The Healer (2 page)

Regret deepened the lines of his aging features. She gave him a glance filled with gratitude to him for standing with her.

A hellish scream rent the air from inside the tower house, and then for a whisper of time, the world fell silent. Lady Fenwick must have learned of Thomas’ fate.

Running footsteps echoed from inside the tower. Lynelle settled on the top step but didn’t enter the tower house, and prepared to console the distraught woman. A chorus of murmurs filled the bailey. Shuffling footsteps moved closer behind her, though not too close. Word had spread and the people must be eager to witness their lady’s reaction if they were willing to risk being near Lynelle.

Lady Fenwick suddenly filled the doorway, her gown of costly golden silk shimmering in the sunlight. Her chest heaved with every swift, audible breath. Lynelle’s gaze lifted from the perfect silk-clad figure to the beautiful face, now twisted in fear.

Catherine Fenwick was her father’s wife and Thomas’ mother, and the woman Lynelle had once hoped would be like a mother to her.

Lynelle stared up into Catherine’s cold eyes; pain and anguish clouded the blue depths.

Something struck one side of Lynelle’s face and a stinging sensation tore through her left cheek. The force of the unexpected blow sent her tumbling down the tower-house steps.

Pain ripped through her hip as she landed on the hard packed earth. Dazed and shaken, Lynelle climbed to her knees. She cupped her burning cheek and witnessed Catherine’s jewel-studded fingers curl into a fist and resettle by her side.

Lynelle clenched her jaw against the hot resentment bubbling inside her. The unfamiliar emotion dissolved as awareness took hold.

Merciful angels. After ten years of waiting, her stepmother had finally deigned to touch her.

Bernard stepped forward and reached for her. Lynelle gained her feet and saw the shocked expression on the older man’s face.

‘What a pair you make,’ Catherine screeched. ‘One as useless as the other.’ Her stepmother’s maids filled the doorway, hovering behind their mistress.

‘You, Bernard, would defend this worthless strumpet rather than see to my son’s safety.’

Lynelle’s cheek throbbed and something warm and sticky coated the fingers she gingerly placed on the left side of her face. Blood. Her hand dropped to her side as her stepmother’s eyes, blazing hatred, fixed on her.

‘And you...you vile creature,’ Lady Fenwick said in a low, trembling voice. Lynelle stiffened, bracing herself for the insults she knew would follow. ‘Your black heart is cursed and it is the innocent who suffer your evil.’

Each word plunged like a knife into her bleeding heart.

‘They should have drowned you at birth,’ Catherine spat before she collapsed in the arms of her maids.

Lynelle flinched but stood her ground and stared as the serving women aided a distraught Lady Fenwick back inside the tower house.

‘Why my poor darling Thomas?’ Catherine wailed. ‘Why not take the devil’s daughter instead?’

‘‘Tis not your fault, Lady Lynelle,’ Bernard said quietly.

Lynelle looked at the man who had been more of a father to her than her own.

‘I was the last through the gates, and he is my brother.’

‘Master Thomas did not leave through those gates,’ he said firmly. ‘And the boy ignores you, my lady.’

‘Thomas is young, Bernard. He ignores me because others do. He is the only brother I have left.’ She patted his hand. ‘I must go.’

‘Your wound needs tending. Let me help you.’

Gratitude swelled and threatened to choke her. ‘I will go and tend to it now,’ she managed to say. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Bernard.’ She gave his hand a final squeeze and slowly walked away.

She glanced to her left and right and found the eyes of Fenwick’s people fixed on her. The shaking heads and condemning gazes came as no surprise. All blamed her for Thomas’ plight. She was always to blame.

If the hens refused to lay it was her doing. When sickness ravaged the people of the keep, she was the cause. She’d always pretended indifference to their damning gazes, just as she would now.

She raised her chin and straightened her back. Clenching her teeth against the pain in her hip from her fall, she took slow, careful steps across the bailey.

Would her father blame her too?

Lynelle’s hands clenched as despair filled her chest. Would he ever acknowledge her? Ever love her?

