Authors: Bertrice Small
“He loves you,” Duncan said.
Adair flushed. “He has not said so.”
“Oh, but he does!” young Murdoc added.
“Then he had best say it, or I shall have to go,” Adair replied. Then she went off to make the medicines she would need for the laird.
“We can’t let him lose her,” Duncan said. “She loves him too. I see it.”
“She’s with child, Elsbeth says,” Murdoc replied. “But we cannot tell.”
“Jesu!” Duncan swore. “Why not?”
“Because Elsbeth wants Adair to tell Conal,” Murdoc said.
“She’ll say nothing, and she’ll leave him if that block-head of a brother of ours does not admit how he feels about her.” Duncan groaned.
“There’s a little time,” Murdoc soothed his older sibling.
Duncan stood up from the high board. “Come on, youngling, we had best go hunting while we figure out how to bring the two most stubborn people in Scotland to reason. Neither of them, it would appear, knows how to compromise, and they must.”
The two brothers left the keep with a part of their men, and spent the day hunting. Good fortune rode with them, for when they returned that evening they brought with them two roe deer and three strings of grouse. Adair was delighted, and praised them for their efforts. Her news, however, was not as good. The laird was no better. In fact, she was certain that his fever was higher now than it had been in the morning.
“We have kept cold cloths on his head all day, but the fever is stubborn. I will have to make a fever reducer of yarrow, oil, and honey,” she said. “I have already made a syrup of lemon, mint, and honey for his cough.”
“You look tired,” Duncan said to her. “You must take care of yourself as well, Adair. You cannot get sick, for who then would care for us?”
She looked sharply at him. What did he know? And who had told him? “I will be all right, Duncan,” she replied to his concern.
At the evening meal she sat with them, and both Duncan and Murdoc kept sneaking looks at her. Adair didn’t know whether to be angry or laugh. They knew.
Of course they did, or their concern wouldn’t have been so great. As the meal ended Adair knew she had to do something to relieve the tension. “If either of you tells your brother,” she said, “I will find a way to repay you in kind. And I am a patient woman,” she warned them.
Then Adair left them, going down to the kitchens, where Elsbeth was kneading the bread that would be baked
very early in the morning. “Which one of them did you tell?” she demanded. “Murdoc, probably. He adores you. And who else have you told?”
Elsbeth looked up from the table, her arms floury.
“Your secret will be out soon enough, my lady. Aye, I told young Murdoc because I knew he couldn’t keep the secret. That way when one of the brothers tells the laird you can’t blame me.” Elsbeth plopped the dough back in a large bowl and covered it with a towel before placing it in the warming oven to rise. “So you had best tell Conal Bruce before they do.”
“You’re a wicked old woman,” Adair said, “and I will blame you. I hope the three of you will at least wait until I have cured him of his illness.” Then she left the kitchens, pausing halfway up the stairs, as she was certain she had heard Elsbeth chortling. As she walked through the hall she asked Duncan Armstrong to see the keep was secure for the night, and thanked him when he agreed. Then she hurried up the stairs to the chamber that she shared with the laird.
Flora arose from his bedside, where she had been seated. “He is restless, Adair. And the fever burns hot in him,” she said. “I’ve been changing the cloths for his forehead, but they do not seem to help.”
“Stay with him then awhile longer,” Adair said. “I was going to wait until morning to mix this new remedy, but I will go and do it now.” She left the bedchamber, going downstairs again to the little room that served as her apothecary.
She had a basket of fat yarrows, and, selecting one, she cut it, scooping the seeds out first, and then the soft flesh. She spread the yarrow onto an earthenware dish, mixing it with a bit of olive oil and some very thick honey. She took dried mint leaves and put a few into her mortar, grinding them with her pestle into a very fine power that she blended well into the mixture. Then with her fingers she rolled the ingredients into little balls, setting them onto an iron rectangle. The little chamber had
a small oven built into the wall. Adair lit a fire in the firepit beneath the oven. Then she slipped the flatiron into the oven so that her remedy would bake. While she waited she cleaned up the apothecary and got down a small stone jar with a quartz lid.
