The Laird's Daughter (19 page)

“I’ll be waiting and praying,” Annie said and slipped through door.

Fighting back a tangle of emotions, she ran through the bailey and down to the village. She was startled to see Father Cowan seated on his bench near the garden, his head lowered as if in prayer, his gnarled old hands gripping his shepherd’s crook as if for support. He looked up when she entered the gate, his pale blue eyes dulled as if from pain.

“Are ye ill, Father?” she asked tentatively.

“Nay, lass, I’m but resting. Is it true then? Rafe Campbell is dead?”

“He’s seriously wounded.” Annie crept closer and sank down on the grass for she wanted no one else to hear what she was about to say. “’Twas Bryce who did it after Gare and Aindreas’ men gave chase to Baen. Rafe was but sitting his horse, contemplating the dead men around him, when Bryce loosened his arrow and shot him. Then Bryce killed Laird Archibald.”

Father Coward’s fist thudded down on the table. “’Twas a cowardly thing Bryce did,” Father Cowan replied. “Though I can’t say I’m sorry to see the last of Archibald Campbell. Such an act can only bring punishment down on the heads of our people if such a thing is found out. They’ll be sure to believe there’s a conspiracy about.”

“Aye, as well there has been, Father. But Gare and Aindreas already know and are hunting Bryce now.” She slid down on a stool and stared into the fire. “I did my best, but despite my warnings, Bryce has led the men against the Campbells without my knowledge. Today, as the battle went against Baen, I saw Innes approach him on the battlefield then lead him away to safety.”

“Innes, too.” Father Cowan sighed and shook his head. “What is the man thinking? He has family and wee little ones who depend on him.”

Annie made no answer. What could she say? What could she do? A thought occurred to her, and she leaped to her feet. “I’m going to the smithy to look for Bryce.”

“Be careful, lass,” Father warned.

“Don’t worry.” She put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance before she turned toward the walled castle.

In the lower bailey, she headed to the stables. In the smithy, cold ash covered the fire pit. The bellows and hammers lay abandoned. Annie moved deeper into the stables, checking behind bails of hay in search of Bryce. This was where he’d come the last time he’d attacked the Campbells, but there was no sign of him. Finally, she gave up and walked back to her hut. On the way, she spied Alyce, the midwife, leaving the upper bailey. The woman had a furtive air about her and glanced over her shoulder often as if expecting to be pursued. Annie hurried to meet her.

“How is he?” she asked breathlessly.

“Better if you’d left him where he lay,” Alyce grumbled, trying to walk on by, but Annie grabbed her arm and drew her to a halt.

“You can’t mean that!” She stared at her clanswoman in disbelief. “Did you know this would happen? Did you know Bryce would try to kill him?”

Alice turned her face away, her jaw stubbornly set. “I didn’t know anything about it, but I guessed,” she said stiffly. “Not everyone is as blindsided by the Campbell charm as you are.”

Annie shook Alyce’s arm forcibly although the woman was taller and outweighed her by ten stones. “You knew. You’re part of the conspiracy to kill him. What will happen to us if Rafe Campbell dies? We’ll be at the mercy of whoever the Campbells send, perhaps someone worse than Archibald. And if they find out your murderous plans, there’ll be repercussions on us all. Is that what you want?”

“Nay, lass, what I want is the way things were when the old Laird himself was alive. Ten long years we’ve waited for you to make a difference and reclaim your lands and castle, but you didn’t. Now Bryce says you’ve gone all dotty for Rafe Campbell, and we’ll forever be under the hand of the Campbells. Well, we don’t want that, so we’ve decided to do something about it ourselves.”

Mouth agape, Annie stared at the other woman’s flushed face, while the import of the midwife’s words tumbled through her brain. Slowly, a dawning realization came to her. “You’ve done something to make sure he dies,” she whispered in horror.

“Aye, that I have, and there’s naught you can do about it now.”

“What have you done?” Annie demanded, once again grabbing the other woman’s arm so she couldn’t escape. “Have you poisoned him?”

Alyce’s eyes flashed with the knowledge she had, indeed, done so. She turned to flee, but Annie hung onto her.

“What did you give him?”

Alyce laughed, a triumphant crow that echoed across the bailey. “I’ll not tell you. There’s naught you can do now, anyway. He’ll be dead by morning.”