She rounded the far corner of the bakehouse, escaping the prying eyes of the castle folks. A gentle breeze touched her face as she paused in the alley between the bakehouse and the curtain wall. Her hip ached and her cheek stung. But her ailments were nothing compared to what Thomas might be suffering.

Pushing forward, she spared a glance at her herb garden, but didn’t stop to caress either rosemary shrub or meadowsweet as she usually did in passing.

She entered the ramshackle hut she had shared with Ada since her birth, and breathed deeply of the familiar scent of mingled herbs. She bit down on her lip to still its sudden tremble. Her heart ached, for she desperately wished the old healing woman still lived. Ada would have offered comfort and guidance regarding her brother’s capture.

She walked to the rickety, scarred table at the rear of the hut and gathered a bowl and cloths from the sagging shelf above. By the fading light filtering in through the single open shutter, she prepared a cleansing wash using sopewort.

Lynelle bathed her wound, gritting her teeth against the stinging pain, and tried to cut off the cruel visions of Thomas’ torture before they fully formed.

Sweet God, please keep Thomas safe
.

She wasn’t sure if someone like her was fit to ask for help, but she had to try. Once a life was lost, it could never be restored. Lynelle knew this to be true, for she was guilty of stealing not one life but two.

She swallowed, knowing full well that prayers were not enough. If only she could rescue her brother herself.

Her fingers stilled.

Was it possible for her to rescue Thomas?

She clutched the cleansing cloth and slowly sat on the wooden pail that served as both bucket and stool. There was nothing to stop her from finding Thomas and bringing him home. She had nothing to lose, but much to gain.

If she rescued Thomas, her father would have to find favour with her, wouldn’t he? How could he not? He’d finally acknowledge her as his daughter.

Excitement fluttered in the corner of her heart where she’d buried her greatest desire.

She
would
rescue Thomas.

Her spirits lifted as a sense of rightness flowed through her. She now had direction and a desperately needed purpose.

Latching on to her tattered hope, Lynelle finished tending her wound. The gash didn’t seem to sting as much as it had before. As she tipped the unused wash into the slop bucket, she focused on what little she knew about her stepbrother’s captors.

The Elliots were Scottish neighbours close to Fenwick. They lived beyond the north ridge, and were said to be a troublesome lot. Lynelle vowed to find them and set Thomas free.

Her feelings of helplessness eased as she gathered her scant belongings and waited for darkness to fall. She carefully wrapped small bundles of herbs and placed them within a worn leather pouch. If Thomas were injured, the herbs and Ada’s teachings would prove necessary. She prayed the Scots who held him weren’t the brutes most claimed they were.

A flicker of annoyance flashed through her at the ill timing of their raid. She’d finally begun to feel she belonged, had felt a part of something as she’d worked the soil. Though her small plot was separate from the rest, she’d turned and prepared the earth just as many of Fenwick’s people had. She’d even had her own sprinkling of seeds to plant, though the bag of seed now rested atop the battlements.

Sighing, she glanced at the open doorway and saw that the day was almost done. Nervous anticipation coursed through her. It was almost dark. Almost time to go. Fenwick’s people would soon file into the tower house for the evening meal. Lynelle’s absence wouldn’t be noticed, as she’d never dined inside the great hall.

Would things change once she rescued Thomas?

Lifting her small knife, she wrapped it inside her spare gown, and coiled a linen cloth about the half loaf from the day before. She stuffed them into a sack with the herb pouch and tied the top with a strip of leather cord. Finally, she closed the window’s warped shutter, wincing as it creaked into place.

Taking up her cloak, she walked to the door and swept the hooded garment around her shoulders. She secured the ties at her throat, pretending her hands shook not at all. She peered outside and noted how the dusky shades of twilight smothered the alley running along the rear of the tower house.

She turned and drank in the dim interior of the hut, her home. Inhaling deeply, she snatched up her bundle and slipped out the door.

Crouching low, ignoring the ache in her hip, Lynelle clung to the rear of the bakehouse and crept on past the kitchens. At the gap between kitchen and tower house, she looked up at the curtain wall. Two guards walked the battlements, their figures little more than dark shapes floating across the dull grey of the evening sky. The flaming torches at either end of the stone edifice shed pitiful light at this hour.

