What more can Melisande possibly add to the sordid tale?
While it went against her innate sense of justice, Laoghaire nevertheless acquiesced with a grudging nod. “Ye have my word. Besides, I am in no position to exact my revenge,” she added, as she gestured to the sturdy walls of her makeshift prison, pragmatic enough to know the matron was beyond her reach.
Having garnered the vow, Melisande opened the silk purse that hung from her belt and removed a small, dark-colored vial. “Earlier today, when I entered Lord Angus’s chamber, I came upon my mother administering a potion to him. Although I pretended to have seen nothing untoward, my mother became quite flustered, and in her agitation, she hid the vial under his pillow before she fled the room.”
“Is that the vial she hid?” Laoghaire asked, shocked by the revelation.
With a grave expression, Melisande nodded her head. “It contains milk of poppy.”
Sweet Jesu! No wonder Galen has remained in a corpse-like state. The milk of poppy is the reason why he has yet to revive.
“B-but why would she do such a thing?” Laoghaire sputtered, at a loss to understand why Dame Winifred would want to keep Galen on the brink of death.
“My mother has never relinquished the hope that I might . . . might one day become Galen’s wife,” Melisande hesitantly confessed. “And when you unexpectedly arrived at the encampment, I believe she . . . she seized the opportunity, thinking it would be . . .” Her voice faded into silence.
“It would be her last chance to get rid of me,” Laoghaire said softly.
“Clearly, my mother’s unrealistic hopes tainted her judgment.”
“‘Tainted her judgment!’” she exclaimed, outraged by the matron’s duplicity. “She intends to have me killed for a witch so ye can marry my husband!”
“Once Lord Angus revives and learns what transpired during his illness, do you think he would ever want to marry me?” Melisande whispered, barely able to get the words past her trembling lips. “He desires you, not me. I found that out weeks ago, but . . . but my mother refuses to accept it.”
“Given the dire nature of yer mother’s actions, will ye testify before the court that—”
“No! I will not!” Melisande interjected in an impassioned tone of voice. “In spite of her sins, Iwill nottestify against my own mother.”
In the face of that resolute objection, Laoghaire reluctantly acknowledged that she’d hit an impasse. “’Tis a fiendish plot that has been hatched,” she murmured, certain that after she was burned at the stake, Galen would thenmiraculouslyrecover.
“My mother is no fiend. She is, however—” Melisande hesitated, and it was obvious that she sought her words with measured care—“greatly misguided.”
Laoghaire withheld comment. Although enraged by the older woman’s deadly scheme, she knew that now was not the time for recriminations. Now was the time to elicit Melisande’s assistance.
Putting aside her enmity for the mother, she said, “If we are to save Galen, we must act quickly.”
“Tell me what you would have me do,” Melisande replied without hesitation.
“I want ye to have Sir William guard Galen’s chamber. He is to permit none but ye to enter. Remain at his side until he revives from his dark stupor,” Laoghaire instructed, well aware that she was putting her trust in a woman who, until very recently, had been a rival for her husband’s affections.
With a look of steadfast resolve, Melisande solemnly nodded her head.
“There is one last thing.” Laoghaire deliberately paused to ensure she had the other woman’s full attention before she said, “While I will not seek retribution against yer mother, I demand that she live out her remaining days in a nunnery. And I suggest she depart from this monastery immediately, as my brother will not hesitate to avenge me at the point of a sword.”
A look of stark fear came over Melisande. “Would the laird . . . would he blame me for—”
“Ye have nothing to fear,” Laoghaire assured her. “The sins of the mother are not yours to bear.”
Just then a bell tolled, both of them giving a start at hearing its sonorous ring.
“’Tis the bell for vespers,” Melisande said, as she hurriedly stuffed the vial into her purse. “I must take my leave.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Step lively, witch!”
“Ye can rot,” Laoghaire muttered under her breath as she was forcibly led to the pyre in the abbey forecourt, a deputy on either side of her.
Hit in the face with a burst of sunlight, she narrowed her eyes while she looked heavenward. The sky was a dazzling shade of blue, against which soft, fleece-like clouds gently floated. Having spent the last two days in the darksome crypt, the radiant scene was nearly too much for her to bear. Or perhaps her eyes ached because she’d spent the previous night weeping, heartsick that she was to go to her death without having bid her beloved farewell.
