by Laura Landon
“And what if I had pulled him from the stream too late? Would his mother have thanked you then? Or cursed you?”
“You tell me, laird. These are your people. They will believe what you believe. Do you think me a witch?”
“Enough!” He slammed his fist down beside him on the bed. “It does na matter what I think.”
Bitterness filled her heart. “Then to whom does it matter? Roderick?”
His eyes narrowed. “Careful, wife. That is my brother you malign.”
“He is your enemy. He means to destroy you.”
“Nay! You do na understand. It is my fault he harbors such feelings. It is my fault that…”
“Why? Because of Adele?”
He turned his face away from her. “We have said enough.”
She waited a long time before she moved, praying he would tell her why he held such guilt. Somehow she knew it involved Adele, and Roderick’s wife had taken the terrible secret with her to her grave.
He breathed a heavy sigh, his exhaustion obvious. “Why is it, my Màiri,” he said, closing his eyes, “that I fear things will never be as they were before?”
“Because they cannot,” she replied, her voice hollow. ”You will have to choose in the end, Iain. Your brother or your wife.”
She helped him dress, pinning the MacAlister brooch on the tartan across his shoulder and fastening the sheath that held his dagger at his side. All the time he did not say a word to her.
Màiri knew it would be this way. His stubbornness would not allow him to forget their angry words, and his pride would not allow him to admit her words had merit.
They walked down the stone steps, the familiar droning of voices from the warriors already gathered in the hall to eat their evening meal a welcoming sound.
“Do na do anything that might draw attention to yourself,” Iain warned. “There is enough confusion about what happened this afternoon already.”
Màiri lifted her head. She would not cower before Iain or his people. She was not ashamed of the gift her mother had given her.
She stepped through the wide, stone-arched doorway and faced the stares from the crowded room. Voices dropped to a low whisper, then stopped altogether. Every warrior and serving lass in the long room turned to look at their laird with concern on their faces, then focused on her.
She made her way across the hall, following only a step behind her husband. Roderick was already there, the look of anticipation brightening his face. Only the soft crunching of their feet on the rushes on the floor broke the oppressive silence. A few of the warriors crossed themselves when she passed. Word of how she’d known young Roby was drowning had spread to everyone in the castle. Even those who had earlier thought there was a logical explanation for the mistress’s odd behavior now had their doubts.
“Are you all right, Iain?” Roderick asked quietly when they reached the dais.
“Aye. I am fine.” Iain looked at the rows of silent warriors, their platters half eaten. “Weren’t you telling one of your tales, Guthred?” Iain said to the old warrior, the tone of his voice commanding everyone to continue as before.
“Aye. I was telling of the time your father and I rode with the Macleans onto English soil.”
When the room buzzed with talk once more, Iain motioned for a serving girl to bring a platter of meat and cheese.
“I saw Stewart MacAlister on my way,” Roderick said, reaching for a wedge of cheese. “He said little Roby is doing fine, although Magda has na let him out of her sight since you saved him.”
“She is lucky he is still here to watch over. He was lying face down in the water when I reached him.”
One of the serving girls, a young lass named Carmen, made a wide circle, staying to Iain’s right to avoid coming too near Màiri. With trembling hands, she placed a platter of steaming meat on the edge of the table in front of Iain, then quickly backed away.
Iain reached for the platter, but just as the girl was ready to set it down, Donald asked him a question, drawing his attention away. Màiri reached for the platter first. Nothing. Reassured that everything else on the table was safe, she passed the food to him, then took some for herself.
“Such care you take of our laird, milady,” Roderick whispered softly.
“I told you before I would na let anything happen to him, Roderick.” She smiled. “And I will na.”
To anyone watching, Roderick’s smile would have seemed warm and cordial. Only Màiri could feel the malice that ate away at his heart.
