Chapter 21
Twenty-One
The Baroness de Lyne did not sleep with her husband, never had, I was given to know, not past the earliest days of their marriage.
Their chambers adjoined, that they might discreetly pass between them for conjugal relations, yet they had only the one son.
I did not know whether they had tried for any others, and if they had, whether the bairns had survived infancy or no.
Mortal children are such fragile beings, and after their mothers struggle and risk so much to bring them into the world.
If these are their God’s favored people, he has a funny way of showing it.
So too did Queen Una lose her child and life in the giving of birth. Not even Mairi Grieve was able to save her, or her child.
Baron de Lyne was hardly even willing to let me look in upon his wife.
He had not invited me to the manor, after all; he had brought university-educated doctors of physic to tend to her, as well as several priests who stood at her bedside, praying their rosaries day and night.
Even beyond my fae revulsion, this seemed counterproductive, for how then was she to get the rest she needed to recover?
But I had not been consulted, after all.
’Twas Sunday morning when I came to her quarters; the priests were performing mass, and all able-bodied inhabitants of the castle attended service.
’Twas fortunate for me then to be so overlooked, for no one could wonder why I did not go to chapel myself.
The baroness’s bedchamber was all but empty, only a single chambermaid attending her in her convalescence.
Should she prove contagious, this was an excellent idea indeed.
The girl sat on a stool beside the baroness’s bed, muttering foul prayers under her breath. She looked up as I entered, pausing in her utterances, thank Auberon. Yet even in the silence, something toxic hung in the air, making my nose twitch.
“Incense?” I asked the girl, for compounds of cinnamon, cassia, and cloves were often used to cleanse the sickroom of its odors.
She shook her head. “Naught but holy water, miss. Lest she . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to tempt fate, apparently, and made the sign of the cross before her chest.
I knew what the chambermaid was trying not to say.
Lest the baroness should die. From what I knew of these doctors of physic, whom Mairi had ever grumbled about, it was their way to give the patient as much hope as possible while telling the family to expect the worst. That way, they might be credited with the miraculous when she recovered.
If she recovered, that was.
Well, she would, if I had anything to do with it. I sniffed and glanced around the room.
’Twas spacious, given it was meant to house only the baroness herself, and for her maidservant to sleep on the floor.
The room was fitted with its own fireplace, and the walls hung with tapestries: garden scenes of knights and ladies, one for every season of the year.
A tiny table stood beside the baroness’s bed, upon which was lain a breviary or devotional for the priests to read from.
Yet another item I must avoid at all costs.
It was truly tiresome. For one of even half-fae nature, the manor house was as a deadly trap.
And for one who was meant to rule the fae, it is an insult that cannot be forgiven.
I pushed the thought aside and pulled back the curtain hung around the baroness’s bed. I stared down at her, keeping myself at some remove. A cross hung upon the wall behind her, as well as one around her throat.
Her fair, swan-like throat, which I needed to touch to see if her glands were swollen. For she was pale and feverish, and turned away from the light I was letting in, not even opening her eyes. “I cannot stomach another bleeding,” she said. “Please leave me in peace.”
These doctors of physic and their bleeding. As if it would do her any good at all. “Leave, I cannot,” I told her. “Yet I will not bleed you. You may rest assured of that.”
Now her eyes fluttered open, and they were the pale, watery blue that even in the hale and hearty appears sickly.
She was not yet ten years older than I, closer to Thomas’s age than her husband’s, far too young to meet her end soon.
“No bleeding?” She passed weary eyes over me in judgment.
“Ye are a woman.” Her brow wrinkled briefly. “Scarce more than a girl.”
For healing, I was “scarce more than a girl”; when it came to marriage, I was fruit half-rotted, unfit for any but the beasts to consume. I did wish these mortals would make up their minds.
“I am a cunning woman,” I said.
“Of course you are.” The baroness gave a bitter snort. “My husband will fetch a cunning woman for me—but he will never let you near his son.” Her laughter turned into a racking cough that shook her entire body.
I frowned; whatever she might think, I was not second best. “How long have you had that cough?”
She waved ineffectually as she finally got it under control. “Three . . . months. Two before Robert sent for a physician, and even then, ’twas only our boy had gotten ill as well.”
“Did they prepare you no theriac?”
She shook her head.
“Feed you rue or borage?”
Another shake of her head.
“Vinegar or garlic?” I sighed as she shook her head yet again.
Those “learned men” did scarcely anything to help her heal!
Well, I would. I would gather what plants there were in the garden to make my theriac, and ensure her meals were cooked in cinnamon, cassia, ginger, and cloves.
But I must confirm her ailment for myself.
“Will you remove your cross?” I asked her. “I need to feel the side of your neck.”
“Your Grace, no!” the maidservant cried out. Her eyes flashed in my direction as she lowered her voice. “What if it’s a curse she means to set upon you?”
I scowled. As if I would waste a good curse on someone I had only just met.
“Then someone has beat her to it,” the baroness said, with a bitter laugh.
“Do not speak so,” the maidservant pleaded.
The baroness shook her head. “I know what those doctors do not wish to say. I know why the priests came to hear my confession, and why they have sprinkled the walls with holy water. Seems hardly worth the effort to curse me now.” Pinning me in her gaze, she removed the cross, and laid it upon her bedside table, right atop the devotional.