“If he dies, then so will you,” Annie declared. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she made no effort to brush them away. “Tell me what you gave him. We might yet save him, but by God if you don’t speak truly, I’ll see that you hang.”

Alyce’s eyes widened, and her face grew flushed. “You’d turn against your own kind? What Bryce has spoken is true. You’ll go with a Campbell against your own clan.”

“If what my clansmen are doing is wrong, aye, I will,” Annie answered without hesitation.

The midwife’s mouth worked in bitter, unspoken recriminations. “Folk’s glove,” she finally muttered, crossing herself.

“What? I didn’t hear you,” Annie exclaimed, shaking the woman’s arm. Terror left her so breathless, she could barely speak.

“I gave him folk’s glove, dead man’s thimble, fairy bells,” the older woman snapped, listing the names commonly used for the deadly plant. She wrenched herself free and glared at Annie defiantly.

“Folk’s glove? You gave him folk’s glove?” Annie demanded.

Alyce’s eyes gleamed with a fanatic light and her lips twisted in triumph. “Try to save him if you can, but if you can’t, don’t blame me. The high and mighty Campbell whelp will be dead by morning.”

Chapter Eleven

Annie stared after the stolid figure of the midwife as she hurried away, head high, ample hips swaying purposely. A black hopelessness settled over Annie while a deep well of denial rose. Whirling, she ran to the upper bailey. Gare was just coming out as she arrived.

“Rafe’s been poisoned,” she cried, gripping his arm. “We must do something.”

His momentary astonishment at hearing her speak was quickly erased as he took in her words. “How do you know that?” He asked even as he took hold of her elbow and urged her toward the castle.

“I can’t go into it now, there’s no time. We need saltwater to purge the poison from him, and some charcoal to counter what’s already in his blood.”

“I’ll see you get it,” he promised and hailed a servant the moment they stepped into the castle. Then they ran up the stairs and burst into Rafe’s room. Startled, Dianne got to her feet and glared at them.

“You!” she cried dramatically, pointing at Annie. “I told you, you’re not wanted here. Get out, now.”

Gare crossed the space in long strides, took hold of her shoulders and hustled her toward the door. “You’re the one to get out,” he said and slammed the door closed in her face.

A wild shrieking wail came from the other side of the oaken panel. They paid it little attention as they turned toward Rafe. He turned and twisted on the bed, his brow feverish, his parched lips moving in an attempt to form words. Gare threw back the heavy covers and raised Rafe into a sitting position.

“Have courage, m
’lad
. You’re not going to die now. Annie and me won’t let you.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Who is it?” Gare shouted.

“’Tis the saltwater you ordered, sir,” a male voice called.

“Bring it in,” Gare ordered. When the servant had complied and turned to go, Gare snarled at him. “Bring more. It’s not enough.”

“Aye,” the servant answered and made his escape.

Annie filled a dipper with water and turned toward Rafe. “This isn’t going to be pleasant,” she said, “but it must be done.”

“Aye, give me the water,” Gare said and reached for the dipper.

They worked unceasingly, forcing water down Rafe’s unwilling throat. Sometimes he flailed out in protest and knocked the dipper from their hands. Sometimes the water came up again as soon as it reached his stomach. Again and again they purged him, their clothes and skin drenched from their efforts. Finally, they called a halt. Annie mixed the powdered charcoal into some water and forced it down his throat. He no longer protested. He lay limp and unresponsive, his skin pale and clammy. He had the look of death about him, but neither Gare nor Annie commented on it. To admit it, might make it happen. With every ounce of their being, they willed him to live.

They sat beside him during the night, bathing his brow with cool water, fighting the fevers that wracked his body. Sometime during the endless hours, she told him the horror of the battle had loosened her tongue and he accepted her explanation as a miracle. Finally, near dawn, Rafe slept quietly.

“He’s going to make it, lass,” Gare said and hugged her tightly. “Ah, you’re a bonnie lass to fight for him so. He’s worth the fight.”

“Aye, he is,” Annie whispered wearily and crept from the castle.

She held back the tears until she’d reached her hut where she lay on her pallet and sobbed for all the fear and worry and the thought that he might not have lived. How could she have gone on if he had died? The thought was unbearable. Finally, exhausted by her emotions and the fearful night, she slept.

