The Highland Chief

by Dana D'Angelo

  A few minutes later, he arrived with Mairead who held a bowl of water and clean linen in her hands. Her countenance was pinched and drained of color.

  Another moan emerged from Eanruing’s lips, and Rory’s sister rushed over to her father’s bedside. “It appears that he’s getting worse,” she said.

  “Ye need tae do something, milady,” Cailean said. There was real fear in his voice. Any animosity that she sensed earlier from them was gone, and they looked to her as if she possessed the power to produce miracles. Darra didn’t have magic, but she had the knowledge of herbs, roots, and their medicinal uses.

  She reached for the cloth in Mairead’s hand. Dipping it into the basin, she said, “Until I make my assessment, I cannot know how to help him.” She wrung out the cloth and placed it on his burning forehead. “His temperature is too high.” Darra glanced over at the other woman. “Have you given him anything for his fever?”

  Mairead nodded slowly. “The village healer has given him many things, but I dinnae ken what they were.”

  Darra twisted her lips to the side. Clearly the healer’s remedies were ineffective. There were hundreds of ways to treat a fever; some were more aggressive than others. She needed more time to observe him before she could decide on a remedy to try.

  Digging into her medicine basket disturbed the contents, causing the faint smell of dried herbs to waft into the air. She breathed in the familiar scents. There was something about the fragrance that comforted her. From her apprenticeship, she recognized that there were multiple cures for every human complaint. Thanks to Lady Venora’s teachings as well as pouring through the medicinal journals in the solar, she was able to commit a number of recipes to memory.

  When her mother was laden with grief, it was Darra that people sought. All the years of learning the herbal arts made her a competent healer in her own right. It awarded her great satisfaction in helping the sick.

  She saw a jug of ale and a tumbler at the table beside the bed. Bringing out a small flask of plant oil from her basket, she poured a drop into the drink. Next, she sifted through her supplies and found the small sack at the bottom of the basket. She untied the string and opened the satchel. Carefully taking a bit of the root powder, she rubbed her fingers together, dropping the dried substance into the wine, and releasing a pungent smell in the air. Darra dusted her fingers and twisted the bag closed. One pinch was enough. If she put more than that, it would give Eanruing stomach pains. She swirled the vessel, allowing the particles to dissolve into the liquid.

  Satisfied with the concoction, she turned to the sickly man. He had gone still. She gently cradled his head, lifting the cup to his lips. “Open your mouth, my lord,” she said.

  When he did as she instructed, she pressed the cup closer to his lips and slowly tipped the healing liquid into his mouth. A portion of it spilled down his jaw, and she lifted his head higher so that the drink drained into his throat.

  He began to choke just as Kila and Ewan entered the chamber.

  Kila eyed the cup in her hand. “Take that away. Da disnae want tae drink that,” she declared.

  Mairead came to stand by her siblings. “That is enough, Kila,” she said.

  “’Tis all right.” Darra looked up from her task. Even though the younger girl didn’t say it out loud, Darra could hear the underlying fear in her voice. “This potion will bring down the fever,” she explained, her tone patient. “He needs to drink all of it in order to get well.”

  For a moment, suspicion and indecision warred on Kila’s countenance. She opened her mouth to say something, but Mairead put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Give her a chance,” she said.

  Darra threw Mairead a grateful smile before continuing with her work.

  “I believe that your father will recover,” she said casually wiping up some of the liquid that dribbled down his chin. “Your mother should be happy to know this.”

  “Our mother is dead,” Kila said flatly.

  Darra’s hand flew to cover her mouth. She had assumed that the lady of the house was busy elsewhere. It never occurred to her that she had passed away.

  Mairead nudged her sister. “Lady Darra is a visitor here. She disnae need tae ken our business.”

  “I am sorry —”

  “Dinnae concern yourself,” Kila said shortly. “Just concentrate on making Da better.”

  Darra nodded and poured every last drop of the herbal remedy into Eanruing. Then she waited for the medicine to take its effect.

