Devil of Kilmartin (24 page)

Elena ignored the throbbing in her leg and knelt in front of Symon. She took a deep, calming breath and began rubbing her hands together. She looked up at Murdoch. “Whatever happens, do not let him go until I tell you to, ken?”

“Aye, lass. ’Tisn’t the first time I’ve held him down so an herbwife could have a go at ’im.”

“I am no herbwife. Do not let him go.”

At that Elena began burning the poison from Symon’s blood once more. She was baffled at how dark the poison felt, how strong, how sinister, when there had been naught there an hour before. She pushed the torment from him, warming her hands again and again, smoothing her palms over his heart, resting her forehead against his. She battled the poison, imagining herself a great red dragon, circling a pool of bile, flaming it with her breath, slowly burning it away, revealing the man below, the whole and healthy man.

Again and again she struggled to rid him of the pestilence, moving her hands from his heart to his stomach to his head and back again, always finding wisps and traces, needing to eradicate every last drop of the noxious potion from this man she loved.

She paused, realizing just what that meant to her. Yes, she loved this man, and these people, this place. She was happier, stronger, since she had come here. Brightness filled her as she understood all that had been swirling about within her since she arrived here. She gathered that brightness and joined it with the heat of her gift, cleansing
and purging, pouring the lightness of all that she felt into this man.

She knew she had won the battle when Symon’s strength slowly wakened and joined her own. Together, they burned the last of the bane from him in a joining of their hearts that was as glorious as the joining of their bodies had been.

At last Elena opened her eyes. Her hands rested over Symon’s heart once more. His eyes delved deeply into hers. She blinked and looked around. The crowd had regathered, mouths agape and the whispers starting. Fingers pointed at her and a kind of dawning horror washed the faces of those around her. Even wee Fia stood behind a woman’s skirts, her thumb stuck in her mouth, uncertainty clouding her face.

Devastating loss crashed through the momentary joy, pushing Elena perilously close to tears. Never had she been so happy, nor felt so useful, as she had this past sevenday. Yet here, in the space of time it took to purge the poison from their chief, she had lost all of that.

They would never look at her the same again. They would never allow her that easy acceptance they had shown when they thought her a simple herb healer. ’Twas exactly as she had feared. She would have to leave here now, just when she’d begun to hope she might be able to stay.

But they would have their chief, safe and whole and able to lead them once more. At least she had given them that.

“You can release me, Murdoch,” Symon said, his voice raspy.

Murdoch waited for her permission. She nodded her
assent. Even Murdoch looked at her differently now, she noticed. Not fear precisely, but not the easy camaraderie she had come to cherish, either. She rose to her own feet and offered a hand to Symon, who stood, with her help. He looped his arm over her shoulder and together they moved off toward the privacy of his chamber. Silence followed them until they slipped into the castle.

A tumult erupted behind them, feverish voices raised in question. The clan would debate what they had just seen well into the night, she was sure, and then they would come to one of two decisions. Either they would understand what she was, what she could do, and insist their chief use her as her own father, and then Dougal had, or they would brand her witch, banishing her from their midst, or worse. Elena found herself wishing for the latter.

S
ymon let Elena
help him to the bed they had shared. He sat, elbows on his knees, his head hanging, his mind still reeling from all that had happened in the space of an afternoon. He said nothing, for he couldn’t seem to find the words to say, the words he knew needed saying. She would need reassurance, but he couldn’t think how to begin. The poison was gone, but his body still was not entirely his own to command.

There was a sound in the doorway. ’Twould be Ranald.

“You were a great help,” he heard Elena say, as if from a distance. The nasty edge to her voice made him wince. Ranald would not appreciate her tone.

“There was little I could do,” his brother said, a sneer equally audible in his voice. “ ’Twas best to stay out of the
way. He has been known to kill when in the grips of his affliction.”

Symon managed to raise his head, focus his gritty eyes on the pair before him. Elena stood, fists on her hips, between him and Ranald. He tried to smile at the image of her defending him, angry for him.

“So you bring him wine? You are a noble brother, worthy of Symon’s loyalty.” Sarcasm didn’t sit well on her voice.