“How did you know he was poisoned?” Gare demanded. He’d come to the cottage to speak with her. It had been two days since their efforts to save Rafe from the poison in his body.

“I can’t say,” Annie replied haltingly. “I-I just had a premonition.”

She had not yet decided what to do about her rebellious clansmen and their murderous plans. She’d stayed near her hut, going out only to attend to her tasks. None of her clansmen had approached, but she was well aware she was being watched. They were avoiding her, but she knew they’d be gauging her every movement. She felt no danger for herself. She was their old laird’s daughter and to bring harm to her would damage their clan more than any of them was willing to do. Still, she was heartsick at what they’d done.

“’Tis well you had your premonition,” Gare was saying, “or we would not have him with us today.”

“Is he rallying then?” she asked hopefully.

“He lives, lass, but he’s wracked with the fevers. He calls for you in his delirium. You must come to the castle to tend him.”

“But Dianne—”

“Dianne be damned,” Gare growled. “She doesn’t know what to do for him. She flutters her eyes and flaps her hands like a tawpie at a tea skiddle.” His voice raised in disgust. “You must come, lass. He’s calling for you. He needs you.”

“I can’t go now?” she answered. “I must see to Father Cowan’s needs, then I’ll come.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Gare said, almost as if he didn’t trust her to do as she promised.

Annie walked to the neighboring cottage and asked the woman there to tend to the old priest while she was gone.

“So you leave the Father to go tend a Campbell,” Aileen said, placing her chubby fists on her broad hips. “’Tis true what they say about you. You’ve come to love the Campbells more than your own people.”

“’Tis not true,” Annie protested. “I but try to take the path that will help our clan the most. You must admit life has been better for all of us since Rafe Campbell’s been in charge. Look at your children. Their bellies are full, and they run and play with new vigor.”

“Aye, it’s true,” Aileen admitted reluctantly. She glanced at her laird’s daughter. “My man and me, we had nothing to do with Bryce and his plans. A lot of us don’t hold with what he did. You go do what you must at the castle. I’ll take care of the Father. He’s a good man and works much too hard for his age. He should be allowed to sit in the sun.”

“He won’t though,” Annie said, feeling chastised for not giving the Father better care. “If you can manage that, I would be most grateful.”

Aileen chuckled then. “Don’t worry about the Father. And I’ll send my Mary to tend your flocks.” She turned back inside her hut without waiting for words of thanks.

Momentarily freed of her responsibilities, Annie rejoined Gare and together they walked back to the castle.

“Where have you been?” Dianne cried when they entered Rafe’s chambers. “He’s feverish and he keeps crying out for someone named Annie. I summoned Jean to help, but she doesn’t know what to do.” She glared at the goose girl. “What’s she doing here?”

“I am Annie,” she answered and moved toward the bed.

“You? You’re Annie?” Dianne shrilled. “I’m here taking care of him, and he calls for a common lass who tends the geese? What manner of man is he?” She stalked from the room, her head held high.

Annie nodded to Jean and quickly knelt beside the bed, her hand going to smooth back the dark hair on his fevered brow.

“Annie. Annie, lass,” Rafe mumbled.

“I’m here, Rafe,” she whispered, alarmed at the heat of his brow.

“I think ‘tis an infection from his wound,” Jean whispered. “The bandages have not been changed since the midwife was first here.”

“Has she been back?”

“Nay,” Jean answered.

“Order some hot water at once,” Annie said and threw aside the cover to look at his bandaged side.

Briefly, she noted that someone had stripped away his clothes and he lay naked, his side swathed in the bloodied, oozing bandage. After a quick, involuntary glance at his nude body, she concentrated on the wound, carefully stripping away the stinking, pus-filled cloth. The hot water came, and she bathed the wound and examined the swollen, pallid flesh. Fresh water was boiled, and she threw herbs into it then soaked cloths in the brew and laid them steaming hot onto the festering wound.

“Annie,” he whispered.

Then he moaned and twisted away, but she persisted and with each application, he reacted less, but he continued to call her name like a mantra. When at last she was done, he lay sleeping. His fever seemed to have abated. A maid came to take away the bloody water, and Annie straightened the bedclothes and rearranged the pillows. Finally, she settled on a stool beside his bed and watched over him. Occasionally he stirred and called her name, but his rest seemed more peaceful.