Isabella took one look at Murdoch’s wound and wanted to cry. “I am not certain...”
“You must believe,” Alexander whispered with heat. “For if you have not the faith that you can heal him, then you will not. So it is that we give life to our dreams.”
* * *
Despite Alexander’s conviction, Isabella knew from Eleanor’s initial reaction that this battle would not be easily won. Still, Eleanor was not readily daunted. With Isabella as her right hand, she called for fire and she called for water. She lanced that wound and pushed the toxin from it. She bathed it and wrapped it in herbs, and merely a few hours later, they repeated the sequence again.
When evening fell, Isabella insisted that Eleanor rest, for she was clearly weary. She did as Eleanor had done, all the night long, knowing that she would not sleep until Murdoch was recovered.
Morning’s light revealed little difference. Indeed, the wound seemed to breed disease with startling speed. The wound was clean, but deep, but his fever raged and the pus was endless. He did not awaken, not once.
Eleanor took one look at him in the morning, and frowned at Isabella’s tidings. “It will be thirst that kills him,” she said grimly. “Unless we can turn the tide.”
All the day, they labored as one, and not a whit of difference could either discern. They tried to trickle water into his mouth, but his lips were so firmly clenched that he might have willed to go without. His hands were clenched into fists, and Isabella wondered what battle waged within his thoughts.
And so that night passed as the first, and the second day as the first. His breathing changed, for it became more shallow, and his pulse weakened. His skin became more pale and those lines were more clearly visible than before.
As they sat vigil, Isabella told Eleanor all that she knew, and the older woman’s manner grew more quiet. They both remained with him for the third night, as Eleanor would not leave him. His breath has begun to rattle in his chest.
“You should sleep,” Eleanor said to Isabella without meeting her gaze. “Go upstairs and sleep. I shall do all that can be done here.”
Isabella straightened, recognizing her mentor’s tone. “You think he will die this night.”
“I think you should not be here this night,” Eleanor said, her tone both firm and practical, her gaze fixed upon Murdoch. “You love him. Think of him in the moment when he claimed your heart.”
“I will not leave his side!”
“What you witness this night might haunt you forevermore,” Eleanor said quietly. “I think only of your welfare, Isabella.”
“I know. But I will not leave him.” Isabella fell to her knees beside the other woman. “Would you leave Alexander?”
Eleanor smiled fleetingly. “No, I would not. You are right in that.” She reached out and squeezed Isabella’s hand.
Isabella felt that her heart was in her throat and that she could not take a breath. She did not wish to see Murdoch die, nor did she wish to abandon him. Would the Elphine Queen claim him all the same? She blinked back her tears.
Only to find a bearded man in glowing raiment crouch down beside her. “A feeble victory,” he murmured, his expression one of concern. “Yet again, her sorcery surprises me.”
“Can you not aid him?” Isabella asked, aware that Eleanor looked askance at her.
“I do my best,” Eleanor whispered, clearly not seeing the Fae king.
“And I have done mine,” Finvarra added with a smile. He reached out and let his hand hover over the wound, grimacing at whatever he discerned. He flicked a glance at Isabella as he withdrew his hand. “What was it that he risked so much to regain?”
“The hand of the Magdalene,” Isabella said, not truly thinking about such mundane details. Surely Murdoch could not die.
“The hand of the Magdalene?” Eleanor glanced up. “Is it not reputed to heal?”
Isabella gasped. “It is!”
Eleanor shrugged and pushed to her feet, Moira there immediately to rub her back. “I am not much for such remedies, but it cannot hurt at this point.” She turned and raised her voice. “Anthony! Will you send word to Father Malachy, that he should come and bring the relic destined for Seton Manor?”
“Of course, my lady,” the castellan said, bowing deeply.
But Isabella had already fled to the village to do that very thing.
