Chapter 13
Thoughts clustered in Nora’s head, queuing up behind her eyes.
Could Margaret really be so close? Might I be about to find her at this market?
There were other questions connected to this hope. If she was working on a market stall, why had she not tried to leave and come home to Nora? Why hadn’t she sent back a note? Was she compelled to remain? What was going on?
There were no answers, of course, and there weren’t going to be any answers until she found Margaret and questioned her.
Reaching the bottom of the hall, Nora paused before Laurie’s door, tapping gently.
“Come in,” came Laurie’s quiet little voice. Nora inched open the door and peered inside.
“I came to say goodnight,” Nora murmured. “Where is yer nurse?”
Laurie lay in her bed under a mountain of blankets, so that only her eyes and nose peeped out.
“She’s gone to the privy,” she explained. “She has a bad stomach. It must have been somethin’ she ate at supper, she said.”
“Has she nae got a chamber pot in her room?”
Laurie grimaced. “She said that it wasnae a chamber pot business.”
“Ah. Poor woman. I’ll see if she wants a draught to settle her stomach tomorrow. I only came to say goodnight to ye, lassie.”
Nora stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind her. Laurie struggled to sit up in bed, smothering a yawn.
“I cannae go to sleep yet. Creighton is comin’ to say goodnight. At least, he didnae say that he was comin’ to say goodnight, but I’m sure that he will.”
“I’m sure that he will, too,” Nora agreed, perched on the edge of the little girl’s bed. “But ye mustnae stay awake for him. Ye might want to sleep, and it’s very important that ye sleep well. For yer whole life, actually, but for now sleep is what will make ye feel better.”
Laurie bit her lower lip. “I daenae like all the broth.”
“I ken, lass, but the broth is good for ye. It’ll make ye strong, and it’s light on yer stomach, ye understand? And ye have yer shortbread to take away the taste of the medicine.”
Laurie pulled a face. “Well, I havenae had me shortbread. Nurse fell sick before she could bring it to me, and I was forbidden to get out of bed.”
“Oh, poor lamb,” Nora clucked, reaching out to touch the little girl’s forehead. It was warm, but not hot, and not clammy. She would be fine, although perhaps a few fewer blankets would not do her any harm. “I’ll go down and fetch yer shortbread now. Have the cooks prepared some for ye?”
“I’m sure they must,” Laurie answered, visibly excited. “I’ll sleep just fine if I can have some shortbread.”
“Ye lie here, then, and I’ll fetch it.”
Nothing but silence greeted Nora as she descended the stairs to the kitchens.
“Is anyone down there?” she called, inching down the narrow, treacherous steps.
The kitchens squatted in the very bowels of the house, always busy, always chaotic, except after the last meal had been served and the dishes were put away.
When Nora reached the bottom of the steps, she found herself in a cavernous, low-ceilinged room.
At one end of the room, cuts of meat swung above wide, shallow dishes to collect the juices.
There were hens and fowls of all descriptions, some plucked, some not.
One huge trout rested on a plate, covered with a cloth.
The whole place stunk of food. Generally, food had a delicious, pleasant smell, but here, with all the usual delicious scents mingling and clashing, the overall effect was somewhat nauseating.
Boxes and baskets of fruits and vegetables were shoved together under one of the huge, well-scrubbed kitchen tables, and a few dishes were left on top.
Glittering knives hung from the ceiling alongside bushels of herbs, onions, garlic, and more.
Empty cauldrons, recently scrubbed, stood by the massive, empty fireplace, ready for use the next day.
Even with the fire not in use, a few embers still smoldered in its depths, filling the room with steady, even puffs of heat.
“Is anyone here?” Nora tried again.
This time, there was movement. An urchin, probably the boy who turned meat on the spit, stirred out from under a pile of blankets and blinked at her.
“Aye, me Lady?” he rasped. “The cooks are all gone to bed.”
“That’s all right. Was there some shortbread left out for Lady Laurie?”
The boy frowned, thought, then pointed at the table.
“There, perhaps?”
He was pointing at a small dish, covered with a cloth and piled with something. Nora glanced at it, and when she looked back at him, he had gotten stiffly to his feet, pulling his blankets around him, and stalked off into an adjoining room. Clearly, he was not pleased at being woken up.
Not wanting to disturb the boy again, she moved over to the table and pulled back the cloth. Sure enough, there was a small pile of shortbread.
This must be hers, Nora thought, picking up the plate. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d hardly eaten at supper, what with the excitement over finally finding a lead to Margaret.
