Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (33 page)

“Just as my heart no longer is yours,
neither, now,
logi af mitt fýst
, is the little trust I
offered up this day past,” he vowed.

He positioned the saddle on the back of the
horse with a growl. ‘Twas near more than he could stomach to know
that this conniver was the mother of his bairns.

Finally, he mounted his steed once more and
continued on his journey. Knowing Vika would be safe, hiding away
in her chamber while he was gone, as she’d no doubt dread facing
Robert and Morgana with her lie to them even more, now that she
would be met with their grief o’er the loss of their babe as well,
he forced the worry from his mind.

The trip to and from the west coast to meet
with his men, to find out the progress of the repairs to his ship
from the damage done it by the sea storm they encountered on their
way here, and to give them notice that they should be prepared to
leave within not more than a moon’s time, should take him no more
than five days, and he should be back six days hence. Hopefully,
that would give his hosts time to o’ercome the shock. The last
thing they needed at this time was to deal with guests, and he’d
have taken Vika with him now, if he’d not feared that ‘twas too
soon for her to make such a journey. For, aye, tho’ he knew she’d
lied the night before about her aching head in order to keep from
confessing her deceit, he also knew, from speaking at length to
Wife Deirdre, that Vika was still suffering from her injuries.

He’d send a missive to his mother, with a
passage in it to his daughter, telling them that he and Vika would
be home by the end of
haust
, if the winds of fortune blew no
ill. Otherwise, ‘twould be closer to
í móti vetri
.

With a sigh of resignation at the battle
he’d have ahead of him, he kicked his steed into a canter and rode
west, the morn still young, and the sun at his back.

* * *

Not long later, nearing the bells of terce,
Robert was just taking the steps up to the door of the keep when
Wife Deirdre called to him from behind.

“Laird!” she wheezed out.

His brows slammed together as he made a
half-turn on the step to look back at her. “Why are you not
attending my wife?”

Still moving toward him, she held her hand
to the center of her chest, heaving in loud breaths as she said,
“Yer wife is sleepin’ soundly, and wi’ one o’ me daughters there ta
tend ‘er should she ‘waken. I’ve been lookin’ fer ya, Laird, as
I’ve a need ta speak wi’ ya.”

Tho’ his stomach twisted with worry, he
managed to keep an outer calm. Lifting a brow, he said, “Aye? Is my
wife ill?”

She shook her head and the tight knot in
Robert’s neck relaxed. He watched as she trudged the last several
feet to stand at the bottom of the steps. After taking another
moment to inhale a deep breath and, with the back of her gnarled
hand, move the stray lock of gray hair that had come loose of her
wimple and fallen o’er her forehead, she said at last, “I’ve
discover’d somethin’ dreadful, Laird. Aboot why our Lady lost ‘er
babe th’s night past.”

His heart thumped wildly in his chest and it
was all Robert could do to keep his knees from bending.
“Because”—he cleared his throat—“Because I did not call for you
earlier?”

“Nay, ‘twas naugh’ ta do wi’ tha’ ” She
looked around, clearly worried that others might hear her. Even
tho’ she found the bailey all but empty, she still leaned toward
him and said in a near whisper, “ ‘Tis
somethin’—some
one—
else, an’ no’ fer others’ ears,
Laird.”

In a flash he recalled his suspicions
regarding Vika’s fall, and rage replaced fear. The muscles in
Robert’s cheek vibrated. His hands formed fists at his side. With a
growl and a palm out to assist her, he bade the healer come inside
the great hall to give him the full of the tale.

Once he had the aged woman settled on a
bench, with a cup of water to soothe her parched throat, he said,
“What have you learned, Wife Deirdre?”

She pressed the back of her hand to her lips
as she swallowed the cool liquid, then said at last, “Praise be
tha’ our lady refused th’ sleepin’ draught ‘er maid tried ta ferce
upon ‘er after...after losin’ yer babe this nigh’ past, fer I fear
I wud no’ ‘ave noticed th’ diff’rence in smell standin’ ‘way from
it as I was then. But, this morn, efter I made sure our lady ate at
least ‘alf th’ bread an’ cheese I give ‘er ta break ‘er fast, I
pressed ‘er to take th’ draught, told ‘er she needed ta rest ta
heal an’ regain ‘er strength.”