* * *
Murdoch found himself in a dark forest, one filled with fog and menace. It seemed an endless wood, for he could find no path out of it, nor discern any place where the trees thinned and the sky was brighter. He wandered endlessly, uncertain how far he had walked, where he was or where he arrived. There was neither day nor night in that forest, just an overwhelming shadow of grey.
And silence. Silence unbroken.
There was a deep frost claiming his body, an ice that claimed his sinews and froze his very bones. It emanated from his thigh, from the blow that had changed everything in his life. He was delirious and he knew it. He hoped only that it did not begin to snow.
There was a river in that endless forest, its surface like a black mirror, and when he bathed in it or drank from it, he caught glimpses of people he had known and loved. They were insubstantial, unaware of him, passing like mist in the wind.
He had only just realized that they were all dead, when the fire touched his body. It seared him like a raging inferno, shooting through his veins like Greek fire and exploding in his chest. He was certain that flames sprouted from his fingertips, that sparks danced from his hair, that his skin itself crackled and burned.
But when Murdoch opened his eyes, there was sunshine. Golden sunlight spilled over him, warming him with its caress. The forest was gone, the darkness was banished, and his Isabella, tears running down her cheeks, leaned toward him.
“Murdoch!” she whispered in wonder. “You awaken!”
He saw a blond woman behind her. On his other side was a priest, one who held the reliquary destined for Seton Manor, and that treasure seemed to glow with unholy light.
“He awakens!” the blond woman cried and Murdoch heard footsteps.
Behind the woman appeared the Laird of Kinfairlie, a small boy on his shoulders, and Rhys, the cursedly effective Rhys, another young boy on his shoulders. Rhys’ lady stood behind him, their babe in her arms. There were two other young women, who must have been Isabella’s other sisters were there, one with auburn hair and one with hair of ebony. Murdoch saw Stewart, that man’s lined face alight, and Gavin gave a hoot of joy beside him.
They were all smiling at him, as if he had come back from the dead.
Murdoch tried to move and to speak, only then realizing how weak his body had become. “My Isabella,” he whispered, and she lifted a cup of water to his lips. “My Isabella, there is a silver ring in my purse. I would be honored if you would be my wife and wear that ring upon your hand.” He took another sip of water with her aid as Gavin hastened to fetch his purse. “I would ask your brother for his blessing, but I believe your uncle has already given us one.”
“And I would wed you either way,” Isabella whispered as she kissed his cheek. She trailed one hand down his face and he knew he was a sight, but if she could look upon him with such favor in this state, that she must love him. “Your eyes are blue again.”
“Because my Isabella healed me,” he said. “Just as I always knew she would.” And he caught her close, pressing a kiss into her hair, profoundly glad that she would be his Isabella for all his days and nights.
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
The wedding service was all Isabella might have dreamed it could be.
It was the first of February, the morn after the new moon, when she and Murdoch were to exchange their vows. The morning dawned crisp and clear, the sky cloudless with nary a breath of wind. Moira pronounced the weather a good portent for the match, although Isabella needed no such warranty.
Kinfairlie’s keep had been noisy these past weeks in preparation for Isabella’s nuptia
ls. Madeline and Rhys were already present, of course, which was fortunate for they lived at the greatest distance. Vivienne and Erik had journeyed south from Blackleith, their young daughters racing through Kinfairlie’s hall each day until they dropped with exhaustion. Roland was enchanted with his cousins, and – even better – Eleanor’s stomach had finally settled.
Alexander had sent word to Malcolm and to Ross, though he had warned Isabella they would not be able to leave their employ as mercenaries for her nuptials. She wondered whether Malcolm would be distressed or relieved to learn of the fate of Ravensmuir.
The only omission was Murdoch’s own brother Duncan. Stewart had ridden to Seton Manor with all haste, but he had not yet returned. Isabella resolved to appreciate all she had and not worry about whatever she did not. Murdoch was healed and they would be wed. Indeed, she had need of nothing more.
On the joyous day, Isabella donned a new kirtle, one wrought of palest green and lavishly embroidered with gold. It was far more elaborate than was usually her taste, but this was a day for splendor. Even better, it was a gift from the busy fingers of her sisters, and she felt dressed in their love.