Well, Laurie cannae eat all of these, she thought with a wry smile, and picked up a piece of shortbread from the plate. She took a large bite.
Her first thought was that the cook must somehow have forgotten the sugar.
Shortbread was not the sweetest biscuit, but it was meant to be a little sweet.
The texture was wrong, too, less crunchy and more chewy, almost as if they were stale.
And without the taste of the sugar, the biscuit was wrong, somehow. Off.
I cannae give these to Laurie. They’ll make her ill. They’re makin’ me feel ill, Nora thought, disappointment resounding through her. Laurie would not be pleased, but at least she’d had something nutritious today. The broth might not be particularly interesting, but it was good for her.
With a sigh, Nora dropped the rest of the shortbread into the slop pail.
Time to break the news to Laurie, then.
Judging by the thin line of light coming out from under the door, Laurie was still awake. Wincing, Creighton pushed open the door and peered inside.
“Are ye asleep, lass?”
Laurie stirred, her head popping up to look at him. “Crey! Ye came to say goodnight.”
“Of course I did,” he said, slipping inside and settling onto the edge of her bed. “Yer poor nurse is ill, then? What a pity.”
“Aye, she’s very sad. But I’m sure she’ll be better in the mornin’. Nora said that she would make her a draught, probably to make her feel better, but I daenae ken if she’ll remember. She might forget.”
“Nora might forget?” he echoed, frowning. “She willnae forget.”
“She forgets lots of things,” Laurie muttered darkly. “She said she would go to get me shortbread for me, but that was an hour ago, and she still hasnae come back.”
Creighton paused in the act of brushing back Laurie’s hair from her forehead. “What, she just left and didnae return? Did she go alone?”
Laurie nodded seriously. “Aye. I wonder if she’s tryin’ to make shortbread.”
“I’d best go check on her, then,” Creighton said at last, rising to his feet and trying to swallow back his unease. Nothing was wrong, of course. Why should anything be wrong?
He left the room and set off at a brisk jog down the hallway.
The kitchens, he thought, taking a turn downwards. She’ll have gone to the kitchen.
Heat and the smell of food rose to meet him as he descended, his heart pounding faster and faster. In the kitchen, he was greeted by an empty room.
Creighton stood at the bottom of the stairs, frowning. He didn’t often visit the kitchen, of course, but everything seemed to be as it was meant to be. Everything was in place. There was nothing to make him feel as unsettled as he currently felt.
He let his eye drift downward, lingering on the table. An empty plate sat there, with a crumpled cloth hanging off the edge. And below…
His heart stopped.
Below was the hem of a woman’s skirt. A rich, ruby-red hem.
He rushed forward, nausea clambering up in his gullet.
Nora lay there, sprawled on her side, her hair fanning out around her like a halo. Her skin was bone white, and her eyes fluttered nervously behind her eyelids.
“Nora, lass, can ye hear me?” he gasped, leaning over her.
She made no indication that she could hear him—no groan, no shuffle, not even a gasp.
He could hear the raspiness of her breathing, but her breaths were faster and more labored than they should be.
Pushing her hair back from her temples and forehead, he briefly checked for head wounds or any injuries, but found nothing.
There were no visible breaks in her limbs, no tenderness when he ran his fingers down her ribs, and no blood.
Did she slip? Trip? Pushed?
One thing was certain: lying on the ice-cold kitchen floor would not help her, not one bit.
Cursing himself, Creighton carefully lifted her into his arms, pulling her close to his chest. Struggling to stand upright with her in his grasp, he started at a slow, tense jog toward the dangerous stairs leading out of the kitchen.
Nora was warm against him, heavy and limp.
Fear prickled at the back of Creighton’s mind.
“Healers! Guards! Anybody!” he thundered, not caring who he woke or who he startled. “Somebody help her. Now!”
Donal, who had rapidly earned the nickname Drunk Donal, was the only healer left in the Keep.
Creighton had a few choice words for the others when they deigned to return.
Was this really how things were done now?
Did healers really come and go as they pleased, without bothering to explain themselves or their whereabouts to their laird?
I’ve let things grow sadly lax, he thought grimly. But I’ll manage that.
Donal was sweating, his orange-ish hair matted to his head. He wasn’t drunk now—Creighton had made no bones about asking about that—but he was clearly uneasy, his eyes flicking around nervously.
“Do ye nae think we ought to move her, me Laird?” he ventured at last.
