The Renegade's Heart (21 page)

Murdoch was honored by the gift. “I thank
you.”

“You cannot know what allies the Elphine
Queen has. There are many stirrings in the land at night. It seems
the veil is overly thin this year. Or maybe, she simply returns to
this region and shows her strength. I cannot say.” The smith turned
away, his expression revealing that he believed he had said too
much.

Murdoch did not want to endanger this man who
helped him, even though he wanted to know more. “Why do you help me
if you think I am doomed?”

“You may yet have a chance.” The smith
smiled. “And I have a great fondness for the Lady Isabella, of all
the family at Kinfairlie. Her spirit is as bright as a flame
kindled in the forge, and she is more stalwart and true than many a
knight.” He met Murdoch’s gaze steadily. “I will not be the only
one to hunt you if you evade the Elphine Queen but do not stand by
the Lady Isabella.” His smile turned cool. “I might be the most
vindictive.”

Murdoch nodded understanding. “I have nothing
to promise her.”

“Yet,” the smith said, in conscious echo of
Murdoch’s own words. He placed the knife in Murdoch’s hands. “I
give you but part of what you need to change that.”

“Thank you,” Murdoch said, his appreciation
heartfelt. “Will you tell me any detail of how you evaded the
Elphine Queen?”

The smith shook his head. His eyes narrowed
as he listened to the village. “You must flee now, before all are
awake and those women find Father Malachy. At the back of my smithy
is a loose board, in the corner where you halted. Move it, run
directly to the boundary wall, and see yourself safe. I shall
re-secure the board. No one will see you.”

“You know my horse is hidden there,” Murdoch
guessed.

The smith smiled. “I have eyes in my head for
what should not be seen, Murdoch Seton. I saw the dust of the Fae
follow you when first you rode into Kinfairlie, and I saw it adorn
the messenger’s horse. I knew then that there was more to you than
most would discern.” He sobered then, and inclined his head. “Good
luck to you.”

Murdoch offered his hand, sensing the smith’s
surprise that he did as much. Few nobles and knights would shake
the hand of a tradesman, but Murdoch guessed that he might survive
only because of this man. The smith smiled with genuine pleasure,
then gripped Murdoch’s hand.

“And good luck to you, Master Smith,” Murdoch
said. A wild hope had seized him, an optimism that he could defeat
the Elphine Queen’s scheme and court Isabella.

He fled then, following the recommended
course, knowing that the smith listened while appearing to do
otherwise. The board was as promised, the distance to the village
perimeter short and deserted. Murdoch fled for the low point in the
walls where he had entered the village.

To his relief, Stewart was waiting still –
his impatience obvious – with the horses. Murdoch swung into the
saddle and they were away. The horses galloped with vigor and the
village was left behind. They rode in a wide curve to the south, as
if fleeing to Newcastle, before turning and racing toward their
refuge in the woods.

Stewart was silent at first, but Murdoch knew
that happy state could not last.

* * *

Isabella went through Eleanor’s volumes
without finding a single useful reference to wild thyme. Oh, it was
true that the herb was listed, as the wild variant of the thyme she
knew from the kitchen garden. This familiar information cast no
light upon the smith’s comment.

There was nothing for it – she would have to
ask Eleanor. Eleanor had been sitting by the fire, playing with
Roland when Isabella had returned this morn. Annelise and Elizabeth
had been there, as well as Moira, and Isabella feared the entire
court of Kinfairlie would know of her curiosity before she could
halt the tale.

But she had to know.

She rose to return to the hall, but to her
relief, she heard footsteps upon the stairs. Eleanor was ascending
to the third floor, Moira at her elbow. Eleanor’s gaze fell to the
volume in Isabella’s hand and she smiled.

“Still you would study?” she asked, her pride
obvious. “I hear the baker’s son is well recovered, with many
thanks to your aid. And my stomach is much improved, thanks to your
posset.” Eleanor gave Isabella an embrace and smiled at her fondly.
“Soon I shall have no task to call my own, Moira.”

“You have enough to do, my lady, with the
laird’s next son on his way,” the maid insisted. She bustled past
the pair of them to make the bed ready for her mistress. “And
should they all tire you so much from this point forward, some aid
would be welcome.”

