Return to Alastair (36 page)

“No.” He knocked the cup away

“Tahn.” Netta took his hand, and he saw the surprise and the worry in her eyes. He knew he had splashed her. He knew most of the medicine drink was soaked over the bedding and into his clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Netta asked him. “You’re safe here. And she’s right. The fever was hard on you. You must drink.”

“No,” he said, but even the one word did not come easy now. The room was gray and in motion. But he could see the old woman mixing another cup. Death. It was black, swirling death as sure as was the valley of demons in his dream. “No, Netta,” he stammered, feeling as though he were being pulled helplessly away from her. “Please.”

“Tahn, what’s wrong?”

He knew she was frightened, and Lorne with her. He wanted to explain. But he couldn’t find the words in the gray mist around him. He couldn’t find the strength. His eyes were deceiving him. The light of day was gone. And the room was suddenly slipping away.

“He is confused,” the healer woman told them with a shake of her head. “The sickness still has its hold. But he is strong. If he has drink in him, he can get past it.”

Netta glanced up at her but quickly turned her eyes to Tahn again. He had seemed past the sickness just moments ago. He hadn’t been confused at all. And now—now he had fallen away so quickly, pleading with her, as though there were something she had to understand. She reached her hand to Tahn’s forehead and was surprised to find him cooler. The fever had broken. It wasn’t claiming him now.

The old woman turned to Lorne. “Help me. We can get a little more down him carefully if we try. He needs the medicine at work—”

“No,” Netta said quickly, her hand clutching the blanket Tahn had soaked when he knocked the cup away. “No. Whatever your potion is, he said he’ll have no more of it.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying—”

“But he plainly said no,” Lorne agreed.

“Don’t be foolish,” the woman argued with them. “You can see that he worsens. He could die without more drink in him.”

“Lorne,” Netta said quickly, “please go outside and ask Josef to bring fresh water.”

“We have water here,” the woman offered.

“I’ll not take it from your hand.”

“Dear lady!” the healer exclaimed. “For what cause do you not trust me?”

“I trust Tahn,” Netta answered her. “And he does not trust you.”

The woman scoffed. “Does he trust anyone? Such a man as he?”

Lorne suddenly stepped toward her. “I will go to the door and send the guard for water. But you will move away from my friend and not touch him again.”

“Where is Lucas? Where is Father Bray?” the old woman cried. “They know what I’ve done for him! They brought him here half dead already, and I nursed him—”

“You’ll not touch him again,” Lorne repeated. “And I will indeed send one of the men for Lucas.”

The healer’s daughter came nearer, fear plain in her voice and on her face. “Mother, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she answered abruptly. “These people seem to think that after I spend hours saving a man’s life, that I would . . . that I would . . .”

She stopped. She turned from them abruptly and moved into the smaller room. Without another word, she sat in a chair near the door with her head bowed.

“Mother?”

“I have nothing to say. Let them get their water. Let them do what they will.”

The younger woman looked at Netta with confusion plain in her eyes. Tiarra rose to her feet and came to the bedside. Lorne went to the door to speak to the guards outside but was almost immediately back in.

Tahn lay still except for a tiny tremor in one hand, his eyes now closed.

“What did you give him?” Lorne demanded of the woman.

“I told you I have nothing more to say.”

Catrin moved to her mother’s side. “Mother, it cannot hurt to explain the herbs you’ve used. Perhaps it will put their minds at ease.”

“No, girl.”

“Mother? Was it sweet balm? Yarrow? Perhaps borage?”

But the old woman said no more. Netta watched the daughter turn with confusion to the little table that was nearly covered with bottles and jars, including the gourd cup newly filled. She only looked for a moment, until her eyes rested on one small jar. It sat out of line from the other containers, and its lid was askew. “Oh . . .”

Without another word, Catrin lifted the cup, her face suddenly ashen. She sniffed just a bit and then sniffed at the jar. “Oh, Mother.”

With tears suddenly in her eyes, she flung the cup into the fireplace, and the brown liquid washed over flame with a hiss. She fled to the door. Almost Lorne stopped her, but she pushed at him, almost choking on her words. “I—I’ll get the priest.”

“What’s happened?” Tiarra pleaded.

