Hemlock and Honey

by Elizabeth Preston

  From the corner of Sybilla’s eye, she could see Thora. The woman appeared to have found young Caitlin and was guiding her away. But Sybilla could not move, mesmerised by the sight before her eyes.

  Soon the woman was moaning and gasping, and then the drum sounded. The two men suckling and working the woman with their fingers stopped and moved away from her. The man holding her down moved around, so he was in front of her now.

  Sybilla’s own breaths were quickening. The man pulled his trews aside and released his giant shaft. He drew the woman to him and slid her over his shaft. Again and again, he brought her close, and then he released her until her gasps turned to cries of pleasure. Sybilla could feel the apex between her own thighs moisten.

  The man picked up his pace, harder and harder until suddenly the woman screamed out. Then the man grunted and rammed hard one last time.

  Sybilla’s hand crept up to her breasts. She fondled her nipple just as she’d seen the man do to the woman. She was about to lower her hand to her own mound when she suddenly stood rod still. Someone was standing directly behind her. She flipped around.

  Gus glowed down at her, as mad as she’d e’er seen him before. They stared at each other a moment, neither blinking. Then he snatched her to him and pressed his mouth into hers, hard and with a hunger that matched her own.

  She let his lips scorch hers and opened her mouth. He thrust his tongue inside. Then his hand was on her breasts. His fingers played with her nipples, and she dissolved against him. Not content, he rushed his hand down her top, releasing her breast and exposing one nipple to the night air and then the next, baring her breasts for him to feast upon—just as the man had done.

  Gus suckled her nipples, hard and frenzied, making Sybilla roll her head. She snatched at his hand and forced his fingers towards her mound. Gus did not need much encouragement.

  His hand tore at her skirt, yanking it up until his hand could slip between her legs and onto her mound. She separated her legs, and he slid a finger into her damp folds. He found her bud and rubbed until she, too, mewed like the woman in the circle.

  “Sybilla,” he whispered, “you should not be here. But seeming that you have disobeyed me and put yourself into danger, you shall experience a little danger and madness yourself.

  “Spread your legs.”

  She did so willingly. He slid a finger inside her and worked it in and out until she could stand it no more.

  “I . . . I . . . Stop, I am losing myself.”

  He did not stop. Instead, he suckled her breasts and ploughed her with his fingers until she crumpled against him, pressing her mouth against his neck, trying to silence her cries. Her body shuddered, climaxing into his palm. She felt her own liquid douse his hand.

  He whispered, gruffly, as if in pain, “Now, hurry. Get dressed. We must be away, at once.”

  With trembling legs, he led her to the horse. She’d almost forgotten about Thora and was surprised to see the woman with her grandchild, Caitlin, nestled safely on Gus’s giant war horse.

  “Thora, give Sybilla the child. Caitlin will be safe with her. Sybilla is an able rider and a natural with animals.” He shook his head. “She is a natural at a great many things.”

  Sybilla looked over at him, not missing his underlying meaning. She hid her smile.

  Chapter 21

  Sybilla sat on a stool in the kitchen watching Caitlin play. The girl looked healthy enough, despite her time spent living in the woods.

  Every time Sybilla remembered that night, she felt her body heat. Fortunately, Thora seemed none the wiser. The woman had more pressing things to think of. She seemed ever so grateful to have her granddaughter back. Gus had not forgotten though; Sybilla could tell. He watched her all the time now, and even if she was far from his reach, she could sense his primal hunger. He oft sat in his chair in the dining hall, looking tense and agitated. He was a tightly wound coil fit to unravel. At night especially, he pounded the grounds of the bailey, back and forth, as if sleep was not something he did. Sometimes he walked the perimeter of the castle till dawn and didn’t go to his bed till the sun inched over the hill.

  Thora sat on her wooden stool in the castle kitchen, whistling while she worked. This morn she was busily gouging the rye seeds in her mortar, hoping to reduce them to powder. Sybilla lazily watched the rye seeds jump away from the stone pestle, mesmerised with the rhythmic grinding and jumping. This was a labour of love for Thora, turning castle produce into delicious food. The mill was still closed, the miller long dead, so if Thora wanted rye for her bread making, she must grind it herself.

  Sybilla stared at the seeds in her bowl, wondering why she was drawn to them. It was only then that the oddity of the sight registered. There was something amiss about those seeds. Some of the rye seeds were a brownish wheat colour as they should be. But there were black seeds in the mix as well. And those dark seeds had no place in bread making.

  “Thora, what are those dark seeds doing in with the rye?”

  Thora continued to pound, speaking over the noise the pestle made against the hard stone. “Naught. These are rye husks. Rye grasses grow black seeds now and then, especially after heavy rainfalls. Aye, tis been a wet season this year for certes.”

  Sybilla jumped off her stool and rushed over to Thora. “No. No. No. Those seeds, you cannot ground those along with the rye.”

  Thora stopped grinding and rested her arm. “Aye, as long as I’ve known, we have. Usually, we have fewer, I’ll grant you, but we’ve always eaten them. This year, the rye is growing an awful lot, on account of the rain.”

  She started the pulverising again, but Sybilla grabbed her arm stopping her. “Those black seeds are not part of rye grass.”

