

by Elizabeth Preston

  “Laird, I have sorry news. It pains me to be the one to tell.”

  “Out with it, man.”

  “Most of the castle folk have fled, and the rest, they lie in the ground. The sickness has claimed nearly all, one way or t’other. No one ventures near us, afeared as they are, nor lifts a hand to help because they all fear catching our contagion.”

  “So, the Almighty’s curse rages worse than ever?”

  Broc nodded.

  Gus straightened his back. “Then I am pleased my people fled.”

  “Aye. But tis difficult when you have nowhere else to go. So, some of us remain—so few, really. And those of us that are left wander around half-awake. We are so weary with grief and overwork. There is no one left to do aught.”

  Gus jumped off his hoarse and helped Sybilla down.

  “Broc, my kin, have they fled too?”

  “A few remain. Your cousin Ronan is in the keep now, poorly as can be.”

  Gus strode towards the doorway. “Morgann, please feed and water our horses. I must see Ronan at once.” Gus bolted into his keep, clutching onto Sybilla’s hand.

  Broc called after him, “Fair warning Laird. Your cousin is nay long for this world. Tis probably not safe to visit him at all and certainly not with a lady in tow.”

  But Gus was already inside and barely heard his words.

  “Come, Sybilla,” he said, pulling her quickly. Her skirts caught on the strewn chairs and broken railings. He yanked her harder, tearing the material. “You must set to work on the curse immediately.”

  Sybilla struggled to free her hand. “I will help, but I know not how to break a curse. Must I keep repeating myself?”

  “Nonsense. You know more than you realise. This unholy curse is powerful and retched and must be stopped forthwith before it kills every last one of us.”

  He dragged her towards the back stairwell. “You will do what you can. I have bought this plague on my people, and I am the only one that can stop its sweep. Thank heaven I found you, and it was not a moment too soon.”

  She sighed deeply.

  “Hold your denials because I have no patience for them right now.”

  He dragged her up yet more stairs until finally they stood atop, outside the highest bed chamber. He pulled hard on the giant oaken door, and it grumbled open. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the darkness.

  “Come, humble-heart, we have work to do.”

  Chapter 14

  They entered the chamber, Sybilla’s ears filling with the sounds of suffering. Cries of people in pain were always unmistakable and hard to listen to.

  Gus bolted forward, almost running.

  Sybilla held back because the smell jumped out to reach her, halting her in her tracks. She covered her nose and willed her heaving innards to settle. It wouldn’t do to spill her stomach so near someone in dire need of help and sympathy.

  Peering further into the darkened chamber, she spied an oversized poster bed in the centre. The moaning sounds continued. It sounded as if a gravely ill man lay buried somewhere beneath those many pelts.

  “Ronan,” Gus cried, dashing forth, eager to reach his cousin.

  Strange, Sybilla thought, but it seemed as if Gus could not smell the stench that overpowered her. She could only stare after him and wonder if he had any sense of smell at all. Likely he did, but he was made of sterner stuff. He was Scottish, after all.

  “Is that truly you, Gus?” the poor man whispered back, his voice struggling to rise above his own panting and groans.

  “Rest up, Ronan.” Gus placed his hand on his cousin’s good shoulder. “We are here for you now.”

  “If you please, I will have an ale or aught to wet my lips.” He collapsed back into his bed, his energy spent from the effort of lifting his head a few inches.

  Sybilla turned on her heals, thinking she would flee and find a well or a kitchen, or even the stable, anywhere where water was kept. The wineskin must still be attached to Storm. But then in the far corner of the great chamber, she spied a pitcher and a wooden bowl. Filling the bowl with liquid, mead perhaps, she moved over to the ailing man. Gus helped Ronan to raise his head while Sybilla held the bowl to his crusted lips. He swallowed, taking huge gulps like he’d nay drunk in a very long while. When he was done, he waved the bowl away with his good fingers, closed his eyes, and fell into a fit of jerking convulsion.

