“So, I’ve made up my mind. Once I see Greer safely in the ground, I am heading back to Scrabbly Castle. If I cannot heal others, then one thing I can do is obey my parents’ wishes. I’m determined to be of use to someone.”
Gus lifted the dead girl from her arms, and Sybilla sighed from the loss.
“When I look at you, Sybilla, do you know what I see?”
Her bottom lip quivered, so she bit down to hold it in place.
“What I see is the finest lass in all of England and, aye, in all of Scotland, too. I see a lassie with a heart beyond measure.”
He sat, and then he brushed Greer’s long curls from her forehead.
“You waited tirelessly and with courage on both Greer and little Ben, and you made their final moments as rich and full of love as either bairn could ever have hoped for. My little cousins passed into heaven to be with their mother and father, and you eased their journey. Because of you, they moved on with strength and courage. They knew little or no fear because they always had your face to look up into, eve and morn. Sybilla, I’ll nay be able to thank you enough.”
With that, he bolted towards the door, carrying sweet dead Greer in his strong arms. His body might be as strong as a mighty oak, but she knew inside that he was also torn apart. His glossy eyes spoke the truth. He rushed away, mayhap fearful that she’d see his sorrow and think it weak. Nay. Truth was, the more she learned of the man, the more she fell in love with him.
Chapter 19
Brenda and Morgann had been gone nigh on a sennight before Gus admitted to himself that they were missing. His sister had always been one to seek out mischief. So, it hardly surprised him that as soon as Brenda recovered from her near-drowning and the cut marks to her neck, she’d bolted from the ailing Caithness Castle. Wherever Brenda went, Morgann usually followed. But what Gus wasn’t expecting, was for their stay away to be so brief, nor so traumatic.
His Marshall, Broc, burst through the inner bailing like a wild cat through a scatter of pigeons. “Laird,” he cried, seeing Gus leave the Brewery with a fresh pitcher of ale in his hand. “Tis Brenda. She and Morgann have returned.”
Gus’s mouth dropped open. “That was quick. When Brenda takes off, she’s usually gone from Mayday to Yuletide.”
He turned and headed for his keep, his mouth watering at the thought of the fresh ale.
“Laird, she’s nay returned out of choice.”
Gus stopped short. His forehead showed his confusion. “What do you mean?”
“They both rode in just now. Both are in a bad way.”
“The sickness? Don’t tell me she’s . . .”
Broc shook his head. “Nay. Her marks are from injuries, aye, and Morgann is banged up near as bad.”
Gus gestured for Broc to follow him. They headed for the keep, but he stopped abruptly when he saw the chambermaid, Ita, headed towards the keep stairs. “Ita, take this to my chamber.” He reluctantly handed over the pitcher. And mind you, don’t spill a drop.” He licked the sweet liquid from his hand.
“Broc, take me to them. And you can explain what happened on the way.”
Both Morgann and Brenda were seated in a room outside the kitchen. One of the serving girls was doing her best to apply some sort of salve to Brenda’s cuts.
Gus strode in, and they all looked up. Brenda’s tunic was torn and stained with blood. At least her face was undamaged, save for a cut lip. But her body was another matter.
Morgann’s left eye was swollen so badly, he could only see out of his right eye, and there was a stream of blood running from his nose.
The serving girl tutted. “Best get a leech on that swelling.”
Gus rolled his eyes at the troublesome pair. “Well, out with it. What happened this time?”
“Spot of bother, tis all,” Morgann said, avoiding his stare.
Gus’s face hardened with impatience. “I have a castle to run, an ailing one with few hands to help. Not only do the two of you run off when you were solely needed, but Morgann, you bring my sister home in a bloodied state. And when I ask what happened, I expect an answer.”
Brenda pushed the fussing servant girl aside. “Arg. Be careful. That stings.” She jerked her head away.
Gus took the mug of alcohol from the girl’s hands. “Let me do it, Joan. Brenda will nay be able to push my hand away.”