  A short while later, Eanruing’s eyes closed, and the sound of his deep, even breathing filled the chamber. She gently settled his head back onto his pillow and straightened her spine.

  “He’s sleeping,” Mairead said with wonder in her voice. She brushed a damp cloth over her father’s forehead, wiping away the sweat. “And his forehead feels cooler to the touch.”

  “Da might very well recover from his illness,” Ewan added. “Since he fell ill weeks ago, I dinnae think he has slept this well.”

  Kila watched her father’s face with some reservation. She still seemed conflicted about her feelings toward Darra, but there was no disputing that Eanruing appeared restful.

  “Ewan,” Mairead said, “Go tell Rory and the others that Da’s fever has broken.”

  The youth turned to Darra before exiting the bed chamber. “Rory was right about ye, milady. It appears that ye do ken what ye are doing.”

  There was a noise at the door, and Darra whirled around.

  “Didna I tell ye tae go —” Mairead said, and then stopped when she saw the man at the threshold. A smile surged to her lips. “Och, Blane, I though ye were Ewan. I didnae ken ye were here.”

  “Blane!” Kila said, rushing over and embracing him.

  “I came tae see Eanruing.”

  “Dinnae worry, Blane,” Mairead said, gesturing to Darra, “Lady Darra has healed Da of his fever!”

  “’Tis a temporary cure,” Darra said, smiling tiredly. “He will need to take more medicine when he wakes up.”

  Blane cast a skeptical glance at her. “’Tis nae wise tae trust the English,” he said.

  The smile on her face diminished. She felt a hot flush rise to her cheeks and the tops of her ears began to burn. She was physically exhausted from her journey, and she was fed up with the rudeness that she encountered at every turn. The man’s words triggered her temper, and before she could stop herself, she said, “I am told that ‘tis not wise to trust a Highlander either.”

  Kila gaped at her as if Darra had insulted the whole of Scotland. And she supposed she had, but she didn’t care.

  Darra and Blane stared at one another, each person not willing to relent. His eyebrows snapped down, and hatred spit from his eyes. If Darra wasn’t a woman, she was certain that he would have punched her.

  Finally Mairead stepped in between them. “We should leave this bed chamber, and convene in the great hall,” she said, taking Darra by the arm and leading her out of the small room. Instinctively Rory’s younger sister seemed to know that the situation was starting to become volatile and she wanted to stifle it. “Da needs tae rest, and Lady Darra must be starving from her long journey.”

  Darra allowed herself to be led away. As she walked, she could feel Blane’s stare boring into her back.

  “Your father should be well in a few days,” she told Mairead, trying to ignore the unsettling sensation. “My understanding is that I will be allowed to return home once my work is done. But before I go, I will leave a bottle of the tincture with you.”

  Mairead nodded and smiled as if she was relieved that Darra didn’t mean to stay long.

  A lump formed in Darra’s throat. And the elation of successfully treating a patient faded quickly. She had to stay a few more days, but she desired to leave Tancraig Castle immediately. Under the thin veil of truce, she was well aware of the simmering hostility directed at her. She didn’t belong in the highlands, and it was a misjudgment to come here in the first place.

  Chapter 12 />
  Eanruing MacGregon heard a whispering noise at the side of his bed and with effort, he moved his head to see who was there. His poor heart thumped hard in his chest as he took in the angelic creature.

  Venora.

  But then the lass turned, and he saw that he was wrong; it wasn’t Venora after all but her daughter. The lass was as charming and fair as her mother. She had the same pale, smooth complexion and flaxen hair.

  He breathed in slowly, the images of his youth flashing through his mind. He was a braw lad at the time, and he had the lassies hovering around him like bees to a flowering plant. In truth, he had the pick of any lass from the neighboring clans, but he cared for none of them. That was until he met Venora Lochclay. She was a noblewoman, the niece of the laird of Balhain. And she had the rare ability to relate to common and noble folks.

