He turned away. "You don't have to be telling me what I know.” He was cursed, there was no doubt now.
"It was a drink she took and it was no different for your Anabal. She fell ill with a drink."
Drink? The same as Anabal? He hadn't known that, but now, two wives, years apart, at different stages of carrying a bairn, lost babes by the same means.
An enemy could not survive for years inside Glen Toric. They would have exposed themselves.
"Anabal's birthing came on too soon. That's not uncommon. Nor is losing a babe before time."
"Too fast, Laird. A woman's first child does not come on so quick; one moment standing and laughing the next folded up and screaming." Conegell insisted. "The women are talking, trying to remember the shock of your first wife’s dying. They weren't easy in it then, even less so now."
Talorc fought despair that would only muddle his mind. He had to think, had to listen, with a clear head. "If what you're saying is true, then someone among the clan would have to be the cause of it."
William leaned in, "Old Micheil was betrayed."
Thoughts forced Talorc to stand. His words put before the others for consideration. "We don't know the man was betrayed. And I can think of no one who would do this. No one who could live among the clan and remain an enemy."
Conegell took a deep breath. "Beathag gave her a drink."
William snorted, "Maggie knows better than to drink Beathag's concoctions."
Talorc waved him away, weighed the accusation. "Maggie might drink one of Beathag's brew, but not Anabal. And Anabal loved the old woman as much as Beathag loved Anabal. I don't see it, but yes, the old woman might hurt my Maggie. The hitch is, she would never harm the child she nursed from birth." Talorc frowned.
Beathag was an easy solution, but such things were usually the fault of shallow thinking. He needed more information. "Conegell, you've followed the woman. What do you think?"
"You asked me to watch, but when she goes to your Maggie's room, I can't follow. Una does."
Buoyed by purpose and duty, Talorc waited, impatient for information. When none came he looked up, gestured. "Well? What did Una say?"
Conegell shifted. "Beathag put a goblet down, but Lady MacKay dinna' drink, not then. She talked to the old nurse, sweet like, and thanked the woman. Una said Beathag left, and then Lady MacKay took a sip. There were two flasks there; the one from Beathag and one with fresh water."
"You're saying she drank from the wrong one." Talorc closed his eyes. This made sense, a stupid error. She knew which to drink from and took the wrong one. Life was that fickle.
But when he opened his eyes, Conegell was shaking his head. "The women don't know. Some say yes, some say no. They're all fretting about it, about the way Lady MacKay made a face with the taste of her water, but swallowed anyway."
"She knew it wasn't water?"
"No," Conegell shook his head. "It's more like, she wasn't certain. She looked at the goblet, as if something was wrong with the goblet, not the brew."
"Did Una understand why she would do this?"
"You know how Una talks round and round till it makes you dizzy. But she said she was certain Maggie drank of the water.” They all stared at Conegell, he continued. “But she says it like it's a question, like she can't figure it out. She says Ealasaid keeps saying Lady MacKay never drinks Beathag's drinks. They use different goblets. Maggie knows Ealasaid's goblet and Ealasaid fetched the water herself."
Talorc swallowed air, rubbed the base of his head where a knot twisted.
"From Una's description, Lady MacKay looked at the goblet again, smelled it then her face turned ashen. She dropped the goblet, clutched at her inners and started to scream as she fell. Both goblets toppled when she went down. No one knows for certain which one was which. I'm thinking, Lady MacKay will be the only one who knows if she drank from Beathag's or the water's flask."
"Where's Beathag?" Rage, a powerful menace, threatened Talorc's control. With effort, he breathed deep, forced his tightening muscles to ease. There was no loosening the knot in his stomach, or at the top of his spine. The hollow calm of his words obscured the tempers edge he rode. "Where is she? Where's the old hag?"
It made perfect sense, after all Beathag was a Gunn. A Gunn spy, planted within the MacKay clan. He smiled with thoughts of vengeance.
But his smile waned. It made no sense. Beathag was free to return to the Gunns, but had cringed from such freedom. She never left the hall. Never went for a visit. Had no way of meeting the enemy.