Mab take me, I was beginning to like this woman. I dearly hoped I would be able to save her life.
I stood alone in the garden outside the manor kitchen, looking for a particular herb.
I scented it right away, with its fragrance somehow reminiscent of both juniper and musk.
It grew in a shaded area of the garden near the fishpond, for its natural habitation is on the banks of the river.
Wild celery, I called it, and it would grow higher than my arms could reach; its flowering time had ended the month before.
This plant eased pain, strengthened the lungs, and improved the appetite, so I must gather plenty for the baroness and young Malcolm to chew on. Later I would raid the pantry for spices and brew up a theriac; this would be able to heal any disease.
I hoped.
I rested my basket upon my hip and stood in silence, face raised to the sky.
I might have been a bird set free from its cage, or a man, were it possible, stepping out of an iron maiden not merely alive, but whole.
I breathed not man’s hearth fires nor the stench of holy water, but blissfully pure, clean air.
The heaviness of iron was nowhere upon me, save for the hinges of the kitchen door.
I planted my feet, and felt the rich soil beneath me, even through the soles of my boots.
The tiny creatures crawling about in the dirt seemed to tickle my skin.
The garden was alive with that magic only the fae can appreciate. This must be what humans feel like when they pray.
The mortality choked me. But now, all around me was good, rich soil, abundant growth, nature all but unconfined. A breeze rustled over my clothing, stirring the tiny hairs on my arms; the scent of the last summer flowers teased my nose.
Then moss and musk, the decay of innocence into something sharply profane. A hissing came, like a snake poking its tongue into my ears. Bess-you-seem . . .
“There she stands, my wood nymph. I knew I would find you here.”
I opened my eyes, heart pounding in delight. “Thomas!”
The snake in my ear vanished, and the scent of the Dark Fool died on the breeze.
It did my heart glad to see Thomas, even in his fussy new clothes. That old familiar air of merriment and mischief glinted in his grey eyes.
“Lass,” he breathed, as if the sight of me was some miracle of nature he had never seen before. “How you are transformed!”
The grass moved beneath me, stretching upwards as if to brush my fingertips. Bluebells, normally a spring flower, burst into bloom. Intoxication flooded through my veins.
The grass grew long, twined to snares about the shepherd’s feet.
I wanted; oh, how I did want!
I was not here to frolic or dally with my shepherd king. I was here to gather herbs, with which to heal the baroness. With my mind, I bade the tangling grass to retreat.
And I fell into Thomas’s arms.
It did not matter then if he’d been pulling away from me. If I wanted to chastise him for leaving me alone last night at dinner, if he slept among the baron’s family and I up in the attic with the hired help. Fae and humans need one another, however much we wound each other, too.
I refused to believe Thomas was hurting me.
It was the baron who kept us apart. It was Margaret of Roxburgh who stared at me as if I were some distasteful, wild beast. It was the servants of Christ who insisted on those noxious crosses all around us, as if it were a mortal sin to forget their pious lord for one moment.
To think neither of sin nor salvation. Simply to be.
Thomas held me in his arms and pushed the hair out of my eyes.
“My bed is so cold,” I told him, and fell against his shoulder.
“Ah, my lass,” he crooned, rubbing his hands along my back. “So is mine. Too cold and empty and large.”
I reached down and brushed my fingers against the plants in the garden.
“I seek a cure for the baroness,” I told him.
“Poppy, with which to make a tincture, that she may sleep.” Even with the tiresome priests praying around her all day and night.
“Wild celery, to ward off the pestilential air.” And I broke off a sprig and tucked it in between the buttons of Thomas’s garment. Ever did I wish him to remain safe.
His expression sobered, though hope shone in the raising of his brows. “You can help them, then? Cure the lady and my brother?”
“I think so. Mayhap then the baron will move me from the servants’ quarters.”
Thomas scowled. “You are no servant, Bess. You should not be hidden away in the attic but have chambers worthy of your status. I shall speak to the baron about that.”
Chambers worthy of my status. A bower so lush ’twould outshine an emperor’s garden, sung to sleep by the song of birds who never graced the mortals’ sky, said the fae inside me.
Yet I wanted only to sleep beside my shepherd king; it mattered little how humble the accommodations.
I ran my fingers down Thomas’s front, peering up through my lashes.
“I do not take up much space. I am used to cozy quarters, as well you know.”
Thomas laughed and gathered me into his arms. “Aye, I know well how cozy they may be.”
And for a moment then, it truly was as if we were at home, in that little shepherd’s cottage, with the dog Cullen running loose at our feet.
I had never been happier than I was then.
Now I stood, in this tiny pocket of natural wonder, with earth’s bounty flourishing all around me, held safe by the man I loved.
It could not last. I had responsibilities, and I embraced them.
I must get the wild celery to the baroness and her maidservant.
I must perform my duties and earn my keep.
Then only might we hope to be together. With deep regret I broke away from Thomas and removed myself from his arms, gathering my posies and bringing them inside.
The manor was all a bustle of panic and chaos, and try as we might, no answers could we find save for this:
Sir Evander Douglas, a great oak of a man, and cousin to the Douglases we knew back home, had toppled over and fallen insensate in the middle of mass.
My work at the manor house had only begun.