  One of his arms, the bad one, lay on top of the coverlets like a dead thing. That arm was an angry mix of flushed red and blue and black. There was an open blister on his forearm that wept liquid like a leaky bucket. His limb was very swollen. Poor Ronan. He was fevered, and his brow was matted with hair and sweat.

  “This is God’s curse. Tis his doing and my punishment.”

  “Hush,” she scolded, warning him to lower his voice. Twas not right that he vent his frustration in front of the dying. What Roan needed now was peace and calm. They were there now to ease his passing, and nothing more.

  Sybilla stepped closer, so that she could speak into Gus’s ear. “I have heard of an illness where limbs turn black.”

  “Gangrene tis, to be sure,” he said softly and turned his attention to his cousin again.

  “Ronan, we have come to cure you.”

  Ronan’s eyes strained opened, and he managed a snort. “Too late for that, I’m afraid, Laird, as we both well know.”

  Gus shook his head. “We shall see. Do not give up hope too quickly.”

  But the talking and movement had done something to Ronan’s seeping wound because suddenly, he yelled out, and the gaping hole in his arm split, bursting runs of poison. It was the likes of which Sybilla had never seen nor smelt afore.

  Gus paled, looking wretched, as if he, too, suffered Ronan’s blood poisoning. He reeled backward and almost shouted, “The cleric, the priest, will I fetch him?”

  Ronan wrenched his eyes open again, and the effort it took appeared to have cost him dearly. “The priest’s gone too,” Ronan whispered. He closed his eyelids again and he went deathly still.

  Sybilla stared hard at his chest, willing the man to take another breath. She began to count silently in her head.

  At last, Ronan slowly filled his lungs, and Sybilla released the breath she held.

  Ronan groaned, sounding like an injured animal caught in a trap—low cries that were destined to go unheeded. His moan formed into words. “The cleric lies at the bottom of a pit, along with many of our family. They sleep together for all of eternity.”

  Gus wiped his travel-stained fingers across his stubbled cheek. “The physic, does he live still?”

  Ronan ignored the question. “Tis over for me now. I go soon to be with the others. I am not afeared. Soon, I will be with my Mary.”

  Gus paced, his angry steps stirring up the rotting rushes, releasing dust, darting insects, and sourness.

  “Sybilla, what can you do for him?”

  She shook her head. It wouldn’t do for Ronan to hear how useless his saviour turned out to be.

  “We should clean his wound with alcohol, the stronger the better.” Then she remembered that the castle was all but deserted, and supplies of anything medicinal would likely be stolen or used up.

  “Let us see what we can find. Come Sybilla, we will search together.”

  She nodded, eager to be gone. It was hard to watch a man linger near death, especially when it was clear that he was beyond saving. At least for now, his moaning had stopped. Strangely, he already seemed at peace.

  “Come,” Gus said, snatching her arm and hurrying her to the door, “we will hunt down all the physic supplies we need. Ronan sleeps for now. You and I, we shall make him better.”

  Sybilla frowned but followed Gus back down the narrow stairway that led out of the keep. Th
ey passed no one on the way down. Again, the inner bailey was deserted, save for a wandering sow and two piglets.

  Sybilla peered over the bailey wall and down into the lower courtyard. She saw a flurry of rabbits but no people.

  Pointing at them, she said, “The people are missing, but at least the food is not in short supply.”

  Gus said nothing, but the deep scowl on his forehead spoke volumes. He led her down the bridgeway between the two baileys and towards the castle kitchen.

  The door was ajar. If Sybilla stood this close to the kitchens in Scrabbly, she’d have smelt yeasty bread and mayhap sweet honey porridge. But standing just inside the doorway of this great room, she smelt naught but old fumes of fat that clung to the spit above the dead fire. There was a second fireplace at the back of the kitchen. Great bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling and draped low over that fireplace. They were parched from the smoke and brittle dry.

