Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The great hall buzzed with voices—deep, rumbling, endlessly circling around clan politics and territorial tensions that made Elsie’s head grow heavy within minutes.
Halvard sat at the center of the long oak table, his broad shoulders taut with authority and quiet irritation, Sten at his right, several elders flanking either side.
Elsie tried, truly tried, to follow the discussions. But between border disputes, grazing rights, and the proper movement of fishing boats, her mind drifted like a leaf on the surface of a lake.
Halvard glanced her way once and smirked faintly, clearly seeing the boredom in her eyes.
“Lass,” he murmured low enough so that only she heard, “ye’re dyin’ a slow death.”
“I am not.”
Halvard’s lips twitched. “If ye start sighin’ any louder, the elders will think ye’re tryin’ tae haunt the place.”
Elsie lifted her chin indignantly, but he leaned a little closer, his voice dropping.
“If ye’d rather nae listen tae a dozen old men argue about sheep, the healer could use help in her croft. Might suit ye better.”
Elsie perked up instantly. “Truly?”
“Aye.” He let himself smile, quick and soft, impossibly fond. “Ye’ve a good hand with calm an’ sense. Isla will appreciate the company.”
Warmth curled under her ribs. She touched his arm lightly, grateful, and then stood from her chair, eager to get out of that room and away from all that dreadful talk of everything that could go wrong with the clan.
“Thank you.”
As she hurried from the hall, she swore she felt his gaze trail after her, lingering with a kind of hidden pride.
But Elsie chanced only a single glance back to him, reluctant to distract him any further from his meeting.
Then, she made her way to the healer’s cottage, through the winding path that crossed the castle grounds.
The croft sat at the far edge of the courtyard, a squat stone building draped in thick vines, herbs hanging from every beam under its eaves. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, heavy with the scent of rosemary, heather, and something pleasantly sharp—juniper, perhaps.
Elsie stepped inside and stopped in wonder. Bundles of dried plants hung from the rafters. Jars lined the shelves, each labeled in Isla’s careful scrawl. Bowls of roots, petals, powders, and salves lined the wooden table like the ingredients of some ancient art.
Isla, Brochel’s healer, turned with a warm, weathered smile. Her gray hair was bound in a plait thick as rope, her eyes lively and sharp.
“Me lady,” Isla said, her eyes narrowing as she took in Elsie by her door, as if she was trying to see if she had any injuries. “What is it ye require?”
“Nothing,” Elsie assured her. “I only came because the laird informed me you might need some help. I’m here to help.”
For a moment, Isla turned to stare at her head-on, giving her the once-over as if she was trying to asses if Elsie was cut out for this kind of work.
But Elsie already had some experience with healing from home.
Though limited, it was enough to make her work comfortably in the croft with Isla, following her directions.
“So, the laird’s wife wishes tae work among the sick and smelly, daes she?” Isla teased.
Elsie flushed. “I only wish to be useful.”
“Good answer.” Isla handed her a bundle of short-stemmed flowers. “Strip the petals. Ye’ll ken them as chamomile, I presume?”
Elsie smiled, pushing up her sleeves as she approached the work bench that took up the majority of the small room. She stood by Isla’s side, picking up the bundle of chamomile in her hands and brushing her fingers over the fragrant buds.
“Of course.”
“Good, then let us see what ye can dae.”
Soon Elsie fell into a rhythm—grinding dried mint for fever salve, chopping licorice root, sorting nettle leaves. Isla taught her which plants soothed toothaches, which eased childbirth, which cooled fevers or steadied breath.
“Ye’re quicker than I expected,” Isla said. “Faster than most apprentices I’ve had.”
Elsie glowed under the praise. Though she didn’t think she had done anything of note, hearing Isla praise her like that pleased her in a way she could hardly explain. There was satisfaction to be had in a job well done, and Elsie was prepared to do plenty of it.
When Isla left to deliver a jar of poultice to a mother in the lower crofts, she paused in the doorway.
