Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon) (5 page)

A young maid
curtsied to her and indicated the steaming kettle of hot water would be hung on
an iron bar stretched across the fireplace. Another maid set down a trencher of
meats, cheese, bread, and several goblets. She placed a large pitcher nearby.
Catlin sniffed and caught the yeasty scent of ale.

“Thank you
for bringing the food.” She gave the young woman a warm smile.

The maid
tossed her head and looked in the direction of the door where Griffin had
exited the bedchamber. Sensual hunger flickered in the young maid’s eyes, and a
prick of jealousy seized Catlin.

Lord Cranbourne’s
valet entered the room with a simple overdress folded across his arm. He gently
handed it to her, coughed and bowed in her direction. “If you are not in need
of me, I shall be waiting outside.”

She
struggled to remove the sleeves of her bodice before dropping the tattered
garment to the floor. The fabric was ruined. She used a rough towel to dry
herself and her linen shift as much as possible. She was donning the gown when
she heard steps behind her. She whirled to see Sir Reynolds standing at the
doorway, his clothing now exchanged for dry issue.

She yanked
the overdress to cover her thin shift, aware the dampness made every soft curve
of her body visible. She smoothed the luxurious silk fabric.

Griffin took
several long steps toward her. "Does everything meet with your approval
Catlin?" He pointed at the table.

She shivered
at the way her name slid off his tongue, with an emphasis on the
cat
”

“Yes, thank
you. I have the things I need."

“Perhaps it
is just my own instincts and your manner of speech that tell me you are a
well-bred lady, Catlin.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her.
A thin shiver of delight coursed through her. She swallowed, aware this man
still posed a serious threat to her.

She imagined
she could feel the touch of those cursed and beautiful lips as he leaned even
closer. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you Catlin.” The deep tones of his
voice, his clean scent and the heat rising from his skin mesmerized her.

Catlin
jerked away, bustled to the table and assembled the items she’d requested. She
couldn't be distracted when she needed all of her abilities to focus upon the
task before her.

What of
the kiss?
A soft
voice chirped in her ear.

“I don’t
know what you want,” she blurted, before realizing again she had answered her
tiny elemental
sylph’s
out loud.

Sir Griffin
Reynolds stood with his back to the fire, his dark breeches tucked into tall
leather boots. His black silk doublet stretched across his broad chest and wide
shoulders.

“I wish only
to be of service, Catlin. You swore an oath to heal my oldest and dearest
friend. Since he believes such a thing possible, I ask only that you do your
best to ease his suffering.”

He gave a
deep sigh, and for the first time Catlin recognized he had let down his guard
and the pretension of wit that had served to disguise his real concern for his
friend.

“I can heal
him, but I must be left alone in this chamber.”

Griffin
turned back to her, his eyes flaring bright with rage. “That will not be
possible. I cannot abandon my friend to a stranger, even one as lovely as you.”

The now
familiar swirl of heat flowed through her. He thought she was lovely?

Then the
reality of the situation became evident. If he remained in the room, not only
would he witness her casting a spell, but he’d see her do so without her
clothing.

“I can be
trusted. You only have to remain outside the door until I finish.”

Griffin
shook his head. “I cannot leave him, for if something happens. . . ”

A surge of
sympathy flowed through her. Several small chirping voices echoed in her mind.
Let
him stay, for you
might need his help.

Catlin
frowned. What could the
sylphs
mean? She’d never heard of allowing a
sophor
to observe the casting of a spell. Still, she had to trust her elemental
spirits. “If you remain, you must swear an oath to stand away and not interfere
with anything you see taking shape in this room. You must allow me to do what I
need to do.” The logs crackled in the fireplace.

“Will you be
consorting with demons?” He asked.

“Nay, not
unless perchance you are one?” She quickly responded.

He raised an
arched brow and shook his head. “I have been called worse, to be sure.”

“You shall
see things that might frighten you,” she warned. “I only ask that you let me do
what I must in order to heal your friend.”

His gaze
searched her face for a few moments, then he turned to the man stretched across
the length of the bed.

“Do what you
can and I shall not interfere, but I warn you—”He paused to stare intently into
her eyes. “I do not frighten as easily as some men.”

Catlin
returned to her chore of arranging the items on the table, then snatched the
trencher of food and broke off a large chunk of the hearty dark bread. She
handed it to him, and he shrugged away her offer.

“The night
has been long and grows longer even as we speak. If I need help I must count on
you, and food gives us strength for what we must endure.”

He took the
bread and cheese she offered. “You make it sound as if we are marching into
battle this night.”

She chewed
her food, broke off another bit of cheese and lifted her chin to stare into his
midnight hued eyes. “Never having faced battle, I have no way of understanding
what such a thing requires. But I have cast healing spells, and I understand
all magic is unpredictable.” She sighed deeply. “And there is a high price that
always demands payment.”

Griffin
stared at her. “You speak so freely of magic, when to mention such a thing
could send you to the gallows as a condemned woman?”

Catlin
poured ale into two pewter goblets and held one out to him. “I tell you that it
will be so and we can toast the magic that will heal your friend. You are a
soldier who has proclaimed he has little fear of such things.” She lifted her
goblet.

The corners
of Griffin’s mouth formed a smile as he held his cup out to touch hers. “So
shall we toast, for my words still ring true. Any man who sees the barbarism of
war would never again fear the agents of magic.”

She drank
the ale, enjoying the robust taste. When she had drained it she set the goblet
aside.

“Bar the
door and then open a window, for once begun, we cannot stop.” She regarded the
sick man in the bed. “’Twill go foul for him if that happens.”