  She peered into the huge metal cauldron hanging over the hearth, while Gus wrestled with a cupboard door, yanked it open, and sighed.

  “The alcohol’s gone. I’m not really surprised, considering the trauma my people have been through.”

  She nodded. “What else is in there? Anything we can use?”

  “Honey, tis all.” Gus bounded to a small door in the stone floor. Again, he swung it open and shook his head in disappointment.

  “This is the store for slabs of ice. No ice of course, but sometimes the castle physic keeps dried toad, cricket heads, and other medicinal things in here, too.”

  “Forget those. They are of no use.”

  Guy stretched his arm into the gaping hole in the floor and removed a stinking cloth.

  Sybilla pinched her nose.

  Gus held his arm out wide in front of him. “Rotting meat.”

  Despite the smell, Sybilla moved closer. “Well found.” She patted him on his arm. “Tis crawling, and just what we need.”

  He turned to face her, and his smile matched hers. “Aye, the maggots will do a wondrous job on Ronan’s wound.”

  She agreed and led the way back to the stairwell. “So, you also think that Ronan has an injury that has turned putrid?”

  Gus followed behind, helping her up the tall stairwell, a supporting hand placed in the middle of her back. She was grateful for the aid and pleased that she did not need to admit that her leg muscles burned from rushing up so many narrow stairs.

  “Nay, I wish it so, but Ronan is a scribe. He keeps account of the farms and all the produce. Tis unlikely he’s injured himself fighting. Tis the curse again, no doubt.”

  Sybilla stopped on the stairwell and turned to face Gus. “I’m not sure I believe in curses.”

  Gus shoved her gently, encouraging her on in an obvious hurry to get back to Ronan. “Well this one is real, Sybilla. More’s the pity.”

  By the time they reached the top stair, and even before they entered the sick room, Sybilla knew that Ronan had passed on. The room was deathly still. The fetid smell of the chamber was heavy with the distinctive odor of death.

  “We’re too late.”

  Sybilla placed her hand gently on Gus’s arm. “There will be others we can reach in time. And you were here to say goodbye.”

  Gus shook his head and sighed, refusing to take comfort in her words.

  At last he spoke again. “The bell. Tis in my chamber. Come, we will ring the warning and summon everyone to the great hall. Tis time we found out the worst.”

  Chapter 15

  Morgann heard jeers and shouting coming from the bowels of the castle. Down there in the dungeon, his ailing wife Brenda was being held against her will. He snatched Sybilla’s hand and ran. Gus was off somewhere else, but no matter. Who needed him when Sybilla had the gift of magic? If his Brenda was still in strife, then surely the magical Sybilla would be able to sort the situation.

  The castle might be nigh on empty above ground, but listening to the swell of voices rising from below, he knew there were folk in Caithness Castle still healthy enough to cause a ruckus. And they were all down there.

  Morgann slid down the moss-coated steps, dragging the girl with him. To her credit, she did not grumble over her constant falls, nor did she complain about the pain she must have felt when her shoulder crashed against the dark, cave-like walls. He did not have the time nor patience to guide her slowly. Aye, they could have done with better rush lights, but for all he knew, time was of the essence.

  His feet reached the bottom, and a moment later, hers followed. At least down here there was more light because folk carried torches, and the flames bobbed and shone as the people milled around.

  Morgann smelt unwashed bodies and raw fear. There was much jeering and crying going on. Most likely it was grief that fuelled their anger and their need for vengeance, too. Aye, there was a distinct hint of delirium about this room. He pushed forth, dragging Sybilla’s reluctant body behind him as he headed for the centre.

  At last someone acknowledged his presence, calling his name. Through the weak light, he thought he spied Molly, the tanner’s wife. At least it looked like Mol. Her wild grey hair had escaped her binds and was flung about her shoulders, making her look like a creature long dead and risen again. There was something different about Mol’s eyes too. He’d seen that look once afore on a great wolf hound that was half-crazed with the foaming sickness.