Creighton fixed him with a steely, unimpressed stare. “Move her where?”
Donal gulped. “To her room, me Laird. To her own bed.”
Creighton narrowed his eyes, staring Donal down until the healer dropped his gaze. Very wise.
Frankly, Creighton hadn’t thought much about where he was taking Nora.
He’d simply run, shouting for help, shouting for maids to be fetched and the healer to be got, and it wasn’t until he was in his own room, lying Nora down on his own crumpled sheets, that he thought about the propriety of it all.
Glancing over at the locked door that bisected their rooms, he considered moving her.
Considered lifting up her limp form, sweeping back sweaty hair from her forehead, and tucking her into his arms again.
“Nay,” he said briskly. “I daenae think that she should be moved. Well, Donal, what is it? A fall? A sudden illness? I thought perhaps it could be a fever, the kind that afflicted Laurie. A twilight fever, Nora said it was,” he added, wondering briefly if that might be helpful.
Donal did not immediately answer. He sat back, passing a hand over his forehead.
“I am familiar with these twilight fevers,” he confessed at last. “I grew up in a mountainous town, and I ken of what she speaks. Those fevers are sudden and violent, to be sure, and they may afflict adults, but…” he trailed off, gulping hard and glancing down at Nora.
“This is nae one of those fevers. The symptoms do nae fit.”
Creighton’s gaze sharpened. When Donal reached out, ostensibly to push back damp hair from where it tangled over Nora’s face, Creighton found that his hand shot out, fingers lacing tightly over Donal’s wrist. The man gave a panicked squeak and made a brief, vain attempt to pull his arm away.
“What are ye sayin’, Donal?” Creighton grated. “Ye have been on the brink of sayin’ somethin’ since the moment ye cast yer eyes on her. Explain it to me. Tell me.”
“Perhaps… perhaps we should wait until the other healers return, and confer with me,” Donal managed desperately. “Or the councilors—Dallas, and Marcus, maybe? We can all discuss it together.”
The Keep was in an uproar by now, of course. Most people were awake and aware that while Laurie had not fallen ill again, Nora was now sick. A variety of conflicting rumors had probably spread around the Keep. They likely thought she had the plague.
It wasn’t the plague. Creighton was no healer, but he knew exactly what the plague looked like, even at the start, and this wasn’t it.
“Tell me,” he urged, tightening his grip around the young man’s hand. “There’s somethin’ ye are keepin’ back from me. I’m nae me father, boy. Ye need nae be afraid that I will shoot the messenger. Tell me what is going on here, before the others arrive.”
Donal squeezed his eyes shut briefly.
“Poison,” he whispered, voice rasping. “I think she’s been poisoned.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Creighton sucked in a breath, letting her hand drop from Donal’s arm.
“Poisoned?” he echoed, disbelievingly.
Donal nodded tightly, eyes wide and urgent.
“I saw poisonings often in me home village. Some wives got rid of their husbands that way, or the other way around. I ken what it looks like, and I believe she has been poisoned. She’s vomited, and the sweat…
well. That’s what I believe, but the other healers ought to take a look at her.
I believe that messages have been sent to them.
They’ll be here soon,” he offered, as if it were reassuring.
Who are ye tryin’ to reassure? Creighton thought, mind whirling. Me, or yerself?
“Poison,” he echoed again. “That means it was done deliberately. Nora is too canny and experienced to accidentally eat somethin’ she should nae. This was done on purpose.”
“Perhaps,” Donal ventured, glancing uneasily at the door as if hoping somebody else would enter. So far, the doorway remained empty, and his prayers apparently went unanswered.
“What could have poisoned her?” Creighton continued, refusing to let his mind dwell on the implications of poisoners running around the Keep.
“I couldnae say,” Donal answered honestly. “I would need to speak to her, to learn what she has eaten and perhaps make some conclusions from that.”
Creighton squeezed his eyes shut. “There’s some antidote that ye can give her, I’m sure.”
Donal swallowed thickly, refusing to answer. At last, Creighton opened his eyes, fixing him with a glare.
“Is there nae?”
“The thing is,” Donal managed brokenly. “Some of the antidotes are… aggressive. They can cause purgin’, but others allow the body to retain fluids. It all depends. If I give her the wrong antidote, it could make her worse, me Laird.”
Creighton let out a long, ragged sigh. “What are ye sayin’, Donal? That there’s nothin’ we can do?”
Donal threw Nora a sidelong glance. “We can only pray, me Laird, that she didnae eat too much.”