  He first saw her at a village fair, and he was immediately drawn to her beauty. Later he learned that she visited the town often with her father to peddle their herbal potions at the market square, and to treat the sick. Eanruing became acquainted with her father, Robart Lochclay, and learned that he was a man who practiced medicinal arts. A way to win the lass was to go through her father, so he befriended Robart while he plied his charms on Venora.

  When his wee brother became sick, he felt fortunate in his friendship with Robart, and sought his help. Lochclay came immediately. And after examining Jonat, he began to mix a variety of powders and dried substances into a cup of ale, substances that Eanruing had never seen or smelled before. It was foul stuff. Not surprisingly, the bairn fought and screamed as if a wild boar attacked him. It was surprising how strong the lad was, considering he only had five summers behind him.

  “Hold him down,” Robart commanded.

  “Nay!” Jonat wailed. “I dinnae want it!”

  Eanruing looked over at his mother. Her face was devoid of color, but when she caught his eye, she nodded her head in consent.

  He moved to secure the lad while Robart poured the liquid down his gullet.

  It should have ended happily, but the lad began coughing uncontrollably.

  Sweat formed over his own forehead, and he heard the heavy thud of his heart. “Is this normal?” he asked.

  Robart blinked at him, a panicked look in his eyes. He raised his arm to wipe his forehead. “Nay, ‘tis an unusual reaction.”

  The coughing went for long minutes, and his brother turned purple. Robart tried to give the lad more of the medicinal drink, but Jonat ended up spewing it into the air. Each cough wracked his poor frame until finally, his thrashing body stilled and his coughing ceased.

  Eanruing relaxed his grip on his brother. At first he was glad that Jonat had fallen asleep, but then he sensed that something was wrong. He bent down to inspect Jonat.

  “He isnae breathing,” he said.

  His mother gasped. She ran to Jonat’s side, grabbing the lad and shaking him by the shoulders. “Jonat, wake up!” she yelled.

  Eanruing studied the other man, his blood starting to boil. “What did ye give the lad?”

  “’Tis a common formula for — for pneumonia,” he said, backing away.

  “Ye murderer,” Eanruing shouted. “Ye killed the wee bairn!”

  “Nay,” he shook his head adamantly. “He reacted badly tae the drink —”

  But everything around Eanruing grew red, and he couldn’t see or hear anything else. A rage so dark filled his entire being. He already lost his father, and Jonat was too young to die.

  The fury inside him grew to a fever pitch, and he drew his blade from his belt. But as he stalked toward the other man, his foot stubbed on a crack on the floor, and he pitched forward, falling hard onto the healer.

  A screamed sounded.

  When Eanruing recovered, he saw a blotch of red on his tunic, and his hands were covered with blood.

  Lochclay stared at him, horror and shock frozen on his countenance. At the same time, his hands clutched at the dirk that jutted out from his chest. A gurgling emerged from his lips and he collapsed onto the ground.

  His mother screamed and screamed, the sound reverberating throughout the small bed chamber.

  Eanruing staggered back, staring at the corpse sprawled on the floor. The back of his leg bumped into a wooden chair and he sat down heavily on it.

  “What did ye do, lad?” his mother cried, her palms framing her tear stained countenance. Fear, worry and panic were betrayed in her eyes.

  The words wouldn’t come out, and all he could do was shake his head. He had only wanted to scare Lochclay, not kill him.

  He buried his face in his blood stained hands, trying to block out the image of the dead man in his home. But Robart’s shrill scream continued to ring in his ears, and the unmistakable metallic odor of blood permeated the bed chamber.

  Eanruing didn’t know how long he sat in the chair, but it was his mother who roused him from his shocked stupor.

  “Ye will need tae tell them about what happened,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Ye need tae tell Laird Balhain that ye didnae mean tae kill his brother, that ‘twas an accident.”

  And he did tell them, only Edwin Lochclay went into a rampage, declaring war on the MacGregons.

  The MacGregons fought hard and valiantly, killing as many men as they lost. But the loss took its toll on his people, and the widows cried for him to stop the fighting.

