Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (32 page)

Ronan waivered. Aidan’s powers of observation were unparalleled, and there was no one Ronan trusted more.

Aidan took a drink then sat his cup on the table with a
thunk
. “Come with me,” he growled. He rose and stepped for the door.

Ronan hesitated.

“Ye will be able tae observe from the foot of the stairs,” Aidan said. “They willna see ye.”

Ronan placed his cup next to his brother’s on the table, rose, and followed him out the door.

At the base of the stairs, he stopped in horror. The sick and infirm filled the great hall, many on pallets on the floor, still others huddled against the walls. The Sassenach had taken control of Ronan’s high table and used it to mix medicants.

“Milady,” Alba called, kneeling beside the unconscious maid who had fallen this morning. The Sassenach dropped her mortar and pestle and sprinted to the girl’s side. She checked for a life-beat against the girl’s throat, then her hazel eyes filled with tears. “Blessed Mary, nay,” she whispered and shook her head.

Ronan’s throat constricted and he swallowed against the sorrow rising within him.

“I am sorry,” the Sassenach whispered. She stroked the girl’s hair from her brow with such compassion Ronan felt tears burning in his eyes. She then took a blanket and pulled it over the maid’s head.

Alba covered her face and started to sob. The Sassenach motioned to two braw young lads. They silently approached, their expressions grim. The Sassenach helped Alba to her feet and pulled her out of the way while she cried bitterly. The lads picked up the maid’s body and carried her out.

Ronan choked softly then turned away. Sorrow and guilt nearly brought him to his knees. It was his fault the girl was dead.

“Ronan,” Aidan said, gently gripping his shoulder. “Watch.”

Unwillingly, Ronan returned his gaze to the hall.

The Sassenach guided Alba to a chair, fetched a cup from the table, and handed it to her. As Alba drank, the Sassenach crouched before the maid and took her hand. She spoke to Alba, but Ronan could not make out her words.

Aidan inclined his head slightly. “Alba, I am sorry,” he whispered, relating the healer’s words. Ronan watched him for a moment. His brother had learned to glean what a person said by just watching their lips as they spoke. “I know she was your friend.”

“Why did the Demon Laird kill her? She was a kind soul; she ne’er hurt anyone.”

The Sassenach’s expression grew stern. “Alba, cease. We do not know what happened. ’Tis not our place to judge. He may have simply startled her and she fell. I suspect it was an accident, nothing more.”

Ronan looked at his brother in surprise, but Aidan’s concentration was focused on the healer.

“Alba, I know this hurts your heart, but I need your help. These people, they need your help.”

Ronan watched the gradual change come over Alba. She drained her cup, straightened her shoulders, and rose from the chair.

“What can I do, milady?”

The Sassenach smiled and rose with her, gripping her hands. “That’s my girl. The medicant cups—I have made barley water in hopes it might ease the stomach pains.”

“I will see tae it, milady.”

“Thank you, Alba.”

Alba walked away and Aidan fell silent. But Ronan’s attention remained locked on the Sassenach as she too became a different woman. Tears filled her eyes as she looked over the great hall, and for the first time, her hands shook. She turned away, her shoulders bowed as if under a great weight. She cleaned her hands in a bowl of water, bowing her head.

Ronan swallowed hard, unable to understand the sudden longing that roared to life within him. He wanted nothing more than to comfort and encourage her as she waged her war against death. He gritted his teeth against the impulse.

The Sassenach drew in a couple of deep breaths, and as soon as she turned around, servants helped another sick villager into the great hall, moving straight for her. Again Ronan recognized him. Nay! The man was Connell’s younger brother. He was not married yet but lived on the outskirts of the village as a leather tanner. Ronan’s gaze returned to the healer. The strength that he had witnessed before returned, and she began a new battle to save a life. Ronan turned away, unable to help, unable to watch any longer.

“Well?” his brother asked.

Ronan took a step toward the stairs but hesitated. “She stays,” he growled. For some reason, he could not look at his brother. “Until this is over. After that, I want her gone.”

“Nay,” Aidan said, his voice tight. “She stays and that’s all there is tae it.”

Ronan took a breath to rebuke his brother but then stopped and released it. “What is her name?” he asked softly.

“Lia.”

Ronan nodded and slowly ascended the stairs.