She lifted a piece of warm bread to her mouth, forcing herself to swallow the morsel. She’d never been under such intense scrutiny in her life, even on the first day she’d come to them. Every warrior in the room feigned interest in the conversations around them but their gazes constantly lifted to study her, their mistrust and suspicions blatant in the looks they gave her. She held her head high and filled her plate as if she had the appetite to eat what she’d taken.
Another young serving lass approached their table with a pitcher of ale, her timidity and fearfulness even more evident than the girl before her. When she neared, Màiri smiled reassuringly, but from the trembling of the girl’s lower lip, the overture had not helped.
Màiri lifted Iain’s goblet first, letting the girl fill it with ale. She opened her gift to make sure it was safe to drink. Nothing. Next, she lifted her own goblet. Before the girl finished filling it, Roderick stuck out his cup, making sure he drank from the same pitcher of ale as the rest. He was taunting her, making sport of her gift that would tell her if Iain was in danger.
With a grin on his face, he took a long sip of the ale, then called the girl back to refill his goblet. Forced to return to the table, the poor girl refilled Roderick’s goblet, her unease painful to watch.
As the last droplets of ale poured into his cup, a loud clank hit the inside of the metal pitcher. The girl looked down as a bracelet of smooth, polished green stones just like the one Màiri had in her pocket rolled out in front of Roderick and hit the table with a heavy thud.
The girl stared at the stones with a startled look then picked it up and held it in her hand. “It is one of Adele’s,” she said in awe, turning the trinket over in her hand. “You never saw her when she was na wearing one of her bracelets of pretty green stones. It is a miracle. How did you do it, mistress?” she asked, looking at Màiri.
The air caught in Màiri’s throat. All she could do was shake her head in denial. To her left, Roderick pushed his chair away from the table as if he’d been burned, then lunged forward and snatched the bracelet out of the girl’s grasp. “Where did you get this?” he bellowed.
“I do na know. I canna imagine how it got there.”
Roderick clenched it in his fist then dropped it on the table before him and stared at it. His mouth pursed to a taut, thin line, his tenseness turning his face a deep purple. Ever so slowly, he picked it up and let it dangle from his fingers as if it were repulsive to touch.
“You did this,” he said, glaring at Màiri. The accusing tone of his voice dripped with revulsion. He leaned past her to look at Iain. “Your wife has a strange sense of humor, Iain. Not one I can say I appreciate.” With trembling hands, he put the bracelet in his pocket, then resumed his seat, obviously shaken.
Màiri could sense Roderick’s broiling turmoil, his furor seething just below the surface. He blamed her for the bracelet that had fallen to the table in front of him. He thought she had put it there.
“You do na fool me, Màiri,” he said beneath his breath, aimlessly shoving around the food on his platter. “Your witch’s tricks mean nothing.”
Màiri stiffened. “If the appearance of the stones holds some significance, Roderick, I am not the one who is sending the message. I know na more about them than you.”
Without finishing his meal, Roderick shoved back his chair and rose to his feet. “You will na win, milady” he hissed softly. “It will na be long before everyone knows you are a witch. I will see to it.”
Roderick strode
across the hall without turning back, leaving a cold feeling of dread in his wake. She did not doubt his words. Her gift issued her the same warning.
She placed her hand in her pocket and clutched the stones between her fingers. They were Adele’s stones, yet no emotion emanated from them. No warning. No sense of unrest. No calling for help. But they had appeared twice. There had to be some reason.
She leaned back in her chair, then turned to face Iain. The anger in his gaze told her he thought the same as Roderick. He blamed her for placing Adele’s bracelet in the pitcher.
And worse, his look accused her of cruelly tormenting Roderick with painful reminders of his dead wife. A heavy weight rested inside her breast. She felt the separation between her and Iain widening. Would she always be alone in seeing the danger Roderick presented?
Was Roderick always the one Iain would believe over her? Until it was too late?
Chapter 22
The priest found a third bracelet lying on the altar early the next morning. He discovered it when he went in to say his prayers just before dawn. Everyone in the castle was convinced this was a warning. Roderick’s dead wife, Adele, was sending them a sign, whether good or bad, they still hadn’t decided. But she’d now involved a man of God, as well as the laird’s wife, Màiri.
