Devil of Kilmartin (22 page)

Elena had never let herself dwell on the question of whether she would become a mother or not. She was well past the age where most young women had their first children, and yet . . . if she did carry Symon’s child, she would never be truly alone. She would always have someone to love, even if she lived as Auld Morag did, separate from society. But would she be enough for a child?

It did not bear worrying over just now. She did not believe they had made a bairn.

Wee Fia met them at the bottom of the stairs leading from Symon’s tower. The child danced from one foot to the other in barely suppressed excitement. Elena couldn’t help smiling every time she spied that elfin face.

“Good morn, sprite. Were you waiting for me?”

“Aye, mistress. Me mum. She’s . . . the baby . . .” A huge gap-toothed grin spread over the girl’s face. “It came!” she finally managed to say.

Elena squatted down and took Fia’s hands in her own. “That’s wonderful! You’re a sister!”

“Aye, mistress, but me mum, she’s”—the grin faded—“she’s feeling poorly. She asked for you.”

Elena looked over her shoulder at Symon, then stood and moved to the bailey door, Fia’s hand in hers. “Let’s go see how she fares, lass.”

Symon followed behind. When they arrived at the chamber Mairi had been taken to in the night, Elena made Symon wait outside while she and Fia went in.

What Elena found inside nearly broke her heart. Mairi lay on the narrow bed, her skin gray, her eyes sunken. The
midwife was helping her drink something. Elena squeezed Fia’s hand, then turned to her, distracting her from her mum. “Sprite, will you go outside and keep Symon company? Tell him I’ll be needing some things from the stillroom in a bit.”

“But—”

“Do not worry over your mum. We need to let her rest so she’ll get strong enough to take care of you and your new . . .” She looked about for the infant, fear suddenly clenching her stomach when she did not see it.

“ ’Tis a fine boy-child,” the midwife said. “Though I told Mairi here she shouldn’t be having any more bairns. ’Twasn’t prudent.”

“My auntie has him,” Fia said quietly. “She has milk for him and me mum does not.”

Elena nodded. “Give Symon my message, then keep him company while we see to your mum.” She gave the girl a little push toward the door. Fia looked back at her with big eyes. “Don’t worry over him, sprite. You made him laugh yesterday, did you not?” Fia nodded. “Then you must be a fairy princess.” A smile lit the child’s face, and she scampered out the door.

When the door was closed and Elena could hear the low rumble of Symon’s voice, she turned back to the bed. Blood stained the coverings, where there had been none but moments before. Memory surged into her. She was cast back into a similar dark, stuffy room, with another woman bleeding to death after a difficult birth. That bairn had not lived, and neither had the woman, though not before Elena had tried to save her. Tried, and nearly lost her own life with the effort.

But this was different. She was different. This woman
was not her own mother, and she was no longer twelve years old. She knew better than to let herself get dragged down with the dying, knew to do only what she could while keeping herself distant, safe.

She looked at Mairi, wee Fia’s mum, and remembered what it had felt like to be cast adrift in a sea of men with no woman to guide her, to teach her, to comfort her. She would not see the same happen to Fia if she could prevent it.

She moved nearer the bed. Mairi slept, so she questioned the midwife. “Was it long?”

“Nay, indeed ’twas too fast. The babe was anxious and would not wait for her body to prepare completely. By the time I arrived, the bairn had been born and there was little I could do for the lass.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I do not think she’ll last the day.”

Elena moved to Mairi’s side and sat on the bed next to her. She picked up the woman’s hand and let herself sink into the sensations that poured into her. Oddly, there was little pain, just a floating, boneless sensation and Elena realized that she, too, was probably too late to help. Still, she must try, for Fia’s sake. She turned away from the dying woman to find the midwife eyeing her warily.

“I’ll sit here with her for a while. Why don’t you get some food and rest a bit?”

After a moment’s consideration the other woman turned and left the chamber.

T
he midwife came
through the door, took one look at Symon, and quickly crossed herself. She grabbed Fia by the hand, and he watched as she hurried away, pulling
the child with her and muttering under her breath about devils visiting the dying. Quietly he opened the door and slipped inside the overheated chamber.

