by Jen Holling
She held out her hand, resigned that she’d lost another battle. He stared at it for a moment, then grasped it. He was solid and warm, and again she felt a wave of despair, along with the urge to sob her story on this nice groom’s shoulder. He pulled her to her feet and abruptly dropped her hand.
She turned and gazed up at the tall walls, at the black clouds boiling above.
“Can you tell me why he won’t answer my letters? Why he won’t even speak to me?”
The man had taken her horse’s reins and had already turned Moireach around, ready to lead her across the bridge to the village.
“I know not, miss. I just work in the stables.”
Rose turned to get a good look at her new friend. He was very tall, a head taller than her at least. His hair was dark, but that was all she could discern with his plaid covering it. He was a fine-looking man, clean-shaven, with a strong, unsmiling mouth. He had the broad, thick shoulders of someone used to hard work. His trews and boots were faded, though well made.
“What is your name, sir, so I might thank you for your kindness?” She slanted a poisonous glance at the castle. “You are far kinder than your master.”
“Dumhnull.”
“Well met, Dumhnull. My name is Rose, and you can tell your master that I will be back on the morrow.” She looked upward and grimaced. “But for tonight, I think you’re right. He cannot speak to a dead woman, can he?”
Dumhnull had yet to smile at her, and though he didn’t now she thought perhaps there was a softening to his stern mouth. His lips parted as if he meant to speak, then shut on an exhalation. Finally he raised his dark brows and said, “No, miss, I suppose he cannot.” There was a curious note of forbearance in his voice, but before she could question it, he inclined his head for her to follow him.
She trudged after him, keeping her head down. The brim of her floppy hat bobbed with each step. It had long ceased protecting her from the deluge. Her hair was thoroughly soaked beneath the hat, plastered to her head and streaming in rivulets down the sides of her face and neck. She shivered convulsively, eagerly anticipating dry clothes and a warm fire.
They crossed the bridge and passed several cottages before he stopped near one. Fresh thatching repelled the rain so it flowed down to shower on the ground. Bags of sand pressed up against the base of the dark stones, preventing the rain from seeping underneath.
He nodded at it. “The blacksmith and his wife live there. They’ll feed you and give you a place to sleep.”
“My thanks, friend.” Rose reached for the reins, but when her fingers closed over the leather, he didn’t release them. She stood rather close to him. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. Blue, brilliant as a sapphire and just as startling. She stared for a long moment, and he stared back. His gaze moved over her face in a manner overbold for a mere groom. Rose felt a moment of panic, her sisters’ warnings echoing through her mind. He knew she was alone and unprotected. She held his gaze without wavering and tugged on the reins.
He released them and averted his eyes to scan the sky. “You really should be on your way in the morn, if the rain clears.”
“I thank you for your warnings, but I cannot.” She gave him a speculative look from beneath her lashes. “Would you be willing to help me, Dumhnull?”
“How?”
“Sneak me in?”
He appeared scandalized at the suggestion. “Nay—you’d not want to do that, miss. Have you not heard the tales? He’s a wizard, he’s evil.”
“Idle gossip spread by ignorant rustics. I pay it no heed.”
He glanced around cautiously, then leaned in closer. She resisted the urge to step back. An uncomfortable fluttering had begun in her belly. He was so very large, and she was very much alone. Though he’d shown her nothing but kindness, his proximity unnerved her. But if he had any inappropriate intentions, it did not behoove her to show fear. She knew from experience that to men with mischief in mind, fear was oft an aphrodisiac, whereas courage nearly always discouraged them.
“The villagers have tried to capture him several times. He doesn’t dare leave the castle.”
Rose’s mouth opened on an exhalation as she gazed up at her new friend. “But I mean him no harm. I—I know about that, about persecution. Not myself,” she hastened to add when he drew back from her warily. “I—well, someone I knew.”
He shook his head firmly. “Your sympathy is wasted, lass. Go home.”
She gazed helplessly at him, but he just backed away. “Ask the blacksmith. He knows. He’ll tell you true. But do not mention that anyone from the castle sent you. They hate us all.”
