British Brides Collection

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British Brides Collection Page 43

by Hake, Kelly Eileen


  Fayre looked down at the hem of the fabric that concealed her legs. She had already expressed her gratitude to Murdag, and she could understand the maid’s distress. Yet she had to listen to her own heart. “Ha’e ye so little faith?” Fayre asked.

  “Faith I ha’e, but certainly no more than men of God. Even some of them ha’e died while ministering tae victims in their flocks.”

  Fayre swallowed when she remembered how one of the priests in her parish had contracted the disease after praying over dying plague victims. “So no one is ministering tae the laird?”

  “Our priest prayed o’er him this morning,” Murdag said, “I imagine for the last time.”

  Fayre wondered whether Murdag meant that the laird had so little time left or if the priest feared returning to the bedchamber, or both. She decided that either thought was too dreadful for words and held back her urge to inquire.

  She herself had been in prayer since Norman first told her about the laird’s illness. Fayre was well acquainted with the power of prayer. God had chosen thus far to answer her puny petitions with mercy. Her father remained in their hut rather than being thrown into prison. Her best rosebush had survived uprooting, a long journey, and transplanting. Those who lived in Kennerith Castle had been kind. Even the one person who meant her harm had been thwarted. How could Fayre not follow Scripture’s admonition to pray without ceasing?

  She had no intention of giving up now. But if a priest was not immune to death from this gruesome sickness, why should she be? The heavenly Father did not promise anyone tomorrow. How long would His mercy endure?

  Questions, questions. Her priest said that the faithful should not ask questions but should trust in the Almighty. Obediently, she shook the questions out of her mind long enough to answer Murdag. “The laird, for reasons unknown, has treated me far better than I could have expected for someone in my lowly station.”

  “He is kind tae everyone, but I think he has taken a special liking tae ye,” Murdag said.

  Unaccustomed to flattery from anyone except perhaps her own father, Fayre looked at her lap to keep from answering.

  “Word is all over the castle aboot how the laird defended ye,” Murdag informed her. “If Laird Kenneth finds ye worthy, then so do I.”

  Fayre looked into Murdag’s eyes. “Then ye understand why I maun return the favor.”

  “But tae sacrifice yer life—”

  “ ’Tis no sacrifice, when I feel such a strong leading tae be with him.”

  Murdag raised her hands in surrender. “I can see there’s no talking tae ye.” She motioned to the low-backed wooden chair in a nearby corner. “Come now. Let me fashion yer hair. Brona may not have finished your garment yet, but ye can at least have a few pearls woven through yer pretty locks.”

  “Pearls?” Fayre inhaled so strongly in delight that her breath whistled between her lips.

  “Only a few. Nothing too fancy with that awful brown garment.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even one of mine would look better than—” Murdag stopped herself for a moment. “Would ye like tae wear one of my frocks?”

  Although Fayre knew that under normal circumstances a ladies’ maid would never dare make such a suggestion to her mistress, Fayre was grateful for the gesture. “Do ye think …”

  Murdag inspected her. “Aye, I believe one of my garments might do. ’Tis only for a while. As soon as Brona sews yer own frock, ye’ll be wearin’ that one. Let us hope ye can wear the one she sews at least once before you are laid t’ rest in yer grave.”

  “Ye cheer me so.”

  “I beg pardon. ’Tis my fervent prayer that ye will wear yer new frocks for many years. And that most especially, ye’ll be able tae dance in the gown at the king’s castle someday.” Murdag sighed.

  “Someday. I am only glad that the laird discovered his illness before we went tae the royal palace.”

  “Aye.” Murdag sent her several quick nods. “I shall retrieve the pearls the noo. And my best garment.” The maid smiled with more warmth than Fayre had seen from her. “Surely the laird will believe he has seen an angel before he makes his final journey intae heaven.”

  Despite her faith, Fayre couldn’t help but feel a twinge of fear as she approached the imposing door that led to Laird Kenneth’s bedchamber. She set down the tray, burdened with a light meal, on the table beside the door.