Eleanor’s smile widened. “You speak as if I
shall have a dozen sons, Moira.”

“I do not doubt it possible, my lady, given
the affection between yourself and your lord spouse.”

“Do not tell me that you disapprove,” Eleanor
teased, her gaze dancing. She took Isabella’s arm and leaned on her
a little. “I thought you adored a keep full of children.”

“You should conspire to deliver the next in
summertime,” Moira scolded.

“Let us see this one arrive first,” Eleanor
said, a shadow of exhaustion touching her gaze.

“You are better, though?” Isabella asked.

“I am tired.” Eleanor sat on the edge of the
bed with a sigh. Moira hastened to remove her lady’s shoes.

“But this is typical of the beginning of many
pregnancies, from what I have read in your own volume. Does it
become worse?”

Moira hissed in disapproval, but Eleanor
shook her head. “In my experience, it is the opposite. The woman
who is ill and tired beyond belief is oft quite hale after the
first third of the pregnancy.” She eased back against the pillows
and met Isabella’s gaze. “I was more concerned when Roland did not
make me ill, in all honesty.”

“We shall not speak of such matters in this
chamber,” Moira chided.

Eleanor patted the side of the bed, ignoring
her maid and smiling at Isabella. “Come ask me your questions. I
see that you have another crop of them.”

“I was curious about wild thyme.”

Moira caught her breath and Isabella saw the
maid’s eyes flash before she busied herself with the coverlet.

Eleanor’s expression remained mild.
“Why?”

“Cook mentioned that it was stronger than the
thyme in the garden, that we did not use it as a result.” Isabella
did not mention that Cook had confessed as much only because
Isabella had asked outright about the differences. “I wondered if
it had other uses. Every plant, after all, seems to have its
purpose.”

“Ask your sister, Elizabeth,” Moira muttered.
“It is clear enough that she has sampled of it.”

Isabella was curious about that comment, but
Eleanor again ignored her maid.

“It is as you say,” Eleanor agreed. “Wild
thyme is stronger, so strong that many do not care for its taste in
the sauce. It is the one most often consumed for bravery, perhaps
because only a stalwart soul can swallow a brew made from it. It is
said that Roman warriors added it to their baths before battle, and
that all Romans used it when they were massaged. It does stimulate
the skin.”

“Enough for blue marks to appear?” Isabella
asked.

“Blue marks?” Eleanor clearly had no idea
what she meant. “What kind of marks?”

Isabella drew whorls on her own forearm,
echoing the pattern she had seen on Murdoch’s skin. “Curls and
curves, like a vine growing over the flesh.”

When she glanced up, she saw that Moira was
pale and her eyes wide. Isabella realized that there was one who
possessed the answer she sought, but it was not Eleanor.

Indeed, Eleanor was untroubled by this
detail. “Who has such a mark?”

“I cannot say.”

Eleanor shrugged. “It cannot be of much
concern. I would suggest to you that it had more to do with woad
than with wild thyme.”

“Woad makes a blue dye,” Isabella
recalled.

“Indeed.” Eleanor’s eyelids were drooping and
she stifled a yarn. “And it is said that once the warriors who
lived in the highlands painted their skin with woad. They fought
nude and believed the hue made them more fearsome.”

“For they resembled the Fae,” Moira said
darkly.

“I do not understand,” Isabella said.

“The Fae of old had tattoos all over their
body, marks just as you said. They were of deepest blue and purple
and black, a network across every bit of their flesh.” Moira
dropped her voice. “Some say it is the mark of the fallen angels.
Others that it is the sign of the dead. Either way, only the Fae
sport such marks upon their skin, they possess them from birth and
never can they be removed.” She peered at Isabella. “Who have you
met, Lady Isabella, and what has this demon pledged to you?”

Eleanor waved a hand, dismissive. “You will
hear much superstition about the useful plants, Isabella, and you
may believe it if you choose.”

“It is true!” Moira protested.

Eleanor smiled, her expression indulgent. “As
a healer, you must keep your attention upon the medicinal uses that
are well documented and can be applied to give relief to those who
are ill.” She smiled, sleepy. “Do not attribute too much to wild
thyme. It has a stronger taste than the thyme we grow, but it is
harmless enough.”