HHH

That night Lia barely had time to wolf down some food. The great hall was filled to bursting. She was grateful for Aidan giving her leave to use it but also hated the fact it was so full. It seemed villagers streamed into the keep, able to defeat their terror of the Demon Laird in an effort to seek her aid. She didn’t understand—so many people, their symptoms the same, and all at once. Surely it had to be a plague of some sort. But why were none in the castle sick? This illness struck without regard to station, age, or health, except for seemingly avoiding those who lived and worked in the keep.

Although Lia was not given to superstition, the villagers’ belief in the Demon Laird’s curse made a strange sort of sense. Some aspects of this were very familiar, but she could not place the specifics. She needed to review her journal, but thus far, every time she sat for the barest moment to do so, someone else needing her aid came through the door.

The night aged and the castle finally quieted. Occasionally, a soft moan of pain would break the silence, but for the most part, the sick rested. The medicant she had developed to soothe their aching stomachs seemed to be working, as long as the person could keep it down.

Lia prepared herself a cup of mulled wine with herbs to help clear the cobwebs from her head. She knew her work was only beginning, and it would be a long time before she could get any sleep. But things seemed quiet now, and she took the opportunity to fetch her journal and sit at the high table with quill and ink. She quickly made notes on a new piece of vellum.

Lia’s journal was simply loose sheets of vellum she kept between two sturdy pieces of leather bound with a tie across the quarters. When she removed the tie, she was able to sort through the vellum and organize them in any manner she chose. This time she sorted them by symptoms. Why did this plague seem so familiar? Who had she treated? What had been the result?

She was poring over the pages when a soft sound behind her caused her to bolt from her chair. She spun, her heart pounding wildly, but she saw nothing. There were two shadowed alcoves behind her, but the blackness they harbored now suddenly seemed foreboding. Her gaze searched each one. She heard another noise, a soft scrape, and then a chill breath of air whispered through the room and pricked the gooseflesh on her arms.

Lia took an involuntary step back, feeling as if something were watching her, as if the walls themselves had eyes. She desperately searched the shadows for any answer. Surely it was a rat or some other vermin searching for a scrap of food. But the great hall was clean; there did not appear to be anything to draw rats into the keep.

Her heart continued to race, and she struggled to suck in her breath. But the shadowed alcoves did not reveal the source of the noise. The strange sensation of something watching her faded, and she began to wonder if she had imagined it. Perhaps she was more tired than she realized.

“Milady,” a voice said from behind her.

Lia barely bit back a scream and spun.

Lachlan stood before her, looking at her curiously. “Milady, forgive me, I dinna mean tae—”

“It’s all right, Lachlan,” she said, placing her hand on his arm in relief, but it was more to steady herself. She shook like a leaf battered in a storm. “I fear this day has been difficult. My nerves are ready to snap.”

“Understandable, but pray, Connell be worried over his wife.”

Lia’s gaze crossed the great hall. Connell sat with his family, worrying himself to distraction. “What’s wrong?”

Lachlan led her away from the high table and helped her pick her way through the sick.

Lia glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze again focusing on the shadowed alcove. Something within the darkness moved. She quickly turned away and swallowed hard. It was only her weary imagination. It had to be.

HHH

Ronan slowly exhaled and wrapped his cloak more firmly around him as he watched the Sassenach cross the room to speak to Connell. So, she was extremely sensitive to the area around her. He would do well to remember that. The blackness of the alcove he stood in, only a few feet behind her, had cloaked his presence better than the garment he wore, but he had been surprised when she had turned around. He had seen the intensity in her gaze as she searched the shadows, and for an instant, he had been certain she would discover him. But now that she had moved away from the high table, he could examine the sheets of vellum she had left there.

He was surprised the Sassenach could read. Her clothing did not indicate nobility; neither did her bearing nor manner. But as he examined the notes she had made on the vellum, he frowned. He recognized letter groupings: Latin, Common, and French. As laird of his clan, Ronan was fluent in all three, but as he gazed at her writing, he realized none of it made sense. There were also images, simplistic drawings intermixed with the letters. Very strange. Almost like some sort of . . . 

“Cypher,” he snarled under his breath.

Had the English sent a spy in the guise of a healer to reside within the walls of Ronan’s keep?