“Leave him be, Elena,” Symon said.

She whirled around to face him. The anguished look on her face tore at his heart. She had revealed herself to the entire clan for him, and she was hurting for it now. He held out his hand to her, and she came to him, dropping to her knees and resting her head in his lap. She wrapped her arms about his legs, holding on as if she were afraid to let go. Gently he stroked her beautiful fiery hair.

“I would have some wine, brother,” he said quietly, pleased that his voice was once more under his command. “The lass could use a wee drop as well.”

Ranald filled the single cup he had brought. “I’ll call for another cup,” he said as he handed it to Symon.

“Nay, ’tisn’t necessary.”

Elena rose, unasked, and sat next to him on the bed, sitting close, so that their thighs met from knee to hip. He was grateful for the trust inherent in that contact, glad that he could offer some comfort.

It struck him that they were alone together, now. He, separated by the scene he had created in front of the entire clan. She, by revealing her gift in order to relieve him.

Symon handed her his cup. “Drink.”

She took it, sipped the spiced wine, then handed it back to him.

“ ’Tis clear to me the lass is the key to your sanity,” Ranald said.

Symon took her hand and squeezed it. “Aye, that she is,” he said, more to her than to Ranald, “in more ways than one.”

“Nay,” she said. The cinnamon flecks in her eyes glinted in the firelight, and Symon found himself regretting the loss of the laughter that had made her shine like a shooting star. “Nay. ’Tis time you told him the truth.” She reached for the wine and took a longer drink.

“Truth?”

Symon sighed. “Aye, truth. There has been blessed little of that for a long time.” He broke his gaze with Elena and turned to his brother. “ ’Tisn’t madness.”

Ranald looked dubious.

Symon laughed, a sad kind of chuckle. “ ’Tisn’t madness. The truth? ’Tis poison.”

Ranald appeared confused, then angry. “Nay. How could that be?”

“Elena cannot heal madness, but this . . . you saw for yourself. This she can heal.”

“With a touch . . . ’tis more like witchery than healing.”

“ ’Tis healing, brother. Do not think otherwise.”

“But who would poison you? And why?”

“We don’t know yet.” He took the cup from her and contemplated the bloodred wine. “Though ’twould seem to be an easy thing to do, slipping me the poison. It comes from mushrooms, we ken that much. We found a cache in the auld stillroom.”

Ranald stiffened at that.

“Do not worry. We found your spice concoction, but we did not disturb it once we knew what it was.”

Ranald nodded curtly. “Then where—”

“In another cupboard, mixed among bits and bundles. We know what it is, but we have not yet discovered how I am getting it.” He raised the cup. “Could be anything, food, drink . . .” He sipped.

Elena went stiff at his side, pulling away the warmth where her body had been tucked next to his.

“What is it, Elena-mine?”

“The wine,” she said, concentration marring her beautiful face. She took the cup away from him, sipped again, then closed her eyes as she did when she healed him.

“What, lass?”

Ranald moved closer, but didn’t say anything. He glanced at Symon, but Symon just shook his head, waiting.

At last she opened her eyes, then spit the mouthful of wine back into the cup. Her eyes snapped with fire, her mouth set in a grim line as she stared at Ranald.

“The wine, Symon,” she said without taking her eyes off his brother. “ ’Tis the wine that poisons you. Your brother’s spiced wine.”

Symon’s mind went numb as he took in what she said. Ranald? Nay, it wasn’t possible. He rose and looked his brother in the eye. Ranald had been one of the few, indeed the only one to stand by him at first. Murdoch had come around quickly, but Ranald had been loyal, mostly, even when they did not agree over whether Symon should remain chief. Hadn’t he?

To his credit, Ranald looked as stunned by the lass’s accusation as Symon was. And yet he offered no defense for himself.

“What say you, brother?”

“I say she does not know of what she speaks.”

Symon looked to Elena. She was determined, stubborn, her chin raised, hands curled into fists. He had the odd feeling she would have launched herself at Ranald if he threatened Symon. Slowly she rose to stand beside him.

“When was the last time you were beset by the devil—before today?” she asked him, but she glared at Ranald.