They watched Màiri closely, warily, positive she and the appearance of the stones were connected. She had, after all, found the first bracelet. Marjorie told them that she and Janet had seen the mistress with a bracelet just like the second one that had fallen out of the pitcher of ale.
Màiri had battled rumors all morning, and when she could take it no longer, she fled to the sanctuary of her chambers to escape the pointed stares and the fervent whispers. More than once she’d heard remarks hinting that it was not natural to be able to do what she could do. How had she known the Cochrans had not come to make war? How had she known from inside the keep that little Roby was drowning? Why had Adele chosen to give the first bracelet to her?
Every question echoed again and again inside her head. She closed the door and stood alone in the quiet trying to gather a few minutes of solitude. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, hoping to erase the tired burning that did not want to go away. All morning long she’d watched over Iain to make sure he didn’t eat or drink anything she didn’t check first. And no matter where she went, there was a gathering of MacAlisters there to watch her every move. Some backed away from her when she came near, others crossed themselves, a few even scurried away like frightened rabbits. All of this hurt, but not nearly as much as the quiet comments they didn’t think she heard, or the whispered word ‘witch’.
She prayed the rumors and accusations would go away but knew they wouldn’t. Roderick and his small group of followers were there to feed the gossip and encourage the hearsay.
She paced the room back and forth. It would not be long before she would be shunned and rejected, like she’d feared from the very beginning. But she would not let him lock her away like her father had her mother. The babe she carried would not be born behind a locked door and live in a prison.
The more she thought of what could happen, the more her uneasiness grew. She paced the room, touching the objects that were familiar: the bed, the small table, the chest. Then she walked to the other side of the room and pushed against the screen where Iain went each morning and evening to wash and change. It was where he kept his large chest of clean clothes. Where he kept the cherished keepsakes he’d saved that had belonged to his parents. She never went behind the screen, there was no need, but today something drew her. A strange warning, an uneasy premonition.
Everything looked normal, a basin still filled with the water he’d washed in, a crumpled cloth he’d used to dry himself, the brush he’d used to comb his hair and the blade he’d used to shave. She walked over to the small table and lifted the brush. The moment she touched the table, a violent warning surged through her chest.
She frantically touched everything there. The basin, the cloth, the blade. Even the goblet of ale he’d taken from their bedside table.
Màiri spun around to look at their bedside table. The goblet was still there. Dear God. Where had this goblet come from? With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched the metal cup. A warning stabbed painfully around her heart. Damn him! Damn Roderick! This was how he’d managed to poison Iain a little each day. This was how he’d managed to get the poison past her. He’d put the ale in a place she never looked.
Just as she reached to throw the goblet against the wall, the door opened and Janet entered. “Come quickly, mistress! The laird wants you downstairs right away. There is trouble.”
Màiri set the goblet back down. “What has happened? Is the laird ill?”
Janet shook her head. “It is Rauri, mistress. He has been accused of murder. They found Murdoch’s body beyond the walls and everyone knows the two fought over a sword. The warrior Angus claims Rauri killed Murdoch to get even.”
Màiri clutched her tartan closer around her shoulders and raced out the door and down the stairs. She ran through the door to the great hall and stopped. No one saw her enter so she stepped back against the wall and listened as Iain held court. He sat on the dais, his broadsword angled across his knee, his MacAlister tartan pinned over his left shoulder by the large metal brooch she was so used to seeing him wear, and a worried frown on his forehead.
The mood in the hall was hostile, anger boiling on the surface as well as rumbling beneath.
Iain sat forward. “What say you to defend yourself, Rauri?”
The broad-shouldered warrior Màiri had come to like so well did not flinch, but stared straight ahead with his head held high. “Nothing, laird. It was my dagger that killed him.”
