They shuffled about, still undecided.
Brenda stayed on the floor, her body almost covered by Sybilla’s splayed limbs and Morgann’s waving arms.
Morgann spoke up again. “The Laird will be wrath with you all. Just wait till he hears of this.”
They backed off a bit at that, for few wished to upset their Laird.
Sybilla turned from the retreating crowd and peered at Brenda. Her eyes were puffed and almost closed, but she was still alive. She cried in whimpers, sounding like an injured kitten.
With his back to them, Morgann said, “Off you all go. Be gone, or I will tell the Laird what has happened here this eve.”
Morgann grabbed his wife in a bear hug, bringing her protectively into his chest.
“Are you all right, Sybilla?” he asked. “Have they hurt ye, too?”
“Just a trifle. We must get Brenda away.”
The crowd rumbled some more, and their cries began to gather momentum again.
“She took my coin.”
“She raised the killer storm.”
“She’s the reason we’re blighted with the curse.”
“They were wrong to take your money,” Sybilla said quickly. “Brenda and Morgann could give you nothing in return. They could not give you protection of any kind, not from storms or from anything. They are pretenders and nothing more sinister than that.”
“They’re liars, then.”
“Yes, they did lie to you.”
“Silver-tongued foxes, the lot of ye.”
“My wife has been near drowned and now attacked,” Morgann said. “Is that not enough punishment for accepting coin for something we could not do?”
“Punishment enough for all the sickness that ails this castle? Not by half.”
“This curse is not Brenda’s doing,” Morgann replied. “I tell you that the Laird has returned, and he has brought a cure with him—in the shape of this Sassenach lady.”
“Hush,” Sybilla whispered.
“Morgann lies again. I say we kill them all.”
Then a roar swirled around the dungeon, a cry so loud it was as if the earth itself had opened and vented its displeasure.
All eyes turned towards the stairwell where Gus’s giant shadow filled the immediate area and beyond.
“What happens here?” he demanded.
No one moved. The dungeon fell silent, now quiet enough to hear the bat that flapped about their heads.
“The next person who lays a finger on my sister, or on the Sassenach, will die. The next person to utter a cross word will also feel my temper. Now, if you all wish to live, go quietly back up the way you came. And do not look me in the face because I am too wrath with you all to meet your eyes. Leave immediately, before I really lose my temper.”
Chapter 16
Gus rang the warning bell over and over, maybe a hundred times or more. He wanted every living person on his land to know that he had returned and they must come to his hall, god-speed. He sounded the call for much of the noon, the peals ringing out across the fields giving every able person time to make their way to the castle gates.
His land was vast. It included many small farms that produced rye, barley, wheat, fruit, and nuts, and farmed sheep, pigs, cows, and chickens. He also had a flowing stream that was a healthy source of fish and water crustacea. In addition, his woods provided pheasants and wild deer. Surely, in such a vast estate, there would be plenty of folk left.
Late that noon, Sybilla and Gus stood in front of a meagre gaggle of people in the great hall. Most looked abject and stricken, the pain of the past year etched on their faces. There was no friendly banter as there would normally be in such a gathering. William was his only remaining warrior fighter, lest the only one who answered the call.
The gathering before him could not have numbered more than thirty.
Gus drummed his fingers against a tabletop. “We were four hundred strong. Surely, this is not all that remain?”
He faced his Marshall, Broc. “Is this all we are?”
Broc hung his head. “Many have fled, Laird. Many more have perished from the sickness and lie in the ground. There are others in hiding, all over your land. And they’ll not surface for no one. Some are sick and do not wish to spread the sickness, so they keep hidden. Others are plain afraid of the contamination.”
From the back, a woman called out, “We all fear the black sickness.” Her voice took on an air of pleading. “I’ve seen men as strong as ogres drop limbs as if their arms and legs were naught more than leaves in autumn.”
Gus dragged his hand over his mouth. The horror. But mayhap he could help. “I want to introduce you all to Sybilla. I brought her here because she is a . . .”
Sybilla gave him a warning glare.
He thought better of it, knowing how she hated that label. “Sybilla is a . . . an herbalist. She has agreed to help where she can, which is generous considering the contagion.”
The folk muttered their disappointment.
“Do not underestimate Sybilla. She is a talented woman indeed.”
Sybilla shot him another warning glance.
He quickly added, “And a brave one. Not too many healers will step through our gates, as you all well know. Tis a long while since a surgeon has willingly ridden our way.”
The crowd rumbled again.
Sybilla shook her head, and he could guess at her meaning. She had not come here willingly, at least not to begin with. And now that he was getting to know the girl, and like her more than he should, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d done a terrible thing. What right did he have to insist she come here and risk her own health? He’d captured her for the good of his people. But now that he saw the devastation of the past year, the few left, well, now he was starting to doubt the wisdom of his action.
He should let her go. He would. Once they were out of the hall and the others dispersed, he would find someone to escort her safely off his land and all the way back to the safety of the living. He hated delivering her into Eoin’s arms, but the thought of her catching the sickness was even worse.