It made more sense than Ronan wanted to admit. How she stated she could not return, her unwillingness to deny his question of her banishment that first night, and now this strange cypher. The English had sent the healer to bring this plague upon his people and report the results. Just as Aidan’s birds sang their songs, this one wrote hers in nonsensical words and images in order to avoid discovery. Ronan gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to step from the shadows and snap the Sassenach’s neck.

Instead, he reached out with one long arm, snagged the sheet of vellum she had just been writing on, and tucked it into the folds of his cloak. Silently, he faded back into the darkness and disappeared.

L
ia knelt beside Connell’s wife and looked at her in alarm. She appeared so very young. Her eyes were closed and her face was deathly gray. Connell knelt on her other side, gripping her shoulders, and Lia realized her body was convulsing, he was trying to keep her still lest she inadvertently strike her sleeping son next to her. The convulsions were weak, and Lia felt the girl’s forehead, gritting her teeth. It was as if she were on fire.

“This . . . this be the same as the MacGrigor,” Connell whispered, terror in his voice. He looked at Lia, his brilliant blue eyes wide with horror.

So the MacGrigor had more than just passive fits. But Lia couldn’t worry about that now. She shoved the information to the back of her mind for later contemplation.

“If you say one word about a Demon Laird’s curse, I will personally haul you out of this keep,” Lia growled. Connell blinked at her, but Lia shook her head. “Connell, I am sorry, her fever is the cause of this. It has gone too high; there is nothing more I can do.”

The convulsion ended and the girl slumped back on her pallet, barely breathing. Connell released her and looked at his brother a short distance away. “Duncan?”

“His fever is also high. He is not responding to my medicants.”

Connell’s worried gaze continued to his son. “And William?”

Lia checked his fever and the boy opened his eyes. Sweat dotted his brow, but he looked at her and then at his mother, his intense blue eyes also aggrieved.

“Mum?” His youth and previous good health made him the most likely to survive. And his fever had responded to Lia’s medicants, dropping significantly earlier in the day.

Her hand closed on William’s, but she looked at Connell. “Only time will tell,” she said softly. With her free hand she reached out and gently stroked his long blond hair away from his face. “I am so sorry, Connell.”

“Ye are trying,” he said tightly. “I’ve seen how hard ye’ve been workin’ to save them. I thank ye, lass.”

Lia rose and returned to the high table. William needed another dose of his medicant. Her gaze fell on her sheets of vellum.

She was certain she had started a new sheet of notes, but for the life of her, she couldn’t find it among the others. Lord have mercy, was she already so addlepated she couldn’t keep track of something as simple as a sheet of vellum? This was only the beginning, and Lia knew she had not yet come close to the exhaustion that awaited her. If she was already losing her focus, that did not bode well for those whose lives depended on her. She gritted her teeth and vowed she would pay even closer attention.

While Lia worked on the medicants, a soft, choked sob caught her attention. She looked over to Connell as he bowed his head and squeezed his eyes closed, his entire body quivering. He opened his eyes then gently placed his hand on his wife’s brow, his lips moved as if whispering a prayer. Tears filled his eyes and he pulled the blanket to cover her completely.

“Da?” William asked, his voice tremulous.

“She’s gone, laddie,” Connell said as he moved to sit next to the boy.

“Nay,” William whispered then started to cry.

Connell pulled the boy tightly to his chest, not allowing him to look up while Lachlan and another young man stepped forward and removed the body.

Lia sank in to her chair, tears burning her eyes. Nay, she had to keep her wits. She could not get her emotions so entangled. But Connell had been so kind to her on the journey north. He and Robert’s banter and humor had helped while away the hours. Her heart grieved for him. Lia tamped down her rioting emotions and brought them under control. She had to find the answer to this. She just had to.

HHH

Aidan stared at the vellum Ronan had handed him. “I’ve ne’er seen the like,” he muttered and dragged a hand through his hair.

“I’ve ne’er seen a cypher such as this either, Aidan.”

Aidan’s thoughts scrambled. Ronan was certain the healer was an English spy, and from the look of this strange script, Aidan honestly didn’t fault him. For the past two days, Aidan had watched Lia fight to save lives, but it seemed the harder she fought, the faster people died. That also did not help Ronan’s opinion of her.

“Are ye certain she isna killin’ our people?” Ronan growled.

“Aye, brother, I’ve watched her closely, I’ve heard her words.”