She frowned at the cozy cottage, beckoning to her as she shivered in the rain. When she turned back, Dumhnull was gone.
She was welcomed by the blacksmith and his wife. The blacksmith was an enormous redhead named Tadhg, and he was beside himself with excitement when he learned Rose was a healer.
“Ack—my tooth, it aches and throbs. I cannot sleep, I cannot think of aught anymore but the tooth. It’s my whole life.” He sat, his brawny frame slumped in his chair, his thick-fingered hand cupping his copper-bearded cheek, looking thoroughly pathetic.
His short, stout wife placed a bowl of a thin broth and a chunk of dark bread before Rose, then stopped behind her husband, putting her hands on his shoulder. Her dark hair was caught back in a severe bun and her round face was dour, but she gazed at her husband with affection, kneading his shoulders.
“He moans so terribly at night, I cannot sleep at all, either. Is there aught you can do for him?”
“Do you not have a barber?” Rose asked, gratefully sipping the stew. The goodwife had loaned her a homespun shift that was too large but clean and warm. She sat huddled on the bench under a thick wool plaid while her clothes dried before the fire.
Tadhg shook his head. “Plague got him.”
He gazed at Rose with such pained hope, his big hand rubbing his copper-bearded cheek.
She smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure there’s something I can do. But tell me, why do you not go to your chief? I’ve heard he is a great healer.”
Tadhg’s face darkened. His wife turned away abruptly, returning to the hearth.
“He is not a healer. He is a sorcerer. He doesn’t heal people, he gives them to the devil. I’d not let him touch me if he begged.”
His wife turned from the cauldron she stirred, her cheeks ruddy with affronted passion and her eyes dark slits in her doughy face. “Not that my lord would beg. Not him. He’d let us all die afore he’d soil his hands with any real healing, mind you.”
Taken aback by their fervor, Rose said, “But the stories I’ve heard—”
“Och, there’s stories all right,” the older woman said.
Rose’s shoulders slumped. “They’re not true then.”
“Oh, it’s all true.” Tadhg nodded sagely. “I’ve seen him do it myself.”
He leaned back in his chair, the pain in his face easing at the prospect of a story. “It was about a year ago. Allister, my apprentice, was out cutting wood. His wee wife came by to bring him some dinner. He didn’t know she was there, so he was startled. The ax slipped, and he cut her in the leg. He brought her here. We bound it up, but it festered and she fell into a fever. We knew the end was near. Allister had sent word to Lord Strathwick, but our chief never came. Allister was sore grieving there at the end, and went up to the castle himself, carrying on about how if the chief didn’t save his Betty he’d have the MacKay’s heart.”
Rose leaned across her stew, listening with breathless interest. “Did that work?”
“Aye, it did. He came down, though you could tell just by looking at him he’d rather be any place else. He had a look at Betty’s leg, then told her not to fear.” Tadhg extended his thick, rough hands in front of him, his expression reverent. “He lay his hands on her leg. It took but a minute. When he lifted his hands, Betty’s leg was as smooth as if the accident never happened. She was awake, too, blinking at us like an owl,
asking what happened.”
Rose sat back on the bench. “So that’s it? He touched her leg and the wound disappeared? Did he say anything afterward?”
Tadhg dropped his hands to his knees. “Nay, he never stays after a healing. His brother comes with him, and they leave immediately. Never around long enough for a thank-ee sir.”
Rose frowned, confused. “Why do you feel so ill about him? It sounds as if he could heal your tooth better than I could. I have no such magic.”
Tadhg’s bearded face distorted into a sneer of hatred. “Nay, I’ll not let him mark me for the devil.”
“What about Betty? He healed her. That is a miracle and you saw it.”
“No miracle—the devil’s work. He made her into a witch.”
“Really?” Rose said, skeptical. “How do you know? What did she do?”