Gus continued addressing his people. “My cousin, Ronan, has just passed. He is with his dear wife, Mary, now. Does anyone know of my young niece and nephew’s whereabouts? Do they live still?”
Coleen, the Armorer’s wife, stepped forward. “I have them, Laird. They are still well. I cannot keep them, though. My own sons are ailing and take all my time.”
“Thank you, Coleen. I shall take them off your hands at once. Have someone deliver the babes to my solar.”
His people remained dejected. Gus knew he had to offer hope to get the castle functioning again.
“Our cooks are dead, but I know many of you good wives are able at baking bread and roasting meat. Can anyone take the job of making bread and porridge in the castle?”
“Laird,” one man said, “we struggle to bury our dead. We are so exhausted. There is no one left to tend to anything. Our animals wander free, breaking into paddocks and eating the wheat and barley.”
Another man from the crowd yelled, “My wheat is in ruins. I have no time for farming. Instead, I spend all my time tending by son and his family.”
Gus had to turn away. He hoped the grief he felt was not writ all over his face.
He had brought this on his people. Killing that cleric had cursed him and his people. He’d left his castle and lands a year ago to find the Sassenach witch that the soothsayer spoke of.
“You must use my forest,” Gus said. “Tis well stocked with deer, wild boar, and game birds. You will find salmon and eels in my stream, and if any are strong enough, the journey to the coast will reap rich rewards. There are herrings aplenty and rocks coated in oysters.”
He could see from their grief-ridden faces tha
t none were fit enough for the big journey to the coast. Venturing into his woodland would exact enough of a toll.
“Go, I say, into the woods for they even have pheasants.” He hoped the promise of such a delicacy would be incentive enough.
Shona, one of the castle’s chief ale brewers, coughed. “If you please, Laird, I’ve a question.”
“Aye, go on, Shona.”
She folded her arms. “How can we go into your woods when they are full a’ready?”
Gus lowered his brows while the others shuffled about. “What do you mean, full?”
“Happen you have not heard. It’s not only the black sickness that we’re afeared of now. Some of the castle folk and, aye, enough of the farmers too are sickening with some’in’ else.”
“There is more?”
“Oh aye, m’lord. Tis mayhap even worse than falling toes and fingers. Some poor folk wander the woods quite mad, ranting and raving and seeing all manner of things that are not there. Bewitched, they are. Barmy in the head. They run, naked as new babes, yelling and screamin’ and causing enough ruckus to raise the dead. Me and mine will not go near them, not for pheasant or naught.”
Gus shut his eyes and let the silence settle the rushing blood in his head.
“Very well then. Everyone is to help themselves to any crop and livestock they need to nourish their families. Our stores of legumes are plentiful, more than enough to tide us over the coming winter. There are so few of us now left to feed.”
Broc piped up. “Are you saying, Laird, that we’re excused from our jobs? That your farmers do not need to tend your fields, and no one in the castle need do his job?”
Weary, Gus sat down and gestured for Sybilla to sit beside him. “You have the gist of it, Broc. Feed and tend your families. Stay strong. We cannot return to normal until this curse is lifted. In the meantime, I shall be doing everything I can to bring about a cure.”
Shona’s hands flew to her hips. “Hummph.” Glaring at Sybilla, she said, “I hope she’s a mighty skilled herbalist. Naught herbs I’ve ever heard of can cure what ails us.”
The others muttered their agreement. No wonder they had little faith in him.
Hiding behind others, an older woman’s voice rang out. “A slip of a girl like that, if she’s our only hope, then we’re all done for.”
“What if your curse never leaves Caithness Castle?” This time it was Jock the Serf that spoke. Gus recognised him as the peasant who worked hard tending his rye fields. “Some say that the Almighty’s punishment will not abate until we all wither and die, and there is not a single soul left standing.”
Gus jumped up. “Your rye grass—has it been scythed yet?”
“Aye, moons back. The miller has ground it a’ready, and it’s in the castle store. Twill only take willing and able hands to turn my rye flour into bread.”
“Let us all turn our hands to unknown, unlearned tasks. Those of us who normally stitch shoes must now make ale. And no more weapon making, nor smithing, nor anything unnecessary. Now we are all about tending the sick and feeding the living. My people, we will fight this blight together, and through sheer will, we will win. May God bless you all.”
Gus bolted from the hall with Sybilla behind, struggling to keep up.
They weren’t even out of the hall proper before he called over his shoulder to her, “I’m taking you back to Scrabbly, without haste. When I stole you, I had no notion of the trouble that was brewing. I will not have your death on my conscience, along with all the other deaths I must bear. You are to leave immediately, as soon as I organise an escort. Mayhap Morgann will take you back.”
Sybilla shook her head. “No, you don’t. You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”
He spun around, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about, woman? I captured you, remember? I stole you here. I’m sorry for it now. I did what I deemed necessary to save my people. But all this”—his arms swept wide—“is too much for any white witch to cure.”
He continued walking. “I made a grave mistake. Caithness Castle is on its knees. She will likely not survive.”
In quiet tones, she said, “I’m not leaving. And we are not giving up.”
