Chapter 3
Over the next several days Gillian saw the earl only twice.
She suspected this was intentional and that the earl was purposely avoiding her.
She wondered if she should attempt to spend time with him, since that was his excuse for drawing out the betrothal.
But the thought of forcing her company on him made her cringe.
Besides, her father’s health had deteriorated again, and Kincreag’s company cheered him.
Rose kept Gillian busy reading from her library of crumbling books, searching for some clue to their father’s illness.
Gillian’s help was limited, as her education was not as thorough as Rose’s had been.
Many of the manuscripts were written in French and Latin, languages Gillian couldn’t even speak, let alone read.
She knew her Scots and Gaelic, and could write them, too, but that was all.
They sat in their father’s study, a small, book-lined room adjacent to his bedchamber, poring over hand-sewn books. Gillian had a small stack beside her, while Rose’s stack towered. Their father’s deerhound, Broc, lay at Gillian’s feet, sleeping.
An entire candelabra blazed beside her, but still her eyes watered and stung as she peered at the handwritten manuscripts.
“What about this?” she said, her finger trailing down the page. “The author writes about a man with ‘extreme lethargy’ and ‘strange skin discolorations.’”
Rose got up from her stool opposite to stand behind Gillian, reading silently over her shoulder. She shoved Broc with her foot, and the dog whined but refused to move.
“Good work,” Rose said, taking the volume and returning to her seat.
Gillian straightened. “That’s it? Does it have a cure?”
Rose shook her head. “No, the patient died.”
Gillian’s shoulders slumped as she reached for another manuscript. “Why are all these handwritten? Have the authors never heard of a printing press?”
Rose glanced up and smiled. “There was no printing press when many of these were written—and even if there was, most of these are the personal diaries of healers and witches. Why would they have them printed?”
“How did you get them?”
“Many were Mother’s. She left them to me, of course. Others I’ve collected over the years. And the rest were given to me by the healer on Skye I trained with.”
Gillian surveyed the scores of books stacked on the table and floor around them, impressed. Surely in all of these healers’ experiences someone had encountered their father’s illness.
She spied a letter sticking out of a book. “Has Jamie written you again?” Rose’s betrothed was forever writing her letters.
Rose fingered the edge of the letter. “No. This is a letter I’m writing to the Wizard of the North. Have you heard of him?”
“Aye, I’ve heard some things. Strathwick, aye? Didn’t the Sinclairs try to hunt him down a few months ago to try him for witchcraft, but he disappeared?”
Rose nodded, eyes shining as she stared across the table at Gillian.
“They say he turned himself into a wolf. He is a powerful witch. More powerful than Mother was. It’s said he can heal by merely putting his hands on you.
” Rose looked down at her own hands, her face tight with suppressed frustration.
“Not like mine. Mine only tell me what’s wrong but guarantee no cures.
I must find the right remedy. Luckily I’ve a head for such things.
But with Father, they tell me nothing.” Rose frowned, her eyes far away, hands fisted on the table.
“What are you thinking?” Gillian asked warily.
Rose looked around the room, as if afraid they had an eavesdropper, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve asked him to come to Lochlaire.”
Gillian looked at her in astonishment. “And do you really think he’ll come? He’s safer in the north—further south more witches are burned.”
Rose sat back, her shoulders slumping. “I know. He hasn’t written me back, anyway.”
Gillian reached across the table and covered her sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Rose. I know how hard you work to heal father . . . but . . . if you cannot . . . you mustn’t blame yourself. You’ve done more than anyone—”
“No!” Rose jerked her hand away and stood.
“There has to be something more. There’s no sense to this .
. . this malady. It responds to nothing.
When he improves, I don’t know why! When he fails—I canna understand it, either.
It’s never like this. Never am I so completely impotent . . . even when I lose a patient—”
Rose stopped abruptly, staring at the door. Gillian had been watching her sister sympathetically, wishing there were some way to ease this burden she carried. She followed her sister’s distracted gaze until it rested on their uncle Roderick.
He stood in the open door, his muscular frame filling the width of it. His long red hair was pulled back and secured at his nape. He wore Lowland riding clothes—leather breeks and a fine leather mantle.
“Uncle Roderick!” Gillian cried, jumping up and running to the door. “When did you return?” He’d been on some errand in the east.
