Chapter 13 Friends and Equals
“I’M GOING TO murder someone if we don’t find this lass soon,” Ross muttered, clawing at his neck.
“Get in line.” Ian took another swig of ale, grimacing.
Archie grunted, chewing doggedly. The mutton was gristly and foul. Rancid fat coated his tongue with each mouthful.
Across the scarred table, Ross picked at his trencher with barely concealed disgust, while Ian washed down each bite with ale that tasted like goat piss.
The Lochbuie Inn was a hovel, but it was the only lodging in the village.
The lads still waited with the birlinn farther down the coast, but Archie, Ross, and Ian couldn’t leave yet.
Cramped, filthy, and reeking of unwashed bodies and stale beer, this inn was worse than squalid.
And the beds—Christ, they were crawling with beasties.
Angry red bites that wept and itched without mercy now covered Archie’s arms. He’d scratched one until it bled this morning, and now the bite was hot to the touch.
“Three days in this shite-hole, and what do we have to show for it?” he ground out.
Nothing.
They’d questioned every black-haired, blue-eyed woman in Lochbuie. Some were too young, others too old. A few fit the description but had families that vouched for them, roots that went back generations. None of them were the bastard daughter of a rape thirty-one years past.
Archie was starting to think the old midwife had lied about more than just the bairn’s death. Maybe there had never been a bairn at all. Maybe Rhona Maclean had died barren, and Esme had spun a tale to save her own neck.
But that wouldn’t please the Macquarie chieftain. And vexing Hamish Macquarie was a good way to end up dead.
Shoving his trencher away, Archie reached for his ale.
Movement caught his eye—a man limped toward their table.
He was older, around sixty summers, give or take, with greasy silvery hair that still had flaxen threads through it.
His face was florid; broken veins covered his high cheekbones, a sign of a heavy drinker.
“Ye are the men asking questions?” the man greeted them.
Archie’s interest sharpened. “What if we are?”
“My name’s Murdoch … and I know things.” The man’s bloodshot gaze darted around the common room before settling back on them. Cunning gleamed in the depths of his eyes. “Things about Rhona Maclean and what happened all those years ago.”
Ross leaned forward. “Then speak.”
“Coin first.” Murdoch held out a blunt-fingered hand.
Archie cut him a hard stare, but the man didn’t break eye contact. Moments passed, and it became clear this turd wasn’t going to talk unless they paid him.
Cursing under his breath, Archie fished a silver penny from his belt pouch and slapped it into the man’s palm. “Out with it.”
Pocketing the coin deftly, Murdoch pulled up a stool. “Rhona did die in childbirth,” he began, his voice low. “But the bairn lived.”
Archie’s pulse quickened. “Aye?”
“Her sister, Siùsan, took the child. Wrapped it in swaddling and fled to the woods that very night.” The man’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I saw her go. Sneaking through the village like a thief, clutching that bundle to her chest.”
“And ye never told anyone?” Ian asked, scowling.
“Wasn’t my business, was it?” Murdoch shrugged.
“Siùsan set herself up as a herb-wife in the woods. Told everyone the bairn was hers … born after some tumble with a sailor who drowned before he could make an honest woman out of her. Folk believed it. Why wouldn’t they?
Everyone knows Siùsan Maclean used to spread her legs for anyone when she was a lass. ”
Archie’s fingers drummed on the table. The man’s voice held the bitterness of a spurned suitor.
“I saw what I saw.” Murdoch’s gaze never left Archie’s face; his intensity was disconcerting. “Siùsan raised that child as her own.” He licked his lips then. “A lass, tall and dark-haired … comely, like her mother. Blue eyes like hers too, the color of—”
“Where?” Ross cut him off. “Where in the woods?”
“North of here,” he replied with a sneer. “Maybe twenty furlongs. There’s a cottage in a clearing, tucked away from the path.” Murdoch scratched his jaw then. “Siùsan died recently though. The daughter lives there alone now, as far as I know.”
A smile crept across Archie’s face. Finally. After days of chasing ghosts, they had something solid.
“This daughter,” he said carefully. “What’s her name?”
“Hazel.” Murdoch spat onto the rushes. “Keeps to herself … just like Siùsan did.”
Archie exchanged glances with Ross and Ian. The relief on their faces mirrored his own.
“Ye have been most helpful,” Archie said, standing. He dropped another penny on the table. “For yer trouble.”
Murdoch snatched it up, nodded to him, and rose to his feet. Then, he limped off, disappearing into a dim corner of the inn.
“North of here,” Ross said, scratching viciously at a flea bite on his forearm. “Twenty furlongs.”
“We’ll pay her a visit at first light.” Archie smiled once more. Thirty-one years Hazel Maclean had lived. Hamish Macquarie’s shameful secret. But her time had run out. They were coming for her. “And this time, there’ll be no questions. No talk. We do what the Macquarie demanded.”
Ian grinned. “About bloody time. I’ve had enough of staying in this dung pit.”
Hazel had just emerged from Liza’s bedchamber, arms full of dirty strips of linen she’d used for poultices, when Craeg approached her.
“How is Ma this morning?” he asked, stopping before her.
“Almost well enough to rise from her bed,” she replied with a relieved smile. In truth, Liza’s recovery had been swifter than she’d expected. All she needed now was rest, and for her family to make sure she didn’t over-exert herself.
