Safety
Moll spent the night in the corner of the laundry, watching the mushrooms she’d so painstakingly gathered wither and wilt on the floor.
She could do nothing but pray that Charlotte and Lady Haddon still lived—but truly, what was the point?
Even if they had survived the night by some miracle, she could no longer help them.
The mushrooms were destroyed, and even if she could freely wander into the wood to harvest more, she must wait for the light of the moon.
There wouldn’t be enough time. Charlotte, for certain, would not last the day, and from what she knew of Lady Haddon, ‘twas likely she was in the same dire straits.
The two men tasked to guard her had spent an uneasy night watching her every move. Each time she coughed or even shifted on the makeshift pallet in the corner of the laundry, their hands moved to the hilts of their blades as if she would turn into some dragon creature they would be forced to slay.
Soon after the morning bells rang, the laundry door slammed open and the men leapt to their feet as Lord Haddon and Taran strode into the room.
Moll’s heart leapt to her throat. She searched Taran’s face for a hint of Charlotte’s fate, and at his slight nod, exhaled in relief.
Then, Lord Haddon barked at the guards. “Out.”
The men hesitated, but as Taran turned their way, they left without a word, and the latch had no sooner clicked shut, then Lord Haddon stood before her.
“Save her, Moll,” he rasped, his lean cheeks sunken with worry. “Save her and I’ll let you go unharmed. You’re a witch. Save her with your magic.”
Moll swallowed.
“I must be mad,” Lord Haddon choked as he turned away.
Then, Taran was there, pulling her briefly into his arms. For a timeless moment, she focused on the steady beat of his heart. How she wanted to stay there, safe and at peace, but now ‘twas clearly not the time. “Charlotte?”
The muscle on his jaw twitched. “She holds on, still,” he whispered in her ear.
Moll closed her eyes, again savoring the relief—but it was a relief short-lived.
She slipped from his embrace and rushed to the mushrooms still scattered about on the floor, their caps crushed and the stems ground into the stones.
A hot tear dropped onto the back of her hand as she simply knelt there and stared.
‘Twas too late. The mushrooms were damaged behind all hope.
With no life left, what healing could they bring?
Moll’s stomach clenched with despair. “’Tis too late.” Her voice caught in her throat. She couldn’t help Lady Haddon or Charlotte, now.
“Can ye not find more?” Taran asked, dropping to one knee beside her.
She shook her head and wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
‘Twas then she saw it, something small, white from the corner of her eye.
‘Twas a mushroom. A single one had rolled far from the others.
All sounds around Moll faded away. She stretched out her hand, slowly, refusing even to breathe as with the greatest of care, she picked up the fragile mushroom by the stem.
Cradling it in her palms, she carefully rose to her feet.
The pulse of life beat from the white-capped gills into her hands.
This mushroom still thrived with life, but it wasn’t enough.
Tears burnt her lashes. She wasn’t powerful enough.
Even her mother wouldn’t have been able to capture the life beating within to brew a potion capable of saving one life, let alone two.
“’Tis not enough,” Moll whispered aloud.
Taran’s strong hand dropped on her shoulder to give her a comforting squeeze. “I have faith in ye, lass.”
Moll snorted. How could she expect him to understand?
Then, a new voice spoke, coming from across the table. “Dinna fear, lass. There’s no stronger than ye in all the lands. For this, were ye made. Hurry. There is so little time for them both.”
As if in a dream, Moll glanced up to see a lady standing there, clothed in white. Mist swirled about her like a cloak and her raven hair fell down to her waist in waves. She was young, beautiful, but ‘twas her bright, unearthly eyes that startled Moll the most.
“Bertha?” she gasped.
The moment her lips parted, the vision vanished before her eyes, leaving her staring in shock.
“Bertha?” Taran’s puzzled baritone rumbled by her side.
Moll licked her dry lips. Raised by the most powerful witch in Wales, Moll had been trained, and had on occasion, experienced extraordinary things—but never something such as this. She closed her eyes and shivered.
Making up her mind all at once, she lifted her head, resolute. “I must hurry. There is so little time for them both.”
She lost herself to the brewing, then. Dimly, she recalled Taran remaining in the room, but he stayed well out of her way. Whispering the words of power all the while, she boiled the water, trimmed the single, lone stalk and with every last fiber of her being, prepared the brew.
When she was done, she knew not how much time had passed.
