Curse of the Celts by Clara O'Connor (most romantic novels .TXT) 📕

a doctor. There is no known cure for the illness. How did you…?” If Marcus heard the man’s snarky tone then he didn’t respond; in his eagerness to learn more he was practically tumbling over his words. His hands reached for the now empty cup.

He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. “Bitter. What is this?”

The healer cast a suspicious look at the outsider but finally shrugged. Who was Marcus going to tell?

“A tincture made mostly of mistletoe. The druids grow it. It’s no cure but it helps. Our stocks are low. The prince distributes it to the principality over Yuletide after the midwinter harvest but we’ve gone through it fast this year. More and more have fallen ill of the Mallacht and we couldn’t wait another month. But then news came that a Briton boy had escaped the city and his lordship hoped it was his boy, so he insisted we delay. When two weeks went by I figured he must have gone past already but Lord Rhodri would not leave, just in case.”

He looked down at his lord who, though he looked much recovered, now slept in his large chair, clearly exhausted by the battle that had taken place in his body.

“I hope we did not delay too long. He hid how low our supply was and I took some for my journey in case I met anyone in need. Excuse me while I see exactly how long our supply will last for those within the keep who rely on it to keep them this side of the grave.”

I waited until Madoc left the room. Marcus was lost in thought as he watched him leave, no doubt wanting to learn more about the treatment. I had need of his attention though.

“Are you strong enough yet?” I indicated the frail older man. “The medicine he’s been taking, it won’t cure him. But you can.”

Marcus nodded thoughtfully. “I think I could help one or two now. I will speak to him tomorrow and see if he will accept my help.”

“Why would he not accept?”

“We’ll see.”

Chapter Sixteen

On the second morning after Gideon’s departure, a call went up that riders were coming. The position of the tower high on a hill afforded its residents a view over the surrounding countryside for miles and miles, so it felt like an age before the two riders finally emerged from the trees close enough to be identified: Bronwyn and one of her warriors. Where was Devyn?

Bronwyn was hailed and entered through the open gates. I stumbled down the stone stairs that brought me from the top of the wall to the courtyard. I rushed over to Bronwyn as she dismounted.

Her eyes caught and held mine, her face drawn. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t make the words exist in my mind, much less emerge from my mouth.

She caught and squeezed my hand.

“He lives,” she assured me. “Where is Madoc?”

“He went to check on his supply of mistletoe, I think.” I wasn’t sure of his location though.

I trailed after her as she immediately took off towards the side entrance to the tower where Madoc’s room was.

“Where is Devyn?”

She didn’t falter as she answered over her shoulder through the black wing of her hair.

“He’s coming behind. But we need Madoc,” she said. “Now.”

What did that mean? I reached for Devyn to find out for myself but could sense nothing. Surely he couldn’t be too far behind. Where was he and what had happened to slow them down this much?

“Madoc,” she called, and without waiting for an answer was inside.

The druid – I had been corrected when I had referred to him as a healer – was pulling some herbs down from where they hung drying on the wall. There were small pots and bottles covering every available surface. Bottles and jars of blue and green, brown and transparent, of both pottery and glass. The clear ones that I could see held liquids and pastes of various colours; some contained seeds and a large one beside me seemed to contain dirt. The benches were crowded with pestles and pots and even a series of tubes that dripped a greenish liquid into a smaller dark pot.

Madoc didn’t look up as we burst unceremoniously into the room, just bustled about plucking one bottle off a shelf before returning it and reaching into a drawer and taking out two others.

“Madoc,” Bronwyn repeated impatiently.

“Tsh, tsh, I hear you, girl. I’m not deaf,” he said, continuing to lift and discard various bottles, peering into them and opening the stoppers to sniff at others.

Bronwyn was not a woman used to being hushed like a child, but neither was she able to bring herself to shout at a druid she presumably had known since childhood.

“Gods, Madoc, please,” she finally pleaded with him to acknowledge her.

He sniffed at one last green bottle and, apparently satisfied, put it into a bag which he then lifted over his head, settling it securely across his body.

Crossing to Bronwyn, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Bad.”

My stomach jumped a little at the confirmation of what I already knew to be true.

“Is he conscious?”

“A little,” she said. “That is, he wakes some, and he knows me, but then he is gone again.”

“How far has the darkness extended?” he asked, referring to the dark veiny colour that we had described to him, the one that crept from Devyn’s wound when we had last seen him.

“His whole chest, his arms, up to his neck.”

My stomach swooped. Were we too late. Had whatever it was invaded too much of his body to be repelled by whatever concoction Madoc had prepared to fight it with? Focus. I needed to focus on what they were saying; I could process it later.

“His face?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good, that’s good.” The druid nodded as he pulled his great grey cloak on. “When he’s not awake, how deep is he gone?”

“Deep.” She glanced at me. “He seems almost dead at times.”

I bit my