Craeg’s lips lifted at the corners. “Good … I shall check in on her shortly … but first, I wanted to talk to ye.”
Hazel’s gaze narrowed, heat spiking through her.
Hades. She didn’t want to be alone with him again. No good would come from it, and he needed to stop pushing things.
However, before she could tell him so, he spoke once more. “Yer skills are needed here at Moy, Hazel. I’d like ye to stay on another week … to tend the ailments of my retainers and servants.”
She stilled at this, taken aback.
“I’ve had a makeshift infirmary made for ye,” he went on, his tone matter of fact. “A granary we no longer use.” He paused then before giving her a hopeful look. “Would ye like to see it?”
Hazel didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she considered his request.
When he’d asked to speak to her, she’d been ready to do battle, but instead, he’d surprised her.
His tone held a reserved edge this morning.
He was letting her know that he wouldn’t push things again.
Part of her was irritated at the man’s presumption.
He should have asked her before having an infirmary prepared.
Even so, the folk of Moy did need her skills. Just the day before, she’d marked the rash on a serving lad’s neck, and a hacking cough from one of the grooms. Not only that, but delaying her return home would give her hunters time to give up and move on.
That last thought decided things for her.
“Very well,” she said finally. “A few more days won’t hurt.”
Stepping into the small timbered building, Hazel cast a gaze around her. The space was stark yet clean. The dirt floor was packed hard beneath her feet, and a sturdy oak table sat in the midst of it, flanked by two stools.
Immediately, her shoulders lowered. In truth, she felt a little overwhelmed inside the tower house. But this humble space, which would soon smell of healing herbs, suited her much better.
“I had those put up this morning.” Craeg gestured to the stack of rough wooden shelves against one wall. “Ye will need space for yer herbs and tools, I imagine.”
Hazel nodded, even as her chest tightened. His thoughtfulness touched her. “That will be useful … aye.”
“Tell me what ye need to get started, and I shall see ye have it.”
She thought about the items she had in her basket. Most of her supplies were still back at the cottage. She’d need more dried herbs and tinctures, although she could make do for the moment, and go foraging over the next couple of days.
She turned, meeting his eye. “I will require a supply of linen cloths,” she said, favoring him with a cautious smile. “A wash bowl … and a brazier too.”
His lips curved into a boyish smile. “Of course.”
Flustered, she moved to the table and set her healer’s basket, which she’d brought outside, down. “When would ye like me to begin work?”
“Is today too soon?”
Her gaze widened. “No, but—”
“Grand.” He stepped aside and gestured to the open doorway behind him. “Because yer first patients await.”
Peering beyond, she caught sight of a wan-faced lass. Behind her stood a husky man with a bandaged hand.
Craeg winked at her. “If ye want to get started, I’ll have those other items fetched for ye.”
A warm sense of satisfaction settled over Hazel as she wrapped a clean bandage around the cook’s hand. Straightening up, she met the man’s eye. “That’s a nasty burn. Ye will need to visit me tomorrow. I’ll dress it again.”
She’d applied heather honey to the blistered burn upon Baird’s hand before covering it with a comfrey and ribwort poultice. The honey would prevent the wound from souring, while the herbs would soothe and heal it.
The cook nodded. “I shall, Mistress Hazel. Thank ye.”
The big man heaved himself off the stool and moved to the door.
Wiping her hands with a clean cloth, Hazel watched him go.
Her first two patients, and she’d helped them both.
Flora suffered from heavy monthly bleeding.
It drained the poor lass. She’d given her something to help with the pain, but she needed to go foraging for Lady’s Mantle and Shepherd’s Purse to make a tea for her.
“A successful morning?” She glanced over her shoulder to find Craeg in the doorway, arms braced on the frame above his head. The position made the loose lèine he wore strain across his broad shoulders and muscular upper arms. Her heart gave a traitorous wee kick at the sight.
Curse the man. She wished he were less attractive.
“Aye,” she replied, a little breathlessly. She flashed him an arch look then, to cover up her sudden self-consciousness. “Don’t tell me ye have another two waiting behind ye?”
He laughed, the warm sound filling the makeshift infirmary. “I’ve more than that … but they can wait until later.” He paused then. “I appreciate ye staying on, Hazel.”
She ducked her chin, focusing on putting away the herbs she’d used to make a poultice for the burn. “I’m happy to help.” Warmth suffused her chest then. She’d enjoyed her morning and was keen to get back to this infirmary later and help others.
“Ye will be eager to return to yer cottage, I wager.” Did she imagine it, or did his voice flatten slightly?
“Aye … but I shall remain at Moy while people need me.” Stoppering the clay bottles of herbs, she moved to the shelves and placed them with the others.
He made a sound in the back of his throat. “Enough with the stiffness, Hazel. We’re past that, don’t ye think?”
She cut him a sidelong look. “How am I supposed to talk to ye then?”
His dark brows drew together. “Like we are friends. Equals.”
Ye wouldn’t say such things if ye knew the truth about me.
The thought made her belly tighten. She hated how the things Siùsan had told her had worked their way under her skin like thorns—how shame stole over her at times. The truth was that she and Maclean could never be equals. “I’ll do my best,” she replied.
Their gazes held for a few moments, and then Craeg pushed himself off the door frame. “Come on. It’s time for the noon meal.”