by Kris Tualla
“A cart. It ran over me.”
“A cart?” Grier queried. She knelt by the man. “Where? In Durness?”
“Aye.”
“Did you no’ consider staying put while ye healed?”
“Uh… We hadn’t money for lodging.”
Grier rested her hand on his shoulder. The man’s unwashed stench filled her nostrils and she breathed through her mouth. “Show me. I might be able to do more for you.”
“I—I only need the medicine,” he stammered. His jaw clenched and he glared a warning at his companion. She backed away, into the low corner of the lean-to.
“If you’ve broken ribs, you’re in danger of puncturing a lung,” Grier kept her voice quiet and calm. Her hand remained on the man’s shoulder. “I should examine you.”
“No!” he blurted. His voice grew louder. “I’ve no need but the medicine! Can ye no’ see I’m in pain?”
Grier offered a comforting smile. “Aye, and yet—”
The man knocked Grier’s hand from his shoulder and grabbed her wrist. His bony fingers circled like talons and his nails stabbed her skin. The unexpected strength of his grip belied his condition.
Grier pulled back, disbelieving what was happening. The man yanked on her arm and jerked her off balance. His other fist swung around and pounded into her face. Lightning exploded through her vision. She cried out in pain.
He shoved her violently away from him and scrambled for her basket. She fell to her side on the dirt floor, stunned and trying desperately not to faint.
“Where is it?” he shrieked. “The poppy medicine? Where?”
Grier collected her determination and lifted her head. Her cheek stung like a dozen angry bees had abused it. Everything she saw through that eye looked red and blurred. Her neck hurt, twisted suddenly by the blow.
The man’s woman cowered in the slanted corner, hands over her face, whimpering.
“Hush you auld fool!” the man barked. He had the basket open and he pawed through Grier’s healing supplies. “WHERE?”
Through the disabling haze of pain, Grier shouted with every mote of authority she could manage. “Careful or ye’ll spill it!”
The man froze. His head swiveled to face her. His haggard features twitched. Dark eyes shone unnaturally in the dim lamplight. Sweat sheened his flushed skin.
The terror of realization shot white-hot through Grier. This man was a slave to the poppies and his need would push him to do anything necessary to get more.
Grier slowly pushed up from the dirt and crawled awkwardly toward him. Her cheek throbbed. Her neck stiffened. The force of his attack made her unsure of her balance. She made herself to look at the man and hold her gaze steady. She stretched out one shaky hand.
“G-give me the basket.”
He didn’t loosen his grip. His gaze ricocheted between her and his prize.
“I’ve poisons in there, as well,” she warned.
Still, he held on. He squinted as if to discern her honesty. The woman in the corner fell silent.
Grier pressed her point. “If ye wish to try your luck go ahead. But I’ll no’ take responsibility for your death, and ye choose wrong.” She tried her best to look stern and not succumb to the tears of panic clutching her throat.
“Will ye be a fool, Grif?” the woman snapped.
“Shut up!” he bellowed over his shoulder.
“Go ahead. Be a fool, Grif!” Grier taunted, stalling to bolster her senses. Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs, she feared they might crack. She couldn’t catch her breath.
Grif glared at her, uncertain. His fingers moved spastically over the basket’s handle. Grier could smell the rancid breath that panted between his remaining teeth. She parried her advantage.
“Guess which is the poison, Grif, and which is the poppies.” She tried to cock one brow, but her face was numb. She spoke her challenge instead. “I’ll wait.”
With a grunt, the man shoved the basket toward her. “Hurry up, then. I’ve another fist and you’ve another cheek.”
Grier pulled her feet under her and steadied herself on the basket’s handle. She made a show of looking through the contents until she was sure of her balance.
Then she reached deep inside, finding the edge of the false bottom. She wound her fingers around the handle of the knife hidden there, and slid them snug against the steel hilt. She squeezed the bone handle, hard.
Then she drew a deep breath, finally.
“Ah, there it is…” she murmured. She locked her gaze on Grif.
