“What of Dougal?”
“I will take care of Dougal. He will not get inside Kilmartin again.”
Elena reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. I will find Jenny and start right away.” She turned, desperate to get away from him now, lest the wanting that filled her, making her heart pound and her breath come too rapidly, overcame her good sense once more. At the door she looked back. The expression of sadness on Symon’s face stopped her.
“What of you, Symon? Will you be all right—the madness—when I’m gone?”
“I do not know,” he said quietly. “I know you have cleared my mind and my body of the affliction, but I do not know how long ’twill last.”
It was strange, the way this madness reacted to her gift. What little experience she had with the unbalanced was that the affliction was in the mind, not in the blood—
She felt the blood drain from her own face, and she quickly crossed the room back to Symon.
“What is it, lass?”
Silently Elena placed both palms against his chest. She tried to ignore the skitter of excitement the feel of his warm skin beneath hers caused and instead forced herself to focus on the internal. She closed her eyes, concentrating, searching, but there was nothing. No madness, no evidence of anything wrong with his mind. She tried to remember exactly what she had done to overcome the blackness in his veins. She had burned the blackness from his blood . . . and she could never do that with madness.
Her eyes flew open and she found herself staring into his brilliant green gaze.
“What?”
“Symon, ’tis . . .” The ramifications of what she was about to say hit her, throwing all that she had thought of this man, and his clan, into turmoil. “ ’Tis not madness you suffer under.”
“Aye, ’tis—”
“Nay,” she said quickly, “I can do naught for the devil-ridden. ’Tis not madness. ’Tis poison.”
chapter 10
“Poison? Impossible.” Symon pushed her away and strode across to the window, where the first rosy tinges of dawn were washing the sky. “Poison would not cause madness. I’d be dead.”
“That depends on what poison was used, and what the poisoner wished to accomplish.”
“Who would poison me?” He turned to face her, and found her before the fire, warming her hands. “And why?” He reached for her, spinning her to face him. “Why steal my sanity? It would be so much simpler just to do away with me.”
“I do not know. I should have seen the truth much sooner, but you were so sure ’twas madness, I did not question what I felt.”
“And what did you feel?” he asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.
She shook her head. “You do not believe me.”
“You ask me to deny my own experience, trust in a Lamont”—the name was like a curse—“believe that one of my own kinsmen, one of Clan Lachlan, would stoop so low as to poison his chief?”
“You are the one who bade me heal you, Devil.”
Her words smacked him as hard as any hand could. “Aye. And you did. For that I am grateful. But this . . .” He could not even begin to imagine the consequences of such a thing.
“You should be relieved,” she said, as if trying to soften the blow.
He glared at her. Relieved? When someone he had trusted, served, was poisoning him?
“Think, Symon. If ’tis poison, then all you need do is find the source and you will solve your problem. You do not even need me.”
Something in her words caused his stomach to clench, but he could not focus on feelings right now; he had to think, and think clearly.
“Is there no one here who wishes you harm?”
Symon shook his head once. “Nay.”
“You are universally loved by everyone?” Her voice held a note of derision.
He glared at her and began to pace the length of the room. “ ’Twould have to be someone who wished me ill before the madness—before my afflict—” He cast about for a new way of describing what had happened to him. “Before all this happened. There are plenty who would see me gone from these walls now, but not when this first came upon me.”
Elena moved to the stool and sat, facing him, the light of the fire behind her turning her already vivid hair fiery-colored. The prophecy came back to him. When flame and madness mingle . . . Is this how they would mingle, in common cause to find his poisoner? Would she leave him—them—if they did solve this mystery? Of course he had already promised to find a new home for her within a fortnight. But that was only to get her to agree to stay, give him longer to convince her that Kilmartin was where she belonged.
“When did the feigned madness start?”
“I do not speak of that time.”
“Then how can I help you?” She rose to leave.