With that, she yawned mightily and began to
doze.

Isabella, her thoughts spinning by these
conflicting tidings, rose slowly so as to not disturb Eleanor. She
was not certain that Moira’s knowledge was useful, for it carried
so much that seemed rumor, but still she wished to question the
maid.

To her relief, Moira was not prepared to
abandon their discussion so readily. The older woman touched a
fingertip to Isabella’s arm at the threshold of the door. “A brew
of wild thyme gives one the power to see the Fae,” the older woman
whispered, her gaze dancing to Eleanor with some guilt. “Is that
the knowledge you seek? It is a tale I heard from my mother.” She
cast a glance back at her sleeping mistress. “There are those who
might call it superstition, but I call it wisdom.”

“Did you ever drink of it yourself?”

Moira crossed herself at the very notion. “I
would not! Take care, my lady, for it seems you are tempted to
venture where you should not.”

Isabella was not certain what to believe. It
was her tendency to be skeptical of beings she could not see, but
she dared not let her assumptions color all. She certainly could
not imagine that Murdoch was Fae.

She could envision him as a warrior. “The Fae
truly have blue marks on their skin?”

Moira nodded vigorously. “It is how you know
them when they mingle amongst us. They are fond of ale, of horses,
of festivities. They think we cannot see them, though, that they
can pass unobserved. And they can, unless there is one with the
power to see them.”

“Like Elizabeth?”

Moira nodded, her lips pressed tightly
together.

“I do not think she has ever drunk tea of
wild thyme.”

“To be cursed with the power from birth is no
blessing!” Moira declared. “And to seek it out by choice is folly
indeed.”

“You sound fearful of such ability.”

“And rightly so.” Moira nodded. “Should a
soul be able to see them, such knowledge must never be revealed.
The Fae will strike blindness upon any who see them, for they are
ferociously private.” She swallowed. “They are fierce overall,
answerable to no moral code or law. ’Twas why the warriors of old
would pretend to be them, to strike terror into the hearts of their
opponents.”

Isabella frowned. “But what of a person with
such marks upon his skin? He would be a warrior, then?”

“Or he is one they mean to claim. Perhaps he
is claimed already. It depends who put the marks upon him, whether
they are feigned or genuine.” She shook her head. “If it is the
latter, my lady, know that he cannot be saved. The first mark upon
his skin was his doom. You must let them take him.”

Rebellion rose hot in Isabella’s chest and
she shrugged to hide the vigor of her response. She would let no
Fae claim Murdoch. Indeed, the tale sounded to be such nonsense
that she could not truly give it credit. He must have donned the
marks by choice. She knew he was from the Highlands and she knew he
had ridden south to reclaim his family legacy from Alexander. He
might well have believed that he would have to do battle to reclaim
the stolen relic and prepared accordingly.

“I thank you, Moira,” she said with a smile.
“It is best to know where one should use one’s powers.”

“And what one should avoid,” the maid said
with heat. “The Fae are here, have you not sensed them? Why do you
think my lady is so ill with this child, when she was not with her
first? It is the touch of
them
, for they would take the
child as their own. They care not if it is dead or alive, or if my
lady lives or dies.”

Isabella was startled by this diatribe, so
startled that she knew not what to say. She had not realized that
Moira was so superstitious.

The maid gripped her arm, perhaps sensing
that Isabella did not believe her. “Do not consume wild thyme, my
lady. It will only bring you grief, for
they
bring only
grief.”

“I am glad I spoke to you, Moira.” Isabella
squeezed the older woman’s hands. “There is so much to learn, and
it seems that not all of the knowledge is in books.”

“It is in the memories of grandmothers,”
Moira said with force. Eleanor stirred slightly and the maid
glanced back, protective as ever of her mistress.

“I shall make her another posset,” Isabella
said. “If you would sit with her.”

There was no question of the maid doing
otherwise.

Just as there was no question of Isabella not
consuming a tea made of wild thyme. She half-believed the tale was
nonsense, but there was only one way to be sure. And thyme in
either wild or common form was harmless.