Joan gladly gave him the whiskey and placed her linen strips on the table in front of Brenda.
“You may go, Joan. I’ll see to these two.”
Joan nodded and was gone.
“Now, we’re alone. Tell me what happened, and I want the truth, mind, no softening or colouring to suit yourselves.”
Morgann raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “We were attacked, plain and simple.”
“Attacked? Where?”
“In the marketplace. In Wick.”
“Who did it?”
“A bunch of village folk. I don’t know.”
He wanted the truth, and by God, he would have it. He gave Morgann a black look. “You say the townsfolk of Wick attacked you and Brenda? How can that be?”
Morgann pointed at his blackened eye. “See for yourself.”
“But they know you. They all know Brenda.” He looked across at his sister, her distinctive bright red hair flowing like a waterfall over the table.
“Not too many in Caithness have such memorable hair. One look at that mane, and they all know that Brenda is the Laird’s sister.”
Morgann supped the hot broth sitting in front of him.
After a painful swallow, he said, “They know who she is, right enough, but her brother’s good name can no longer keep her safe. They wanted us gone. Gone from Wick altogether.”
Gus pushed the bowl of broth towards Brenda.
“Nay, brother, my mouth’s too cut up at present.”
He picked up the whiskey and linen dab. Brenda tried to move away, but he was having none of it.
“Do you want to fester and die from something other than our contagion? Is that it?”
He raised the cloth to her cut. “Why did they want you gone from Wick?”
Brenda raised her eyes to meet his. “For a smart leader, sometimes, Gus, you ask stupid questions. Why do you think?”
He didn’t what to think—didn’t want to surmise, but the truth was there in front of him, and it would not be ignored.
“The good folk of Wick want nothing to do with Caithness Castle and all the contagion that she carries. Is that about it?”
Brenda sucked in her breath, fighting against the sting, but Gus persisted. “Nearly done.”
“Did they ask you two to leave town?”
Morgann gave a sour laugh. “Not so much as ask. They ran us out, hurtling their rotten vegetables and stones and muck at us as we fled for our lives. They screamed things like, ‘Stay away. You carry contagion. You are not welcome anywhere. Go home,’ as they drove us out of town.”
So, this is what it had come to. Caithness Castle and her trades and serfs were to be ostracised. They were to be treated no better than a leper colony.
Gus clenched his fist. How many times had he and his men at arms saved Wick from raiders? But all that was forgotten. Now, in their hour of need, the good folk of Caithness Castle were to be run from the town square as if they were nothing more than mange-ridden dogs.
Why was he surprised? Since he’d returned, no one had arrived at the castle gates. No bard, no travelling trader, and certainly no one from outside had come to offer help. The only people to return were his own farmers and castle folk, and they came back because they had no place else to go. Most who returned had near starved on the road. If they didn’t have family to flee to, they had no means of shelter and no food to eat. It was a rough and dangerous life travel
ling in the open, and it was certainly no life for women and children.
Those fleeing would not be able to seek shelter in towns. By now, all the surrounding areas must have heard of Caithness Castle’s plight.
Gus clenched his jaw. “You two should have stayed put here. You were both well. You had food and shelter and all that you needed—right here.”
Brenda snorted. “We need our limbs too. If we stay with you, we’ll likely lose an arm or a leg to the black disease. Wasn’t Ronan’s death bad enough? Must you inflict that on more of your family?”
Gus jumped up. “Your people need you. Do not run like cowards again. Listen to me, the both of you. This is a curse that will be beaten. Do not leave my land again. You are family. You straighten your backs and stay put.”
“Stay and die. Is what you are saying, brother?” Morgann asked.
Gus turned at the doorway. “Hopefully, it will not come to that, but, yes, that is what I say. Drink plenty of Sybilla’s green tonic, and you will likely survive.”