And Beathag would not, could not murder Anabal. She had been the girl’s nurse, had raised her from a wee babe. She adored her charge.
If she had poisoned Maggie, that would mean two culprits with the same outcome. Not likely. It didn't ring true.
"We locked Beathag in her room," Conegell put his hands on his Laird's shoulders, as if to temper his temper. But the rage had twisted into frustration. "The old woman was as startled by the scream. I saw her, saw the look on her face. She ran, fast for old legs, tears running down her cheeks, she near twisted her hands off, and she kept saying 'not again. Oh, no my lass, not again."
His instincts were true. Beathag, guilty or not, did not set out to murder anyone. "Did you watch her make the drink?" Talorc asked.
"Aye. Her worry made me think. All these times I follow her, I see her take the goblet up to your wife's chamber, but I never see her gather herbs or go down in the rooms where they make the potions. She fills the goblet with a small chunk of sugar, a spoon of malt, an inch of molasses and a pinch of yeast. The rest is ale, straight from the cask in the kitchen. Today was no different."
"Does she pull anything from a pouch on her way to the room?"
Conegell shook his head. "She adds an egg some days, but not today. The cook wouldn't have it."
"Are you certain that is all she puts in there? Could there be anything up her sleeve?"
"I've run it round and round my head and I'm certain, Laird. I've watched real close. But I watch her, not the brew and that's the worry. She leaves it on a shelf, gives the yeast time to come alive and stir the flavors."
The chamber door opened and Deirdre popped her head out. "The bleeding’s stopped."
Talorc groaned, felt tears of relief surge. He fought them. "Is she awake?"
"No," Deidre looked back in the room, "Well, not really. Her eyelids flutter, which is a good sign. But I have to get back." She darted in as quick as she had popped out.
Talorc stood, alone, surrounded by his men. He had tasks to do, for Maggie. Just what, refused to surface. He had to get a grip on his thoughts. "William, Conegell, go to Beathag and talk to her. See if there's anything she wants to say, or thinks about all this." He turned to Paraig, "Take Niall here and go to the kitchens. Watch who comes and goes. Listen to their thoughts, suspicions. Don't let them know why you're there, just snitch at the food and flirt, like you would otherwise.
"Liam, you stay here in the hallway, to do any bidding that's necessary. I want you to note who comes to see how Maggie fairs. Bruce," Talorc didn't turn when he addressed him, "send Malcolm up, he can help with running messages. And between the two of them, one should be here at all times."
It was then that Talorc eyed Sim, who stood to the back of the other men, just behind Liam, "I'm going to ask a great task of you Sim, and you're the only true choice." The young man stood taller. "I need you to get to the MacBede Keep, as fast as you can . . . but first, check to see if there are any unusual tracks around this keep. Do you understand? If there are tracks, forget the MacBedes and come straight to me. If not, if I don't see you in the verrrry near future, I'll know you are on your way to her people. They'll want to know the hope of a child is no more."
"Should you wait, Laird?" Bruce had the gall to ask.
"Wait? To see if she lives or dies, do you mean?" Bruce looked at his feet. If she lived, how different would they react. If she died . . . her eyelids had fluttered. Talorc would hang on to that.
&nbs
p; "Go now Sim, and promise we will send another, on the morn, to say if she lives or dies. And Sim," Talorc looked him straight on, "tell them I broke my promise. We think she was poisoned by one of our own."
CHAPTER 7 – LETTING GO
Maggie lay on the bed, white as chalk. Covers pulled up to her waist, where a twisted sheet and a piece of wood for a tourniquet handle, rested on her belly, the twist now loosened. Ealasaid leaned against the wall, spent from her efforts.
"What needs doing?" Talorc asked. She shook her head, words more energy than she had.
Gerta pushed forward, "Y' need to sit." And pushed Ealasaid into a chair. "You," she pointed toward Una, "and you," Deidre this time, "help me strip the bed down, and take that God awful thing from around her."
Ealasaid shoved away from the chair, "She'll be needing water."
They all looked to the spilled pitcher on the floor, and the drying puddle of blood beside it.