That was her mistake. He snarled like a mad cur, eyes glinting red in the dim light. Then he lunged at her, his outstretched hands curved into claws.
With one desperately smooth motion, Grier pulled the knife from the basket and slashed it across Grif’s face. She caught the blade in his open mouth and cut through his cheek, extending his evil grin by several gory inches. Grif’s scream raged through the hovel. His fingers clawed at the jagged opening. Blood covered his hands and ran down his throat.
Using the basket handle for leverage, Grier pushed up from the ground and stumbled out of the hut, basket in one hand and bloodied knife in the other.
She didn’t look back.
Grier ran unevenly, stumbling with shock and blinded by her swelling eye. She didn’t slow when she crossed the dry moat into the castle yard. The crunch of her boots on the crushed-shell path alerted a dog who barked a frantic warning. Was there another set of footfalls? Was he chasing her?
Grier panted up to the closed door of the keep. She dropped the knife and basket and wrestled the door open. When she grabbed the basket, she threw a look toward the moat, but saw nothing.
Yet.
Inside, she tossed her basket on the floor and leaned on the heavy portal to close it. Then she dropped the crossbar into place. Surely he wouldn’t be fool enough to follow her.
Grier stood shaking and sweating in the cool keep. She tried unsuccessfully to catch her breath. Her knees felt like wet stalks of barley. Her blood roared in her ears. Her shoulders convulsed with dry sobs.
She felt her way unsteadily down the darkened hall to the kitchen. Once there, she determinedly applied herself to necessary motions. Motions that required no thought, but would occupy her trembling hands.
First she lit a piece of tinder in the banked fire. She used the tinder to light a candle. By its feeble light, she retrieved her basket from where it landed in the hallway.
Grier returned to the kitchen. She pulled out a linen rag. She soaked it in vinegar. She used it to clean her face. Mercifully, the skin wasn’t broken, but she would have quite a black eye in the morning. And a very stiff neck.
“Shite!” she swore.
She was angry that she had been attacked, true. But she was much angrier still that she walked into the trap. Her mother warned her with stories of men—and women—who craved the poppy medicine. It was powerful stuff, to be sure. Even so Grier was shocked by Grif’s desperation; she had never before seen anyone in that condition. She prayed she never would again.
But a more sinister warning echoed in the night’s events: the goodwill she experienced during the Death had passed. Once the treasured and protected daughter of a respected laird, she was now just a common healer. And an unmarried one at that. Without the protection of a husband, she most likely would be robbed; or even violated.
Or named a witch if her skills were mistrusted.
A soft moan escaped her. After losing everything else, would she now lose the last purpose left to her in this life?
A thump at the keep’s door sent a shock through her as powerful as lightning. She stilled, and listened, trying to hear past the thunder of her heart.
Footsteps in the hallway. Unsteady footsteps.
Blow out the candle.
The footsteps halted.
“Grier?”
Rydar. A tide of relief.
Answer him.
“I—I’m in the kitchen.”
“You are good?�
�� Unsteady shuffling came closer.
“I’m fine!” she lied and hoped her voice did not betray her. “I was called out to a healing.” Grier moved to the kitchen door. “Do no’ hurt your leg!”
“I’m fine,” Rydar mimicked.
Grier stepped into the dark hallway. Rydar was right in front of her. She saw his shape in the light seeping around her from the kitchen’s banked fire. Tall, lean, masculine, left knee bent and one hand resting against the wall for balance. She looked up instinctively and saw the faint glimmer of his eyes. He smelled of warm linen and wine.
“The door?” she whispered.
He nodded. “Barred?”
She heard the question in his tone, but didn’t acknowledge it. “Good.”
Why couldn’t she move? It must be a reaction to the attack; her limbs were heavy and unresponsive. She felt light-headed. She was glad Rydar couldn’t see her face. Tomorrow she would answer questions. Tonight she only wanted to crawl back into the safety and warmth of her bed and cry herself to sleep. Why couldn’t she move?
“Grier?” he whispered.
“Aye?” she answered in kind.
He seemed to be considering something. Then he backed away. “Sleep good.”