Eleanor had given the bride a new crimson belt and slippers from her own trunk of treasures, their workmanship exotic and rich. Vivienne had favored Isabella with a new linen chemise, one made of cloth so fine that it might have been gossamer. Isabella had her hair braided by Elizabeth, who had a rare talent for the task, and stood tall when her sisters were done.
When Isabella descended to the hall in all her finery, she had eyes only for Murdoch. He stood beside Alexander, so tall and handsome that Isabella’s heart began to pound in earnest. He had healed so quickly and so well that even Eleanor was amazed, and he was every measure the knight she had first glimpsed.
He stepped forward, his eyes sparkling, and took her hand in his. “Still you will have me?” he teased and Isabella laughed.
“Yes!” She leaned closer to whisper for his ears alone. “I do love you so, Murdoch.”
He kissed her hand, his eyes gleaming. “And I love you, my Isabella.” He winked. “With all my heart, to be sure.” He grinned when she smiled in surprise at his jest, then tucked her hand into his elbow.
They walked together through the hall, the company standing to each side to let them pass. Alexander and Eleanor fell into step behind them, then all the other wedded couples in the family followed. Annelise and Elizabeth walked together, holding hands with the children. They formed a procession and Isabella’s heart pounded with every step.
Not only did she go to pledge herself to the man she loved, but all those in Kinfairlie’s bounds came to wish her well. The route to the chapel was lined with people, people Isabella had known for years or even for all her life, people who came to share in her happiness on this day. They wore their best garb, too, and they bowed as she approached them, many of them calling good wishes to her.
First in the hall itself were those of Kinfairlie’s household. Anthony stood at the fore of this group, and he smiled with pride as he bowed. Moira stood behind him, mopping away her tears even as she smiled, Vera fast beside her and sniffling, too.
Every maid and boy who worked within the hall had come, the line to Kinfairlie’s portal lined with cooks, sauce makers, and scullery girls. There were maids from the village who worked in the hall and the gardens, and the line stretched into the sunlight of the bailey. There were the gatekeepers, sentries, men-at-arms and guards, Owen the ostler and the stable boys, the armorer, the sheriff and the gamekeeper. The line flowed beyond Kinfairlie’s gates where the villagers of Kinfairlie awaited the procession, their faces filled with a joy that echoed Isabella’s own feelings.
The baker and his wife, Siobhan, with their healthy son, then the smith with his wife and apprentices. Isabella nodded to the miller and his son, Matthew, to Matthew’s wife, Ceara, who held their infant daughter, to Marjorie the alewife and Ellen the spinner. There were butchers and eelmongers, those who ploughed and those who worked silver, all had come to share Isabella’s happiness.
As the procession passed, those who had gathered fell into step behind. When Isabella and Murdoch reached the double portal of Kinfairlie’s chapel, Father Malachy awaited them in his robes. He smiled at Isabella and indicated the swelling company behind her with a nod. Isabella turned to face Murdoch and as he took her hands in his, she looked back, awed by the size of the crowd that gathered closer.
She was well-loved at Kinfairlie and this was the legacy of her family and her upbringing. It was a gift no one could ever take from her and one that she knew would glow in her heart forever. She turned to face Murdoch and smiled at him, certain that there was no less love in her future with this man.
She had never imagined that she might be so happy as this.
And their days together had only begun.
* * *
Murdoch was puzzled that he had not had a reply from his brother Duncan. Stewart had been dispatched to take word to Duncan of the message, and to return the relic to its rightful place in the treasury of the chapel at Seton Manor. Murdoch had hoped that Duncan might ride south to witness his nuptials, or that at least, his brother would send word welcoming Isabella to live at Seton Manor. He had hoped for a place in his brother’s household but as the days passed and there was neither Stewart’s return nor a missive, Murdoch began to fear that the rift between himself and Duncan would never be healed.