“She told old Gannon that if the weather turned, his chickens would die. Sure enough, when it got cold last winter, two chickens did die. Allister also said that sometimes he saw her staring at his arm, or his foot, and the next day, he’d have cramps in the limb she’d been staring at. ’She be giving you the evil eye,’ I said to him. So he turned her out, and several others drove her into the woods. But did she leave? No, she’s with him now. A married woman, living in sin with the chief.”
Rose raised her brows but didn’t respond. Married or not, they’d exiled poor Betty. Rose couldn’t blame her for going to her chief for succor. It was a terrible pass they’d come to if a wife could no longer look at her husband without being suspected of witchcraft.
They finished eating, and Rose had a look in Tadhg’s mouth. His breath was foul, and no wonder—he had a rotting tooth. She extracted it for him and packed the socket with a poultice, giving him instructions to bite down and not talk until the morning, when she would have another look. She waved away his wife’s profuse thanks, glad she was able to repay the couple’s kindness.
Rose bedded down before the fire with several chickens, a pig, and a large goose. She found she could not sleep, in spite of the comfortable bed and full belly. She was besieged by thoughts of Lord Strathwick and Dumhnull and all Tadhg had said. She remembered Isobel’s vision and was more convinced than ever that if she could only speak to the MacKay chief face-to-face she could convince him to aid her. He was not without mercy or kindness, otherwise he’d have left Betty to her fate—both times.
When Tadhg’s peaceful snores joined the general snuffling, scratching, and rooting of the animals, Rose slid out from beneath the warmth of her blanket. The rain had stopped. She’d brought a clean shift and gown and had kept them dry by wrapping them in oiled canvas.
She dressed quietly before the fire, putting her boy’s boots on and carrying her finer slippers. She brushed her hair until it shone, then twisted it behind her head. She had no looking glass, so she smoothed her hands over her hair to be certain it was presentable. She had scrubbed her face and hands before she’d lain down. She felt like a warrior donning his armor before a great battle, except her armor was the trappings of femininity. She could only hope he would find her pleasing and feel pity for her plight.
She left coins on the blacksmith’s table, gathered her things, and left the cottage. Moireach was stabled behind the cottage with the blacksmith’s mule and goats. Rose decided to leave her there for now. She was determined to find a way in to Strathwick and it would be easier without a horse in tow.
She hurried along in the dark. She wore a dark plaid wrapped around her to aid in blending into the misty darkness. At the bridge leading to Strathwick she crouched low to the ground. Torches lit the ramparts, and two men-at-arms made a slow circuit of the walls. She tracked their path, and when they disappeared, she sprinted, racing across the bridge and up the path, stopping only when she was in the shelter of the wall. She pressed herself against it, breathing hard, her breath pluming out before her in a cloud. She clapped a plaid-covered hand over her mouth to hide it.
Her heart hammered in her ears as she waited. When she was certain she’d not been sighted, she crept along the berm, staying close to the wall. Dumhnull had left the castle somehow, and not through the gatehouse, as she’d been sitting by it and would have seen him.
She glanced upward. The sky was thick and hazy, the air close with moisture. It would rain again soon, and if she didn’t get inside, her good gown would be ruined. Then how would she look presenting herself to Lord Strathwick?
She walked for some time, circling the castle and passing two drum towers before arriving at a postern door. There was no porter window on this door, so they’d have to open it if they wanted to see who was there.
She stood there for several minutes, heart racing, considering what she would say when they opened the door. What more could she utter that she hadn’t already? Not a single plea had moved them. She would have to use force. She pressed her palm to her forehead. She was not a short woman, but she was thin, always had been. That did not mean she was weak, but still, she was no match for a man-at-arms. She bolstered herself. Speed and surprise would be her ally. She could do this. For her father.
She drew her dirk from her boot and set her bundle aside. She took a deep breath, preparing herself, and hid the dirk in the folds of her skirt. She hammered on the door purposefully.
It opened almost immediately, as if someone waited on the other side. She rushed in the open door. A woman stood on the other side, her mouth opened in almost comical surprise.
She came at Rose, frantically trying to push her back out the open doorway. Rose quickly sidestepped, pressing herself against the wall just inside the door.
