The Firebrand (14 page)

Well, she wasn’t about to wake Gillie now. The day had not yet begun for the rest of the world. Besides, she needed to find her own way about the island before she would feel safe allowing him along.

With the exception of a dog or two raising a head and wagging a tail, no one else stirred as she walked through the Great Hall and out into the courtyard.

The air was sharp and cold, and yet it felt good on her face. Taking a few deep breaths, Adrianne looked about her and smiled to see the heavy portcullis of the castle gate already open. A half dozen sleepy-faced men and women, their shoulders hunched against the predawn cold, were just entering through the gate and heading toward the kitchens. A man and a woman looked at her, their eyes popping open with surprise at seeing her.

Adrianne wrapped the wool tartan tightly around her shoulders and nodded to them. The night sky was only starting to lighten slightly in the east as she walked through the gate and headed down the hill toward the cluster of cottages that hugged the curving shoreline.

She had no destination in mind, no purpose other than seeing the village that lay beyond the castle walls. Smoke was beginning to rise from the smoke holes of a dozen or so of the huts, and she stopped on a knoll to survey the tidy scene. Many of the huts had low walls around them, and a cow or a pig could be seen in the enclosure. All had small garden plots, many finished for the winter. Brown, communal fields of oat and barley were just starting to become visible inland of the village, the stubble of harvested stalks looking like an old man’s whiskers.

The smell of salt air mingled with the peat smoke, and Adrianne felt a fleeting sense of well-being course through her.

Just above the first of the cottages, she spotted a single stone cottage that was tucked away from the others. There were no animals visible around the place, no dog trotting out to growl or sniff at her suspiciously. As Adrianne approached she took in the remnants of a large garden surrounding the cottage. She decided it must have thrived in the spring and summer, for the soil looked surprisingly dark and rich. A few steps from the cottage door, blocks of peat and clumps of seaweed were piled neatly by a smoky fire. Great slabs of fish, covered with herbs, had been suspended over the fire.

She approached the fire and held her bare hands over the low flame, enjoying the heat and the smell of the fish. Something in the aroma of the herbs set her mind whirling again, and she thought back on her childhood studies and the little she’d learned about them. She pursed her lips at the memory of the two monks, Benedict and Bartholomew, arguing over the teachings of a physician named Paracelsus and the value of herbs in healing. What had they argued about?

Adrianne promptly withdrew her hands from the fire as a familiar face emerged from the cottage.

“Good morning, John,” she said cheerfully, nodding to the aging sailor.

The man’s gentle eyes lit upon her, and the quiet man nodded and gave her a friendly smile before pulling a cap over his head and turning his steps toward the village.

Adrianne watched the man go. She too had things to do this morning. The castle would surely be abuzz by the time she got back, for Wyntoun was going to give Alexander and Mara the news of the upcoming marriage last night after she’d retired to her chamber. She had no idea what would be waiting for her but she knew that she would surely be expected there.

“And you must be the wee English lassie everyone has been chattering about on the island.”

Adrianne turned and smiled at the gray-haired woman who was leaning heavily on a stout stick in the doorway of the cottage.

“And you must be Jean the midwife. I was hoping that I would have a chance to meet you.”

“Come inside. Come inside, mistress. Surely, this winter air is far too chilly for a gentle soul such as yourself.”

“I don’t mind the cold,” Adrianne confessed, approaching the old woman. “But thank you, I’d like to visit.”

The older woman turned in the doorway and struggled a little with the stick that she was using. Adrianne came near enough to be able to offer assistance only if she were asked.

“I wish I could say the same thing about this wretched weather,” Jean complained, hobbling in and motioning for the younger woman to follow. “I’ve had a lifetime of this cold and damp, but lately it seems to cut the legs out from under me.”

Adrianne let the stiff leather flap that served as a door close behind her. The cottage glowed in the golden light of a small hearth fire. Dried flowers and herbs hung down everywhere from the low, thatched roof. Woven cloths, colorful shells, carved wooden spoons and animals, and baskets of every size and shape and color adorned walls and windowsills. She gazed about her in wonder.