There was a loud murmur of voices, then a large man with a long scar across his cheek stood up from the rows of trestle tables along the walls and pointed his finger. “See, I told you. He killed Murdoch because of the trouble with the sword. I saw him pull his dagger from its sheath and stab it into his chest.”
The small handful of Roderick’s followers exploded in angry demands for Rauri’s quick death while the rest of the room stood in defense of Donald’s son. Màiri let her gaze fall on Marjorie. The lass stood against the wall, hiding in the shadows with tears streaming down her cheeks. There was an ugly dark bruise on her cheek she’d tried to conceal with her hair and a cut on her upper lip she covered with her hand.
Màiri opened her gift to get the answer sought by all in the great hall. She knew the truth from the lies just as she knew the deceit that was in the killer’s heart. This was her gift. This was the good it could do.
She looked back at Marjorie, noticing that her gaze never left Rauri’s face, the look in her eyes pleading for him to defend himself. Màiri could feel the love they shared between them, just as she could feel the fear and the truth. The truth Marjorie was not brave enough to say aloud.
“Laird!” a ruddy-faced warrior shouted from the side of the room. “Rauri could na have killed Murdoch without good reason. I know he could not.”
“And me!” another warrior said, rising to his feet.
“Nay!” Angus argued. “I saw him.”
“Enough!” Iain shouted.
Màiri knew what she had to do. This is why Iain had wanted her to come. She braced her shoulders and walked into the room, wending her way through the warriors seated at the long trestle tables. The room fell to a quiet hush as she made her way toward the front and stood before her laird.
Iain rose to his feet, his gaze penetrating. Her gift could not read him, but the look on his face told her two things. How desperate he was to prove Rauri innocent and how loathe he was for her to use her gift. A heavy weight pressed against her heart. Today was costing him dearly. Today would cost her more.
“What say you, Màiri?” he asked, the hollow tone of his voice revealing his regret. Not one sound could be heard in the room while they all waited to hear her speak. This would be more proof that she had a
gift that revealed things ordinary people could not see.
She weighed her words carefully. “The answer lies with Marjorie. She can tell you what you want to know.”
Màiri turned her gaze to the lass at the side of the hall clutching a tartan around her shoulders while tears streamed down her cheeks. “You must tell your laird what happened, Marjorie,” she said loud enough for all to hear. “He needs to know.”
“Nay!” Raurie yelled, and would have charged across the room if his father and Lochlan had not held him back. “Leave her alone. She does na know anything.”
Iain motioned the girl forward and when she hesitated, her father helped her across the floor, stopping before his laird.
Iain took a step forward. “What do you have to say, lass?”
Her shoulders shook as the tears rolled down her cheeks, then with a deep breath, she lifted her head. “I was the one who killed him.”
Loud cries and murmurs of disbelief rumbled through the room almost drowning out Rauri’s roar to stop her words.
Iain looked at Màiri as if he needed verification of Marjorie’s admission and when she nodded in the affirmative, he held out his hand for silence.
“Go on, lass. Tell us what happened.”
Marjorie huddled closer to her father and he protected her as only a father can. “I had taken a meat pie to my grandmother,” she stammered hoarsely, “and was on my way home when Angus and Murdoch stopped me. I tried to fight them off, but… there were two of them and they were both so strong.”
More tears rolled down her cheeks as she stuttered to make herself understood. “Angus threw me to the ground and ripped my clothes. When I fought him, he hit me. I couldn’t push him off of me. I was so afraid.”
Màiri’s eyes turned toward Angus and the look of madness on his face turned her stomach. Conan and Hector and a handful of other warriors stood around him to stop him from trying to escape.
“Go on,” Iain said.
“Then Rauri came. He pulled Angus away from me and they fought. Murdoch just laughed and told Angus to keep Rauri busy until he finished with me. In their struggle, Rauri dropped his dagger and I reached for it. When Murdoch fell on me, I just pointed the dagger upward and felt it sink deep into his chest.” More tears fell from her eyes. “God forgive me. I killed him.”
