Page 11 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)
Mirrie had never seen a change come over someone so quickly.
All of Tristan’s confidence disappeared in an instant. Despair washed over his handsome features as he staggered away from Morwenna. At first, he put his hands to his face but then he gripped the back of his father’s chair like a man on the verge of falling.
Morwenna fixed her steady green gaze on the floor, as if she could not bear to witness such anguish in her son.
“I am sorry,” Mirrie said aloud, wishing there was something to do to help. “Shall I attend to Angus for a while and give you the chance to rest?”
The countess looked as if a gust of wind might knock her sideways, but she summoned a smile and shook her head slowly. “Thank you, dear Mirrie. But I do not like to be long away from him.”
Mirrie put a hand to her heart. The deep love shared between Angus and Morwenna was something she had admired since childhood. It had brought them much happiness and now that would inevitably turn to pain.
“Is there really nothing that can be done?” Tristan’s voice broke on the question and Mirrie knew another stab of sympathy for him. “I did not think him so very ill when I left.”
“Your father took a turn for the worse the day before you departed for Ember Hall, but I did not like to burden you with it. Of course, we all thought the setback was temporary and he would soon recover.” Morwenna rubbed at her arms as if warding off a chill.
The dark smudges under her eyes caused Mirrie to wonder when she had last slept.
“Your father has been bled so much, I fear he has little left in him.”
Tristan made a choking sound and Mirrie joined Morwenna in gazing at the dark knots in the polished floor beneath their feet. But something niggled at the back of her mind. Before she could think better of it, she found herself speaking into the silence.
“Frida has always been against the act of bleeding to cure illness,” she declared. In the next moment her cheeks flushed hot. Who was she to question the castle physician? “I am sorry,” she added quietly, hoping her pronouncement would be ignored.
But Tristan was gazing at her as if she had handed him fresh hope. “Frida is a skilled healer.” He motioned towards his mother. “You have always said so.”
Morwenna gave a little shrug. “Frida inherited the skills of my grandmother, it is true. But I cannot claim that either of them ever treated an illness of this sort.”
Tristan leaned over the back of the chair, almost entreatingly. “What are Frida’s arguments against the practice?”
Mirrie’s mind raced as she tried to remember. “I only know that she would not allow it for Flora last winter. She turned the physician away and nursed the child back to health using only herbs and potions she mixed herself.”
“We must summon Frida.” Tristan’s pronouncement echoed around the solar.
“Nay.” Morwenna spoke with equal force. “She is near her time and the upset could harm the babe. I will not allow it.”
Mirrie thought for a moment that Tristan would argue the point, but he only nodded.
“Mayhap you are right.” He rubbed at the growth of stubble across his suntanned cheeks.
“But there are other healers. Other physicians, even, who have more in their arsenal than bleeding.” He strode from the desk and came to stand beside his mother, towering over her diminutive frame. “Has anything else been tried?”
Morwenna’s eyes widened. “At the beginning, of course. Before calling the physician. We tried hot broths and applied henbane to his joints. But the new physician trained in Italy. He said our potions were outdated and ineffective.”
“And began with the bloodletting?” Tristan raised his eyebrows.
“Aye.” Morwenna nodded. “He is the best in the land,” she protested. “Your father put his faith in him.”
“And that faith has been ill rewarded.” Tristan looked as if he might run upstairs this instant and take the man to task. “How long has this bloodletting been going on?”
“About a sennight.” Morwenna sighed shakily. “I did not think to question it.”
Mirrie bitterly regretted planting this idea that the physician was not trustworthy in Tristan’s head. Once again, he was concentrating on the wrong thing. Instead of admitting his feelings of grief and sorrow, he was determined to try to fix a situation not in his control.
Because Tristan cannot bear to be not in control.
She dragged a hand over her eyes and heaved herself up from the chair.
She ached from top to toe, although the long ride from Ember Hall already seemed part of another life entirely.
“Should you not go to him?” she suggested gently, daring enough to take Tristan’s hand in her own. “This time may be precious.”
You should not waste it arguing with your mother, she wanted to add.
Tristan’s piercing blue gaze clashed with hers for a brief moment. “That is true.” He bit down on his lip. “There is not a moment to lose.”
