“Christ’s blood,” Galen blurted suddenly, hit with a burst of pain in his belly so excruciating he could barely keep upright in the saddle.
I must be suffering the ill effects of our earlier repast, he thought, as he drew in a sharp breath.
“Galen, are you all right?”
With a grimace, he peered over at Laoghaire. “’Twas something I ate,” he rasped through clenched teeth. Alarmingly, the pain had migrated upward, and it now felt as if his heart was being violently wrung by a pair of powerful hands.
In the next instant, seized with an agonizing jolt, his entire body jerked. A few heartbeats later, Galen slid from the saddle, his spurs jingling merrily as his booted feet hit the ground.
The next sound he heard was Laoghaire screaming his name . . . just before everything fell into darkness.
“Galen, can ye hear me?” Laoghaire whispered, desperate for a response.
Unable to detect any sign that Galen heard her, she bit back a sob. When, in the next instant, the coach hit a rut, she lurched gracelessly against the side of the conveyance. Despite being jostled by the swaying vehicle, Galen made no sound. Had it not been for the rise and fall of his chest, she might have thought his body had given up the ghost.
Thank God he is still among the living!
Although just barely she acknowledged with a fearful heart as she removed the woolen plaid from her shoulders and draped the length of fabric across Galen’s prone figure. Rendered corpse-like by the mysterious ailment, it was as if he’d been plunged into a dark stupor. Several hours had passed since the initial onset, with no improvement in his condition.
No sooner had Galen fallen from his horse than Dame Winifred had assumed command of the situation, much to Laoghaire’s relief. The older woman, clearly wise in such matters, had suggested they take Galen to a nearby monastery—St. Dunstan’s—where there was an infirmary for the care of the sick; as well as an herbalist, who was well-versed in the healing arts.
Knowing they could not reach St. Dunstan’s before nightfall, Laoghaire, concerned that Galen’s condition might worsen during the course of the trip, had suggested they instead summon the herbalist to come to them. But Dame Winifred had been insistent that Galen would receive far better care at the abbey hospital.
“Will he live, mistress?”Laoghaire had asked Dame Winifred in those anxious moments right after Galen had collapsed onto the ground.
“I fear, milady, his fate is now in God’s hands.”
“And I am begging ye, Almighty Father,” Laoghaire beseeched, steepling her hands in a prayerful pose, “to cure this mysterious ailment that has stricken my husband.”
Anxious to arrive at the monastery, she peered out the window of the coach. Twilight had just come upon them, and with it a sliver of moon had arisen, a gleaming sickle that seemed inexplicably malevolent to her. Because the waning moon shed little light, Piers Burnett held a torch aloft as he and Sir William de Graham led the small procession down the lane. In the far distance, she could make out the outline of a bell tower silhouetted against the deep indigo-blue sky.
Praise the saints! We are almost there!
“Please, my beloved, open yer eyes,” Laoghaire implored, as she gently cupped Galen’s cheek.
While she willed his recovery with great fervency, Galen did not so much as twitch a muscle.
To see her stalwart husband so helpless, so vulnerable, tore at her heart. Whatever it was that rendered him insensible, no one else in their entourage had been stricken with the ailment. Compounding the mystery further, just before he fell from his horse, Galen had uttered, “’Twas something I ate.”
But he and I ate the very same food when we stopped for supper, and I feel no symptoms.
Indeed, everyone in their party had eaten the same bread and cheese, and imbibed the same ale. But only Galen had fallen ill from it.
As they approached the abbey gatehouse, she prayed the resident herbalist would solve the mystery; and that he would more importantly administer a restorative tonic.
After the coach came to a shuddering halt, Laoghaire wasted no time in disembarking from the conveyance. Well aware that in her current disheveled state she must look more like a churl than an earl’s wife, she hurriedly smoothed a hand over her hair, tucking in flyaway tresses as best she could.
She then took note of their surroundings, able to see in the twilight that the monastery was set within a circle of pine trees that lent an air of dark foreboding, with long, sinewy branches swaying to and fro in the evening breeze. The gloomy atmosphere was reinforced by the twelve foot high wall that completely enclosed the compound. And though the wall was not as high as the curtain at Castle Airlie, it was tall enough to create a sense of seclusion. From which she surmised that uninvited guests were not altogether welcome.
Straightening her shoulders, Laoghaire made her way toward the Norman-style gatehouse that was set in the middle of the intimidating wall. Unlike a fortified gatehouse, there were no arrow loops or armed sentries. But there was a solid-looking gate that was closed shut. Above the gate was a double-arched window, through which the golden glow of candlelight could be seen.
Laoghaire glimpsed a face in the window peering down at them, a face that vanished an instant later.
Having already dismounted, Sir William strode over to a wooden door located next to the gate. He banged on it several times with a gloved fist. Long moments passed before it slowly creaked open. Standing on the other side of the threshold was a burly, bearded man who looked none too pleased at the disturbance.
“I am Sir William de Graham, a vassal of the Earl of Angus,” the young knight announced. “My liege lord has been stricken with a debilitating illness. We have brought him here to receive treatment.”
“The abbot has ordered the gate locked and none to pass through until after matins.”