Symon noted the determined look on her face, and realized he was pushing away the one person whom he was sure had a good reason to wish him well and whole again. He swallowed, considering the best way to begin, the best way to tell the lass of his greatest humiliation. “Sit. I will tell you.”
She nodded and arranged herself on the stool again, the fire once more glowing in her hair. She folded her hands in her lap and assumed a pose of patience, though the snap in her eyes belied her outward calm. Clearly, she had a great deal to gain by him being poisoned instead of mad. He should be skeptical because she had such a huge stake in it, yet he had felt her healing him, seen the concentration it took, and the toll it took upon her. He knew how her body responded to his and was sure that was not feigned. He had to trust someone, and she appeared to be the one destined to share his burden.
“You remember the circle where first we met?”
“Aye.”
“ ’Twas in that very circle that the madness visited itself upon me the first time.”
She did not say a word, so he continued, turning away from her, unwilling to see the irritation in her face turn to pity, or hate. He had seen enough of that and he wanted no more of it. He would tell her what happened only because it might help sort out this trouble.
“My father, Ranald, Murdoch, a few others, and I were hunting, early last spring. The food stores in the castle were low, and we thought to bring in some fresh game, perhaps a roebuck or two, or a boar. We’d planned a feast of sorts, for no particular reason, other than we were all sorely tired of porridge and salted meat. We rode out, happy to be out of the castle after so many weeks of cold and darkness. As we neared Auld Morag’s cottage, we were set upon by your kinsmen. ’Twasn’t the first time Lamonts had attacked us on our own land, and ’twas usually more by way of reiving than true harm, but this time ’twas different. They ambushed us, chasing us down the glen until we took a stand within the circle of stones. There weren’t many of them, but the mist came up and ’twas difficult to tell who was who and where an attacker might come from.” He looked over at her, not knowing exactly what he was hoping for from her. She sat, her face full of concern, but she did not try to stop him, nor defend her kinsmen.
“What happened then, Symon?” she asked, her voice quiet and gentle.
“I do not know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I do not know. The world went fuzzy and tilted beneath my feet. I don’t know what happened because I did not stay. Ranald says I howled and he thought I’d been hurt, then he saw me run off into the mist, out of the circle, leaving my da and all the other lads to fend off the Lamonts on their own.”
“Were you hurt before the madness came over you?”
“Nay.”
“Did you have aught to eat or drink before you left these walls?”
Symon tried to remember, but it had been over a year before. He shrugged. “I cannot say for sure. ’Tis likely I had porridge and perhaps some ale, since ’twas mostly what we were eating at that point.”
Elena was lost in thought. “When was the next time it happened?”
Symon had to think a moment. “ ’Twas a fortnight, mo
re or less. Then another fortnight after that. It seemed to fall into that pattern for a few months, coming on once a fortnight, lasting a day or two, then all would be well.”
“Did anyone try to help you?”
“Aye, Ranald, and Murdoch, but no one else wanted aught to do with me, even though I was their chief.”
“What?” she rose to her feet, coming toward him.
He pulled himself from the painful memories and looked at her. “Ranald—”
“Nay, what do you mean, you were the chief then? You said your da was alive.”
Symon grimaced. “He died that first time, in the circle, after I ran away. I was not there to guard his back as I should have been. ’Tis my fault he died there. No one who was there that day has ever accused me of such, but I feel it in their eyes. I know I am chief only so long as they choose to keep their own counsel. ’Twill not be long now before one of them decides I cannot lead this clan any longer.”
“Could it have been one of them who poisoned you?”
“I do not see how. I don’t know over much about poisons, but I do not think I ate or drank anything the others did not also consume that day. I was not injured before the battle. I do not see how it could be. Perhaps you’re wrong, lass. It could not be poison. ’Tis some form of madness you have not seen before.”
She nodded, then pressed her palm to his chest once more, closing her eyes, concentration etched over her beautiful features. Symon itched to trace her mouth with his thumb as she had done to him, but something in her posture told him not to move.