  Since she had never adorned her hair with anything other than the occasional wildflower, the elaborate braids with pearls woven in her locks felt strange and new. She touched the side of her hair now and again, fearful that one of the pearls might fall out. But Murdag’s expert skill assured that they remained anchored in their splendor.

  Murdag’s clothing was heavier than she expected and fit tightly around her midsection. The garment had uncomplicated lace on the collar, ornamentation that made her feel as though she were wearing clothing far above her station. Two layers of white undergarments, wool stockings, and simple leather shoes with a button cover flap finished the outfit. The fabric of the outer garment was far less scratchy than the brown wool she had been wearing. The color reminded Fayre of the color of the Highlands on an early summer morning—a deep but muted green.

  The kitchen maid instructed her not to knock; the laird was too feeble to answer. Fayre peered into the room. Her gaze traveled to a large canopied bed situated on the other side of the unlit fireplace.

  God in heaven, I pray that I shall find favor with Thee. I ken I am selfish tae ask, but I ask Thee tae heal Laird Kenneth and t’ protect me as well.

  A lump underneath a pile of covers moaned. “Luke?”

  The weakness of his voice made her feel as though she had been pierced through the heart with a lance. The magnitude of Laird Kenneth’s illness struck her at that moment.

  Lord, grant me courage.

  “Nay, ’tis I,” she answered aloud. “I ha’e come tae bring ye dinner.” Fayre leaned partway out of the entrance and retrieved the tray.

  “Fayre?” His voice sounded stronger. “It is you?”

  Even in his puny state, the sound of his voice lifted Fayre’s spirits. “Aye.”

  The covers moved and Laird Kenneth emerged from underneath them. He tried to sit upright, but only managed to prop himself upon his elbows. His hair was tangled and damp from fever. Fayre worried about his ashen skin and how he shivered, though she tried not to show it.

  “I am glad tae see ye are feeling well enough to sit,” Fayre noted as she set the tray on the table beside his bed. “I was expecting tae feed ye lying doon.”

  “Lying down, sitting up. In either position, I want no food.” As if to demonstrate that he spoke the truth, he let his body fall back onto the pillows. “You should not be here.”

  “Aye, I should. I am determined tae nurse you back tae health. Whether you feel like it or not, ye maun eat.” She lifted the cover from the largest dish. “Pheasant and turnips.” She inspected the second dish. “And bread. Surely that will tempt ye.”

  “Nay.”

  She eyed a dessert. “Here is a fruit tart. If you dinna eat it, I surely shall.”

  “Go on with it. Why should I bother to eat? All is lost. I am doomed to die and take my entire castle with me.”

  “Do not speak like that!” The strength of her voice, daring to issue a command to her superior, surprised even herself.

  “But it is true, is it not? I am doomed to death?”

  “Nay. Ye arenna. By God’s great mercy, I shall help make ye well.” She pulled a chair up to the side of his bed. After she sat, Fayre tore a piece of bread from the small loaf and brought it close to his lips. “Here.”

  He shook his head. “Drink. May I have a drink?”

  Saturated strands of hair hung above his eyes. He looked like a little boy who had just gone for a swim rather than a powerful man stricken with a dreaded disease. If only …

  “I shall give ye drink,” she said, “and then bathe your face with cool water.”

  Through half-closed eyes, Laird Ke
nneth looked upon her. “You are an angel.”

  She smiled. If only Murdag’s image of her were true. If she were an angel, she would look upon the face of God each day. She could not.

  Or could she?

  “Thank you.” Laird Kenneth’s faint smile was her reward for cooling his face. She hadn’t noticed until that moment, but his features were fine, as fine as any of the sculptured statues in the laird’s gardens. Yet even in sickness, his eyes sparkled with the promise of fun.

  He coughed.

  Fayre could hear wheezing in his chest. The sounds frightened her. “Ye maun sit up. Ye maun clear yer lungs.”

  “Nay, it is too hard to sit,” he said in between coughs. “I want to lie back down. Please.” He let his head flop back onto the pillow.

  “Nay. Ye maun let me prop you up.”

  “Nay.” He pouted.

  Fayre chuckled in spite of her frustration with him. “Did ye use that pout tae charm yer dear mother?”