Lynelle ran across the gap and stopped at the eastern corner of the tower house. Leaning against the cool stone wall, she closed her eyes and paused to catch her breath. The sound of her thudding heart filled her ears. She’d covered little ground, but her fear of discovery had her heart racing as if she’d run for miles.

Fenwick’s people would not stop her due to concern for her wellbeing, but they might detain her, ending any chance of her rescuing Thomas.

The pounding in her chest slowed. She pushed away from the stone at her back and peeked around the next corner. With no one in sight, she dashed across to the little used postern gate, and found it ajar.

So this is how Thomas had made his escape.

Few knew the gate existed. Its dimensions were smaller than that of the average doorway. With the stonework so cleverly done, it could be seen only by a trained eye or someone who knew it was there – or a child who’d explored every inch of the keep to hold her loneliness at bay.

A cough sounded from somewhere behind. Lynelle flinched and glanced over her shoulder. Once certain she was alone, she opened the gate and stepped through the opening. She latched the door, clutched her sack tightly to her middle and turned around.

Full night was but a breath away and she suddenly felt very small and very alone. She held no fear of the dark, but a shiver rushed through her as she felt a thread of doubt at what she was about to do.

She must save Thomas. There would be no turning back. She was tired of living as an outcast. She wanted more.

She cast all misgivings from her mind, stretched to her full height and lifted her chin a notch. Cursed she might be, but a coward she was not.

Castle Redheugh

Scots side of the border

WILLIAM Kirkpatrick slipped into the dim, deserted corridor, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Edan’s wounds had been appraised and tended. Thanks to the draft given to the lad by Iona, the Elliot’s aged and crippled healer, William’s young brother now slept.

He’d dismissed Iona and the burning glare she gave him as she’d shuffled awkwardly from the room. She had been insulted by the terms he’d set for treating Edan. But William didn’t care. Relief surged through him. His brother would live.

William rolled each aching shoulder, easing the tension caused by the day’s unexpected events, and welcomed the moment of solitude. Closing his eyes, he sank against the hard, stone wall and dragged roughened hands over his face.

The memory of his brother’s grey eyes dulled by pain and rounded with terror filled the blackness behind his lids. Edan’s pain was due to his injuries. His terror stemmed from the blasted curse.

William’s eyes snapped open. Bringing his brother with him to visit his friend, Lachlan Elliot, hadn’t been worth the effort. He knew now it would take more than a day or two away from Closeburn Castle to eradicate his brother’s fears. William was not a man led or controlled by foolish superstition. But many of his clan were, including his younger brother.

Four members of William’s immediate family had died within the last year. William knew their deaths had nothing to do with the ancient curse and everything to do with the deceitful, inept tricksters who called themselves healers. He blamed himself too, for not recognizing the truth sooner.

Wiser now, he’d ensure Edan didn’t suffer the same fate. He’d protect his only surviving kin with his life.

Straightening, he stretched and turned to stare at the stout oak door he’d closed a short time ago. He peered over his shoulder and looked through the arrow slit on the opposite wall, surprised to see it was completely dark outside. He would find Lachlan and let him know he and Edan would be leaving tomorrow. But first, he’d take one last look at his brother.

Cracking the door open, he blinked as heat bathed his face and the smell of herbs consumed his senses. His gaze immediately sought the bed across the small chamber and the still figure lying upon it.

The crackling flames in the hearth painted Edan’s brown hair and pale face with splashes of red. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. The bedclothes pulled up to his chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm.

The tightness in William’s chest eased. Withdrawing from the room, he latched the door.

William strode toward the glow at the far end of the corridor, passing two closed doors on his left. Halting, he peered at the massive iron-studded door directly opposite the stairwell, wondering if Lachlan had retired for the night.

He had no clue as to what time it was. The bevy of snores floating up from the great hall at the bottom of the stairs proved it was later than he’d first thought. He could retire himself, but he wanted to be certain that Lachlan’s brother had escaped the boys’ foolish adventure unscathed.

As William descended the stairs, the faint smell of roasted meat lingered in the air. His belly rumbled, reminding him that he’d missed the evening meal.