  He pressed forward, pushing others from his path, needing to be where the light was best. Mayhap there were twenty people down here, all dirty and bedraggled and each with the same haunted air about them as if they’d endured more than any living soul should.

  He shoved onward, ignoring Sybilla’s protests and attempts to pull back. At last he spotted his wife.

  Brenda was right in the centre of the melee. She sat hunched on the cold stone floor, her arms held and pinned back by an aged man Morgann did not recognise.

  “Brenda.” He barely got the cry from his lips a’fore a meaty elbow cracked into his ribs. As he doubled over, a fist pounded into his nose. The dungeon spun.

  “Sybilla, he whispered, hoping she was safe and praying that she’d be left alone and unharmed. Gus would skin him alive if aught happened to her.

  He was still too winded to speak, so he was grateful when Sybilla stepped forth and took the lead, throwing her voice above the jeers and grumbles.

  “Stop,” Sybilla yelled, as hard as she might. “Leave the poor woman alone.”

  Brenda’s pitiful groans rang out.

  The people did not quiet nor stop milling around the ailing Brenda. They did not stop their jeering and yelling either. They acted as if they were possessed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Finally, she could see clearly and knew exactly what was going on. The folk were moving in waves towards Brenda. They’d take turns at prodding her; they would then fall away again. It was some sort of exorcism, or some such thing, intended to drive away evil spirits. From Brenda’s sharp cries, Sybilla guessed that the sorry woman was being attacked or stabbed with sharp objects.

  Sybilla dived forward and flung herself over Brenda’s bloodied body. “Stop doing that, stop. Can’t you see that she is half-dead already?”

  “Tempertarii,” an old crone yelled. “You sent my sons to early graves.”

  The crone held her palms up for the crowd to see. Her hands were coated in Brenda’s blood. With ceremony, the old woman then raised her fingers to her forehead and drew a cross on her wrinkled skin—a red cross made from Brenda’s spilt blood.

  “Stop at once,” Sybilla shrieked, shoving their sticks and blades away, “leave her be.”

  They didn’t stop.

  Thoroughly exasperated and at a loss to know what to do next, she began reciting “The Lord’s Prayer,” calling it out as loudly as she could. It might help to remind the castle folk that they w
ere Christians too.

  Morgann pushed his way forward, batting and striking at their arms, desperate to keep their weapons and nastiness from his wife. “Leave her be. Leave my wife. Is it not enough that you swam Brenda a few moons past? You almost drowned her then, and now you cut her arms and decorate yourselves in her blood.”

  Sybilla, still stretched over Brenda’s back and stomach, struggled to block their path. “You are all good god-fearing folk. Stop this silliness at once.”

  Morgann’s voice rose again, his anger and desperation plain to hear. “Stop, you fools. My wife is neither witch nor tempestarii. Witches don’t drown, remember? Brenda as good as died when you swam her. It proves Brenda is not a witch, and she did not cause the castle sickness.”

  “Your wife can control storms.”

  Morgann shook his head. “No, you are all wrong. She controls nothing. You need to remember who she is. Brenda is the Laird’s sister.”

  “The Laird is dead. Otherwise he’d be here.”

  “No, no, no. He is not dead,” Sybilla said. “You don’t understand. He brought me here, to his castle, to help you all because you are his folk, his kin, and his responsibility. He loves you all, each and every one of you.”

  “He is here, in the castle, right now?”

  “Aye,” Morgann said. “He brought Sybilla back with him because he believes she can cure the castle of the sickness.”

  “But she’s a Sassenach.”

  Morgann cussed and yelled some more. “Of course she’s a Sassenach. Wasn’t that what the soothsayer predicted? A young Sassenach girl, fair of face, would come and cure this dying castle?”

  The crowd muttered a little and then fell silent.

  Relieved, Sybilla added, “Come up and see for yourselves. Leave the dungeon and come to greet your Laird. He has returned after being so long away.”