  “Aye, and she always let me have my way.”

  “Surely yer jesting is a sign that ye’re feeling better already. So you should nae mind if I do this.” She yanked the pillow from under his head.

  “Say, what do you mean by that?”

  “I mean tae rearrange the pillows so ye can breathe better. When I am through, ye’ll feel so comfortable you will nae realize you are no longer lying doon.”

  “Since the plague has not killed me yet, you plan to finish the task?” He coughed as though for emphasis.

  “Ye arenna a very good patient. ’Tis a sign ye’re getting well.” Fayre looked toward one of the small windows. Judging from the rays shining through, the sunlight was at its strongest. “Every minute ye live is a good sign. Many people are dead within hours of falling ill, ye know.”

  “I think of that every waking moment,” he assured her. “God would not grant me a quick death. He decided I should suffer.”

  You should remember that the next time you collect the rents.

  Fayre didn’t dare speak aloud her private thoughts. Did the laird really deserve to suffer? Probably not. She had heard nothing but good about him since she arrived at the castle. Why else would she subject herself to the chance of becoming as ill as he?

  “I’ll have ye t’ know, I’ve been praying for the whole castle,” Fayre told him. “I dinna ken everyone’s name, but the Savior does, and He answers prayer.”

  “You are praying for the whole castle?” he muttered.

  “Aye.”

  “Then let us hope that the Father in heaven will indeed answer your prayers. Not a finer woman than you would be found among the ladies at the king’s ball.” His voice was soft. He gasped. “The king’s ball. You should be there, dancing the night away, instead of here with me.”

  “Nay, I wouldna think of such a thing. What festivity would a ball be without ye?” Immediately she regretted her outburst. What was she thinking?

  She was just about to apologize when his smile stopped her. “Next time, then,” he murmured.

  Perhaps her true feelings were what he needed to hear after all. She smiled in return. “Next time.”

  The next day, Kenneth opened his eyes. He could tell by his increased strength and improved humor that the plague had left his body.

  Fayre’s petitions to God had worked!

  Imagine, the pleas of a mere serf. Then Kenneth remembered how Jesus healed the multitudes. Certainly everyone He touched wasn’t a leader. And He listened to the pleas of women, even prostitutes.

  Of course He heard Fayre!

  Despite Kenneth’s improvement, he felt weak and feverish and thought it best to remain in bed. As he recovered, shadowy nightmares haunted him before he awakened to the sound of singing and then fell asleep to the sound of sweet melodies. Fayre’s voice was much prettier than any bird’s song. She chose to sing psalms. The words comforted him, reminding him that the Lord was near. Her hands tended the withered laird much like they must have cared for her roses.

  Too near, perhaps. Some nights, he thought for certain that he would be touched by death’s icy hand. But that hand was stayed. Surely the heavenly Father heard his cries in the night. Cries in petition to preserve his own life—and Fayre’s.

  Kenneth barely remembered the first day he fell ill or when Fayre first arrived. All he knew was that she provided a constant presence for him, a presence of love and caring that confounded his reason for her sacrifice and courage in facing the unknown course of the plague.

  “Fayre?” he called softly.

  “Aye?” She left the window from which she had been peering and traveled swiftly to his bedside.

  As she walked toward him, he noticed she wasn’t wearing the brown garment. The new one wasn’t as fashionable as the ones he’d seen in the king’s court. Fabric dyed an indifferent shade of green hung on her small frame yet seemed tight around her waist. Even in such condition, the clothing was an improvement over the mean frock she once owned. “Is that the frock that Brona made for you?”

  She looked downward. “Nay. It is Murdag’s.”

  “Murdag’s?” He laughed, filling the room with the sound of his mirth. “I never would have thought she would do you any favors.”

  “Neither did I, at first. She was a wee bit chilly toward me. I think she was insulted tae be assigned to one as lowly as I. Yoer high opinion of me encouraged her tae do me a good turn.” She averted her eyes to the floor. “I ne’er did thank ye for taking my word over Sir Ulf’s. If ye hadn’t entered just at that moment …”

  The thought of his boisterous knight clutching at Fayre as though she were a pawn in a game rather than a woman to be cherished enhanced his fever. “Let us not mention it again.” His voice grew strong with resolve.