“And so have I, brother,” Ronan said softly, pinching his bottom lip in thought. “I’ve also watched Alba and Marta help her make medicants. They mayna be as learned as the Sassenach, but they would ken if she created a poison rather than a medicant.”

“Aye,” Aidan replied nodding. “If they had any doubts, surely one of them would have said something to me.” Aidan put the paper back on the table. “There must be some reasonable explanation.”

Ronan arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do ye think ye can break the cypher?”

“I need more to go on than that.”

“She has many sheets of vellum. I can acquire more for ye.”

“There be somethin’ we’re no’ seein’ here, Ronan.”

“Aye,” Ronan growled and rose, pacing, his limp plainly evident.

“Ye need to stay off that leg.”

Ronan rolled his eyes and plopped back into his chair. He reached for the wine and refilled both of their cups.

Aidan nodded his thanks and took a drink. “Ronan, Connell’s wife died last night.”

Ronan squeezed his eyes closed. “And his brother?”

“He fears he will not survive this night.”

“Damnation,” Ronan growled and was instantly up and pacing again. “His son?”

“Now there be a bit of good news. William is responding tae the medicants. He’s still fevered, but it be much lower than before, and he is beginning tae keep food down. There are people growing stronger and improving. That be our best evidence that the healer is true.”

For a second time, Ronan returned to his chair. He sat heavily, rubbing his temples.

“Headache?”

“Aye. Ye have a valid point, Aidan. This could be a natural plague. But what caused it? I’ve heard tell many believe ’tis God’s judgment on the Demon Laird.”

“Cease,” Aidan growled. “I have heard nothing of the sort.”

“Be ye deaf or daft? I ken ye arena deaf, so ye must be daft.”

Aidan couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Now this was more like the brother he knew. But his gaze fell again on the vellum and his humor faded. He had more news to tell Ronan yet had no desire to voice it. The vellum, in conjunction with his news, empowered his own uncertainty. Was it possible? Had he allowed a viper into their midst by bringing an English healer here?

“Yer birds be singing again,” Ronan said.

“Aye.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Ronan, when we found ye, when we brought ye home, MacFarlane was with me.”

Ronan stiffened in his chair but did not reply.

“He witnessed yer attack and grew fearful. I reassured him, begged him to tell the other lairds that ye would survive this, but he was hesitant. He finally agreed but only for Da’s memory, not due to loyalty tae ye. Now I worry. His doubts are great; it is those doubts he voices tae our allies, not reassurances.”

Ronan stared at the floor, his gray eyes bleak. “Perhaps this is all a fool’s errand, Aidan. Perhaps it would be best for the clan if I withdraw and ye become laird.”

Sheer terror shot through Aidan. He was more than willing to help his brother, to step into the role of laird when needed, but only for a time. He had always stood back watching, listening, observing, gleaning information that he would share with Ronan so he could make his decisions. It was there Ronan’s true skills shown. He would take the information Aidan gave him, match it with the problem at hand, understand the people and politics he dealt with in that particular instant, and move forward with a decision—many times one Aidan had not identified but always one that placed the needs of their people first. It was a responsibility Aidan did not want, but one Ronan readily shouldered, and he did it well.

“Nay,” Aidan growled. This time it was he who rose and began to pace. “Ye ken I canna do that.”

“But Aidan, ye do a fine job when ye step forward as laird.”

“Only because I have ye tae rely on. It is a brief time I stand for ye, and that is the way it must remain.”

“Aidan—”

“Nay,” he snapped. “Ye ken my world is that of whispered words and veiled secrets. I am more than happy that my skills can serve my clan, can serve ye, but bring me out of that world and I will be lost. How will that be best for our people, especially now when Longshanks wages such a vicious war against Scotland?”

Ronan’s shoulders slumped. “I dinna ken if I can do this, brother,” he whispered. “I dinna ken if I can return tae the laird I once was.”

Aidan gently gripped his shoulder, careful to avoid his back and the wounds he had suffered. “Ye can, Ronan, dinna give up now.” He paused and sat next to him, but Aidan’s grip on his shoulder did not ease. “Growing up, ye never gave up on anything. No matter how unattainable it seemed, ye targeted it like a hart and hunted it down. Ye can do this, Ronan, and God as my witness, I will do everything in my power tae help ye.”

Ronan thought for a long moment then lifted his head. His worried expression eased into a small smile and he slowly nodded. “I . . . I will try.”