“Yes. You, too.”
He turned and hobbled away from her. She felt his absence in a cold wash of loneliness.
***
Rydar crutched stiffly down the hall to the kitchen. Grier wasn’t there, but a pot of parritch steamed on the table. Beside it rested a loaf of yesterday’s bread and four boiled eggs. Thick bacon sizzled in a pan.
Rydar lowered himself gingerly to a chair, his face screwed into a silent display of misery. He served himself some oat parritch, ate it alone, and wondered why it was so.
Something happened to Grier last night. She slammed the door and barred it, though the tiny, isolated keep had not been locked since he arrived. She was frightened by his footfalls and blew out her candle. She clearly thought someone was after her. That was worrisome. Who might it have been?
But then in the hallway, when he stood close to her, he wanted to—what? Protect her? Kiss her? Hold her? Swive her? Skitt! He didn’t belong here and he had no intention of remaining. So, obviously, he couldn’t afford to act on any of those desires. The consequences would be disastrous.
The back door opened with a gust of salty air and Grier stepped into the kitchen. Her glorious red hair hung loose like a veil and hid her face.
“Good morn,” she mumbled, glancing sideways at him.
“Good morn, Grier. You sleep good?”
“Aye. Thank you.” One ocean-blue eye appeared. “Have you seen Logan?”
“Logan? No.” Rydar considered Grier more closely. “Why you ask?”
“He went out last night and…” her voice faltered.
He narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“And I did no’ hear him come in.” Grier gave Rydar her back. She fidgeted with crockery in the cabinet.
“Door is barred,” he pointed out.
“Oh!” Grier whirled, one hand to her temple, and rushed out. Rydar heard the barricade clank to the stone floor. A shaft of blue morning light illuminated the hallway for a brief bit before Grier trudged back into the kitchen carrying a knife crusted with dried blood.
“Grier, what’s bad?” Rydar asked.
“I don’t know where Logan is,” she answered without looking at him.
Worried, Rydar reached out his hand and circled her wrist.
Grier shrieked unexpectedly. She yanked away from his grasp and spun to face him, bloody knife at the ready. Panic almost dominated her countenance, only slightly surpassed by dark purple bruises around one swollen eye.
“Å min Gud…” Rydar rose on one leg and reached toward her. “Grier? Logan do that?”
“Logan? No!” She shook her head awkwardly, and then put a hand over her injured eye. The knife lowered. “Not Logan. It was the man who asked for healing. In the middle of the night. He wanted my poppy medicine.”
Rydar pushed copper waves from her face and tucked them behind her ear. He calmly planned to kill whoever did this to her. He understood man, healing, middle and night.
“Poppy medicine?” he asked.
“For pain. A body can come to crave it. Ye ken?” One brilliant blue eye met his.
No, he didn’t ken, but that wasn’t important. Rydar’s gaze ran over her body, searching for other signs. “He hurt you more?”
“No more.” She held up the crusted knife. “I hurt him.”
Rydar’s brows arched. “Dead?” he asked, hopeful on the one hand, though denied his own desire for revenge on the other.
“No.” She mimed slashing her cheek.
Rydar smiled a little. Apparently this beautiful woman was capable of more than quick words. Quick actions were useful as well; especially fearless ones. “I no’ want you hurt. You help me. You good woman, Grier.”
Her face flushed an attractive shade of pink, enhancing the blue of her uncovered eye.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She returned to the meal’s preparation and spoke over one shoulder. “I wonder where Logan is, then.”
“I no’ see him,” Rydar offered quietly.
Her shoulders slumped and she faced him again. The naked fear in her expression tore at his gut and he wished he could ease it somehow. Her words crept across the room, carried on her experiences from the night past.
“I pray he’s safe.”
Chapter Eight
Logan appeared while Rydar ate the last boiled egg.
“And where have ye been?” Grier demanded. She was riven between relief that he was safe and fury at him for frightening her. “I was worrit sick for you!”