  Thora’s brow furrowed. “Aye, just like in barley. Those dark seeds appear in barley too.”

  Sybilla knew she was beginning to alarm the woman, but she could not hold herself back. “But Thora, we mustn’t eat those black seeds. In my homeland, we call them cockspur. Have you not heard of them?”

  “Nay, I have not. I’ve cooked in both the Lowlands and Highlands, and we’ve always used the dark and the light parts of the plant. As I say, the black seeds are usually sparse, but this year they’re plentiful, and that be the only difference.” She continued to grind, somewhat put out.

  “Thora, those cockspurs are poisonous. They’re not a part of the crop at all. They grow alongside the rye seed, but they are not a healthy part of the plant. They’re diseased with a parasite rather like a tapeworm. In my father’s manor lands, we have not used those seeds since I was a child.”

  Thora said nothing. She just stared at Sybilla, letting her hand fall from the pestle. Then she looked back into the bowl, her face etched with fear.

  Sybilla continued. “My father went to France when I was a child. There he visited a mission for the ailing and the insane.”

  Silently she and Thora locked eyes. Slowly, almost cautiously, Thora’s questions began.

  “These people in France, what sort of sickness did they have?”

  “They hallucinated. They acted like crazy people. They had a mind sickness. And the sick in France had gangrene too. Their limbs went black and fell off. Just like some of the folk here. But we’re worse. Here in Caithness, even our animals are suffering from blackened limbs.”

  They both grew silent, realising the enormity of Sybilla’s words. “I’ve remembered something else. I was naught but seven or eight summers old, but I remember Father speaking of arms and legs with giant red welts. He said that the poor tormented folk cried out in pain, claiming that their flesh was on fire.”

  A little sob escaped Thora’s lips. “My eldest daughter, Marge, is dead now. She passed on during the last full moon. Marge claimed that her skin was on fire, too. When she died, she was covered in angry red patches that blistered.”

 
Thora took a deep breath to calm her quivering voice. “Oh heaven’s, m’lady, our castle folk in the woods, they too are suffering from a mind madness. We are the same as the people in France.”

  Sybilla pushed her knuckles against her lips. “Thora, I remember what my father called the illness now. The monks looking after the ailing named the strange illness St. Anthony’s Fire.”

  “Did they know what caused this St. Anthony’s Fire?”

  Sybilla shook her head. “The monks didn’t know at the time, but my father always insisted that he knew, and he tried to tell anyone that would listen. He said the folk in France had been poisoned because, in France, they eat the cockspur that infects the rye and barley grains in wet seasons too. Just like you Highlanders do. Father, of course, would never allow us to eat the cockspur.”

  Thora stared in horror at her mortar bowl. “Here in the Highlands, we don’t always get the dark seed you call cockspur in our rye and barley. Aye, in the wetter years it grows, but it also grows when the harvest has been left longer in the field.”

  She faced Sybilla with tears in her eyes. “Are you saying that this seed is deadly? That this is the cause of our contagion?

  “I am.”

  ~ ~ ~

  An hour later, Sybilla and Thora tracked down Gus. He was with Broc in the smithy’s yard, attempting to start the furnace.

  “Do I understand you correctly, Sybilla? You’re saying that this cockspur is making us sick. It is poisoning us?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gus turned to Broc. “Burn the grain supplies—all of them. Gather all the farmers, and everyone you can, and tell them to set fire to their fields. No one is to eat any more grain until we can assure ourselves it is safe.”

  Broc smiled like never before. “I’ll ring the bell, shall I, Laird? Let’s assemble all here. We’ll scream the news from the castle tops. We have our cure. No more eating cockspur.”

  Gus met his smile and slapped him heartily on the back. “Do it.”

  Grinning wildly, Broc ran off to ring the ropes. Once he was gone, Gus turned to her. “For the rest of my life, I will thank God for sending you to me.”

  She shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “I only wish I’d put it all together earlier. I might have saved a few lives.”

  “But girl, don’t you see, you’ve already worked a miracle. The soothsayer was right. You were the one to save us. You alone were able to cure the castle.”

  She shook her head. “Just coincidence, I think. Anyone from my father’s manor lands would have been able to tell you the same thing.”

  Gus moved forward and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her head. “You saved us, Sybilla, just as I knew you would.”

  “But,” she said, loving the feel of his size and strength enveloping her body, “there is sadness in this discovery too.”

  He hugged tighter. “Because of all the needless deaths?”

  She breathed deeply. “Because now I have outlived my usefulness. Now it is time I leave here.”

  Gus eased her gently from him, gazing down into her eyes.

  “Do not go,” he said. “Marry me. Do not leave me, Sybilla, please.”

  Sybilla bit her lip to hold her sob in. “I cannot. I wish the decision was mine to make, but it is not. I cannot inflict my duty, my burden, on Juliette. She wishes to marry her sweetheart in England. If I do not return, she will be sent to Scrabbly to take my place.”

  Gus hugged her tighter. “If you wish to leave, then I will take you back myself. I promised I would see you safely home, and I will keep that promise. Even if it breaks my heart. We will leave tomorrow.”