“There is no trace of anything coursing through you now,” she said, then looked up at him, only tilting her chin up a bit to stare into his eyes. “Beware what you eat or drink, and note carefully who serves you. ’Tis clear we cannot solve this mystery right away, but with careful observation, we can find the culprit.” She lifted her hand from his chest and pushed his hair behind his ear, her palm whispering past his cheek. “I know you do not wish to believe that someone could poison you, but I truly believe it to be so.”
He grabbed her wrist and brought her palm to his mouth. He kissed her lightly in the center of her hand, then released her. “I must discuss this with Ranald—”
“Nay, you must not!”
Her vehemence stopped him. “Why not?”
“You must not discuss this with anyone until we know more. Anyone could be the culprit.”
“Not Ranald. He is my brother.”
“Does Ranald have anything to gain if you are no longer chief?”
“Nay . . .” But that wasn’t entirely true. Such a thought smacked of disloyalty. Ranald was his brother; he would never cause such misfortune to befall his own family and clan. “Nay.”
Elena watched him carefully for a moment. “Fine. Still, ’twould be best if this was just between you and me for now. When we know more, have some proof, then will be the time to discuss it with Ranald.”
He did not like what the lass implied, but he had to agree that right now, ’twas only her theory that this was poison. Ranald did not care overmuch for the lass, anyway; Symon would not give his brother reason to deride her.
“Very well. We will keep it between us, but not for long, Elena.”
A knock came at the door and Symon opened it. Murdoch stood, a grin on his face and a tray full of food in his hands. “Ah, the lass talked sense into . . .”
Symon grabbed the tray as it wobbled in the man’s hands.
“Your shoulder . . . ’tis healed . . . how?”
Symon spun away and handed the heavy tray to Elena, then scooped a clean tunic from a peg on the wall and quickly slid it over his head. “Twasn’t as bad as it appeared. Really barely a scratch.”
“But I saw—”
“Forget what you saw, lad. ’Twas barely a scratch, you ken?”
He knew Elena held her breath, could feel her fear, though she stood paces away from him and he wasn’t facing her. It was almost as if in healing him she had created some connection between them, joining them . . .
Joining them.
Murdoch finally seemed to work through what Symon had said to him, shook his head as if a fly buzzed him, then quickly smiled and took the tray back from Elena. “Right. Well, I thought the two of you might be hungry.” He balanced the tray on the stool Elena had sat upon. “Wee Fia’s been asking for you, lass. I told her you’d be down in a while.”
“Thank you, Murdoch,” she said, and Symon could feel her start to breathe again.
“Is there anything ye’ll be needing, then?” the man asked, looking from Elena to Symon. “Somat to drink? A priest?” The twinkle in his eye spurred Symon to action.
“Nay, lad, out! Tell young Fia that Elena will see her very soon.”
The giant winked at Symon and tipped his head in question toward Elena.
“Out!” Symon said, a grin at the man’s audacity lightening his thoughts for a moment.
Murdoch left, chuckling.
“You’ll have to excuse the daft bastard. He means well.”
Elena nodded and picked up an oat cake. She nibbled it, staring into the fire. She picked up the porridge, spooning a bite into her mouth, then staring again, into the fire. At last she picked up the mug of milk, tasted it, and repeated the staring. At last she looked at him over her shoulder. “I think ’tis safe to eat this. I get no feeling of poison from any of it.”
Understanding burst through him. “You don’t have to play the king’s taster, Elena. I’m sure Murdoch is above reproach. He has naught to gain by my downfall.”
Elena leveled him with a glare. “Do you like the madness you’ve experienced these many months?”
Her question required no answer. She knew the answer as well as he did.
“I will go find Fia,” she said. “May I have her take me to the stillroom? There are many here who would benefit from a few simples.”
Symon nodded, tired of arguing with her. He needed time to consider all the ramifications of her theory. She grabbed two oat cakes and quickly left. He moved to the fireside, taking up Elena’s vigil there.
