For Love Of Rory. Barbara Leigh

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      Serine went to her, placing her hands on Ethyl’s arms. “Do not let the knowledge be lost. Let it be used to save lives, as it was meant to do. I will take full responsibility and swear that I made the potion myself.”

      “There is no need for you to do that, although it would be true. For the herbal remedy we make that is bitter to the tongue is the same brew that cost my mother her life.”

      Serine gave a little gasp, but before she could express her horror at Ethyl’s revelation, the older woman added, “Use your skill to keep him alive, and I will return with the elixir that will, with God’s help, make him well.” Old Ethyl started toward the door. “I will be back to help you remove him from the water. In the meantime, you can deal with his beard in your own way.”

      Old Ethyl glanced at her mistress. There was something about Serine that seemed to indicate curiosity rather than concern. Was the younger woman interested in the man’s appearance? Surely not! This was a Celt. An enemy! One of the men who had stolen Serine’s son. Yet the features above the beard were strong and even. The man might be handsome, for all that he was a Celt.

      With hope beating in her heart Serine turned back to the Celt and, to her horror, saw that he was watching her with eyes as black and deep as the depths of hell. She could not help but wonder how much he had understood and how much he would be able to remember when his fever had passed. She listened closely as his jumbled words became discernible.

      “The name of the village,” she whispered. “What is the name of your village? Why do you want to steal children? Have you none of your own?”

      “Dead!” The Celt choked on the word. “All dead from plague.” His voice broke and his breath came in ragged gasps.

      “Tell me the name of your village and I will go there and cure them, just as I will cure you of your fever and heal your wound,” Serine soothed.

      “We must save the village,” he panted. “Without children, we will be lost. We must break the curse!”

      Serine crossed herself. “Curse?”

      “No children born since the plague...women barren. Must take children...” Exhaustion overcame him and he fell silent.

      * * *

      The sky darkened and the fire crackled against the chill of night. The pungent odor of herbs permeated the room, clearing the air of the scent of sickness, leaving the fresh smell of cleanliness with a hint of marigold ointment as Serine sat back and inspected her work.

      She had not expected the Celt’s skin to be so fair beneath his growth of beard. She had not expected his lips to be so full and well formed, hinting of smiling sensuousness even in his pain. She had not expected the structure of his face to be so strong, and the line of his jaw so firm. Nor had she expected the cleft set deep in his chin.

      His cheeks and forehead carried a much richer color than did the area that had been concealed by his facial hair. It must have been many months since he had taken the time to shave, she mused as she pressed another herb-soaked cloth against the swelling in his neck and was rewarded by a sigh of comfort.

      Twice she had added warm water as she waited for Old Ethyl to appear. And while she was alert for sounds of the woman’s presence, Serine was not anxious for her return. Her tired mind focused on the man before her. What was he like? What position did he hold in his village? Had he a wife and children? If his wife were here would she snatch him from the healing waters and insist that he lie in the bed burning with fever? Or would she approve of Serine’s treatment and help sponge the heated body? Would a wife watch the rivulets of water as they slithered down his shoulders and across his chest? Might she take her finger to trace the watery trail as it wended its way over the muscles of his upper body and disappeared into the pool of bathwater that covered his lower extremities?

      Without conscious reflection Serine’s eyes followed the pattern of her thoughts, relishing the taut muscles of his diaphragm and the flat ridges of his belly. How different he was from the jiggling bulk of the man Serine called husband. So different they might be of a different species. She cupped the water in her hand and allowed it to drizzle over his body, imagining the culmination of its journey within the depths of the cask. Imagining how it might trace his manhood, urging it to a glorious awakening. Such an act between husband and wife would, no doubt, in happier times, culminate in an act of love laced with passion as well as abandonment.

      How different such a coming together would be compared to her dutiful coupling with her elderly husband. How uniquely different, and how wonderful!

      She sighed and squeezed the water from the cloth as Old Ethyl entered the room. The older woman stopped short when she saw the expression on Serine’s face.

      “I thought to apologize for being gone longer than planned,” she said. “But from the look on your face perhaps I weren’t gone long enough. We’d best move him back to the bed. With the night coming on he’s apt to catch a chill.”

      “Yes, yes, of course,” Serine agreed. “I was about to send for someone to help me do just that.” She tried to laugh away the woman’s suspicions, but the color that rushed to her face belied her efforts of denial. It was amazing how much that old woman could see with just one eye.

      “I learned why the Celts took our children,” Serine told her. “It seems their women are barren and the village faces extinction.”

      “That is good,” Old Ethyl said as she placed a container of rich dark liquid on the table. “The children will be treated kindly until we can bring them back.”

      Serine shook her head. “It is bad,” she argued. “They want children to populate their village. They will not easily give them up.”

      “Did he say where the village might be?” Old Ethyl asked.

      “He said little that made sense.”

      Old Ethyl handed Serine a cup of horsetail tea laced with the bitter brew. “Wet his lips with the tea. Some of the liquid will slip down his throat and he will begin to heal, God willing.”

      Serine hesitated before administering the brew. She could only pray that Old Ethyl had been able to duplicate the recipe exactly. If the woman had inadvertently deleted one of the ingredients, or been forced to make a substitution, it could cost the man his life and Serine her only hope of finding her son.

      Uttering a silent prayer, Serine dipped the cloth into the liquid and touched it to the lips of the unconscious man.

      The Celt choked on the liquid and Old Ethyl stayed Serine’s hand. “Gently, gently,” she warned. “Drowning him in herbal juices will not heal him the faster.”

      Serine gently squeezed a liquid-soaked cloth, wishing that her hand did not shake so when she was forced to hold him in close proximity, just as she hoped that Old Ethyl did not notice the evidence of her weakness. For Serine found it impossible to control herself where the Celt was concerned.

      * * *

      Rory’s fever had diminished and he lay beneath the furs in relative comfort as Serine ministered to him.

      In all truth, the Celt was probably much more comfortable than Margot and Old Ethyl, who slept on mats at the far end of the chamber.

      Serine had tried to talk the women out of guarding their captive СКАЧАТЬ