“This is what happens after you’ve helped kin and friend and foe for nigh onto forty years. You end up with a cottage filled with gratitude.” The woman chuckled to herself and hunched over a bubbling kettle suspended from an iron hook. “They keep bringing you gifts of thanks until you find yourself forced out of your home by the things.”

“They are so beautiful.” Adrianne shook her head in disbelief as she approached the fire. As Jean lowered herself into a settle, the visitor sat on a short stool across from her.

“Aye, that they are! And everyone holds a special meaning.” She waved a hand in the air. “But I keep threatening these folks, telling them ‘no more.' Why, my John is already warning me that he will be burning some of these instead of peat if I don’t put a stop to this hoarding of things.”

Adrianne met the woman’s sparkling gray eyes. “So he
does
talk!”

A hearty laugh escaped the healer’s lips. “Aye, that he does, mistress. He talks plenty when he has something to say.”

Jean reached into a basket of wool beside her and took out a piece and a sharp toothed comb, untangling the fibers as they talked.

“Coming ashore from Sir Wyntoun’s boat, I heard the men talking of you and all the bairns you’ve delivered for so many folks on the island.” She picked up a sprig of rosemary from the floor and twisted it around her fingers. The scent wafted up around her. “Did you help to bring Sir Wyntoun into this world, as well?”

“I wish I had,” Jean said soberly, shaking her gray head. “But, being a MacNeil, his mother Margaret had her mind set on delivering her bairn at Kisimul Castle on Barra. And she was a strong-minded woman…though it all went against her in the end, poor thing.”

“Did she have a hard time with the birthing?”

“She didn’t survive it.” Jean frowned. “‘Twas a shame. So bonny and young she was. From what I hear, young Margaret struggled for days with the labor. And when ‘twas over, she kissed the bairn’s dark hair and sent a blessing to heaven, before closing her eyes one last time.”

Emotion burned in the back of Adrianne’s throat, and she looked away at the fire.

“I did have a hand in raising that darling rascal, though, after Alexander brought him back to Duart Castle. True, he had a wet nurse, and some ten years or so later his father married Mara, giving the rogue a new mother. But Wyn spent many hours as a lad playing on the floor of this hut. And as he grew, I soothed many a bump on his head, or sewed up a cut on his arms or his feet. That stern-faced laddie, Alan, came in here with him many a time, too, but young Wyn always seemed to be the one doing the more dangerous things, I believe.” She grinned. “He was the one who always managed to get the most battered, anyway.”

Adrianne tried to imagine him as a child. A head of wild, dark hair. Green eyes that must have lit up his mud-spattered face. She couldn’t help but let her mind wander with him as he roamed the wild moors of heather and bracken. She could see him clearly—there, amid the twisted oak and the pine. And there, climbing the rocks along the shore in search of birds eggs and falcons. With every season growing stronger and more handsome…

How many hearts he must have broken with those good looks before becoming the man he was now! The Blade of Barra!

“You’ve fallen to his charms, I see!”

Adrianne snapped herself out of her reverie and met Jean’s smiling eyes. “I haven’t.”

“Say what you will, lass.” The older woman teased as she dropped the wool back into the basket. “But you’ve nothing to fear. Your secret is safe with me. In fact, I don’t believe I’d mind it if you were to follow your fancy and settle here on the island.”

Adrianne looked down into her lap. She knew there was no point in denying anything, for the news would be out soon enough. But still the young woman found herself unable to tell her new friend of the upcoming wedding. Perhaps it was because the vows she and Wyntoun would soon exchange were nothing more than a lie.

Seeing Auld Jean struggling to reach for the pot bubbling over the fire, Adrianne jumped up, lifting it off the hook and placing it on the stone hearth. The brew smelled sweet and clean, like a warm spring day. When Adrianne offered, Jean gave her a wooden bowl to use to fill a larger pottery ewer that sat by her feet. There were other herbs that Jean wanted, as well, and Adrianne was delighted to let the conversation shift. She was also happy to be of some help.

“Bring me two good sprigs of that feverfew, will you, lass?”

Adrianne reached up where Jean pointed and brought the herb down. “What is the feverfew for?”

