Page 4 of Fire in his Highland Heart

“I’ll...I’ll fetch ye some fresh linens. But Lady Marianne, listen tae me--”

Marianne squatted to relieve herself and let out a pained gasp. “Why should I listen to you? Your potions caused this.”

Oh no, thought Arguen. When people spat out that word, and blamed the healer for medicinal abnormalities beyond their control, good never followed. “Nae, I simply tried to comfort ye. Listen to me--when ye…” Arguen hesitated to find the right words for a moment, “when ye try to--” she motioned down at her own intimate parts, “ye may see some blood. Clusters of it. And it’s likely that…” she took a deep breath.

Marianne was still squatting over the chamber pot. “Likely that what?” she hissed, that icy English accent enunciating every syllable.

Arguen swallowed again. “That...ye may not...have a bairn this autumn after all.”

Marianne’s lower lip trembled, and her green eyes became glossy with unshed tears. “I’ll not...have a child?”

The healer inhaled a deep breath through her nose to calm herself. “If this is what I think, then nae.”

It didn’t seem to register in Marianne’s mind. For a few moments following Arguen’s assessment, nothing happened. The air was terribly still, and the tension between the two women was so thick, a knife would have trouble cutting through it.

Then, everything happened at once. Marianne let loose a gut-wrenching sob, accompanied by the blood that the healer had warned her about. Arguen rushed to her side and cast one of Marianne’s arms about her shoulder, and held her by the waist with the other arm so that Marianne was supported. Arguen began to pray to whoever in the heavens was listening as Marianne sobbed and gasped.

Almost as quickly as it started, it stopped. Arguen could feel the relief in the room, but she knew it wouldn’t last for long.

“Mistress?” she asked, as Marianne’s chest heaved with the effort. “Mistress, I need to heal ye.”

The lady of the house nodded absentmindedly as Arguen helped her into bed, the side without bloody linens. The healer began to clean up the area, but stopped dead in her tracks when she caught a glimpse of what was in the chamber pot. A small red blob, almost humanoid looking, lay at the bottom among the other fluids. Arguen’s stomach turned, and she held a hand over her mouth to keep from retching.

“I want to see it,” Marianne said, her voice hollow as she looked over at Arguen.

Arguen felt her heart drop to her stomach. “Nae, mistress. ‘Twill only hurt ye tae see.”

“Bring it to me,” Marianne commanded, uncaring.

“Mistress, I beg ye tae--”

“I am not asking again.”

Arguen heaved a deep sigh and brought the pot over to her. Marianne struggled to turn, but peered in. One, two seconds was all she needed. Afterward, her already rather pale complexion blanched, and she promptly turned to the side and retched over the bed. The healer waited for Marianne to say something--anything--to scream at her or cry over her loss--but all she did was lay there and fix her gaze on the ceiling.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and Arguen rushed over to let the person in. It was Marianne’s English lady’s maid with the fresh linen scraps. “I have what you need--took me some time to find them,” she said weakly.

“Thank ye. D’ye have a strong stomach?” Arguen asked, fixing the girl with her most authoritative look.

The maid nodded.

“Braw. Mistress is very unwell. Her bed linens an’ her shift need changing, an’ I need tae clean up the mess. Can ye handle that?”

Marianne’s maid nodded and went about her duties quietly and quickly. When Arguen took the pot for disposal, Marianne stopped her.

“I want to keep it.”

Arguen looked on the lady with pity. “Lady Marianne, ‘tis best tae let yersel heal. Keepin’ it helps naething.”

“Did you not hear what I said? I want to keep it,” she ordered, each word staccato.

Arguen and the maid stole a skeptic, furtive glance at one another.

“As ye wish, mistress,” Arguen conceded, and left the pot on the windowsill. The water on the hearth was boiling well now, and she knelt down to make her tea and poultice. Yarrow root tea to ease the inflammation; and a witch hazel poultice to apply to Marianne’s sensitive areas to stop any more bleeding that may occur. To heal her heart, however, would be another matter entirely, something mere herbs could not accomplish. Arguen smashed the witch hazel in her mortar and pestle, almost mesmerized by the stringy yellow buds. With a little water, it would make a poultice to help with any bleeding. Arguen worked silently as she wrapped the mixture in the linen scraps that the maid had brought. The yarrow root steeped in the hot water as she worked on the poultice. Soon enough, Marianne would be able to feel some relief. Arguen had made damn sure that she used the right herbs. Not that she hadn’t earlier this evening--but Marianne’s words about her “potions” earlier had her questioning even her own work ethic.

She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she approached Marianne’s bedside with strips of linen, the poultice, and a steaming cup of yarrow tea.

“Mistress, if possible, I need ye to spread yer legs. This poultice will help ye wi’ the bleeding.”