When the healer took another long swallow of
water and didn’t take up the tale again immediately upon setting
the cup down on the table, Robert growled, “Aye? Speak!” His heart
nearly beat through his ribcage. When her mouth dropped open, but
no words came forth, he slammed his fist down onto the table and
yelled, “By God’s bones, woman, tell me what you found!”

“ ‘Tw-‘twas fer a mech long’r sleep, wha’ I
foond. A death draught, i’ was, tha’ I smelt in tha’ vial,
Laird.”

Robert stormed toward the armory. “I will
kill who e’er dared do this.”

“Then ye’ll be killin’ yer wife’s maid!” the
old woman cried out.

He skidded to a halt and whipped around to
find her not more than a pace or two behind him. Narrowing his eyes
at her he said, “Speak.”

Clearly winded again by her exertion, she
sucked in several breaths before answering. “I come ta yer chamber
this day past ta check on our lady an’ learn’f she required any
more sleepin’ draught, or any other herbs I migh’ offer. ‘Twas then
tha’ I saw th’ maid tyin’ th’ string back ‘round th’ coverin’ o’er
th’ top o’ th’ vial.”

Robert’s brows slammed together even further
as he gave a short shake of his head. “And, because you saw her
maid with this vial, you would accuse her of attempting to
murder
my wife?”

The healer straightened her shoulders and
thrust her ample chest forward, lifting her nose in the air. Her
chin quivered, but held belligerence as well, as she said, “Aye,
tha’,
an’
she knew weel the scent o’ th’ true tincture, fer
she smelt it ‘erself when first I offer’d i’ ta yer lady, askin’ me
wha’ herbs I put in it, sayin’ she ‘erself knew th’ ‘ealing arts.”
She paused, and Robert gave her a short nod, prompting her to
continue. “As weel, she waited ‘til I’d left th’ chamber ta fetch
me sewin’ las’ eve, ta try ta ferce th’ tincture dow’ yer wife’s
throat, an’ all th’ time, our lady pushin’ her ‘way an’ refusin’
th’ use o’ it. ‘Twas only efter I opened th’ door an’ foond them
thus, an’ efter I tol’ th’ woman ta leave our lady be, tha’ she
heeded either o’ us an’ placed th’ vial back on th’ table. If
I
whiffed it, why then di’ she no’?”

“Is it there now?” Robert asked in some
alarm.

“Nay, Laird. ‘Tis wi’ me.” She brought the
draught out of the pouch at her waist and handed it to him.

Robert wrapped his hands around it and
lifted the cloth that covered the top, then took in a small whiff.
Aye, it had a much stronger scent than the sleeping draught. But,
clearly, Morgana had not noticed, for she’d taken the stuff
sometime this day past. He must find a way to question her without
upsetting her. And was it truly possible that the kind, gentle
servant he’d brought with them back from court, the servant who’d
only barely veiled her chastisement of his bumbling actions with
regard to Morgana, was in fact trying to kill her? Had it been a
well-played ruse? Was she somehow connected to the perpetrators of
that long-ago deed that left his wife’s mother and father dead—left
her mute? Had this woman, this maid, been the person to push Vika
down the stairs as well? If the answer was aye, then he’d not make
the same mistake in hesitating as he’d done this night past, nor as
he’d done all those years watching his father near destroy this
clan. Nay, he’d take action, as he should have done before. But,
he’d have to find justice in some way other than the one
planned.

Striding back to the table, he slumped down
on the bench. “Nay, I cannot battle a woman, even a murderess.” He
looked up then and caught the healer’s eye. “
If
she be a
murderess.” Turning his gaze to the hearth, he said, “This will
take much more thought and planning.” He stood abruptly and settled
his hand on the aged woman’s back, guiding her out. “Go back to my
wife, and I will look for Modron. Until I learn whether the maid is
truly the culprit, she will not be allowed near my wife.” When the
woman nodded and made to turn, he drew her back around with a hand
on her shoulder. “And I am placing a guard outside the chamber as
well, so make sure my wife is well covered, as he’ll scout the
interior prior to taking up his post.”

“Aye, Laird.”

“Only you and your daughters are allowed
entrance there, until further notice. As for the food and drink.”
He shook his head. “You watch Cook prepare Morgana’s meal, or you
will prepare it yourself. As for the sleeping draught...if my wife
has need of such, then only give her what you’ve kept safe in the
vial in your pouch.”