  She took a step backwards. “So soon? That is not necessary. I could linger for a while longer.”

  Gus closed his eyes. “Aye. Tis necessary because I think of little else other than marrying you. I am a man obsessed. Either I have you, or I take you back immediately. Seeing you every day, yet being forced to keep at arm’s length, is killing me.

  “It is time to put my clan and their needs first. If you will not, nay, cannot, marry me, then I must rid my head of my thoughts. I need to focus on rebuilding Clan Caithness.”

  Chapter 22

  Three days later, and with a woefully heavy heart, Sybilla and Gus rode out of Caithness Castle. Gus’s beloved Caithness was still in a sorry state, but at least now those who survived were armed with knowledge. The good folk of Caithness had been ravaged by St. Anthony’s Fire. The illness was not widely known in Scotland, nor in most parts of England either, but thanks to her well-travelled father, Sybilla and her family knew what most did not.

  According to Father, people in other countries also suffered and died from eating the same poison. This was no curse or contagion. Caithness Castle had been in the grips of a long-lasting and devastating case of food poisoning.

  Slowly, the castle folk would begin to heal. They would have no more fits and convulsions, no madness, and no blackened and falling limbs. There would be no more burning flesh and no more death. Now it was time for his castle to clamber back to its feet.

  True enough, many in Scotland and England ate the cockspur, believing nothing was wrong with the black husk. And most of those folk survived. If their grain crops were not badly infested, they were eating only the smallest quantities of the deadly husk.

  Sybilla should have felt proud, proud that she’d been able to help in the end. Instead, a numbing moroseness filled her heart. She’d feared this leaving day almost since the time she first trotted through the portcullis.

  But alas, the sad day was upon them. She and Gus must travel all the way back to the Lowlands, back to the borders, and back to the home of the waring English and Scots. Even worse, they were going back to Eoin.

  ~ ~ ~

  After three hours of riding, they cantered towards a steam to water the horses. She smiled at Gus, but the sadness in his eyes nearly broke her heart.

  He dismounted and led her around the steam, so they might walk and stretch their legs. Gently taking her hand, he stroked her palm. “If you ever need to run from him, come to me. I will wait for a time.”

  She shook her head with her eyes hooded. She would not cry.

  “Please understand, I must do this. Juliette wants to marry her sweetheart in England, and Vienna is far too delicate to cope with the ways of the Scottish Border Reiver clans. Anyway, the responsibility is mine and mine alone.”

  ~ ~ ~

  It was dusk when they trotted into the coastal town of Dornoch. Sybilla ached from the hard day’s ride and was more than grateful to be getting off her palfrey. Gus led them to the tavern in the town’s centre. For a small township, it was a remarkably busy place. She supposed that it was a popular spot with weary travellers, such as themselves, needing a meal and bed. She could smell the rich sweetness of stew and honey. The air was cool with the sea breezes blowing in from the North Sea, making her thankful for her woollen cloak.

  Gus waved down the innkeeper. “Two beds for the night, if you please.”

  “You’ll be wanting separate rooms?” the inn keeper asked, looking them over.

  Sybilla fancied that he thought them a handsome couple.

  “If you have separate rooms to spare.”

  “We do. My wife will see the lassie upstairs.”

  Sybilla turned and followed his wife, leaving Gus to order their meals. She had just mounted the first step when she felt someone’s hand on her arm. The fingers dug into her skin. Startled, she looked up and straight into the thundering face of her father, Lord Huntingdale.

  “God’s beard. Tis you, Sybilla. Do my eyes deceive me?”

  Too shocked to speak, she stared into his stormy face.

  “Where the blazes have you been? We have searched high and low for you, girl. You ran off. Twas a cowardly act. Do you kno
w what you have done?”

  She shook her head. “Tis not true. I did not run.”

  “Where have you been then? Speak up before I lose my temper.” He clung to her arm, his grip biting into her flesh.

  “I was taken, so that I might help Laird Caithness rid his castle of a sickness.”

  He yanked her off the first step, ignoring the troubled looks given him by the innkeeper’s wife.

  “How could you, you, who knows nothing, possibly cure a castle? What is this nonsense you speak?”

  She jerked herself from his grip and stepped back. “Actually, Father, I did help. I helped a great deal.”

  He drew his face closer to hers. “And what else did you get up to, ah?”

  The innkeeper’s wife patted her apron. “Are you all right, lass? Should I leave you with your father?

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  The wife nodded and headed back to the bar.

  As much as Sybilla appreciated her concern, she didn’t want a scene. Once the wife was gone, her father snatched her hand and dragged her up the stairwell that led to the chambers above.

  “Where are you taking me? Stop it, Father, I am able to walk.”

  He growled. “Don’t think I’m letting go of you for one moment. Do you know the trouble you have caused me?”

  “Twas not my own doing. I was kidnapped. And then after a time, I willingly stayed to help.”

  He moved his face within an inch of hers and whispered harshly, “Less of that willing talk. Do not use that word ‘willing’ around Eoin, nor the Laird Robison. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course.”

  He continued to drag her along a narrow hallway. “You better be a maiden.”

  She nodded. “I am.”