Elena found wee Fia waiting in the bailey, her straw dolly tucked under one arm. She was shifting from one foot to another. Her face lit up when she spied Elena and she skipped and hopped her way across the crowded yard stopping just in front of her.
“Good morn, sprite, how are you?”
“I have a loose tooth!” She wiggled it with a grubby finger. “Mum says ’tis a good thing. Means I’m a big girl now, so I’ll be able to help with the bairn when it comes.”
“Aye. ’Tis an important job, that. You’ll be the big sister and have to teach the bairn all kinds of important things.”
“Do you have a sister, Elena?”
Elena got to her feet and took the child’s hand. “Nay, ’twas only me.”
“You did not have anyone to teach you important things, then?”
Elena shook her head, thinking the child was more correct than she could ever know.
“I can be your sister,” Fia said shyly.
Elena grinned down at her and squeezed her hand. “I’d like that, sprite. Can you start by showing me the stillroom?”
Fia wrinkled her tiny brow and wrenched her mouth about as if she were deep in thought. Elena stifled a giggle. “I do not know what a stillroom is,” Fia finally said, very solemnly. “But if ’tis here, me mum will know. She’s auld as ever and knows everything about the castle.”
“Let’s go ask your mum, then,” Elena said, hiding her smile from the child.
Wee Fia pulled her hand, and before Elena realized where the child was taking her, they were in the tunnel leading out to the gate. Elena stopped and Fia looked up at her with big eyes.
“Where is your mum today?” Elena asked.
“She’s out gathering wood for the kettle fire.”
Elena felt a moment of panic at the thought of anyone being out where Dougal could get at them. She pulled the child back into the courtyard, away from the yawnin
g gate.
“We’ll ask someone else—”
“But me mum knows—”
“You will not leave” came Symon’s rumbling voice behind them.
Fia squeaked and jumped behind Elena, hiding her face in her skirts.
“We were not,” Elena insisted. Quietly she said to him, “Do you think ’tis safe for women to be out there alone?”
“They are not alone.”
Elena nodded, understanding that though he was not completely convinced Dougal had been in the castle, he knew all too well that he was somewhere outside it. And he was taking steps to protect his people.
“It seems wee Fia doesn’t know the whereabouts of the stillroom.” She reached behind her and urged the child to her side. “Perhaps you could tell us where ’tis?”
Elena watched as Symon looked at the wean, snuggled up against her side, fists clutched in her gown. His face softened and he crouched down so that he was no closer to the little one, but at the same level.
“Aye, you know it, lassie,” he said, his voice a bit lighter than usual, a bit less rough. “ ’Tis the herb room, behind the wine cellar, just over there.” He pointed at the undercroft where she had heard Dougal’s voice, but his eyes were on Fia.
The child nodded, then took Elena’s hand and skirted around Symon, in the direction of the dark storage room. Elena felt her heart speed up and her breath hitch. What if Dougal was in the castle? What if he was lying in wait for her? Sweat popped out on her brow, and she glanced back at Symon, who stood now, watching them go. She did not wish to frighten wee Fia, but she could not bring herself to enter the dark cellar. She balked at the doorway, and Fia looked up at her.
“I almost forgot.” Symon’s voice came from behind her, more jovial than she had ever heard it. “I need to select a bottle of wine. May I accompany you?” he asked as he caught up to them.
Elena tried to thank him with her eyes, but he just nodded slightly at her and preceded them into the cool storage room.
They all stopped just inside, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim light. Sunshine filtered through the arched opening but did not penetrate the back of the large space. She heard a clink and saw an oil lamp flare to life. Symon lifted it and proceeded to the rear of the space. There, illuminated by the flickering lamplight, was a substantial door with a large iron latch on it. For a moment the latch seemed frozen in place, then suddenly Symon forced it free with a metallic scrape.
The Devil of Kilmartin Page 12