Gus stopped, then slowly turned. “Sybilla, you cannot save us now. No one can. I believe we are beyond saving.”
“Rubbish. Remember who you are. You are a great Scottish warrior, a leader, and a fine laird. You will fight and beat this sickness, whatever it is. You will win, too, just as you always do.”
His gaze wandered across the muck-ridden bailey courtyard. What a sorry sight. The place was littered with wild berries and thorny brambles.
“I cannot fight the Almighty himself. You, Sybilla, were my last hope. But you insist that you can do nothing. And I now believe you.”
“I speak the truth, I’m sorry to say. But that does not mean I’m prepared to run. I’ve never seen a place in such dire need of help.”
“Aye,” he said, his briskness giving him a sharp tone. “So, now you must leave. Leave us to our fate.”
Her eyes shone with defiance. “I will not. I refuse to go.”
Gus bounded back and gripped her shoulders. “We will all die here, Sybilla. Surely you can see that? You must leave. Brenda too. I will send her away with you.”
She pushed his hands from her shoulders. “You’ve had your say. Now it is my turn.”
He sighed, but she ignored him.
“For the first time in my life, I’m needed somewhere, really needed. Gus, please. I’m tired of being passed from pillar to post, not needed, nor really wanted, anywhere. Oh, I know my parents loved me in their own way, but in the end, they were eager enough to separate me from my sisters and fulfil their commitment. I was a commodity to them. And Eoin, well, he wants me about as much as he wants a dose of the pox. When this is all over, I will return to his clan and marry him, if he’ll still have me, but till then I’d rather be here.”
Gus felt the corners of his mouth lift upward. Sybilla did care, she must do. She cared for the folk of Caithness Castle as well as him. It was a grand feeling.
She continued, “For the first time in my life, I’m actually wanted and needed somewhere. I’m not sure what I can do to help, but tis plain there are jobs aplenty. I like this new feeling of being needed. You want me here, Gus. I know you do, despite what you say.”
He gazed into her smoky eyes, more fetching than the sweetest stretch of earth. “Aye, I want you here. And it shames me to admit just how much.”
“That’s settled then.” She raised up on her toes, so her mouth was but an inch from his. “I’m staying put for now.”
The world was truly a mysterious place. Twas one of his darkest days, yet in it nestled the sweetest moment of all.
Chapter 17
Sybilla had been in Caithness Castle for more than one full moon when it dawned on her: no one new had reported in sick. Could the curse, if that was indeed what it was, be weaning in strength? She paced the length of her physic room. Three sheep’s tallow candles burned, yet she still could barely see the bowl in front of her. What was she talking about, calling this sickness a curse? She didn’t believe in curses. This ravaging sickness, an illness that got into the mind as well as the body, made good, solid folk see things that did not exist—folk who yelled and screamed about the horrors inside their heads.
Some reckoned that there were upwards of fifty Caithness folk wandering the woods, yelling out at imagined animals and cursing at make-believe people. That was fifty people living in their own night terrors. In the darkest hours, their screeches rose above the howls of the wind. Their cries of madness frightened the tenant farmers who were already under duress trying to care for their sick, as well as tend their crops.
Sybilla ground up more comfrey. Thank heaven for the bountiful physic gard
en. She’d brewed up valerian tea and used the tea to dose up a few of the remaining castle folk. The tea calmed them a little, but that was all. With the aid of her helper, Tessa, she’d also brewed a barrel of nettle tonic. Most of those who remained could be persuaded to sip the bitter drink, but few of the farmers were as trusting. She must have said it one hundred times, “Nettle tonic makes us stronger, so we can fight off the contagion. For those already afflicted, it strengthens the system and is a weapon in the battle to stay alive.”
The children were the hardest to talk around. Gus’s young cousins, Ronan’s children, were near impossible to spoon the tonic into. Thinking of the naughty little cherubs, she smiled. Greer was the most beautiful three-year-old she’d ever seen. It was going to be hard to say goodbye to Greer when the time came. And little Ben, too. He was a babe still, not yet walking.
She ground the comfrey harder as she tried to quell her motherly instincts. Little Ben was getting under her skin. She could no longer go all day in her physic room without seeing him. Oft, she’d rush back to the solar under the flimsiest of excuses, just to cuddle the wee tot in her arms. Every day, she tried to feed him nettle tonic, but he was deft as spotting its taste. If she made him rye porridge and watered it with nettle tonic, he’d spit the lot out.
Thinking of little Ben and Greer made her want to be with them. She pushed her comfrey aside and wiped her hands on her apron. On such a beautiful day, it was a waste to spend it inside. It was time she took little Ben and Greer outside the castle walls and show them the beauty of their homeland away from all the sickness and misery. Winter was almost upon them, and such trips outside would soon be impossible. She’d be back in Scrabbly Castle come winter—well before yuletide.
The thought of honouring her father’s wishes and taking her place alongside Eoin used to console her, but not anymore. She would go back. She would do her parents’ bidding, and that would happen once Gus had no more use of her. But how she dreaded that day. She could no longer deny that she had feelings for Gus. And those feelings were swelling in strength by the day.
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