Murdoch did not want to endanger this man who helped him, even though he wanted to know more. “Why do you help me if you think I am doomed?”
“You may yet have a chance.” The smith smiled. “And I have a great fondness for the Lady Isabella, of all the family at Kinfairlie. Her spirit is as bright as a flame kindled in the forge, and she is more stalwart and true than many a knight.” He met Murdoch’s gaze steadily. “I will not be the only one to hunt you if you evade the Elphine Queen but do not stand by the Lady Isabella.” His smile turned cool. “I might be the most vindictive.”
Murdoch nodded understanding. “I have nothing to promise her.”
“Yet,” the smith said, in conscious echo of Murdoch’s own words. He placed the knife in Murdoch’s hands. “I give you but part of what you need to change that.”
“Thank you,” Murdoch said, his appreciation heartfelt. “Will you tell me any detail of how you evaded the Elphine Queen?”
The smith shook his head. His eyes narrowed as he listened to the village. “You must flee now, before all are awake and those women find Father Malachy. At the back of my smithy is a loose board, in the corner where you halted. Move it, run directly to the boundary wall, and see yourself safe. I shall re-secure the board. No one will see you.”
“You know my horse is hidden there,” Murdoch guessed.
The smith smiled. “I have eyes in my head for what should not be seen, Murdoch Seton. I saw the dust of the Fae follow you when first you rode into Kinfairlie, and I saw it adorn the messenger’s horse. I knew then that there was more to you than most would discern.” He sobered then, and inclined his head. “Good luck to you.”
Murdoch offered his hand, sensing the smith’s surprise that he did as much. Few nobles and knights would shake the hand of a tradesman, but Murdoch guessed that he might survive only because of this man. The smith smiled with genuine pleasure, then gripped Murdoch’s hand.
“And good luck to you, Master Smith,” Murdoch said. A wild hope had seized him, an optimism that he could defeat the Elphine Queen’s scheme and court Isabella.
He fled then, following the recommended course, knowing that the smith listened while appearing to do otherwise. The board was as promised, the distance to the village perimeter short and deserted. Murdoch fled for the low point in the walls where he had entered the village.
To his relief, Stewart was waiting still – his impatience obvious – with the horses. Murdoch swung into the saddle and they were away. The horses galloped with vigor and the village was left behind. They rode in a wide curve to the south, as if fleeing to Newcastle, before turning and racing toward their refuge in the woods.
Stewart was silent at first, but Murdoch knew that happy state could not last.
* * *
Isabella went through Eleanor’s volumes without finding a single useful reference to wild thyme. Oh, it was true that the herb was listed, as the wild variant of the thyme she knew from the kitchen garden. This familiar information cast no light upon the smith’s comment.
There was nothing for it – she would have to ask Eleanor. Eleanor had been sitting by the fire, playing with Roland when Isabella had returned this morn. Annelise and Elizabeth had been there, as well as Moira, and Isabella feared the entire court of Kinfairlie would know of her curiosity before she could halt the tale.
But she had to know.
She rose to return to the hall, but to her relief, she heard footsteps upon the stairs. Eleanor was ascending to the third floor, Moira at her elbow. Eleanor’s gaze fell to the volume in Isabella’s hand and she smiled.
“Still you would study?” she asked, her pride obvious. “I hear the baker’s son is well recovered, with many thanks to your aid. And my stomach is much improved, thanks to your posset.” Eleanor gave Isabella an embrace and smiled at her fondly. “Soon I shall have no task to call my own, Moira.”
“You have enough to do, my lady, with the laird’s next son on his way,” the maid insisted. She bustled past the pair of them to make the bed ready for her mistress. “And should they all tire you so much from this point forward, some aid would be welcome.”
Eleanor’s smile widened. “You speak as if I shall have a dozen sons, Moira.”
“I do not doubt it possible, my lady, given the affection between yourself and your lord spouse.”
“Do not tell me that you disapprove,” Eleanor teased, her gaze dancing. She took Isabella’s arm and leaned on her a little. “I thought you adored a keep full of children.”
“You should conspire to deliver the next in summertime,” Moira scolded.
“Let us see this one arrive first,” Eleanor said, a shadow of exhaustion touching her gaze.
“You are better, though?” Isabella asked.
“I am tired.” Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Moira hastened to remove her lady’s shoes.
“But this is typical of the beginning of many pregnancies, from what I have read in your own volume. Does it become worse?”
Moira hissed in disapproval, but Eleanor shook her head. “In my experience, it is the opposite. The woman who is ill and tired beyond belief is oft quite hale after the first third of the pregnancy.” She eased back against the pillows and met Isabella’s gaze. “I was more concerned when Roland did not make me ill, in all honesty.”
“We shall not speak of such matters in this chamber,” Moira chided.
Eleanor patted the side of the bed, ignoring her maid and smiling at Isabella. “Come ask me your questions. I see that you have another crop of them.”
“I was curious about wild thyme.”
Moira caught her breath and Isabella saw the maid’s eyes flash before she busied herself with the coverlet.
Eleanor’s expression remained mild. “Why?”