“Oh, no! You must go!” The woman grabbed Rose’s arm and tried dragging her.
The woman was shorter than Rose was, but stouter. Still, when Rose dug in her heels, the woman could not budge her.
“I’m going nowhere until I speak with Lord Strathwick.”
The woman ran away, shouting for help. Rose panicked. Men-at-arms would come, prepared to deal with an intruder, and she would be thrown out or worse. Rose sprinted after the woman, fear spurring her to recklessness.
The woman was easily caught but not so easily restrained. She fought, arms flailing, screaming and scratching. Rose grappled desperately with her as two men appeared, afraid she might inadvertently stab the woman or herself in the battle.
The men were wrapped in green-and-brown wool plaids, bristling with weapons, their expressions forbidding. One seemed vaguely familiar. He had pale blond hair thinning at the crown and a ragged scar on his cheek. Rose’s heart surged. She grabbed the woman’s hair, yanking her head back. The woman screeched in pain. Rose pressed the dirk to her throat.
“Be still, woman, before I cut you,” Rose hissed in her ear. Even to her own ears she sounded dangerously unstable.
The woman finally grew still, though she trembled and moaned.
The men stopped in their tracks, hands out in a calming gesture. The other man was younger, a comely man, with thick black hair and dark, angry eyes. He had drawn his sword and looked ready to hack her in two. So much for looking pitiful.
Rose looked from one man to the other, her hand shaking so violently that she feared she would nick the woman inadvertently. She glared at the men. “Take me to Lord Strathwick or I slit her gullet.” Rose would never do such a thing, but it sounded sufficiently threatening, and she was desperate.
Apparently some of that desperation showed in her eyes. The men exchanged an alarmed look. The dark man lowered his sword but did not sheath it.
The blond man took a deep breath, his hands still out in a calming gesture. “Put it down, Mistress MacDonell. No need to hurt anyone.”
Rose nearly dropped her dirk in astonishment. He knew her name! But there was no time to ask how he knew her. She pulled the woman’s hair back, exposing more neck. “Bring me to him, damnit, or she dies!”
The woman whimpered and snuffled, and the men just stood there, watching Rose as if she were a wild animal, which she supposed she was
at the moment. She felt wild—capable of nearly anything—which was both frightening and exhilarating.
“Now!” she bellowed to emphasize her point. The woman she held flinched and let out a squeak of terror.
But still the men made no move to comply with her demands. Rose was scrambling for her next course of action when she noted the blond man’s gaze dart to something behind her.
Rose tried to jerk around, but she wasn’t quick enough. Her wrist was seized and her dirk yanked downward, away from the woman’s throat. Another arm snaked around her waist and hauled her off her feet. The woman ran, throwing herself into the blond man’s arms. Rose fought her captor, frenzied with fear and confusion, legs kicking gracelessly in the air, her free arm flailing. The hand holding her wrist squeezed until she dropped the dirk.
Her captor dropped her abruptly. She fell hard on her posterior, knocking the air from her lungs. She scrambled around, gasping for air and wincing at the pain in her backside.
“Dumhnull!” she gasped, then shut her mouth tightly. She didn’t want to cause him trouble, but she feared it was too late. She glanced at the other men. The black-haired one frowned severely at Dumhnull.
The groom leaned over to pick up her dirk, avoiding her gaze. His head was uncovered now, and she saw that he was older than she’d initially thought. Gray streaked his black hair, and though his face was unlined, the set of his jaw was rigid, and his beautiful eyes were hard and flat.
He was angry with her for her brutal entrance after his kindness. She couldn’t blame him. She wondered if he would help her still, or even if he could, as a mere groom. She continued to gaze at him, her heart still racing, but he refused to look at her. She was caught now, at their mercy, without a single ally. She closed her eyes, rejecting the urge to capitulate. She was here, in Strathwick. She couldn’t give up yet.
She turned her attention to the other men. “I’m here to see Lord Strathwick. I’ll not leave until I see him.” Her bravado elicited some amused glances and an exclamation of disbelief from the black-haired man, but she rose to her knees and raised her chin.