“No’ so loud, cousin. My head’s about to knock off my own shoulders,” Logan moaned. He slumped into a chair, rubbing his eyes. “The McKay wine flowed far too freely.”
Grier’s fists jammed onto her hips. “You got plaistert last night? I hope ye did no’ do anything foolish!”
Logan winced. He still hadn’t looked at her. “No.”
Rydar coughed, his face alarmingly red. He concentrated on the last bit of boiled egg and didn’t acknowledge her irritated sideways regard.
Grier turned and stabbed the fire, venting her anger. “So what were ye about, then?”
“’Twas in my honor.” Logan slit one eye open. “Might you pour me ale? My tongue’s dry as the chyngell.”
“Ach!” Grier grunted then moved to do so, casting a dubious glance at the younger man.
“Your honor?” Rydar ventured. He seemed able to follow the conversation.
“Aye.”
Grier handed Logan the mug of ale, bumping it against his hand. He accepted it and downed a long pull, ending with a loud belch. He lifted the half-empty mug in toast toward Rydar.
“I’m now formally courting the beautiful Malise McKay, with her father’s full blessing,” he announced.
“And the wine sealed the deal, did it?” Grier forced a stiff smile for Logan, even though his announcement brought her a very large step closer to ruin. “She’s a bonny lass. Congratulations.”
Logan downed the last of the ale. Both eyes slammed wide when he saw Grier’s face.
“Good Lord, Grier! What happened to you?” He threw a long glance at Rydar, then regarded her again. “Who did that to you?”
Grier lifted the empty egg bowl from the table and told him about her terrifying experience the night before.
“Are ye—did he—I mean, were ye hurt any other ways?” he stammered.
Grier’s entire body flushed with keen embarrassment when she realized that was what Rydar had tried to ask her. “No!”
“Aye, well, that’s good, then…” He jerked a nod, then winced.
She fixed Logan with a hard stare. “So you understand why I was worrit when you did no’ come home!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It was no’ my intent.”
“I wanted you to arrest the man,” she prodde
d.
“And I will.”
Grier turned her back, still angry. “He’s long gone by now, and I’ll wager.”
Logan mumbled something unintelligible into his ale mug before draining the last drops.
“You marry?” Rydar asked between bites of thick brown bread covered with honey. He already finished most of the parritch and all of the eggs. He couldn’t have gone hungry for days now, but it seemed to Grier he hadn’t been full yet, either.
“One step at a time, Rydar!” Logan managed a pained grin. “There’s no cause to rush.”
“You stayed the night with her family, then?” Grier gave the last of the parritch to Logan along with a pitcher of milk.
“I had need to. I could no’ walk across the room, not to speak of a mile home in the twilight!”
“Good,” Rydar approved. “Smart do.”
“Yes.” Logan took a bite of the cold congealed parritch. His eyes rolled and he leapt from the table.
He barely made it out the back door before his stomach began to repay him for yester eve’s abuse. Rydar’s lips twitched and he lifted his gaze to Grier. His obvious mirth softened her irritation. With a shake of her head, she consented to chuckle her response.
Logan reappeared after the retching stopped, pale and red-eyed. He stumbled back to the table and finished his breakfast under Grier’s bemused gaze.
“I’ll be going to bed now,” Logan murmured. “Wake me if I die.”
Grier nodded absently, too distracted by his good news. His depressing, dire, dismal and disheartening good news. The beginning-of-the-end-of-her-life good news.
Logan’s announcement of his official courtship would soon lead to a marriage contract. Once the terms were agreed on, Grier would begin handing control of the keep—her own father’s keep, awarded to his father by none other than King Robert Bruce himself—to fifteen-year-old Malise McKay. Grier would be third in line then, until their children displaced her even further. It would be up to Malise whether or not she might continue to live here.
As she watched Logan stumble from the room, Grier pressed down the other, more immediate problem with his absence: she and Rydar had been alone in the keep all night without a chaperone. Moira must not have noticed. She crossed herself and said a quick prayer that no one else would find out. If they did, her reputation would be ruined and her nearly solidified spinsterhood irrevocably carved in rough Scotch granite.
