Bedded by the Laird (Highland Warriors) (3 page)

 ‘Bridie’s
not to be left alone.’ Alasdair pulled the auld woman aside.

‘The fresh air’s
good for her.’
Mrs
Moffat retorted. ‘I
cannae
be siting out in the sun
all day with her. I’ve a kitchen to run.’

‘Well then, Mary
or one of the others is to be with her.’ Alasdair would not be swayed –
Bridie’s listlessness and the dull despair in her eyes had disturbed him.
‘You’re to keep me informed about the baby.’

‘I’m so worried….’
Mrs
Moffat shook her head and she sighed in despair.
‘She’ll no survive the birth – what with her injuries and being on the
verge of decline, she’s no got the energy for it. Bridie has no will to live.
I’m forcing her to eat and it’s not enough for one as it is…’

It wasn’t enough,
for Bridie didn’t get much bigger and as the seasons turned and the hillside
started to turn to orange, he was told by
Mrs
Moffat
that the midwife had been called for Bridie.

‘It’s too soon, is
it not?’ Alasdair said.

He paced the
castle floor, waited for her screams to pierce the night, but they did not and
his heart ached that she
laboured
in silence, that
not even the agony of birth could reach her.

And then, as the
sun rose to greet another morning he heard the cries, not from Bridie, but from
her
bairn
, small feeble cries that were far too weak.

Mrs
Moffat
came out and told him the baby was a girl and then she started to cry. ‘I don’t
think she’ll make it.’

‘How’s Bridie?’
But he did not wait for
Mrs
Moffat’s answer –
he wanted to see for himself.

He walked into the
room and Bridie sat holding her infant. Bridie’s hair was dark from sweat, as
if she had swum in the loch and her skin was by far too pale, like the wax on
the candle by her bed. She was staring down at the baby she was holding as if
bemused as to how she had got there. She was shaking just with the exertion of
holding her and when her arms trembled Alasdair scooped the babe into his own
strong arms. He had never held one, but even to his inexperienced arms he knew
she was too small, for she weighed nothing. She reminded him of a skinned
rabbit. Alasdair felt tiny fingers, as light as a sparrows claws, curl around
his finger, looked at the little knots of red hair and then her eyes opened and
china blue met his, eyes that seemed to reach in and tether a feeble heart to
the strong, hardened one of the Laird.

 ‘We’re
trying to find a wet nurse for her,’
Mrs
Moffat told
Bridie, for she did not want her getting too attached to the infant. ‘But for
now you’re to feed her and the priest is coming to
baptise
her.’

And Bridie’s eyes
met the Laird’s.

‘I can’t lose her,
Laird.’ She looked over to him and Alasdair swallowed, everyone had said she
would want nothing to do with the baby when it came. ‘She’s my saving grace.’

‘Why don’t you
call her Gracie then?’ Alasdair said but
Mrs
Moffat
had other ideas.

‘The
Campbells
might want to choose her name….’

And Bridie held
her hands out to hold her daughter. ‘Aye, well
Mrs
Campbell’s not the one feeding her.’ Bridie said. ‘She’s to be
baptised
, Gracie.’

And so she was,
but from the tears in the room it was clear that the priest would soon be
called back.

‘She’ll not make
it.’ The midwife said away from Bridie’s ears. ‘Not this early and small -
she’ll soon tire from feeding and she’ll not get enough nourishment.’

 Gracie’s
lips were hungry and at first willingly she fed, but in just a couple of days
as the midwife had said she would, Gracie was tiring. Her mouth was slack at
Bridie’s nipple and no amount of cajoling would waken her.

‘I can’t feed her
Laird.’ Alasdair saw the hopelessness in Bridie’s eyes. ‘My milk’s dried up.’

‘It’s not your
fault, Bridie
..
’

‘I should have
eaten more.’

‘Bridie...’ The
Laird did not know what to say, for he knew Bridie was fragile, knew she was
exhausted and that if the
bairn
died then Bridie
would only blame herself further.

