by Laura Landon
A cold chill blanketed her, stealing the breath from her lungs. She could see the look in their eyes, could see the wonder, the disbelief.
A noise at the gate drew their attention, causing the crowd to look from her to the warrior William running across the courtyard.
“He’s alive! The laird reached him before he drowned. Little Roby MacAlister is alive!”
Màiri clamped her hand to her mouth. It was little Roby MacAlister. But he was alive.
The murmur behind her started quietly, with only a question asked here and there, then grew to a tumultuous rumble that echoed in her ears. Màiri tried to shut out the voices but they steadily grew louder.
“He’s alive. God be praised. But how did the mistress know?”
“What a wonder. But did you na see her come from the keep? How could she have seen him?”
“’Tis a miracle. A miracle indeed.”
Màiri stared at the gate, waiting for Iain to return. She wanted him to come to her, to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. She needed him to tell her it did not matter that she had exposed her gift because it had been for good. It had been to save a child’s life.
Iain walked through the gate carrying little Roby in his arms. The boy’s clothes were wet, his curly blond hair plastered to his forehead, and his spattering of freckles dark against his pale, frightened face. But he was alive.
She reached out a trembling hand to touch the little boy, then lifted her head to study the look on Iain’s face. The blackness of his eyes looked down at her with dark shadows closing off any warmth, the hooded expression on his face as hard and unmoving as the wall of gray stones stopping the waves as they crashed from the sea.
“Someone go for his mother,” Iain ordered without dropping his gaze from hers.
A voice answered that someone already had and the mother and father both should be here shortly.
Roby clung to the opening of Iain’s shirt, burying his face against Iain’s chest. “The laird saved me,” he said, his teeth chattering with every word. “I thought I had drowneded.”
“You’re safe now, Roby,” she said, throwing her MacAlister plaid over him. With her gaze still locked with Iain’s, Màiri whispered softly, “I thought it was you.” A tear ran down her cheek and dropped to the ground below. “I thought it was you.”
“Roby! Roby!”
Magda MacAlister rushed through the crowd with her husband, Stewart, at her side. The terror on both their faces was obvious for all to see. When Magda reached her son, she reached out her arms and took him from Iain’s grasp, clutching him to her breast.
“Thank you, milord,” she said, her voice cracking as she hugged her son fiercely.
“I was fortunate to have reached him in time,” Iain said, looking down at the small boy huddled in his mother’s arms.
“It was the mistress who told our laird to go to the stream,” a voice from the crowd spoke up. “Somehow she knew the boy had fallen in.”
Magda looked at Màiri, the gratitude plain in her gaze. “Oh, thank you, mistress. We were ever so lucky you were by the stream.”
“The mistress was na by the stream,” another voice answered. “She came from the keep. She knew from inside the keep.”
Iain stood still as stone, his unwavering gaze black as midnight. The hardness on his face took her breath. Màiri swallowed hard.
“It was a miracle,” a woman’s voice interrupted from somewhere to her right. “A miracle.”
“Nay,” a man’s voice said from their left. “Someone must have told her. How else could she have known?”
“Tell us, Màiri,” Roderick said, taking a step toward her. “How did you know what was happening outside the castle walls from inside the keep?”
“That is enough, Roderick,” Iain said, the quiet warning in his voice enough to send a shiver down her spine.
“But we would all like to know how she did such a miraculous thing, Iain,” Roderick said again.
Every MacAlister stood in silence, waiting for her to explain. The hooded darkness in Iain’s gaze grew even blacker. She knew she could not answer. This is what Iain had feared. That when her gift was discovered, there would be a division among his clan that no amount of healing could repair.
“Mind your place, Roderick. I’ll na warn you again,” Iain challenged, the hard expression on his face more livid, the harsh threat in his voice more deadly. She could see his fear that her gift would be revealed. She could see the revulsion he felt that his wife would be branded a witch.
She shook her head, praying Iain would forgive her for what she had brought to him.
Margaret stepped forward. “It was a wonder, plain and simple. I saw it with my own eyes. The mistress ran from her chambers, calling out ‘He’s drowning. He’s drowning.’ She must ha seen that our little Roby was drowning.”
“I am amazed,” Roderick said, facing the crowd. “Never before have I known anyone with such a wondrous gift. Even Yseult does na have such abilities.”
“Enough!” Iain bellowed.
The word had not been spoken, but every MacAlister there knew what Roderick implied.
Iain clutched his hand to his head and stiffened beside her. “Magda, you can take your son home now. The rest of you go back to what you were doing.”
As the crowd slowly drifted away, he whispered softly so no one could hear. “Màiri. Help me inside.”
She looped her arm through his and led him up the steps to the keep, leaving the crowd of astonished MacAlisters wondering how she knew little Roby had almost drowned but never saying aloud that only a witch would know something she could not see.