At last, she approached the pot. ‘Twas time. With her heart in her throat, she lifted the lid and held her breath.
A pool of gold-tinted brew shimmered there. A flame of hope began to kindle. Careful not to waste a single drop, she poured the brew into two earthen cups.
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
There was enough. Barely.
‘Twas only then she saw Taran still there, leaning against the foot of the table with his arms loosely crossed over his broad chest. “Aye, lass,” he said with a smile. “I dinna doubt ye, not once.”
She wanted to kiss him, but there would be time, later. Instead, she held out one of the cups.
“For Charlotte,” she whispered. “’Twill be best if she drinks from the cup in your hand.” She so very much wished to sit by the young girl’s side, but ‘twas not her place, not this time. She knew it in her heart.
“Aye.” He took the brew reverently, then lifted a brow. “I’ll not send ye to the keep by yourself. Doughall will accompany ye.”
“’Twould please me right well.” Carefully, she picked up Lady Haddon’s cup. “I will join you as quickly as I may.”
With one last touch of her cheek, Taran escorted her through the door and into the afternoon sun.
Doughall arrived, and the exchange between the men was a short one, a mere word of, “Follow,” combined with nods. Then, Taran was striding toward the north tower and the chamber beyond where Charlotte lay.
Moll closed her eyes, willing Charlotte to hold on, and then followed Doughall across the castle grounds.
Several of the queen’s guards milling about the keep watched her in outright suspicion, but with Doughall stalking at her side, they kept their distance and didn’t stop them from hurrying into the keep.
At last, they reached the iron-studded door.
“I’ll wait here, my lady,” Doughall announced with a grunt as he dropped his hand to the hilt of his dirk.
My lady. As ever, he was the courteous man. Moll nodded and attempted to smile her thanks, but the stress of the last day and the direness of the occasion were like anchors upon her lips.
The door opened on the first knock.
“Lord Haddon bid me wait for you,” Bridgette whispered as she quickly ushered Moll inside. Her gaze dropped to the cup and her lips trembled as she asked, “Can you save her?”
“I can only hope,” Moll breathed in reply.
“This way.”
A wave of doubt swept over Moll as she followed. What had she done? She wasn’t so strong a witch to attempt such a foolish brew, made of a single stalk. ‘Twas something even her mother couldn’t do. Her hands began to shake. What had she done? Even more, what would Lord Haddon do when she failed?
The smell of death hung heavy in the air of Lady Haddon’s bedchamber. Lord Haddon knelt at his lady’s side, pressing her fingers against his lips. ‘Twas so dark in the room that Moll couldn’t see. She’d have to take care of that first.
“Open the shutters, Bridgette.”
“Nay,” Lord Haddon objected harshly. “The physician ordered them closed.”
“Nay, my lord,” Moll firmly disagreed. “’Tis life that is needed now. Open them, Bridgette, and hurry.”
After only hesitating a moment, Bridgette rushed as bid.
As the sunlight, warm and bright, streamed through the diamond panes, Moll approached the bed.
Her breath caught in her throat. So much had changed in the short time she hadn’t seen Lady Haddon. She’d missed only one restoring brew, but already, ‘twas clear by her shallow breathing and gray pallor that she stood at death’s door.
The silver locket still glittered about her neck, seemingly more alive than she herself. Moll brushed her fingers over its engraved surface. ‘Twas filled with a mother’s love, and doubtless, the only thing still keeping Lady Haddon alive.
The babe in Lady Haddon’s belly stirred as Moll placed an ear against the woman’s swollen abdomen.
Concentrating, she closed her eyes and held her breath.
As if from miles away, she heard the heartbeat, slow and steady and saw the face of a laughing boy with bright green eyes.
The vision startled her, and she blinked and straightened.
“What say you?” Lord Haddon choked.
Moll frowned. She couldn’t assure him. Already, she could feel Lady Haddon slipping away. She held out the cup. “’Tis best she drinks from your hand, my lord.”
He took the brew without question. “Wake, my love,” he whispered in a cracked voice as he slid a supporting arm beneath her shoulders.
Lady Haddon moaned.
“Drink, my love,” he repeated.
Weakly, Lady Haddon lifted her lashes and frowned, and for a brief moment, Moll thought she would refuse, but then to her relief, the woman nodded.
“Do not waste a single drop, my lord,” Moll advised as he brought the cup to his young wife’s lips.