“Cook mentioned that it was stronger than the thyme in the garden, that we did not use it as a result.” Isabella did not mention that Cook had confessed as much only because Isabella had asked outright about the differences. “I wondered if it had other uses. Every plant, after all, seems to have its purpose.”
“Ask your sister, Elizabeth,” Moira muttered. “It is clear enough that she has sampled of it.”
Isabella was curious about that comment, but Eleanor again ignored her maid.
“It is as you say,” Eleanor agreed. “Wild thyme is stronger, so strong that many do not care for its taste in the sauce. It is the one most often consumed for bravery, perhaps because only a stalwart soul can swallow a brew made from it. It is said that Roman warriors added it to their baths before battle, and that all Romans used it when they were massaged. It does stimulate the skin.”
“Enough for blue marks to appear?” Isabella asked.
“Blue marks?” Eleanor clearly had no idea what she meant. “What kind of marks?”
Isabella drew whorls on her own forearm, echoing the pattern she had seen on Murdoch’s skin. “Curls and curves, like a vine growing over the flesh.”
When she glanced up, she saw that Moira was pale and her eyes wide. Isabella realized that there was one who possessed the answer she sought, but it was not Eleanor.
Indeed, Eleanor was untroubled by this detail. “Who has such a mark?”
“I cannot say.”
Eleanor shrugged. “It cannot be of much concern. I would suggest to you that it had more to do with woad than with wild thyme.”
“Woad makes a blue dye,” Isabella recalled.
“Indeed.” Eleanor’s eyelids were drooping and she stifled a yarn. “And it is said that once the warriors who lived in the highlands painted their skin with woad. They fought nude and believed the hue made them more fearsome.”
“For they resembled the Fae,” Moira said darkly.
“I do not understand,” Isabella said.
“The Fae of old had tattoos all over their body, marks just as you said. They were of deepest blue and purple and black, a network across every bit of their flesh.” Moira dropped her voice. “Some say it is the ma
rk of the fallen angels. Others that it is the sign of the dead. Either way, only the Fae sport such marks upon their skin, they possess them from birth and never can they be removed.” She peered at Isabella. “Who have you met, Lady Isabella, and what has this demon pledged to you?”
Eleanor waved a hand, dismissive. “You will hear much superstition about the useful plants, Isabella, and you may believe it if you choose.”
“It is true!” Moira protested.
Eleanor smiled, her expression indulgent. “As a healer, you must keep your attention upon the medicinal uses that are well documented and can be applied to give relief to those who are ill.” She smiled, sleepy. “Do not attribute too much to wild thyme. It has a stronger taste than the thyme we grow, but it is harmless enough.”
With that, she yawned mightily and began to doze.
Isabella, her thoughts spinning by these conflicting tidings, rose slowly so as to not disturb Eleanor. She was not certain that Moira’s knowledge was useful, for it carried so much that seemed rumor, but still she wished to question the maid.
To her relief, Moira was not prepared to abandon their discussion so readily. The older woman touched a fingertip to Isabella’s arm at the threshold of the door. “A brew of wild thyme gives one the power to see the Fae,” the older woman whispered, her gaze dancing to Eleanor with some guilt. “Is that the knowledge you seek? It is a tale I heard from my mother.” She cast a glance back at her sleeping mistress. “There are those who might call it superstition, but I call it wisdom.”
“Did you ever drink of it yourself?”
Moira crossed herself at the very notion. “I would not! Take care, my lady, for it seems you are tempted to venture where you should not.”
Isabella was not certain what to believe. It was her tendency to be skeptical of beings she could not see, but she dared not let her assumptions color all. She certainly could not imagine that Murdoch was Fae.
She could envision him as a warrior. “The Fae truly have blue marks on their skin?”
Moira nodded vigorously. “It is how you know them when they mingle amongst us. They are fond of ale, of horses, of festivities. They think we cannot see them, though, that they can pass unobserved. And they can, unless there is one with the power to see them.”
“Like Elizabeth?”
Moira nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.
“I do not think she has ever drunk tea of wild thyme.”
“To be cursed with the power from birth is no blessing!” Moira declared. “And to seek it out by choice is folly indeed.”
“You sound fearful of such ability.”
“And rightly so.” Moira nodded. “Should a soul be able to see them, such knowledge must never be revealed. The Fae will strike blindness upon any who see them, for they are ferociously private.” She swallowed. “They are fierce overall, answerable to no moral code or law. ’Twas why the warriors of old would pretend to be them, to strike terror into the hearts of their opponents.”
Isabella frowned. “But what of a person with such marks upon his skin? He would be a warrior, then?”
“Or he is one they mean to claim. Perhaps he is claimed already. It depends who put the marks upon him, whether they are feigned or genuine.” She shook her head. “If it is the latter, my lady, know that he cannot be saved. The first mark upon his skin was his doom. You must let them take him.”
Rebellion rose hot in Isabella’s chest and she shrugged to hide the vigor of her response. She would let no Fae claim Murdoch. Indeed, the tale sounded to be such nonsense that she could not truly give it credit. He must have donned the marks by choice. She knew he was from the Highlands and she knew he had ridden south to reclaim his family legacy from Alexander. He might well have believed that he would have to do battle to reclaim the stolen relic and prepared accordingly.