He still held her hand, but she could tell from the far-away expression on his face that he was not thinking of this time in the solar, nor of the dying man on the floor above. Tristan’s sharp mind had gone elsewhere.
Morwenna took a few steps over to her husband’s desk and ran her fingers across the polished surface. “The times I would berate him for poring too long over his books…” she said sadly.
Tristan folded his arms and walked to the other side of the desk. His heavy brows drew together as if he was puzzling something out.
“I will return to him.” Morwenna sighed deeply. “You will come with me, Tris.” It was a statement, not a question. Then she smiled at Mirrie. “And you too, Mirrie, dear.”
Mirrie opened her mouth to protest. This was time for family and she did not want to intrude on their grief.
“What was the name of Frida’s friend?”
Morwenna and Mirrie both started in surprise at the question. Tristan gazed from one to another, clearly expecting an answer.
“Which friend?” Morwenna asked with a shrug. “She had many over the years. None so close to her as Mirrie, though.”
But Mirrie had divined the path of Tristan’s thoughts. “You mean the girl called Juliana,” she injected, quelling the sharp-edged emotions that threatened to surface at the memory of her name.
Tristan snapped his fingers and smiled in triumph. “That’s the one. Juliana. Dark hair. Tall.”
Morwenna shook her head in confusion, her weary face showing even greater signs of strain than before. “We have not seen the girl for years. Whatever can you want with her?”
“She was a healer,” declared Tristan, as if it was obvious. “One of the druids, if I remember correctly.” Shafts of evening sunlight fell through the open window and cast golden highlights all around him.
A brightness so at odds with the darkness of their situation.
Mirrie stood quietly. On the one hand, she could see the possible wisdom of Tristan’s idea. On the other, she knew that Morwenna would never yield to it.
Morwenna had a deep-seated fear of sorcery. Even her own daughter’s youthful Sight had caused her some distress; Mirrie had always privately suspected that the countess felt relief when Frida lost her gift after her accident.
Juliana was as much a Seer as Frida had ever been. She had been raised amongst the druids. Perchance her gift may even have strengthened over the years.
Mirrie tightened her lips. In her experience, women like Juliana usually grew stronger over the years. More beautiful. More skilful. More powerful.
Rendering her more likely to attract the attention of those who thought witchcraft was a crime that should be punished.
Which was all the more reason not to bring her into Wolvesley Castle at a time when the respected judiciary, law-maker and peace-keeper, Angus de Neville, was fading from life.
Only Tristan would concoct such an audacious plan. She shook her head in disbelief.
But he caught her movement and now she found herself a prisoner of his piercing stare.
“You do not think it a good idea?” he demanded.
“I do not.” She stood up to him, telling herself that it was for Morwenna’s sake and nothing to do with her own, closely-guarded, feelings about Juliana. “It would only cause more distress,” she added quietly.
“Should we not try everything possible to bring about my father’s cure?” His voice grew louder.
“We have already tried everything that is reasonably possible.” Morwenna stood tall in the face of Tristan’s visible frustration.
“So now is the time to try something bold,” he retorted.
“I forbid it.” Morwenna lifted her head proudly. “This is my home and I will not have you bring sorcery into it.”
Tristan did not falter for a moment. “Juliana is most likely long gone from these lands. But thanks to Father’s protection, the druid camp remains and I have no doubt there will be healers within their midst. I will instruct them to use only what herbs and potions can be found in the natural world.
No spells, no incantations.” He shrugged.
“Think on it, Mother. If your physician’s pronouncement is correct, then I shall be the Earl of Wolvesley within days.
I believe that gives me the right to invite whomever I wish to the castle. ”
Morwenna stifled a sob and even Mirrie flinched.
“It appears you will do whatever you wish,” the countess stated, her voice hard. “I will return to my husband’s bedside.”
“And I shall dispatch a messenger to the druid camp.”
Mirrie watched both of them stride out of the solar before sinking back into the tapestried chair she had recently vacated.
She put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes closed, willing her heart rate to slow and her breathing to steady. Family relationships at Wolvesley Castle were usually loving and easy. She had never before seen mother and son at so at odds with one another.