  The Laird of Balhain refused to listen to reason, so Eanruing came up with an idea to end the skirmish once and for all. It was a desperate attempt, but it was worth a try. He sought Venora out at the town market, hoping to win her to his side. With her help, he believed that she could convince her uncle that it was all a misunderstanding, that Robart’s death was accidental. Except the lass refused to speak with Eanruing.

  On a third attempt to talk with her, he discovered that she had vanished. All hope of ending the war was gone. After her disappearance, the warfare between the two clans intensified, becoming more bloody and brutal with each passing day. Even at present, the hatred between the clans simmered as hotly as if the tragedy occurred yesterday.

  Eanruing let out a sigh, not wanting to think about the terrible past.

  He felt someone at his side. Focusing his eyes, he found Darra peering down at him. Her hand was close to his and he reached for it, thankful for a respite from his dark recollections. She gasped and jerked out of his grasp.

  His hand hung in mid-air, and for a brief moment, he had a chance to really observe the ugly limb. The skin was pulled taut over the knuckles, and it appeared foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. More than anything, it appeared like a claw rather than a hand, and it trembled slightly. But Eanruing recognized it as his own because holding it up used so much of his strength.

  He dropped his hand onto the bed. Never had he felt so weak, so drained. Perhaps it was because he understood that death was near. For many months, he had been sick, but it was only recently that the illness took a foothold. Tears blurred his vision, and guilt ate away at his soul. He was a man damned to hell. The one way to redeem himself was to apologize to Venora, and possibly procure her forgiveness.

  But Venora wasn’t here to forgive him. He was saddened to know that he would go to his grave without making amends to the woman who he wronged.

  Apparently in his feverish haze, he had called out her name. And when Rory heard it, he set out to bring the lass back to the highlands. It was not surprising that she had refused to come here. She likely hated him. And for good reason. But he was a different man then — cocky, ruthless, fearless and foolish. He cared little about anyone but himself. And as the newly appointed Chief of Clan MacGregon, he believed that he was invincible.

  Darra walked slowly to him, concern in her clear blue depths. She carried her basket of remedies and set it down on the mattress. Her presence at his bedside brought back painful, harsh memories that slammed into his gut, and took his breath away. His throat constricted as he tried to shut out the guilt and sorrow. A sudden thought occurre
d to him. Perhaps by confessing to Venora’s daughter, he could be absolved of these awful feelings that gnawed at his gut. If he was going to disclose his secret, he needed to do it now — before death snatched him away.

  “I want tae apologize,” he said, his voice sounding rusty and disused.

  Darra placed a cool hand to his forehead.

  “There is no need to apologize, Eanruing,” she said, her voice slow and soothing, a voice that was too similar to her mother’s. “You are burning up again.”

  She reached over to the dressing table and brought the wine over for him to drink.

  He pushed it away except she placed her hand firmly on his, holding it down. “Nay, you need to drink this.”

  Eanruing shook his head impatiently, but in the end she managed to get him to drink the entire contents of the cup. She set the vessel aside.

  “You should get some rest.”

  “I cannae rest now,” he said.

  “Why?” she came closer to the bed and caught the edge of his blanket. “Would you like me to take off one of these furs?”

  “Nay, ye dinnae understand. I’m tae blame for all that your mother has lost,” he said. All that ye have lost.

  She paused in drawing back the bed cover. “The only thing that my mother has lost is my father.”

  The revelation made his heart skip a beat. Venora was a widow now, he realized.

  “Nay,” he said, his fingers curling over the blanket. “She had lost someone else — her father.”

  “Aye, he died before I was born,” she said, her eyebrows were drawn together in puzzlement. “You need to rest. I fear that the fever is making you delirious.”

  He smiled grimly. She didn’t understand. Likely Venora neglected to tell her child about the role that he played in destroying her family.

  “I’m sorry…” he said, his voice starting to slur. He felt the medicine taking its effect, causing a leaden weight to fall over his eyes. He hoped to clear his conscience before he passed on, except all his efforts were thwarted and the words stuck on the tip of his heavy tongue…