  She sent him a smile that displayed the comely shape of her mouth. “What do ye need? A bite tae eat? Or drink tae quench your thirst?”

  “Neither. I should like for you to summon my knight Walter.”

  She paused. “Why do ye need him? If there is something I can do for ye—”

  “I doubt it. Unless perchance you can read.” He made the suggestion knowing the prospect was unlikely at best. “I might try, only I still feel a bit weak.”

  “I wouldna ha’e ye try. Ye are still too ill.”

  “Walter, then …”

  She answered with several rapid shakes of her head.

  Why was she so reluctant to summon his knight? He had to admit, he hadn’t missed his servants and squires much since he took ill. The past few days were nothing more than a fitful memory. Then a frightening thought occurred to him.

  “Walter is not …” He didn’t want to give voice to his fears. “He is not …”

  “Nay,” Fayre answered, obviously reading his thoughts. “He is well, as far as I ha’e been told.”

  “Thank our Father in heaven for such a blessing.” He exhaled with relief.

  “Aye, I prayed for him by name.”

  Kenneth felt his eyes mist with gratitude. He turned away so Fayre wouldn’t see him in a moment of weakness. “So you will summon him?” he managed.

  “There is no need. I can read to you,” she answered.

  Shocked, he turned his face back toward her. “What? But you—pardon me—are but a serf maiden.” As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them.

  She lifted her chin in pride. “I am quite aware of that fact.”

  “Surely you cannot read Latin.”

  “Aye. Latin is the only language I can read. I told you aboot my uncle, the cleric. He taught me tae read.”

  So that is why her speech was closer to that of a lady than a serf! Certainly, her voice lilted with the Highland dialect, but it was nothing like the rest of the servants. Fayre’s speech showed she was educated.

  “Well, then,” he said aloud, “would you be so kind as to read a bit of Scripture to me?”

  “I wish I could. I ha’e not a copy. We were too poor tae have one of oor ain.”

  Of course they were. No
serf was wealthy enough to own a copy of Scripture. Fayre was a prime example of what a person of low birth could achieve with the guidance of someone who cared and with the desire to learn and to remember.

  Kenneth pointed to a wooden coffer in the corner of the room. “You will find one in there.”

  He watched as Fayre followed his instructions. When she opened the heavy chest and looked inside, she stopped for a moment. She reached for the book, but her motions were hesitant, as though the Words of God might impart judgment upon her in just the touching. She stroked the leather cover and took the tome in her arms, then held it to her chest as though it were a small child. Her excitement over touching a copy of sacred Scripture ignited his own.

  “Open the book before me.” Kenneth could hear the pitch of his own voice grow higher.

  She complied, sitting in the chair beside him and examining several pages. Each one brought a gasp of delight. “I–I dinna feel worthy.”

  He understood. He knew from his own reading that the illuminations were startling in their detail. The monks at the monastery at Dryburgh had labored over the artwork for years. Kenneth extended his hand and touched hers. “You have come to nurse me at great risk to yourself. Surely you know I never would have asked that of you.”

  She nodded.

  “Yet where are the others? I have many in my employ. Do you see them?” He paused. “That is the real reason why you were reluctant to summon Walter, is it not? You knew he did not want to take the risk of being too near me.”

  Fayre looked at the Bible in her lap. Her reticence only confirmed his suspicions.

  “I would have expected as much from Ulf but not Walter.” He pushed unwelcome thoughts from his mind and grasped Fayre’s hand. Her fingers seemed so tiny in comparison to his own. When he gave them a gentle squeeze, she did not resist. “You nursed me all this time when no one else would. In my eyes, you are indeed worthy.”

  “Let us not be too quick tae judge the others,” she answered. “Fear is a powerful emotion, and perhaps they dinna rely as fully upon God as I do. Nevertheless, I ha’e kept everyone in the castle in prayer. As of yet, I ha’e heard of no one’s death.”

 

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