“Good man.” Aidan released him and glanced at the loophole, noting the lengthening afternoon shadows. “The church bells will ring soon for Vespers. I will see if Cook has finished our supper and will bring it tae ye.”

“Thank ye.”

Aidan nodded and left the room, descending the stairs rapidly. He had just entered the great hall when a sound caught his attention. He spotted Connell holding his son as the boy cried. Lia knelt next to Duncan, Connell’s brother, tears streaming down her face as she pulled up a blanket to cover the body.

“Oh, Sweet Jesu, nay,” Aidan murmured. He watched Connell try to comfort William, but he cried just as hard as the boy. Aidan quickly crossed the room, knelt next to his friend, and gripped his arm. “Connell, I am so sorry,” he whispered.

HHH

Lia kept a close eye on William and Connell. The boy had finally calmed, sleeping with his head on his father’s chest as Connell sat with his back resting against the wall, his arms holding William securely. She worried over Connell, losing both his brother and wife within a two-day span.

She forced her attention from the two and back to the vellum as she wrote more notes. She was still sorting through others but had a strong sense she was narrowing down the symptoms and getting closer to why this strange plague felt so familiar. But she wasn’t certain yet. She quickly scribbled, trying to catch a thought before it escaped her, but the sound of voices whispering caught her attention and she looked up.

Two men, one who had seen at least fifty seasons and the other probably thirty, sat cross-legged on their pallets, speaking softly to each other.

“Ian, I be too dizzy to do anything, but boredom will soon drive me daft,” the younger one muttered.

“Aye, Seamus,” the elder said and lifted a small pouch. He fished through it and withdrew a handful of dice.

“Praise the saints,” Seamus said in relief and grinned broadly at the older man.

Lia found herself grinning as well as a huge chunk of weight slid from her shoulders. While the two men had been quite ill, it seemed as if their fevers had not spiked as high as Connell’s brother and his wife. Their battle with the plague had not been quite as intense. If boredom was now an issue, that indicated they were on their way to recovery.

She glanced at the cups full of medicants she had made. Alba and Marta moved through the great hall administering each one to the specific person as Lia had instructed. But there were still so many, and it would take hours for them to make their rounds complete. Lia grabbed the two she had made for Ian and Seamus and quickly crossed the room.

“All right, you two,” she said, smiling down at them.

“Forgive us, lassie,” Ian said, giving her a gap-toothed grin. He accepted the cup she handed him and downed it.

Seamus also accepted his cup and drank. “Ye have worked miracles, lass. I feel much better.” He handed the cup back to her.

“Enough to try some broth later?”

“Aye. My stomach be complaining again, but this time I think it be telling me it wants food.”

“I too, lassie,” Ian said.

“Praise be, that is good news.”

Seamus’s smile faded as he looked up at her. “I saw what happened with Connell and his family.”

Lia’s shoulders sagged and she looked to the floor.

“Nay, lassie, I say this not tae hurt ye. But many of us saw ye . . . we saw how much ye tried to save them, but we also saw ye there for both William and Connell. They be good young lads just like—” Suddenly he snapped his jaw closed and looked away.

“Just like?”

“Dinna mind me, lassie, I speak out of turn.”

Curious, Lia knelt next to him. “Seamus, you may always speak your mind with me.”

He glanced sheepishly at Ian. “I was tae say, just like our laird once was.”

Lia drew a deep breath, deciding to get to the bottom of this. “Once was?”

“How did he escape the English? The wounds he bore—no man could do what he did, crawlin’ through a crack in the earth and all to escape.”

Lia gazed at him wide-eyed. They now held their laird’s courage and phenomenal will to live against him?

“Aye, lassie, those of us who are sappers are a small and skinny lot. Our laird be a braw lad,” Ian said but abruptly frowned. He searched around his pallet then dug through his pouch. He pulled out a small undecorated clay pipe and scowled as he looked at it.

“Ian,” Lia said reprovingly. “You’re not recovered enough to smoke that yet.”

“I willna smoke it,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling merrily. “Not yet anyway.” He jabbed the pipe at her as if to punctuate his statement then clamped the stem between his teeth, giving her an unrepentant grin.

Lia couldn’t help but laugh.

“But Seamus speaks truly,” he said again, jabbing the clay pipe but this time at the younger man. “By all rights, our laird should be dead.”