Netta leaned toward Tahn on the bed, taking his hand and lifting it to her cheek. His breathing seemed different. Irregular. “I think . . . I think he’s been poisoned.”

The old woman rose to her feet. Without a word, she moved toward the little table. She had her hand on the jar before any of them could stop her. With the lid off quickly, she lifted the jar toward her lips. But before she could drink, Lorne was at her side and knocked the stuff away. The jar broke, and the dark concoction seeped through the cracks of the floor.

“If you will die over this, let it be later!” Lorne yelled at her. “What is the stuff? Tell us! What can be done?”

“Nothing,” the woman said bitterly. “Nothing.”

“Why?” Netta cried. “Why would you hurt him? We trusted you!”

Tiarra stood quietly. Before anyone could notice, she moved to the corner and took Tahn’s sword in her hand. “I thought the trouble was done,” she said in a low voice. “I thought we would have peace—”

“Put down the sword,” Lorne told her softly.

Tiarra glanced his way. “She told me she was glad I didn’t blame him, that he was done wrong. I thought she rejoiced with us that he would live. What evil is this?”

Lorne stepped between her and the healer. “Your vengeance cannot help him.”

“She is Dorn,” the old woman said coldly. “It is in her blood to seek blood.”

“How is it better to betray trust and poison the helpless?” Netta demanded. “She is far more honorable to face you openly for the sake of her brother! God judge you!”

“One day you will understand, dear lady—”

“No! I pray that
you
understand! You don’t know him. He would harm no one, now that his life is his own and the Lord’s. Why can’t you see that? If there is any way to help him—”

The woman shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“Then what you gave him . . .” Netta said with a tremor in her voice. “It is death?”

“I cannot say if he will live or die now. I couldn’t get the full cup down him. It may not be poison enough.”

“Why?” Tiarra screamed at her. “Why would you do this?”

“Oh, girl.” The old woman looked at her sadly. “You only see him. And yourself.”

Josef hurried through the door with water. Tiarra stood tensely, but Lorne gently pulled the sword from her hand and put a protective arm around her shoulder. The old woman turned from them and solemnly returned to her chair.

With her heart pounding, Netta bathed Tahn’s forehead and tried to wet his lips with the cool water. “Father God,” she murmured.

Josef went back outside, and in a moment Lucas burst in. He took one look at Tahn on the bed and turned his attention to the old woman.

“Anain! What did you give him?”

“Scarlet berry and the devil weed, sir. There is nothing you can do but pray.”

He grasped both of her arms and pulled her from the chair. Netta could see the anger in him, fierce and horrible. He shoved her toward the door and almost out it. But Catrin and the priest came in, followed promptly by Netta’s father.

“Lucas,” Father Bray called sternly.

“What do you want?” Lucas yelled in answer. “You brought us here! You told me we could trust you! And your friends—whoever they are to you!”

From a nearby bed, the baby started crying.

“What will you do, Lucas?” the priest pressed.

“Throw her outside. Out of this town. I don’t know.”

Benn Trilett moved away from them, toward the bed, and put his arms around Netta. “Is there anything we can do?”

Netta was near tears. “I don’t know, Father. She says not, but I don’t know that we can believe her in that, or anything.”

Catrin hurried to the bed, not even stopping to answer her baby’s cry. She looked from Netta to Tiarra to Lord Trilett, her hands shaking. “I am so sorry. So sorry. I don’t understand—”

“Can you help?” Netta begged her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know how. I don’t know what to do. It was a potion she used so seldom. For the fits. And only one drop. Just one drop in a spoonful. She told me once how dangerous—” She stopped, glancing toward her mother and the priest. “I don’t understand. I’m so sorry.”

Father Bray pulled at Lucas’s arms, but he would not let go of the old woman.

“Let me talk to her,” the priest insisted.

Lucas stared at him, his eyes blazing fury, but he let go, forcefully, shoving her away.

The priest caught the old woman before she could fall and, with a glance at Lucas, helped her to a chair. “Anain? You are my friend. Tell me they are wrong.”

But she said nothing.

“Anain, please. Have you done what they say?”

“Yes, Father,” the old woman answered with a quiet voice. “Forgive me.”

For a moment the priest could do nothing but stare at her in shock. “It was God’s hand to help him!” he finally exclaimed. “I told you! Why would you do evil when I brought him here for good?”