Brenda groaned. “You are bewitched by a mere whippet of a girl. She’s got a bonnie face and a shape that pleases a man’s prick, but she has not turned out to be our saviour. Your journey away for all those moons was for naught. Sybilla is no skilled white witch, nor cunning woman, nor any sort of healer. Why, our own mother, when she was alive, could brew that needle tea.”
Gus scowled. “You give up on her too easily. I have faith. She is as the soothsayer said she would be. I know her to be our answer. I feel it in my bones. I knew it from the very first sighting.” He breathed deeply, and then he slowly exhaled his breath. “With one hand, the Almighty cursed me, and then in a moment of forgiveness, he gave me Sybilla.”
Chapter 20
Sybilla sauntered into the kitchen and smiled over at Thora. The older woman was standing at the cauldron stirring a broth for the evening meal.
“Joc is well still, Thora? I hope?”
Thora turned her head, so Sybilla could not see her eyes. But she did not need to see her expression to know that she’d been crying. Thora’s sniffling and sobs told her much.
“Oh no, Thora. Don’t tell me that Joc is ill?”
“Nay. Tis not Joc.”
Sybilla’s mind raced. She knew that Thora had lost her eldest daughter to the sickness. Gus had spoken of burying her. His comments about the dead daughter were a surprise. Gus had said that the daughter did not suffer any blackening of the limbs, nor any sort of mental madness. All he saw when she was carried away was her hand and face. They were both livid red, as if she’d been boiled.
“Who is it, Thora? Who is ill now? Please tell me.”
Thora pulled a kerchief from her belt and blew into it. “My youngest daughter has run off into the woods to join the others.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Does she have the mind sickness?”
Thora took a deep breath and exhaled. “She’s always been a difficult one, so truly, I cannot be sure. But it is not the loss of Sarah that aggrieves me. It is Sarah’s daughter, Caitlin. Sarah has taken young Caitlin into the woods with her. The poppet is not yet five summers old.”
Sybilla saw the problem. It was no place for a young girl to be living, not if what she’d heard about it was correct.
“I see. Come, Thora, come and sit, and we shall share a cup of peppermint tea together.”
Sybilla snatched a handful of mint from the herb fall drying over the hearth. Thora grabbed the kettle.
“What do you know of the woods, Thora? I mean, what goes on there?”
Sybilla poured hot water over the crushed leaves and stirred the brew with a knife.
“Only what I have heard, m’lady, and none of it is too pretty.”
Sybilla slid a drinking bowl towards Thora. “I too have heard that folk get up to no good there. They practice Devil worship and that sort of thing. I believe they were all good castle folk before the curse struck, but the curse pickled their brains. They ran from the castle to live a life of debauchery in the woods.”
Thora mouthed a prayer under her breath. “I am much afeared for Caitlin’s safety. I cherish the wee tot. I’ve been more of a mother to Caitlin than Sarah ever was. Sarah was always running off somewhere. There is not a lot of God in Sarah, not as I can see.”
Sybilla nodded. “The timing is not great, Thora. I would ask Gus to arrange a party to rescue young Caitlin and bring her back, but Gus is gone.”
“Gone?”
Sybilla smiled. “He has not run off. He’s merely gone to his furthermost farm to see about winter crop production. I believe he will be back by this time in the morrow.”
Thora sighed. “Then we must wait, wait and pray that Caitlin stays safe till then.”
Sybilla took a sudden gulp, burning the roof of her mouth. “You know Thora, you and I, we could go to the woods, just the wood’s edge mind, and see for ourselves what really goes on there. Mayhap we’ll see Caitlin, even rescue her ourselves.”
Thora’s eyes sprung open. “Could we, m’lady?”
Sybilla smiled. “We do not need men for everything, Thora.”
Thora smiled through her tears. “Nay, we do not.”
They sipped tea together, sharing the camaraderie that conspirators enjoy.
“I think it best if we leave at eventide, when the sky is just turning,” Sybilla said. “We would be best to use darkness as a cover.”
Thora reached for a basket and offered the wicker hamper to Sybilla.