When the little medicinal spheres had been baked dry, Adair removed them from the oven and set them on the counter to cool, removing several and slipping them into her pocket. Then, blowing out the candles by which she had worked and making certain the firepit beneath the oven was banked, she hurried from her apothecary and back upstairs to the laird’s bedchamber.
Flora was now nodding in her chair. Adair gently touched her shoulder. “Go to bed,” she said softly. “You have been a great help to me.”
Conal was moaning and tossing in their bed. Adair poured a small cup of wine and, sitting on the edge of his bed, tried to awaken him, but he was caught in the throes of the fever and just muttered her name. Putting an arm about his shoulders she raised him up, and with her other hand pushed two of the pills into his mouth.
Then she took the cup, holding it to his lips, and encouraged him to drink. He took two swallows and then coughed, but she saw the pills had gone down. She tried to give him another sip, but he pushed her hand away.
“Adair,” he managed to say.
“I am here, Conal. You are very sick. Sleep now, my love,” she told him.
“Do not leave me, Adair,” he moaned.
“I am here, Conal,” she reassured him. “I will not leave you.”
“Ever?” His voice was a whisper.
“Go to sleep, Conal,” Adair said, and loosened her grip on him, lowering him back to the bed. She sat by his side the entire night, and he slipped deeper into his delirium. In the morning she sent his brothers and their men to the coldest running stream in the area with orders to bring back enough icy water to fill the oaken
bathing tub. And when it was full, before the water could warm, Duncan Armstrong carried his brother from his bedchamber and lowered him into the tub he had brought from its alcove.
The icy water partially roused the laird, and he struggled to arise, but Murdoc and Duncan held him in the tub until Adair told them to take him back upstairs. Together they dried him with rough cloths. At first he began shivering violently, and then the fever returned to hold him in its fierce grip. The laird attempted to fling off the coverlets they kept piling upon the bed, but they would not let him, and Conal Bruce poured sweat.
“We’re either going to kill him or cure him,” Duncan Armstrong said grimly.
Adair nodded. She was very pale, but her look was a determined one.
She loves him
, Duncan Armstrong thought.
She really
loves him.
And then the laird’s fever broke, and he grew quiet again as they changed the soaked bedclothes and his sopping night garment. Adair rubbed his chest with a mixture of goose fat and camphor, covered it with flan-nel, and pushed several more of her pills between his lips, making him drink the wine she poured into the goblet. And then Conal Bruce grew quiet. His breathing was normal. His skin was cool to the touch. Looking out of the window Adair saw the sun was close to setting.
“Go and get some rest,” Duncan said. “You’ve been at this for two days. He’s safe, and you must take care of yourself now, Adair.”
“I’ll send Grizel to sit with him for a few hours,”
Adair said. “You must be tired too, Duncan. Thank you for your help. I could not have done it without you.”
He nodded and gave her a warm smile. Then he said,
“You’re a headstrong lass, Adair. I admire your courage, but do not allow your pride to overrule your good sense.”
“Tell your brother that,” Adair replied softly. “Aye,
Duncan, I love him. But I must know that he loves me before I can wed him. It cannot be for the sake of the child I carry. It must be because he loves
me
. Loves me first, and before all others. I cannot otherwise be happy or content.” Then she left the chamber.
Duncan Armstrong stared after her. He could only imagine what their child was going to be like. Then he chuckled. Certainly this episode of serious illness would bring Conal to his senses, and he would admit to Adair what was in his heart: that he loved her, and would love no other. They could not go on like this. Could they?
Conal Bruce awoke the next morning feeling as weak as water, but he also felt better. Adair was dozing in the chair by his bedside, and he remembered through his confused thoughts that it had been she who had struggled so hard to break the burning fever that had gripped him. “I love you,” he whispered softly, but she did not stir, and he was relieved. He was obviously still weak from his illness. His eyes closed, and he fell back into sleep. When he awoke again Adair was gone from his side, and it was Flora who sat at his bedside. “Fetch Adair,” he ground out to the startled woman.
Flora jumped up. “Yes, my lord, at once,” she said, and scampered from his bedchamber.