“‘Tis a strengthener of women’s wombs. We’ll pour this decoction over the dried blossoms and then strain the wee things out. ‘Tis a powerful medicine. I am making it up for young Agnes in the village.”

“Oh! That’s Kevin’s wife. They’re expecting a bairn soon, I heard.”

“Very good, lass. You listen.”

As Jean worked over the medicine, Adrianne’s gaze was again drawn to all the herbs drying beneath the roof.

“‘Tis fascinating to me that so much good can come from plants that grow wild.”

“’Tis the same with some people,” Auld Jean murmured without looking up.

Adrianne stared at the woman’s capable hands. “’Tis even more wondrous that there can be so much healing in a person’s touch.”

“Come now, lass. What we’re doing is no different than what a cook does in preparing a meal, or a seamstress does in sewing a dress.”

“I doubt there are too many cooks and seamstresses anywhere with as many treasures as you have received, Jean.”

The old woman gave Adrianne a warm smile. “John was quite right in praising you, lass. Your heart is as pleasing to look upon as your bonny face.”

Adrianne shook her head, feeling herself redden.

“I hope you will be staying on the island for a time.”

“I hope so, too,” she found herself murmuring. “And while I am here, may I come back and visit you from time to time?”

“You are welcome anyday and any time, lass.”

“Perhaps I might even be of some help?” Adrianne brightened. “I can do whatever you find is wearying for you. Help around the cottage. Carry your baskets.”

Jean placed a hand on top of Adrianne’s. It was warm and strong. “Child, you are a lady.”

“I don’t know that I was cut from the cloth needed to be lady, Jean. I cannot sit idle while there is work to be done. Please give me a chance to be of some use. I learn quickly, and I’m a good worker.”

“As I said before, lass, you are welcome here anytime.” The woman’s smile was filled with tenderness. “Och, but what kind of friend am I to be! Why, here you are coming down from the castle long before the kitchens were serving anything to eat, and I don’t even offer you anything to keep body and soul together. I still have some warm bread and--"

“Nay, thank you, Jean. But, in truth, I should get back to the keep. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going when I left, and they may be wondering…” She frowned at the thought of how much trouble she got into at Barra. “But is there anything I can do before I go? Perhaps I could deliver your medicine to Agnes’s cottage? Is she in the village below?”

“Aye, she is! And that would be a blessing, lass.”

Holding the medicine carefully, so as not to spill a drop, Adrianne left the cottage. The winter morning sky would hold no sun for quite some time, but the air was fresh and clear. As she moved along a path, the low sea grass tugging at her skirts, Adrianne felt a sense of peace wash through her. It was the first time that she had felt this way for a long time. It was the first time since the awful day when her family was torn apart. She stopped and looked back at the cottage. Jean was hobbling out to the fire to tend her smoked fish.

This island. That cottage. The kindly old woman who not only healed the body, but somehow also considered the soul. That visit had changed things for Adrianne. She looked down at the ewer of medicine in her hands.

It was all different now.

***

Escape. Escape. Escape.

Stepping out into the brisk air of early morning, Wyntoun filled his lungs, happy to be beyond the confining walls of the keep. No wonder he had fought the notion of marriage for so long.

The Great Hall and the kitchens were already in an uproar, with Mara tearing about like a warrior chief readying her charges for battle.

Wyntoun’s plan, however, was to stay as far away as possible from the commotion surrounding his upcoming wedding. He had no desire to be drawn into the preparations any more than he had to. More important, he had no intention of spending any more time with his future bride than he absolutely must.

Perhaps he was being a bloody villain, but that was exactly what he needed to be. He was not marrying the Percy woman for life. Because of his lie, their future did not hold the prospect of bairns and respect and contentment—things that he felt should go along with marriage. He was marrying Adrianne Percy only temporarily…and for the sole purpose of fulfilling his task. And his task, he reminded himself, was to locate and secure the Treasure of Tiberius.

As Wyntoun strode across the courtyard toward the stables, though, the face of the enchantress lingered in his mind.

Adrianne Percy. The youngest daughter of Edmund Percy, a late brother in the Knights of the Veil. When Wyntoun had agreed to accomplish this task so many months ago, though, he’d never foreseen marriage to the youngest Percy as means of achieving his goal.