He gave her a quick hug and peck on the cheek before turning his censorious gaze back to Rose. “Could you be a bit quieter? Your da and I can hear every word you say.”
Color flamed in Rose’s cheeks as she turned away, muttering something beneath her breath. She shot Gillian a look before sitting back down to her books.
Roderick gazed at Rose’s rigid back, his ruddy brow creased with worry.
“Your sister is right. You’re being too hard on yourself.
The best physicians in Scotland have seen your father, and none of them know what to do.
As for the Northern Wizard, we don’t want him here.
He’ll bring naught but trouble.” He paused, as if waiting for a response, but Rose feigned interest in her books, ignoring Roderick completely.
He sighed and shook his head, giving Gillian a raised-brow look.
He smiled suddenly, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve some good news, though. I’ve brought back the healer Lord Kincreag sent for several months ago—the one from Spain. He’s an infidel, mind you, but we’ve tried everything else, aye? What have we to lose?”
“Indeed!” Gillian said, pleased that Lord Kincreag had done such a thing.
“Come, he’s examining your father now.” To Rose he said, “Maybe he’ll teach you something new, aye?”
When Roderick was gone, Gillian scowled at her sister. “What is the matter with you? You were very rude to Uncle Roderick.”
Rose waved this away impatiently. “We’ve been fighting about the Wizard of the North for weeks now. He thinks it’s too dangerous. I don’t.”
“He’s probably right. Maybe you should forget about this wizard. I have a bad feeling about it.”
“Well, if you were Isobel I might heed your bad feelings, but since you’re not, I think I’ll be writing the wizard another letter.”
If Rose had slapped her, it couldn’t have hurt worse. Isobel was a seer. She could foretell the future or see the past by touching things. Rose’s reminder that Gillian was an outsider in her own family stung.
“I’m sorry,” Rose said, immediately abashed and looking at Gillian anxiously. “I shouldn’t have said that.” She sighed, covering her face with her hands. “I know Uncle Roderick means well, but he doesn’t understand, and neither do you. I think this man can help Da.”
“Then write him,” Gillian said coolly, still wounded from Rose’s remark. “I’ll not stop you, or inform on you.”
Before Rose could say anything else, Gillian left the study and entered her father’s bedchamber.
Several people crowded around the bed. Gillian’s eyes were drawn first to Lord Kincreag.
He stood back from the rest, arms crossed over his chest, watching the proceedings with his customary frown in place.
He nodded to Gillian in greeting. His enigmatic eyes lingered on her a moment before returning to the bed.
Hagan and Roderick were both there, warily watching the strange little man who leaned over Alan. Encouraged by Kincreag’s greeting, Gillian hesitantly moved to stand beside him.
The healer was an Arab—Gillian had seen paintings and woodcuts of them in histories of the Crusades.
A cloth was wrapped around his head, so that his hair was completely covered.
He wore colorful robes and pointed shoes, and his beard was long and black.
He was smaller than she was. His dark hands, sure and quick, passed over Alan, pulling down the bedcovers and checking her father’s eyes and mouth.
After a moment, his black eyes scanned the room, taking in the audience that had formed, but fixing on Gillian, and then Rose, who’d come out of the study to watch.
He said something in heavily accented English. Gillian did not understand him, but Kincreag took her arm to lead her from the room. Rose came closer to the bed and glared back into the large jet eyes.
“I’ve been treating him for nearly two moons. I’m not going anywhere.”
The man protested, scandalized, but Alan put a hand on the healer’s arm. “I wish her to stay.”
The healer looked most displeased, but he nodded shortly and returned to his work. Gillian saw no more, because Kincreag pushed her through the door and closed it behind them.
“What’s his name?” Gillian asked when Kincreag led her across the hall.
“Hekim Mahir Ibn Zafir.”
“How is an infidel addressed? Hekim? Or Mr. Zafir? Or maybe just Lord Physician?”
“You will not speak to him.”
Gillian stopped abruptly, dumbfounded. “What? Why not?”
He grasped her elbow firmly. There was an attendant outside the kitchens, a young boy. Kincreag directed him to pack some food and meet them in the quay.
“Where are we going?” Gillian asked as he propelled her through the keep. “And why can’t I speak to the healer? Is he a Moor? How did you find him?”
They stopped outside the door of the room Gillian and Rose shared.
“You talk too much,” he said.