“You should not be here,” Elena said without even looking up.

“How fares she?” he asked, moving closer to the bed.

Elena shook her head, then looked up at him, tears filling her eyes, threatening to spill over. “What will Fia do without her mum?”

“I suppose she’ll do what all weans do when they lose their mum. Her da will be back in a day or two, and she’s sure to have an aunt or a gran who will see to her.”

She turned back to the sleeping woman and shook her head violently. “Nay, ’tis never the same. ’Tis never enough.” She began rubbing her hands together as she stared at the woman’s face. “I cannot let it happen.”

“Lass, can you save her?” he asked, but she did not seem to hear him. He watched as she ran her hands over the other woman, letting them hover just over the bedclothes, near the bloodstain. He watched for any sign of pain in Elena, but there didn’t seem to be any. He watched as she rubbed her hands together again and again, a little more frantically each time. At last she sobbed as she rubbed them together and Symon touched her. She was freezing, though sweat sheened her skin.

“Elena.” She did not respond. “Elena!” He pulled her from the woman’s side now, onto her feet.

“No! I cannot let her die!” She fought him, pummeling his chest with her fists, tears pouring down her cheeks.

He examined the face of the woman on the bed. The eyes were open, but no life sparkled there. “She’s gone, lass. You did your best.”

“Noooo!” It was a cry as much as a denial.

“Wee Fia will be all right. We’ll see to it, you and me.”

“But Mairi—”

“She’s gone now. She’ll suffer no more.”

“I shouldn’t have kept myself distant. I should have been braver.”

“What do you mean, lass? I saw you. You struggled hard to save her.”

“Nay, I kept myself distant, did not allow my gift to pull me deep where I could have saved her. I was afraid, too afraid.”

She had quieted somewhat, resting her cheek against his tear-dampened chest.

“Why were you afraid?”

He did not think she was going to answer, but then she took a deep, shuddering breath. Her voice came quiet, almost a whisper, and her eyes were fixed on the dead woman. “Once before, in just this way, I tried to save a woman. I tried but did not know how to keep myself separate. By the time I realized what was happening, my gift had wound itself about her life, pulling me down into the darkness as she died. If my father had not pulled me from her when he did, I would have died with her. I have never allowed myself to get so close to death again. I should have today.”

Symon cupped the back of her neck and kissed the top of her head. “You did what you could, Elena-mine. ’Twas not meant for this one to live beyond this day.”

The door burst open and Fia entered, followed by the midwife and Jenny with a tray laden with food. Elena quickly stepped away from Symon. Fia stepped slowly toward the bed, her eyes big and her mouth solemn.

“Mum?” She stopped and looked from Elena to Symon and back, asking her question with her eyes.

Elena nodded, then knelt down and took the child’s hands. “ ’Twas peaceful,” she said. “I tried to help, but ’twas not enough. I’m sorry, sprite.” Tears rolled down Fia’s face, and Elena pulled her into her arms. “I’m so sorry.”

Symon shooed the other women out of the chamber, promising them quietly that he would call them when the wean had calmed a bit. He stood at the door, watching Elena rock the child in her lap, crooning to her and telling her how much her mum loved her, would always love her, over and over again. He couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if someone had done as much for him when his mum had died, or if anyone had done so for Elena when her mum died.

Sudden understanding rocked through him. The woman Elena had spoken of, the one she’d tried to save, had been her own mother. The enormity of it hit him, and once more he was amazed at the lass’s courage. Once before she had attempted what she had today, and nearly lost her own life, with her mother’s. And yet she had cared enough for Fia to overcome her fear and try again.

But had she not faced a similar dance with death when she healed warriors? He remembered the pain he had felt when she healed the burned lad. Perhaps the pain was enough to keep her separate. Perhaps. He would have to ask, later, when they were alone.

Soon Fia rose from Elena’s lap and moved to her mother’s side, Elena’s hand firmly clasped in hers. She bent and kissed her mum’s cheek, then Elena swung her up onto her hip and moved toward the door. Symon opened it,
then followed the woman and the child out into the corridor. The midwife waited there with Jenny. He nodded at them, then turned to follow Elena.