She peered inside. “Honeycake. I have not had such a delicacy in a long while.”
“Go on. We’ll need our strength for the long eve ahead.”
Sybilla selected the smallest piece and popped it into her mouth, all at once. It was as if angels danced on her tongue.
“Can you ride, Thora?”
“Nay, m’lay. Never had a horse in the family to learn on.”
Sybilla could not remove her greedy eyes from the rest of the cake. “No matter, Thora. I can ride. We will share the one big horse.”
Thora cut a larger piece of honeycake and set it in front of Sybilla. “Very good, m’lay. I’ll wear my darkest cape and be ready for ye at sunset.”
Sybilla picked up the slice. “It’s a plan.”
Much later that eve, the two women trotted as silently as Sybilla’s palfrey would allow, towards the forest and to the roaring bonfire burning at its edge.
The forest folk were there, en masse, gathered around the licking and curling flames. They cried out and chanted like wild things, making no sense.
The gathering was about forty in total, and it was a mix of both men and women. Many danced and leapt around the flames, shouting out curses or chanting and singing and losing themselves in a trance.
They were a sorry, thin lot. Their clothing was ragged and dirty, and their bodies were lean to the point of famished. These poor, troubled folk were not dining on honey cake or any other castle fare.
Some even danced through the flames, risking their tattered clothing, and it was as if they taunted the fire. Sybilla saw no blackened limbs among this lot, but their faces were crazed and hazy with madness. Some danced as if possessed, while others clung on to animal heads. One danced wearing a boar’s head, one a fox, and another a stoat. The boar’s head appeared recently severed because it was still dripping blood.
A small group of women sat on the ground away from the flames, but they did not sit quietly or peacefully. Instead, they jostled and bit each other. They yelped and pushed as if aware they were hurting each other, but they were unable to stop their strange behaviour.
Sybilla studied them all, fascinated by the scene. That was when she spotted a young boy. He must have been around ten summers, and he was sitting on his own, watching as if this captivating display of madness was an amusing puppet show.
The boy was a disturbing sight in his own right because half his face appeared to be missing.
His nose was gone, and some of his lip was missing, too. So, the black sickness that wasted limbs was indeed here, too. The boy made her remember Caitlin, the very reason for this clandestine visit. But there was no young girl about.
Then, from the corner, a drum boomed out. The noise subdued the folk. Slowly, they stopped their wailing and mad behaviour. Those leaping about gained control of their movements. Somehow, they subdued themselves and melded into an orderly circle of folk sitting around the fire.
The drum continued to pound. Sybilla slipped off her horse and helped Thora down. She handed the reins to Thora and drifted through the darkness, moving ever closer so she could see well.
A woman in a great cloak stepped out of the darkness. She moved towards the huge fire and turned to face her audience. They all hushed their chattering, quietening into a whisper. When all was silent except the biting crackling flames, the woman undid the fastening at her neck and let her great cloak fall to the ground. She stood proud before them all, well-lit by the bonfire and utterly naked.
Sybilla gasped and ducked to hide behind a thicket. But no one appeared to have heard. Then the drum started up again and almost in time to the boom, boom, boom, two young, strong men paced together towards the woman. The naked woman stretched her arms out and parted her legs a little. One of the men went straight for her breasts, suckling them like a newborn, but with much more vigour. The other man knelt beside the naked lass and used his hand first to part her womanly folds.
Sybilla could barely breathe.
The woman let her head fall backwards and rolled her head from side to side. The man on his knees moved his mouth towards her mound and lapped at her folds. Sybilla stifled her cries, but she could do nothing to quiet her heaving heart.
The men worked away at her, sucking and plucking her nipples and thrusting their fingers deep inside her womb. The woman mewed and swayed as if she was having trouble standing. It was at that point that a third man came from the edge of the circle. He stood behind the woman, holding her up so that the men could continue their work.
Hemlock and Honey: Highlander Romance Page 17