“I thank you, Moira,” she said with a smile. “It is best to know where one should use one’s powers.”
“And what one should avoid,” the maid said with heat. “The Fae are here, have you not sensed them? Why do you think my lady is so ill with this child, when she was not with her first? It is the touch of them, for they would take the child as their own. They care not if it is dead or alive, or if my lady lives or dies.”
Isabella was startled by this diatribe, so startled that she knew not what to say. She had not realized that Moira was so superstitious.
The maid gripped her arm, perhaps sensing that Isabella did not believe her. “Do not consume wild thyme, my lady. It will only bring you grief, for they bring only grief.”
“I am glad I spoke to you, Moira.” Isabella squeezed the older woman’s hands. “There is so much to learn, and it seems that not all of the knowledge is in books.”
“It is in the memories of grandmothers,” Moira said with force. Eleanor stirred slightly and the maid glanced back, protective as ever of her mistress.
“I shall make her another posset,” Isabella said. “If you would sit with her.”
There was no question of the maid doing otherwise.
Just as there was no question of Isabella not consuming a tea made of wild thyme. She half-believed the tale was nonsense, but there was only one way to be sure. And thyme in either wild or common form was harmless.
Save that it might bolster her courage. Should she spend more time with Murdoch, that augmentation might not be amiss.
* * *
Stewart could have been the voice of Murdoch’s own conscience.
“It is wicked, I tell you, and it is wrong.” The older man spoke with heat, beginning his tirade as soon as they left Kinfairlie’s walls behind them. “To deceive a man for one’s own purposes is one matter and one that perhaps might be explained by a quest for the greater good. But to abuse the trust of a maiden is base beyond belief.”
Murdoch protested, more because he felt he should than that he disagreed. “You do not know that I have done as much.”
“You took too great a time in the chapel. She was there, was she not?”
Murdoch remained silent, unable to lie to the older man.
“Indeed, she was,” Stewart concluded. “Did you confess to me that you had a tryst? Nay! Of course not, for I should have ensured you did not keep it!”
“I have taken nothing from her, Stewart...”
Stewart was not interested in whatever Murdoch might say. “Gavin tells me that she was in the village and that you seized her when you rode away. He says that the lady was enchanted by you and your daring, and worse, that you did not return for all the day.”
Murdoch would have liked to have argued in favor of his own intentions, but he was not certain what would be possible for him to do. He kept silent with an effort.
Stewart did not such thing. “I have seen the glint in your eyes when you look at her, lad, and I am not so old that I do not know the import of it.” The older man glowered at Murdoch. “’Twas you who said the maiden’s curiosity would be useful, but you go too far in this.”
“It is not that simple...”
“Aye, it is simple enough! Were you more familiar with her on this morn?”
“It is not chivalrous for men to speak of a lady this way.”
Stewart scoffed. “It is not chivalrous to take advantage of a lady’s trust! How dare you lead her to believe you a man of honor, when you mean only to use her for your own ends?”
“I do not!”
“Will you leave a babe in her belly when you abandon her? Will you see her shamed?”
“No!”
“And what do you think will occur then? That you shall recover Duncan’s relic and that the Laird of Kinfairlie will welcome you as a suitor for his sister? A man he has hunted as a criminal and a thief? A man he has pledged to bring to justice? Where have you been these past years that your wits have become so addled as this?”
And there was the crux of it. “I will not speak of it.”
“I will! Your father would never have tolerated such behavior in his household
and I regret to see that his own son – his pride and joy, no less – has become such a knave as this. What possibly could have happened to you to change you thus?”
“More than you might imagine, Stewart.” Murdoch spoke grimly. “I would treat her with honor, but I may not have the choice.”
“Choice! So spake every villain in excuse for his own crimes.” Stewart growled to himself for a moment longer, before he found the words. “She is a maiden and one nobly born as well! Knaves and scoundrels are not the men she has had occasion to meet, and her expectations have been shaped by experience.”
“She is not unwilling to aid me, Stewart.”
“Because she does not know the consequences!”
Murdoch bristled at the notion that his Isabella was a fool. “She learns the trade of a healer. She has delivered children. I believe she knows more than most of the consequences of intimacy – of which there has been little.”
“There should have been none!”
Murdoch bit his tongue for Stewart was right.
“And what of her brother’s response? Will he abuse her? Will he ensure any child is lost, even if the price is his own sister? There are those who think highly of honor, and you know little of this laird’s inclinations.”
Murdoch felt a new chill touch him. “You assume I would not wed her.”
“I assume the laird would not wed his own sister to the thief who haunts his forest! He will see you hanged for your thefts, upon that you might rely – if not worse.” Stewart leaned closer. “There was a time when I trusted your intent, lad, a time when I thought I knew your very thoughts as well as my own.” His lips tightened. “But this I cannot understand. How could you use the maiden ill? How could you put her in peril in her brother’s household?”
“I pray I do not.”
“Prayer is not sufficient! How could you fail to return for so many years? Your father died in despair over your loss. How could you have denied him the knowledge that you are hale? How could you have let the earl believe you so sorely wounded as that?”
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