Chapter 21
Màiri stood at Iain’s bedside, first placing another cool cloth on his forehead, then heating more water to mix the potion. He’d slept fitfully since coming upstairs earlier, his breathing heavy and labored, the incoherent words and phrases a puzzlement. It had taken a long time, but he’d finally fallen into a deep sleep.
Satisfied that he was resting peacefully, she leaned back against the cold stone wall and stretched her arms. Every muscle in her body ached, the spot between her shoulder blades burned like someone held a hot poker there and twisted it. She rolled her shoulders, then dropped her head back on her shoulders and closed her eyes. Just as she breathed her first relaxed sigh, the door opened and Donald came in to check on Iain.
“How is the laird?” he asked, setting a pitcher of ale on the table then standing by the bed to look at Iain.
“He has finally fallen asleep.”
Donald nodded. “I am glad. He needs the rest. The last few days have been long and hard, and I know he will want to go below stairs for the evening meal. Our laird would never miss eating with his warriors. His absence would cause much talk and needless worry.”
Màiri knew that was true, too. It would be just what Roderick wanted. “Tell me about Iain and Roderick. I know the bond connecting them is strong, but I need to understand what it is that holds Iain to his brother.”
Donald looked first to make sure Iain was asleep. “Has the laird told you their mother died giving birth to Roderick?”
Màiri nodded. “I also know she was betrothed to my father before she married Iain’s father and that is where the hatred between the MacAlisters and the MacBrides had its beginning.”
Donald crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the stone wall. “There was almost a war over the marriage. Her name was Christina Marie and she was as fair as the first day of spring. I was just a young lad when the mistress died, leaving our laird with Iain and the babe Roderick, but from that day on, nothing was the same. Iain’s father spent every day grieving for a woman he loved more than life itself. He tried being both father and mother to the two lads, but it was always Roderick who received his attention. Perhaps it was because his wife had died giving birth to him, but Roderick’s father seemed to transfer the love he had for his dead wife to his youngest son.
“By the time Roderick
was old enough to wield a sword, he was nearly as accomplished as any of the warriors twice his size, including Iain. But there was one difference between the two. Iain was a born laird. There was a good in him, a strength in his character that was missing in Roderick. Iain was beloved by every MacAlister, while Roderick was simply loved. No matter how hard Roderick tried, he could never gain the devotion of the people like Iain did.
“Then, the old laird died. After that, Iain became Roderick’s father and laird. He trained alongside Iain, competing against him every day, but no matter how much he improved, it was not enough. Iain could na be beaten.”
Donald stopped and stroked his hand down his beard. “I know you think Roderick is responsible for the troubles here, mistress, but you are wrong. There may be some jealousy in him, and the competition between the two has always been fierce, but I canna believe he would ever harm the laird. Roderick has come to accept his place and is as loyal as any of the MacAlisters. Even the trouble with Adele did na destroy the bond that connects the two brothers.”
“What part does Adele play in this?”
“Oh, mistress. I wish I understood that myself, but I do na. I can only tell you the little I know.”
Donald glanced at Iain’s sleeping form stretched out on the bed before he spoke. “It was na long after Roderick and Adele had been married that the lass showed signs she preferred our laird’s company to her husband’s.”
“You think she was in love with Iain?”
Donald nodded. “Even the laird saw it and made excuses to avoid Adele.”
“Could Roderick see it?”
“Oh, aye. He was very jealous of anyone who looked at his wife, and even more obsessed when she paid attention to our laird.”
“What happened the day she died?”
“No one is sure. Adele had been to see the healer, Yseult, and came back just before our evening meal. By bedtime, word came from Roderick for Iain to come in haste. When he arrived at Roderick’s cottage, Adele was already dead. The laird thinks she died from some potion the healer gave her.”
“Do you?”
Donald shrugged his shoulders. “I do na think Yseult would intentionally harm anyone. Especially, Adele. Everyone knew how fond she was of the girl.”
A strange warning made every hair on her neck stand out. Iain turned restlessly on the bed and she placed her palm against his pale forehead. He was warm, but not overly. She lifted his hand and held it in hers. Even though the size of his hand still made hers seem small in comparison, for the first time since she’d found him almost dead from the attack, he seemed weak. His fingers lay limp in her palm, his arm heavy, as if he did not have the strength to hold it himself.
“What is wrong with him, mistress? Each day he eats less and his color worsens. Even the men have noticed he has become weak as a babe.”
Màiri looked up at Donald. She had to tell someone of the danger to Iain. Just in case something happened to her and she was not here to protect him. “Someone is poisoning your laird.”
Donald stepped back. “Surely you are mistaken. Surely his illness has something to do with the blows he took to the head when you first found him.”
“He was never like this. It was only after we came here that he first showed signs of the headaches and dizziness.”
Donald paced the room beside the bed. “I canna believe it, milady.”
“I know, Donald, but it is true. The doses have been small, but over time, his body can na longer fight their powers.”
“But you found the poison in the goblet. You stopped him from drinking it.”