E
lena held Fia’s
hand as they walked back toward the gates of Kilmartin. It had been difficult for Elena to leave the relative safety of the castle’s stout walls, but she had to do it for Fia. If she had only been braver, stronger, she might have saved the child’s mum. A little voice at the back of her mind told her ’twas not so, but she tried to ignore it.

She had spoken with Fia’s aunt, a sour woman with too many weans of her own. She lived in the hills east of the castle. She had taken the bairn, at least until he was weaned, but she did not want the keeping of another hungry mouth. Fia’s da still had not returned from wherever it was he’d gone to. For now, at least, it seemed Elena was to be Fia’s keeper.

In other circumstances Elena would have been thrilled to have such a clever child in her care, would have longed to claim her as her own, but this was not to be. As Symon’s wish to wed her could not be. She could not stay here. True, since the discovery of Dougal’s secret entrance to the castle, and the burning of the stable, he had not harried the MacLachlans further. He had made no demands, nor launched any attacks. But he would. She knew it, was certain of it. ’Twas as inevitable as winter snows or spring rain.

But she could not leave yet. Symon had not heard from his mother’s people in the north, and Ranald had not returned from the errand he had been sent upon. He would
have to be here to see to the clan’s safety before Symon could leave for long enough to escort her north.

So if she must be here, at least she could offer some comfort to the lass, though she would have to prepare her from the beginning that it would only be for a short time, then she must look to her father, and perhaps Jenny, for her care and keeping.

She looked down at the unusually silent child and squeezed her hand. A lone tear trickled down Fia’s cheek, and she smeared it away with the back of her hand. Elena stopped and hugged her, holding her close, wishing with all her heart that she could take this kind of pain from her. She remembered all too vividly the pain of losing her own mother. If she could not take this pain away, at least she could share it.

She held the child close. “I know, sprite, ’tis unfair. ’Tis painful”—she pulled back and touched her fingers to the child’s chest—“there.”

Fia sniffed and nodded her head. “How did you ken such a thing?” she asked.

Elena touched her own chest. “I have the same kind of empty hurt, right here.”

“You do?”

“Aye. I lost my mum the very same way when I was only a bit older than you are now. Only I didn’t have a brother to love for her when she was gone. You do. You’re a sister, and the only thing that wee lad will ever know of his mum is what you and your da tell him. You need to keep those stories of her, the things you loved about her, the special memories you have of your time with her, and tell him, starting the next time you see him, and every time after. Your mum is here”—she touched the lass’s chest
again—“and here.” She touched her forehead. “As long as you remember, she’ll be here for you always.”

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

Elena considered telling her it did, but could not bring herself to lie to the wean. “Nay, it never does, though ’twill lessen with time. ’Tis more of an auld ache now than the stabbing pain when ’twas new.”

“But how did you get it to lessen?”

Elena looked out over the countryside, trying to remember those dark days after her mother’s burial. She had spent hours in her mum’s stillroom, putting things away her mum had never gotten to, arranging things to suit her own knowledge of the herbs, puttering with the things her mother had taught her. “I learned the herblore from anyone who would teach me. I kept my mind busy, so I would not dwell on what I had lost.”

“Will you teach me the herblore?”

“Och, lass, ’twas what fascinated me. What fascinates you?”

“You do.”

“Well, ’tis a passing fancy that. Before I came to this place, what did you play at? Did you help your mum with the ale brewing? Did you fancy yourself a cheesemaker?”

Fia just looked at her. “I fancied myself to be a fine healer, so I could help me mum when her time came upon her. I was no help.”

Elena cupped the child’s chin in her hand, lifting it until their eyes met. “Even I, with . . . with all my knowledge and skill, could not help your mum. Do not hold yourself responsible when you had no way to stop what would come. Wee Fia, your smile eased more of your mum’s burdens than anything else you could have given her.”

Tears streamed down the child’s face. Symon moved close and scooped Fia into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder, never taking her eyes from Elena, nor did she release Elena’s hand as they moved through the gate. “Will you be my mum, now, Elena?”