"Liam's outside," Talorc told them as he eased the knot at the top of the tourniquet sheet, "tell him to fetch fresh water from the stream and warn him he's to taste it before she has any."
"You can trust my Liam!" Caitrina snapped, and walked to the door to inform her husband of his task.
"Caitrina," Talorc stopped her, "have Liam tell the rat catchers," the young boys who made certain the keep wasn't over-run with vermin, "to find me some live ones." The girl shuddered, but didn't ask questions as she did his bidding.
Talorc lifted Maggie into his arms, as Gerta removed the twisted sheet from around her waist.
"Hold her a bit, while we get this bed freshened." Ealasaid stepped in front of him, "Sit over there. We'll get her into a fresh gown as well."
Caitrina came back into the room with a bucket full of water and a scrub brush.
"What are you doing?" Talorc asked.
Caitrina scowled as Gerta answered. "She's going to clean the floor."
"Don't."
"Laird, we can't leave it as a memorial, now."
"Don't clean it. Not until I say. And don't step over there either." There were answers on that floor. He needed to find them.
Maggie's gown was lifted, to be changed, and revealed a deep purple circlet of bruises. Great racking shivers coursed through her.
"Shock," Talorc mumbled. He held her close to his chest as he reached over, lifted the lid of the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulled out fresh blankets to wrap her in. He had experience enough with injuries during battle. He knew what he was dealing with. What he didn't like was the limpness. She was no more than an empty shell of flesh.
"She needs water, Laird. She's lost too much of the liquid inside of her. She needs water."
"It's coming." He had to stay calm, for Maggie. If he let his fears, his temper, surface he would be no help. He had to stay focused.
"Bring the bucket here, Caitrina," He felt it, ice cold. "Over there, by the fire, there's a kettle. Bring some hot water so we can wash her before we dress her again.”
Talorc helped to get her clean, dressed, back on the bed and under heavy piles of covers. Liam came in with another bucket of water, and took a sip without being asked, ended it with a respectful nod to Talorc.
At least he did not take offense to his laird's request.
"You’re a good man, Liam MacGhei." Talorc nodded him off then turned to Ealasaid. "How many people do you need now?"
"Gerta will do, the rest can go, though you'll be hard pressed to get them to leave."
"I want as few people in this room as possible."
Ealasaid nodded. Talorc looked at the others, then tilted his head to the door. As they left, they skirted around the blood soaked floor, and toppled pitcher.
Ealasaid was set on getting Maggie to drink the water, but Maggie refused it. Every try, the liquid spilled over and down her neck. Talorc stood beside Ealasaid. "Use a cloth," A slanted look let him know she wasn't stupid.
She dipped a clean cloth in the cup and dribbled it over Maggie's lips. Loss of blood, weak as she was, Maggie managed to tighten her lips against refreshment and moaned.
“She doesn't trust the water," It also told him which goblet she had drunk from.
"Maggie," He held her head upright, his face straight on hers, even though her eyes were closed. "It's fresh water. Liam tried it; I'm tasting it right now." He grabbed the mug and took a taste. "It's sweet and clear and refreshing. Ah, I think I'll drink more." He took her face in his hands again. "Want a wee drop, of the same cup I drank from?" he didn't expect an answer in words. He knew it would come as he tipped the cup to her lips. It went past her lips, into her mouth. She swallowed.
Talorc closed his own eyes and said a quick prayer.
"Give her more, Laird," Ealasaid bade him. He did so, murmuring to her as he gave her small sips, watching as her weakness ebbed. Not by much, she'd been through a hefty ordeal, but it ebbed enough that her eyes opened a mite and her tongue had the strength to lick her lips, though not strong enough to offer words.
"Good, Laird. You've done good." Ealasaid leaned wearily against the wall.
He sat on the edge of the bed, cupped Maggie’s face in his hand as his thumb rubbed over the rise of her cheek. She turned into the caress. He kissed her forehead and rose.
"She's sleeping." Ealasaid leaned over to lift Maggie's wrist. It was not as limp as it had been earlier, with the lack of so much blood. The older woman sighed, deep.
"I truly thought we had lost her, Bold. I don't know what I would have done."