“That was just once I discovered the poison. I think whoever left it had decided they had waited long enough. Your laird is not an easy man to kill, and they had tired of making it look like he’d succumbed to his illness. That’s why they put the poison in the goblet. I only wish I had known Ferquhar could na throw it away.”
“But you made him swear he would na drink it.”
“I should have known he could na keep his oath.”
She looked back at Iain lying on the bed. “I have to find how our laird is getting the small amounts that are destroying him little by little.”
Donald shook his head. “I canna believe it.”
“You must, Donald. Your laird’s life is at stake.”
The disbelief written on Donald’s face was hard to battle. What if she remained alone in seeing the danger Roderick presented to Iain? How could she save him?
Màiri lifted her chin and pointed down at Iain lying on the bed. She was more determined than ever to convince Donald. “He is dying, Donald. Someone is trying to kill him and I do na know how they are doing it.”
Donald lowered his gaze to Iain and for the first time, she prayed he saw what she did, the pale complexion, the waning strength, the weakness. He looked at her and she thought she saw the first chip in his denial appear.
“Surely you don’t think Roderick would do this?” he said, staring at her, blatant disbelief written on his face.
Donald did not want to believe her but he must. She checked again to make sure Iain was sleeping then nodded. “I have handled every bit of food and every goblet of ale he’s either eaten or drank and have found nothing amiss. I do na know how he is getting the poison. He eats the same food as I and drinks from the same pitcher as the rest and still…”
“Are you sure it is not in anything we bring him?”
Màiri picked up the pitcher of ale Donald had brought with him and held it. Nothing. “The ale is fine.”
“But you did na taste it, milady. I can get one of the cats to sample it and if it does na sicken…”
She squared her shoulders. “I do na need an animal to know there is nothing wrong with the ale, Donald. Just as I did na need to see little Roby fall in the stream to know he was drowning.”
She watched Donald’s eyes grow large, an expression of wariness coming over his face. “Or the night you knew my mother was dying?”
He instinctively took one step away from her and shook his head. “Ah, nay, mistress. Nay.”
She nodded, then walked to the window to watch the sun sink low in the sky. There would be a full moon tonight. In a few hours she could stand here and make a wish while the moon fairy gathered her dust. A wish that would end up like all the others. “It is a gift I have, Donald. I was born with it, as was my mother. I would know if the food were poisoned.”
“You must not say such things, mistress. You could be in grave danger if—”
“It is already too late, Donald. Roderick knows. And he will na pass up such an opportunity to use the knowledge in every way harmful.” She turned around to look Donald in the eyes. “You must protect your laird. We canna let him die.”
“Will you be able to cure him once you find out what he has been given?”
She shook her head. “I do na know. Perhaps, if there is a cure. Only Yseult will know for sure.”
“Perhaps it is not Roderick. Perhaps it is someone else and we will find who is trying to poison our laird and punish him.”
“It is Roderick, Donald. Do na be blind to his hatred too long, or it will cost your laird his life.”
Donald shook his head as he walked to the door, then turned around. “We will na lose our laird to a traitor. When it is his time to die, it will be in battle for the sake of peace. Not like this.”
With those words, Donald left the room and closed the door behind him. Màiri sat in her chair beside the bed to wait until Iain awoke. She folded her hands across her stomach and touched the smooth, stone bracelet still in her pocket. Its appearance was still a mystery. Someone had left it on her pillow for a reason. She did not believe in witchcraft or ghosts. She knew Adele had not come back from the dead to talk to her. She wished whoever it was would reveal its purpose. She wished they would reveal how she could expose Roderick before he killed Iain.
Màiri closed her eyes and fell asleep, her hand still clutched around the stones.
. . .
“Better. At least my head does na feel as if there is a broadaxe still embedded in it.”
“Here, drink this potion, then I will give you the ale Donald brought for you.”
He drank the ale laced with feverfew, then lay back on the bed with a heavy sigh. “It is too late to keep your gift hidden now. You know that, don’t you?”
His words were as ominous as a bell tolling a death watch. “It was too late long ago. As soon as Roderick discovered it.”
“God’s teeth, woman. Why do you hate him so?”
“Open your eyes and see, Iain,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Roderick will na rest until you are dead and he is laird of clan MacAlister.”
“Does your gift tell you this?”
“My gift shows me all forms of lies and truth; love and hatred; happiness and bitterness. Aye, my gift tells me this. It shows me all of Roderick’s lies and his hatred and bitterness toward you.”
“You call your powers a gift, but ’tis not. ’Tis a curse. A curse that makes you as dangerous as Yseult.”
She grasped the corner of the table to steady herself. “I am not a witch, Iain. I canna cast spells. I canna harm anyone. I canna tell what is yet to come. I could na predict that little Roby was going to fall into the stream. I only knew it after it had happened, and even then I did na know who it was. I can sense emotions only when they are already there to feel.”
“It na longer matters what you can or canna do. Everyone in the courtyard thinks you possess special powers. They fear you, Màiri.”
She turned to face him. “My gift saved little Roby’s life!”