Alexander had discerned his worry and pried the truth from him. The Laird of Kinfairlie had offered Murdoch employ here at Kinfairlie, and given the lack of options, Murdoch had accepted with gratitude. He wished to take Isabella to Seton Manor, that she might see his home, but when the day of their marriage arrived with no word from Duncan, Murdoch wondered if the course was a wise one.
Had Stewart not arrived at Seton Manor?
Had Duncan not been pleased with the return of the relic? Alexander insisted it could not be so, and Murdoch wished to believe him. He was thinking on this day that they would go to Seton Manor, he and Isabella, that he could speak to Duncan himself. If his brother sent him away, then they would return to Kinfairlie. But Murdoch would hear the truth from Duncan’s own lips.
In this moment, though, he had no fear for the future. He had completed his quest. He stood with the lady he loved beyond all else, and she pledged herself to him for all time. There could be nothing wrong in a world in which Isabella’s hand was within his own, Murdoch was certain of it. He knew that no matter what obstacle they faced in future, they would overcome it with ease. They were stronger together than alone, and the fulfillment of his quest had forged an eternal bond between them.
He liked the ring that Tynan had given to him in the caverns of Kinfairlie, for it was heavy silver and beautifully embellished. The entire family had caught their breath at the sight of it and when he told the tale of it, Murdoch saw their relief at Tynan’s rest. They told him what they knew of the ring, and he thought it most fitting that his Isabella should wear the ring given by Merlyn to his Ysabella.
Murdoch slid it onto her finger before the priest, admiring the look of it upon her hand. He watched her as they made their vows to each other and welcomed the thunder of his heart as she pledged her troth to him alone.
Forever.
When the priest made his blessing, Murdoch impulsively kissed Isabella. This was met with much approval from the lady in question, whose sparkling gaze hinted that she too was anxious for their wedding night. The gathered company hooted and shouted with such approval that Isabella laughed aloud. Murdoch kissed her again and swung her around in his arms, much to the delight of all who watched.
Alexander raised a hand for silence. “There is one who would speak on this day, before we return to the hall to celebrate.”
“Who would speak?” Isabella asked. “Who would protest such merriment?”
Alexander cast her a smile. “One who would add to it, I expect.”
Murdoch could make no more sense of this than Isab
ella apparently did, and they turned as one to scan the crowd. Murdoch saw him then, his own brother walking closer even as he drew back his hood.
Stewart strode behind Duncan, smiling broadly. “We have been here these four days!” he shouted. “My lord Duncan wished to surprise you.”
“And surprised I am!” Murdoch replied, seeing his brother’s smile and knowing all was well. “This is my brother, Laird Duncan of Seton Manor!”
The assembly hollered and clapped in appreciation, even as Duncan caught Murdoch in a tight hug. “I feared you would not return,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I feared I had sent you to your death and that those words would haunt me for all my days and nights.”
“It is the love of two brothers that stands the test of time,” Murdoch insisted.
Duncan pulled back and there were tears in his eyes as he surveyed Murdoch. “I should never have doubted that you would not only succeed, but win another treasure on the journey.” He bowed to Isabella who blushed, but did not drop her gaze. “You always were one to exceed expectation.”
Murdoch dared to ask what he most wished to know. “I would bring my lady wife to Seton Manor, that she might see my home,” he said, his words thick. “If it suits you well, brother.”
“It suits me very well,” Duncan said. “And that is why I have brought you a gift for your nuptials.”
Murdoch frowned for he did not understand. Duncan, though, turned to the assembly and addressed them, his voice carrying to them all. “I thank you all for the good care you have given to my brother, and to the wife you have surrendered to his care. The love of a woman who is all I have heard Isabella to be, and the weight of her hand in his, is truly a prize for my brother to savor for the rest of his life. I see the fondness with which you regard this lady so, before Murdoch takes her to Seton Manor to live, I would tell you more of this man who has evidently claimed her heart.”
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