Griffin
moved quickly to do as she bid while she assembled the ingredients for her
potion on the table.

She took the
willow bough and began to sweep near the floor and then into the air. She
whispered her incantation for banishing the ill-humored spirits from the room.

Next she lit
the candle and the scent of sage suffused the room. She directed Griffin to
extinguish all but the candle closest to Lord Cranbourne’s bed.

Griffin
moved the steaming kettle to a flat stone on the table. She began to sing the
ancient words her mother had taught her while sprinkling healing herbs into the
water.

Catlin
allowed the mixture to steep as she picked up the silver-handled knife and
prepared to cast her circle.

“Do not step
out of the protected area once I designate the boundary. ‘Twill not be safe.”
She lifted the hem of her gown, and pulled it over her head. Her shift followed
and the fabric pooled near her feet on the floor. She shivered as the cool air
touched her skin.

She wanted
to lift her eyes to see Sir Reynolds’s reaction to her nakedness, but
embarrassment kept her focused upon the task before her. She sensed his heavy
gaze upon her and it burned as she slowly slipped around the young nobleman’s
bed. Her cheeks warmed.

Using her
knife, she carved the circle of protection in the air near the floor. She would
need to guard the North, where the ornately carved headboard kept her from
extending the full measure of the circle.

She spoke in
the old language, taught to all women of her ancient family, renowned for their
magic, conjuring and skill. She was descended from a line of strong,
independent women marching back to the time of the Goddess.

The circle
cast, she faced each direction to plead for help and healing. The music of her
sylphs
captured her as they joined the circle, their sweet, birdlike voices lifted in
praise of all the earth, of the Great Mother, of her consort and each guardian
and the gift of their element.

Approaching
the man stretched upon the bed, Catlin laid one hand gently on his chest. His
struggle to breathe had grown more intense, and the death rattle in his chest
reverberated throughout the room. Each step was crucial, yet she worried her
efforts might come too late. She turned to the table, and with a motion,
directed Griffin to bring her the silver bowl. He hesitated for a moment, his
gaze sweeping her from head to toe.

“Help me
prop him up with these pillows,” she said.

Griffin
turned away from her. He nodded toward the open window. “The storm has subsided,”
he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She heard
him take a deep breath. Was he growing uncomfortable with the magic? Or with
her nakedness?

Catlin
concentrated on the sick man lying before her and didn’t look at the open
window. “So it would seem, at least for the moment.”

Once he was
sitting up, she draped the green velvet cloth over Lord Cranbourne’s head. She
held the herbal mixture near his mouth and watched as the steam rose. In a few
moments, his breath eased a bit, until his lungs seemed more capable of taking
in air.

She handed
the bowl to Griffin. “Bring me the cup of lard and the garlic and rosemary,
please.”

She sliced
the garlic and poked pieces into the lard. She added crumbled pieces of dried
rosemary and then kneaded the mixture into a paste. With practiced ease she
spread the concoction across Lord Cranbourne’s chest. Griffin wrinkled his
nose, but still remained silent as he watched.

She wiped
her hands upon a small towel and handed the cup back to Griffin. Now came the
most difficult part of the spell. She had opened the way to his lungs, but this
was only perfunctory. If she could not complete a healing, the phlegm would
block his throat again and his breathing would be obstructed.

Catlin
raised her hands over her head and began the ancient chant, repeating the words
over and over again as she concentrated on directing the power of her
sylphs
.

Doethineb,
lechyd, amddiffyn rhag
. Great mother of us all, hear my plea.

The voices
of her elemental spirits joined the song and she closed her eyes. Over and over
again, building, building—raising the power until she opened her eyes.

Glimmers of
crystal light blinked all around her as small winged creatures darted about her
head. Her chanting grew more intense as the light shattered into rainbow hues,
bathing the darkness in shadows of brilliant color.

She gently
stroked Lord Cranbourne’s cheek before leaning over him to carefully pry his
mouth open. A cool breeze stirred the warm air in the room as she continued the
chant.

The strength
of the breeze intensified and circled the room. It sent her
sylph
s
fluttering. Power built within her. She shivered as the spiral swept up from
her feet, swirled up her legs, making the muscles hard and taunt and settled in
the center of her being. She felt strong, nearly invincible when she held the
power.

When the
breeze lifted the bed curtains, she stood tall, threw back her head, closed her
eyes and opened her mouth in silent invitation.

The wind
entered her with a spasm of delight that engulfed her body like an impatient
lover, eager to be joined with her. Her lungs expanded with power as she worked
hard not to let the euphoria of the moment obscure her purpose. With one quick
movement she was leaning above the man. He was icy cold and ashen. Touching his
cheek again, she put her lips to his, whispering the spell into his mouth.

The glimmers
of light circled Lord Cranbourne's head while his chest expanded. Finally a
rush of air escaped from his lips. The wind whipped through the room again as
the fireplace flickered and the flames danced. The breeze caressed her naked
skin one more time before fleeing out the window into the night.

Griffin
stood at her side, his muttered oath faint to her ears as she grieved the loss
of the wind. She grasped the knife. As she stumbled, Griffin steadied her, and
she leaned into his warmth and strength.

With precise
measure, she performed the steps of widdershins to release the power of the
circle. She discharged the guardians back to their posts while gratefully
acknowledging their help. Gazing into the face of her patient, she was pleased
to see color return to his skin and his breathing grow less labored with each
breath. By all appearances, this healing had been successful. Lord Cranbourne
would never again be cursed with lung fever.