“Keep the fire low. Stir the paste every couple o’ minutes. An’ if anyone comes with a complaint, see what ye can dae. I trust yer judgment.”
“You… trust me?” Elsie nearly squeaked.
Isla chuckled. “If I didnae, I’d nae leave me croft an’ all me herbs alone with ye.”
Elsie beamed as Isla left. Trust—it warmed her more than the fire. She stirred the paste Isla had taught her to prepare, the scent rising sweet and sharp, and as she did, she hummed under her breath, pleased and proud.
Then the door swung open.
Torrin, the young, nervous soldier who often kept the horses, stood awkwardly at the threshold. He shifted from foot to foot, his ears red, the blush creeping slowly all over his face.
“Forgive me, me lady. I… came fer Isla.”
“She stepped out,” Elsie said gently. “But she left me in charge. If you’re hurt, I may be able to help.”
He jolted as if struck, the color draining from his face. “N-nay! I mean, aye. I mean… it’s complicated.”
Elsie set down the mortar, her eyes narrowing as she took in Torrin’s flushed face, the timid way in which he held himself, his arms wrapping tightly around himself like an armor.
Elsie approached him gently, the way one might approach a skittish colt. “Whatever it is, Isla left me in charge. But if you’re uncomfortable, I can—”
“I cannae tell ye!” he burst out. Then, upon realizing he had quite literally yelled at the laird’s wife, he slapped a hand over his mouth in horror. “Forgive me, I just… it’s… a man’s problem.”
Elsie raised a brow, now as curious as she was willing to help. “Men have all sorts of problems. Most of them unnecessary.”
Torrin turned scarlet from ears to collar. He shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, huffing and puffing as if he could hardly contain himself.
“Nay, it’s… a very manly problem.”
Elsie crossed her arms patiently, wondering what the best way to get him to talk would be. “Torrin, you’re limping. Are you injured or simply dramatic?”
He sputtered. “I—no. Well… both?”
“Torrin.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as if preparing to leap off a cliff, then took a deep, trembling breath.
“It hurts when I pee!”
The words spilled out in a single, tortured rush, then hung in the air with a weight and embarrassment so great the herbs themselves seemed to wilt in sympathy. Elsie pressed her lips together, fighting the smile threatening to escape.
“I see. How long has it been hurting?”
“Three days,” he whispered, as though confessing treason. “Feels like I’m breathin’ fire out the wrong end.”
She bit her cheek to keep from laughing. “Do you have a fever?”
“Nay.”
“Any discharge?”
Torrin looked moments away from fainting. “Must ye ask it plain like that?”
“It’s medicine, Torrin. Not poetry.”
Torrin whimpered, burying his face in his hands as if he could hardly stand the humiliation.
Elsie couldn’t blame him; he was a young man, and she was the Lady of the Clan.
It was only natural that he would be embarrassed of her and all this, but she did her best to calm him, remaining calm, herself, steady, professional—while Torrin’s soul visibly dragged itself across the floor in humiliation.
When she gathered white peony root and scammony, he watched like a man witnessing sorcery.
“This will help,” she told him, mixing the herbs with quick confidence. “Brew it twice a day. And drink plenty of it.”
Torrin’s relief was palpable. “So I’m… nae dyin’?”
“No,” she said warmly, patting his arm. “You’re simply dehydrated.”
Elsie gave him the packet of herbs, careful not to smile too widely.
“And Torrin?”
“Aye, me lady?”
“Next time, seek help sooner.”
He nodded vigorously. “Aye. Immediately.”
He turned to leave—and promptly walked into the doorframe.
“Sorry! Slippery floor… thank ye again, me lady!” he yelped before escaping down the hall with the speed of a man running from both death and dignity.
Elsie laughed softly, shaking her head as she returned to the bubbling paste. Around her, the croft smelled of herbs, the fire crackled softly, and for the first time in days, her heart felt light.