"Don't you worry about our lass, here," Gerta told Ealasaid, "You've nursed her before, when no one thought she would make it. She's got spirit, she does, spirit through and through." Gerta sat back, tears in her eyes.
Tough as hide, old Gerta might be, but she had a soft spot for his Maggie. As did Ealasaid. Maggie was safe with the two of them.
"I have to go, ask questions, but you need to make me a promise. Any slight change, better or worse, you send for me. Liam is right outside with Malcolm."
He strode from the room, did not stop when others tried to stop him. He ignored it all, for the stables. Without blanket, saddle, stirrups or even halter, he mounted his horse, broke free of the keep at full gallop. Hard, fast, he rode up over the folds of the hills, down one, up another until he came to a spot hidden in the roll of the land. Soaked with sweat, his mount heaved in breath, as Talorc dismounted, careless that the animal might take off and leave him with no way home but by his feet.
He didn't care.
Didn't care about anything.
Numbness had grown in proportion to Maggie’s lifelessness. He had functioned because he had to, for her. Now there was no need to cope, to be of use, to see that all was done with logic, precision.
He stood, alone, empty. There was no comfort. Fear pummeled his belly.
He would lose her. He would truly lose her. And not just to death.
He had broken his promise.
He had not protected her.
She was lost to him. Life or no.
Emotion shattered his nothingness, filled the hollow with shrieks of a thousand banshees. One moment, stillness, the next, a warrior's roar erupted from the depths of him, bounced off the hillsides and came back, an eerie echo, creating a wild, tormented chorus. It grew from the pit of the earth, up through his toes, his legs, his belly, and out his throat. He shouted his fears, his anger, acknowledged the tears that streamed down his cheeks and sank to his knees, where he begged, pleaded for the Lord to save her, to keep her well, to allow her life.
As if in answer, every moment of their time together flashed through his mind. Guilt swamped his meager soul. He had cajoled, tricked, seduced and inveigled Maggie into his world, his life, his heart-- against her own wishes. He had forced her into being his wife and then he had failed to keep her safe.
He didn't deserve her.
The truth of it rocked through him, filled him with a self-hatred that he had never before tasted. No room for self-doubt for the Bold.
But
he wasn't the Bold right now. Maggie had shown more guts, more determination, more giving in one afternoon than he had offered in the whole of their time together.
He did not deserve her.
Fury forced him to this moment of self-discovery. He pulled his sword from its sheath, and stabbed the ground, over and over until the blade snapped. He gripped the handle of his wounded weapon, pierced through snow to earth until that too gave way, but he did not give up. He punched and pounded and howled until finally, exhausted, he fell onto his back, eyes closed as salty tears streamed down the sides of his face.
He loved her, to the bottom of his black soul. He loved her with such passion that he would give her the one gift she would treasure.
He would set her free.
CHAPTER 8 – TORN APART
Determined to be strong, Maggie grasped the bedpost to steady herself and shut her eyes against a wave of nausea. The room spun, Maggie tilted.
"Stop moving." Fiona snipped, too focused on Maggie's pleats to look up.
Eyes opened wide, Maggie swallowed against the illness. She did not want to be fussed over. The whole of the MacKays as well as her own kin, had fretted enough. All of them, from the oldest to the youngest had bustled about her, seeing to her needs, putting their hands on her forehead, bringing food to fatten her up.
All of them but Talorc.
"Where is he?" She pulled away from Fiona's tucking and pleating. On edge from days of attention, ready to be up and about, sick or not.
Fiona grabbed her daughter's skirts and tugged her back into place. "Where is who?"
Maggie snorted and spun around, which managed to unravel half of Fiona's hard work. "You know who I mean, ma."
Fiona ignored the accusation. "Come here," she waved Maggie to her. "Let me fix it." Mother waited, daughter stood firm. Fiona flicked her wrist again.
"Alright," Maggie gave up with a sigh and stepped forward. She managed to hold still all but an impatient tap of foot and drum of fingers. "I'm about to walk into the hall, to see and be seen by the whole of the MacKays, but my husband has yet to come for me."
Torn (The Handfasting) Page 7