He had to think, and realized it was the night they became lovers, the day Ranald had left on Symon’s orders, and Elena had discovered it was poison that plagued him, not madness. He turned and placed his palm against her cheek, gratified when she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. “ ’Twas the day Ranald left.”

“Aye. And you did not have his fine spiced wine after that,” she said to him. “We drank ale the next morn,” she whispered, cutting her eyes to Ranald and blushing slightly.

Ranald heard and Symon saw understanding flare in his brother. “You have already become lovers. Have you wed in secret, then? Is this some jealous lass’s attempt to rid her husband of an adviser who does not wish her here?”

Elena lurched toward Ranald, and Symon caught her about the waist and hauled her so her back was to his chest. He held her close, enjoying the spit and fire of this unusual woman. “Wait, Elena-mine,” he said, his mouth near her ear. “Let us get to the bottom of this before you scratch his eyes from his head.”

“ ’Tis not funny, Symon. He has poisoned you.” She struggled against him, but he held her firm, sorry he could not enjoy the situation better. “You said yourself he wished
to be chief,” she continued. “He did not believe you worthy of the position since the devil rode your shoulders.”

He had said as much, but Symon had never thought Ranald would do more than fuss over the circumstance. No, he could not believe Ranald would be so disloyal. There must be an explanation—other than the obvious. There had to be.

“Could not someone else have put the poison in the wine?” he asked, more thinking aloud than expecting an answer.

“Then why were you not plagued while he was away? Did he not return today?”

Symon nodded, still searching for an answer. Ranald was not helping with his scowling refusal to defend himself. “ ’Tis true. You were preparing a flagon for me when I entered your chamber. I drank it while we discussed . . .” He glanced down at the lass. He did not want to involve her in that business. “The flagon was empty when I left your chamber. Now you bring me more, and the lass finds the poison in it—” Sudden fear gripped him. Was her reaction due to the poison? “Elena, the poison—”

“I’m fine, love. Do not fash yourself. I had to cleanse it from my own body to make sure ’twas the same. ’Tis a subtle poison, that. It lurks about the body for a time before it starts to work. ’Tis another reason you would not suspect the wine, nor your brother. He could give you the poison, then make sure he was elsewhere when it began its work.”

“Anyone could have put the poison in the wine,” Ranald pointed out. “You said yourself you found my spice brew in the same room as the poison. ’Twould not have
been difficult for someone to slip a bit of something more into my brew.”

“Aye. True enough,” Symon said, desperate to believe his brother.

A shout rose from the wall-walk. Symon rushed to the window overlooking the bailey and shouted to the men below. Their response chilled him to his bones. “Attack,” he said, rushing past Ranald, who quickly followed him. He stopped at the door.

“Elena-mine, you must barricade yourself in here.” The stricken look on her face tore at him, but he had no choice. His castle was under attack, and he would not have her exposed to the danger. “I am sorry lass, but you must.”

He was gratified that she jerked her head up and down. He glanced at his brother, who was carefully watching the exchange, then the two of them left. The door banged behind them, and Symon heard the loud scrape of the lock turning.

Symon hit the top of the bailey stairs bellowing orders. Murdoch already had archers on the walls, and the gate and yett were closed. Guards were poised, ready to defend the bailey if the castle was breached.

E
lena watched from
the tiny window, trying to ignore the locked door, even as she squeezed the key so tightly in her fist it threatened to cut the skin. She could hear the deep, rhythmic pounding of a battering ram against the outer gate, and she tried to remember the short dark tunnel she had passed through on her way into the castle. The ceiling was lined with murder holes, where boiling oil or burning pitch could be dropped upon any
who ventured through it. The walls were lined with arrow loops, where archers could stand protected inside the chambers that lined the tunnel, and easily shoot any invaders. ’Twould be difficult indeed for anyone to breach these walls.

But if ’twas Dougal leading this attack, then ’twas her own kinsmen who would suffer from the excellent defenses. And something deep in her gut told her Dougal was indeed behind this.

She struggled to breathe. If the man did not give up, then more people would be harmed because of her. More would come to pain and suffering, and even death, because she would not submit herself to Dougal’s governance.