“Aye, Laird. I’ll no’ let harm come ta our
lady.”

He gave her a solemn nod. “Tell Morgana that
I will be up to see her in a while.”

“Aye, Laird.”

Robert watched the aged woman turn and
wobble out the entrance to the hall before he took the back doorway
out that led to the portion of the fortress where the weavers
worked, stopping only long enough to send one of his most trusted
soldiers, a cousin from his mother’s clan, up to guard his wife’s
door, with strict orders that the man was only to allow Wife
Deirdre, or one of her daughters, inside the chamber, and that at
all costs, he was to keep Morgana well within his sights, should
she depart it for any purpose. When the man questioned him about
this cryptic command, Robert said only that there was a plot afoot,
and that they must safeguard his wife.

That settled, he continued his trek to the
weavers’ chamber. At this time of day, he had little doubt, he’d
find the woman there, o’erseeing the women as she had been doing
along with his wife these past moons.

* * *

Gwynlyan knew instantly upon seeing Robert’s
grim visage as he came through the doorway of the weavers’ chamber
that something was terribly amiss. She rushed over to him, meeting
him more than halfway and said low: “Is my lady ill? I must go to
her,” as she scurried past him and hurried out the door and into
the courtyard.

She was no more than a pace or two from the
weavers’ chamber when she heard Robert call to her to halt with the
unmistakable sound of booted feet pounding up behind her. Swinging
around, she said, “My lady is well then?”

Her heartbeat accelerated and a ball of fear
lodged like a river stone in her throat when his only reply was a
tip of his head in the direction of the keep; the pressure of his
great hand on her back between her shoulder blades, prodding her
onward in a quick step ahead of him; and two harshly spoken words,
“Great hall.”

What has happened to my daughter!
Gwynlyan wanted to screech the words at the man, beat her fists
against his broad chest, force him to tell her what had happened,
but she could not. She could not divulge her true identity. And
acting in any manner other than the way she had thus far, would
surely cause him to suspect she was not all she claimed. Nay, she
must somehow contain her panic until she was certain that ‘twas her
daughter’s demise he was set to speak with her about. She knew, she
could
feel
the heat of his anger, and until she discovered
whether ‘twas directed at God, the Fates, herself, or someone else
entirely, she must continue to keep her own counsel.

Several long, silent moments later, she was
settled on a stool by the hearth in the great hall, craning her
neck to keep her eyes solidly fixed on Robert’s thunderous face as
he stood, not more than a pace away from her, with his arms crossed
over his chest, his feet spread, his nostrils flared, and his
silver-gray eyes piercing through her skull.

All at once he whipped a familiar vial he’d
evidently been holding all this time in front of her face and said,
“I should watch you drink this down myself before the sheriff
arrives. ‘Twill save him the trouble of a public hanging.”

Gwynlyan’s head flinched back.

“Who are you? Why do you want my wife
dead?”

Dead?
With brows furrowed, her eyes
still narrowed on the vial, she opened her mouth to speak, but
could not form a single word on her tongue.

“Speak!”

“I—Bu—I—” She reached for the vial and he
swung it out of reach. “ ‘Tis only a mild sleeping draught,” she
said, blinking. In a flash, her mind cleared and dread gripped her
like cold steel talons around her throat. Without thinking, she
leapt to her feet and grabbed again for the vial, saying in a loud
voice, “Are you saying that ‘tis
not?
”

“SIT!” her son-in-law bellowed.

‘Twas, in a way she would ne’er be able to
explain to herself or anyone else, the precise spark she needed to
gain her composure. “Are you saying that ‘tis not?” she repeated in
a much more even tone.

Robert’s eyes narrowed as they did a scan of
her frame from head to foot. Clearly, he did not like what he saw,
for his upper lip twitched as he tried unsuccessfully to control a
sneer. When his gaze resettled once again on her countenance, he
said, “You are better than most of the traveling players I’ve seen.
But, you will not fool me again. The sheriff will be here soon, and
you will be taken into his custody. You will hang on the
morrow.”

Fear ripped at Gwynlyan’s insides, clutched
her chest, closed her throat. Only after forcing down a swallow,
did she manage to say just above a whisper, “I did not do this
thing you accuse me of. I swear it.”

“Why should I believe you?”