He lay back against his pillows and waited. When she finally entered the room she was carrying a bowl and a spoon. “What’s that?” he demanded by way of greeting.
“I’ve brought you some broth,” Adair said quietly. “It will help you to rebuild your strength, Conal. And later Elsbeth has nice milk custard for you.”
“I want meat!” he told her.
“You would spew it before it reached your belly,” she answered him quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Now open your mouth and eat your broth.” And she pushed the spoon between his lips as he opened them to protest. “There. Isn’t that tasty? We had to kill
a chicken to make the broth, but it was old and had ceased laying.”
“You are treating me like a child,” he grumbled, but the soup was good, and he was hungry. He did not think anyone had ever fed him in all his life.
“You have been very sick, Conal, and you are not strong enough yet for many things. It will take several days before you can leave your bed, and it will be a week or more after that before you are strong enough to venture forth again.”
“I am not some elder,” he said irritably.
“Nay,” she said soothingly, “but you are very sick, Conal. You must not fret. Duncan, Murdoc, and the men are hunting. There are already two deer and a dozen grouse in the cold larder. By October you will be ready to hunt again with them.” She spooned the last of the broth into his mouth. “There. You’ve eaten it all.” She dug into the pocket of her gown, drawing out one of her pills. Setting the bowl and spoon aside she fetched the wine, pouring it into his cup. “Here, take this,” she said.
He took the pill and swallowed it down with the wine, handing her the empty cup. “One of your evil potions?”
he teased her weakly.
Adair nodded with a small smile.
“Why can’t I get up?” he wanted to know.
“You are still sick, Conal, even though your fever is gone. Your chest is filled with evil humors, and you have not yet rid yourself of them. Now lie back. I want to rub some of this ointment on your chest.” Reaching for the jar on his bedside table, she removed the lid and yanked his nightshirt up.
“The damned stuff stinks,” he complained as she smeared the unguent over his skin. “What the hell is in it?” Her hand on his chest felt wonderful.
“It will help you to cough up the sickness from your chest,” she said as she finished. “Go back to sleep, Conal. I’ll be back later,” Adair promised as she re-capped the jar and set it back on the bedside table. Then
she was gone before he could protest any further. She hurried to the kitchens, and washed the oily ointment from her hands.
“How is he?” Elsbeth wanted to know.
“Complaining,” Adair answered with a small smile.
“Then you’ve beaten his sickness,” Elsbeth replied.
“Not quite yet, but I am close to success,” Adair said.
Conal Bruce improved daily, and after a few days Adair allowed him to spend part of his day in the hall by the fire. By month’s end he was fully recovered and planned to join his brothers hunting on the first day of October.
Adair had not been sharing his bed while he had been ill, and he intended to tell her that she was to return to him that night.
They sat at the high board that bright morning. Flora and Grizel brought the small round bread trenchers of porridge, setting them at each place. A bowl of hard-boiled eggs, a pitcher of cream, a hot cottage loaf, sweet butter, and cheese were placed on the board. Fresh cider was served in the polished wooden goblets. The laird thought it seemed quiet that morning. The women servants were subdued. His brothers hardly opened their mouths. He listened for the sound of distant thunder, but heard none. And then as he prepared to leave the hall the storm hit.
“I won’t be here when you return, my lord,” Adair said quietly. “It is October, and my year-and-a-day period of servitude is now concluded. I will be returning to Stanton. Elsbeth has decided to remain with you, and both Flora and Grizel are competent to manage your household.” She curtsied. “I thank your lordship for his kindness.”
Conal Bruce’s mouth fell open with his initial surprise.
And then as she made to turn away from him he began to shout. “What the hell do you mean, you wicked vixen?
You cannot leave me. I will not permit you to go!”
“
Permit
? You will not permit me to go? I have been your slave for a year and a day, my lord. I have served out my term of bondage. I have given you good service, and I am now free again. Free to do what I wish to do.
To go where I choose to go. You have no rights over me, Conal Bruce. None at all.”
“Why do you want to leave me?” the laird asked her, attempting to calm his anger and his wildly beating heart.