“I think of this city, Father. All of the people.”

The priest shook his head. “You know Alastair’s stain as well as I do! We prayed that it might be made right! How can you add to the injustice? Don’t you understand?”

“I understand very well!” the woman answered him back. “I am sorry what the lad has gone through and sorry what his life has been! But you must understand that it is better for him to die than so many more to suffer! Can’t you see that?”

“How could more suffer?” Lucas demanded. “How could his death help anyone?”

Anain lifted her head to meet his hard eyes. “Don’t you know that the baron owns this town? Our lands are his!”

“Yes,” Lucas answered bitterly. “That curse has been part of the problem all along.”

“The baron holds our livelihoods!” the old woman continued. “Don’t you understand? This man Dorn is no stranger to killing. When he is strong enough, what is to stop him from winning a terrible vengeance for what has happened?”

“Why would he?” Lucas questioned her. “He has no desire—”

“He has blood in his soul! But to know he is also Trent! He is a stronger sort than Lionell. He’ll take for himself all that belongs to the baron. And then he will own us, don’t you see that? I think of my neighbors, the people of Alastair. You know they are not all guilty! But we would be at his mercy, and we have given him no cause to be kind. At least the baron Lionell has other things on his mind. At least he allows our lives to go on as if he were no cloud over us—”

“Then you would kill him,” Netta said quietly. “Just as Lionell would, to keep him from Trent power.”

“I thought he would die on his own, but he wouldn’t. Now if he lives, lady, you will soon enough understand. Of course he did nothing to us before. How could he? But now he is clever enough even to use Trilett means—”

“Stop!” Netta cried. “How can you see him so? He is no monster plotting destruction! He threatens no one. God is my witness, he is a lamb!” She shook, and tears blurred her vision.

“Love blinds you, lady.”

“And what blinds you?” Netta could not help her tears. She turned from the old woman and could not accept her father’s outstretched arm. She fell on her knees beside the bed and laid her head against Tahn’s chest. “Oh, Father. He is so faint.”

“I will hang the woman if he dies,” Lord Trilett pronounced. And Catrin burst into tears. She picked up her baby, who reached his tiny hands to the priest with a squeal.

“It is God’s judgment and not the Dorn’s that I feared for Alastair,” Father Bray said gravely. “Now I fear all the more.”

The old woman turned her eyes away as Tahn moaned and rolled to his side, drawing shaking arms toward his stomach. Netta spoke his name, but he did not respond.

“It might go easier for you, Anain,” the priest told her, “if you tell us a remedy.”

“There is none.”

“I would not trust anything from her hand now,” Lucas said bitterly. “Nor the daughter’s, nor yours.”

“You think this was done at my word?” the priest questioned.

“You brought us here,” Lucas answered with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what I think. You should go. All of you.”

“This is my daughter’s home,” the old woman argued. “Surely you would not make her leave.”

“Do you think I would move my brother?” Lucas demanded of her. “Look at him.”

Tahn had grown as pale as the bedding around him, and the shaking was worse. The sickness had left him with nothing to vomit, but the poison worked heaves in him anyway. And a trickle of blood flowed from his back, where renewed movement had reopened the unhealed stripes. Tiarra took a damp cloth in her hand and bathed his forehead. But the look in her eye was raw with pain.

“Oh, Father,” Netta whispered.

Benn Trilett slowly shook his head. “Daughter, please take his sister outside. You should not see this. Neither of you.”

“No!” Tiarra roared. “We can be his help! But if he is to die, we should be beside him. If he can know we are here, let it be comfort! I’ll not go!”

“Surely he’ll not die,” Netta said carefully, reaching for Tiarra’s hand.

With tears in her eyes, Tiarra accepted the gesture and turned her eyes to the Trilett lord.

“You are right,” he sighed. “God be our help. But Lucas is also right. We cannot move him nor trust those who have dwelt here. Father Bray, I would thank you to remove the women to a room in your church. I will set a guard there for the elder.”

“Yes, sir,” the priest said solemnly. “I will do as you wish. Will you allow my prayers?”

“I covet every prayer,” Benn told him. “But speak them in the church with my gratitude after you have removed this family. Their cottage is forfeited to us so long as we have need of it. They may take with them what they will.”