 ‘I can’t lose
her, Laird.’ Bridie kissed one tiny pale cheek. She held a rag that had been
soaked in sheep’s milk into Gracie’s mouth, for they were trying anything now.
‘Is this to be my punishment?’

‘I’ll speak with
the midwife again.’

Never had Alasdair
felt more useless, always he had a plan, always he fought for what was right,
but in this, it seemed, he was powerless.

‘There’s a woman
in
Glenbarach
,’ the midwife reluctantly divulged when
Alasdair demanded that she do more. ‘They call her a wise woman, though she’s
more like a witch. She’s reared
a couple that are
smaller than Gracie but her ways are feared. She lives in the woods, she’s not
allowed near the
Glenbarach
Castle…’

‘Go and get her.’
Alasdair went and spoke with
Callum
. ‘Go and speak
with Hamish and, if that fails, ask to speak with Peter.’

‘Laird
Glenbarach
?’
Callum
raised his
eyes. ‘He’ll no give us something for nothing. What am I to offer?’

‘Hunting rights to
the burn for a month.’ Alasdair said and it was a more than generous offer, for
the traps were full and the deer were plenty.

‘And if no?’

Alasdair looked
down to Gracie who lay pale and weak in her crib and he must remain strong,
except he could not stand for Bridie to lose her. ‘Do what you have to, but get
her here.’ He turned. ‘Go now.’

Deep in the night
the priest was called again and Bridie clung to an ailing Gracie, tears pouring
down her cheeks as she was anointed.

‘Rest now,’
Mrs
Moffat said.

‘I want to hold
her.’

Bridie held her
and tried to feed her but it was hopeless. Seeing Bridie weeping was too much
for
Mrs
Moffat. ‘I’ll take her to the warm kitchen
and try her again with some honey.’

‘I want to hold
her.’ Bridie begged but
Mrs
Moffat took Gracie and
Bride
lay
sobbing, her breasts swollen and sore, her
womb aching for Gracie and her heart filled with dread.

Callum
returned just after sunrise with the wise woman, a dark haired, wary beauty
named Morag. Wrapped in a purple cloak, with a large pendant around her neck,
her eyes were suspicious as she came into the kitchen where
Mrs
Moffat was watching wee Gracie. The baby lay flaccid in her crib and had not
cried even once since last night.

‘I think it’s too
late,’ Morag said as she saw Gracie’s sunken eyes and she unwrapped the blanket
she was swaddled in and saw too the slack dry skin. ‘She’s too far gone.’

‘We were just
about to take her to Bridie to try and feed her again, and I’ve sent a lad out
to bring me the first goat’s milk, to try her with that.’

‘Where’s her
mother?’ Morag asked, but when she heard she was in the servant’s quarters and
resting between attempts to feed, Morag shook her head. ‘She’s to be in the
warmest room and the
bairn
is to stay beside her and
not be moved through the castle. Have the mother moved there now and then I’ll
bring the infant to her, I’ll stay with the wee one for now.’

And so, since his
was the warmest room in the castle, the laird was woken and Bridie found
herself back in the laird’s bed.

‘You might as well
move in for good…’ the laird growled as he carried Bridie through the castle
and he was rewarded with just a hint of a smile.

Mrs
Moffat
tucked the fur rug around Bridie and sent for Mary to bring Morag, the wise
woman.

‘Is she a witch?’
Mary’s eyes were wide, scared to go down alone and get her.

‘Go now,’
Mrs
Moffat scolded, but she was nervous of Morag too, and
more so when the door opened, for Morag just stopped in her tracks, stood
there, as if transfixed, staring at Bridie.

‘Can you help my
baby?’ Bridie begged.

Morag said nothing
and the whole room stood silent, fearful of the wise woman and her strange
ways. She stood, holding Gracie but staring at Bridie and, taking her heavy
pendant in
hand,
Morag mouthed words, as if in prayer.

‘Is it a spell?’
Mary whispered and
Mrs
Moffat hushed her with a stern
stare.

‘Please,’ Bridie
sobbed, and the laird was growing impatient, as still Morag did not move, just
stood holding a flaccid Gracie, but perhaps Bridie’s grief moved her, for
suddenly Morag stirred.

‘I’ll do
everything I can.’ Her voice was raw an earnest. ‘I want some hot water, warmed
from this fire and put more logs on…’ Her eyes fell to the laird, but as Mary
moved to oblige Morag stopped her. ‘No,’ said Morag. ‘It is to be him.’

And so the laird
added logs and then everyone was sent from the room and Morag handed Bridie her
babe.

‘You’re to drink
this,’ Morag said and handed Bridie a long glass vial. She swallowed the
disgusting brew without question, even if she had no idea what it might do.

‘Is it the laird’s
babe?’ Morag asked as she took the water that was hanging over the fire and
filled a small vessel.

‘No,’ Bridie said
and Morag frowned as her hands tested the water, warmed by the logs he had
thrown on the fire.

‘His energy is
here.’ Morag said but Bridie did not understand. ‘It is a good energy.’ Morag
smiled and lit a candle from the fire and put it beside the vessel. She then
opened her bag and made a stew of herbs and oils chanting at the same time then
Morag picked up a length of plaid and held it to the fire. ‘Take your kirtle
off,’ she told Bridie.

‘That’s the lairds
plaid,’ Bridie said for she was worried to see Morag tearing it.

‘It holds warmth,’
Morag said as she wrapped a length around Bridie’s body and the other pieces
stayed warming by the fire.

Then she unwrapped
Gracie and Bridie just about folded over when she saw the wasting body, for her
legs were like wee twigs and lay idle and her arms hung down as Morag lifted
her to the vessel and washed her in the strange liquid.

‘Love her,’ Morag
said to Bridie and then sang a song as she bathed Gracie. ‘Don’t fear her,’ she
said. ‘You must gaze on her now with love.’

‘I do love her…’

Bridie did.

‘There must be no
fear.’ Morag said. ‘Think of her bonny and plump and crying as she did when she
was born.’ Bridie tried to let her fears go, tried not to think of death and
punishment, just looked to her scrawny infant and remembered the cries that had
gently pierced dawn, thought of those slack lips as they once had been -
searching and hungry and as Morag sang, Bridie ached to feed her, a rush coming
into her breasts, a wet patch on the plaid as she dripped with longing to feed
her infant.

‘Put honey to your
breast,’ Morag said and though they had tried that already, it felt different
now, for Bridie’s breasts were dripping and aching. Morag brought Gracie over,
pressed her to Bridie’s engorged breast and then wrapped them both in the plaid
and added another warm layer. Bridie felt Gracie’s skin next to hers, held her
close, skin to skin, as she never had, and slowly Gracie seemed to warm,
stirring in Bridie’s arms, her little mouth searching for nourishment.

‘She’s feeding.’

Bridie’s eyes
shone with hope, but it dimmed, for after
a few suckles
,
Gracie tired again.

‘She stays here
now,’ Morag said. ‘Warmed by your skin, fed from you.’

Morag was patient,
milking Bridie’s breasts, drip feeding tiny Gracie and over and over she
changed the outer layer of plaid with the one that warmed by the fire, till
Bridie’s face was flushed with heat.

Finally the wise
woman said to let Gracie rest. ‘But not for long,’ she warned.

Gracie slept at
her mother’s breast and regularly the outer plaid was changed and finally, the
cloth between Gracie’s legs was wet.

‘Feed her again.’
Morag held her pendant chanting to the sun by day and at night the moon and
over and over Bridie fed her
bairn
.

‘Should we let her
sleep?’ Bridie asked one time, for Gracie looked so content.

‘She’ll sleep till
she’s dead if you leave her,’ Morag said, not looking at Bridie and smeared
honey on Bridie’s nipple again.

‘How do you know
what to do?’ Bridie asked later, when Morag woke from dozing and instructed
Bridie to feed.

‘I’m not here to
answer your questions,’ Morag said. ‘Just to get your
bairn
well.’