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Bessie glanced to where the boy was trying and failing to pull the bowstring far enough to propel an arrow more than a foot or so before it flopped to the ground. "Despite his being Adeney's, Glynis loved that boy. We both did. He was the one bright spot in our lives. But even so, he was no' enough. She killed herself this past spring. Threw herself from the cliffs behind the castle." Mouth twisting bitterly, she added, "With no care at all as to how it would affect me."
Edith had to dig her nails into her hand to keep from commenting as the woman continued.
"The men had barely got her body back up from the rocks and laid her on our kitchen table when Adeney arrived to see if 'twas true she was dead. He took one look at her broken body and then shrugged and announced that Ronson and I had to leave Adeney. Come noon the next day the cottage would be set afire whether we were in it or no'."
"So ye packed up Ronson and headed here," Edith said.
"Aye. I had nowhere else I could think to go," she said resentfully. "I had no one to help me, no one to care, and then I got here and me own brother did no' even recognize me. He just looked over me and Ronson like we were a couple o' beggars, passed us off to ye and went about his merry way. He had you and his boys and this fine castle and I had nothing. No home, and naught but me grandson to feed and the clothes on me back. I had no one!" she shrieked.
"Ye had no one because o' yer own cowardice and selfishness," Edith snapped, tired of the 'poor me' tales.
"What?" Bessie gasped, taking a furious step forward, but pausing again when Edith moved the sword forward until it nearly touched her. Scowling, she said, "I've been sore done by me whole life and ye dare to judge me? None o' this was me fault. None o' it was--"
"I'm sorry, did I misunderstand?" Edith interrupted pleasantly. "I thought ye went to Adeney hoping he'd take yer maidenhead so ye could flout yer father's wishes and force him to break yer marriage contract."
"Aye, but--"
"And after that, did ye really expect yer father to just say, 'Aye, daughter, well that's fine then, let's have some wine and pastries'?"
"He threw me away like rubbish!" Bessie snapped.
"He gave ye to the man ye'd apparently chosen," Edith countered grimly. When Bessie just stood there glaring at her furiously, Edith added, "Through yer whole story I heard nothing but 'poor me' and ''twas someone else's fault.' Ye do no' see any o' yer own actions as even playing a part in yer downfall. 'Twas yer father's fault, and Adeney's fault and even Glynis's fault." She said that last with disbelief and then shook her head.
"Ye chose to go to Adeney's room and he did exactly as ye wished," she said firmly. "Mayhap more roughly than ye would have liked, but he did it. And then ye suffered the consequences, but ye blamed yer father and Adeney fer yer misery the whole while. And then after years o' apparent wretchedness as Adeney's mistress, ye met a man ye said was kind and good and gentle, who wanted to take ye away, but ye were too cowardly to do it. Or mayhap ye just did no' wish to leave yer fine cottage that Ronson says was bigger than all the others in the village. Why trade that fer an uncertain future, even if 'tis with the man ye claimed to love," she said harshly.
"Ye as good as killed him yerself. Ye must have kenned Adeney would find out. And do no' try to tell me ye did no'," Edith said heavily when Bessie opened her mouth on what she suspected would be a protest. "Ye ken as well as I that there is nothing that happens in a castle and village that the laird does no' find out about eventually. William was in yer bed fer six months. I'm sure he was seen coming and going by dozens or more people at Adeney, and at least half o' them would happily run carrying tales."
Mouth tightening, she added, "If ye did no' ken Adeney would find out, 'twas only because ye did no' want to ken it. Ye were comfortable enough in yer miserable life that ye did no' wish to risk leaving it fer the unknown . . . and that was what got William killed. Yer own cowardice and selfishness and the fact that ye did no' love him enough to see past it."
Edith shook her head grimly. "The poor man must have loved ye a great deal to no' have abandoned ye and fled when ye refused to go with him. Because I guarantee he kenned he would die fer being with ye. As fer Glynis," she added with disgust. "Ye blame the child fer killing herself because o' how it affected you?" Edith shook her head. "Ye killed that poor child as surely as ye did me father and brothers."
"Me?" Bessie cried with disbelief. "'Twas no' me fault she killed herself."
"Aye, it was. Because ye did no' leave Adeney the day he raped her. Instead, ye let him continue to rape her and just stood idly by calling him a bastard as if ye had nothing to do with it, when ye were condoning it every day ye remained there."
"We had nowhere to go," Bessie snapped.
"Ye could have come here as ye did when she died and Adeney threw ye out," Edith pointed out coldly. "Had ye done so, ye'd still have yer daughter. Instead, ye let her be raped by that bastard fer five years or better. I bet she wanted to flee too like William, but ye argued against it."
A flicker of guilt on Bessie's face told Edith she'd hit the target on the nose with that guess.
"Yer a selfish coward, Bessie, much like me brother Brodie. Ye've spent yer life caring fer yerself and yer own wants above those who loved ye, and they paid the price. Including me own father and brothers and everyone else ye've killed here."
Bessie narrowed her eyes coldly.
"As fer me father no' recognizing ye--ye arrived here bent and hunched, yer white hair scraped tight back and yer face covered with dirt and lines. Ye looked ancient. I'm no' surprised he did no' recognize ye. And while ye blame him somehow fer that, I blame you. Ye did no' tell us who ye were," she pointed out coldly. "Instead ye gave a false name and then proceeded to lay ruin to me family more cruelly even than Adeney did to you," she said grimly.
"What?" Bessie glanced up quickly. "I--"
"I took ye in, despite no' even kenning ye were kin, and ye repaid me by killing every last member o' me family and even trying to kill me," she said harshly. "And why? What excuse do ye intend to give fer that? 'Twas no' yer fault I'm sure. If Father had recognized ye all would have been fine? Or is the truth that ye hated him fer having Drummond and kin who loved him so ye wanted to punish him fer it and, incidentally, claim Drummond fer yer own?"
Bessie's arm twitched and Edith noticed that she held a dirk in her hand that hadn't been there before. She watched the woman's hand clench and unclench around the hilt of the dagger like she was trying to decide where to stab her. Edith withdrew her sgian-dubh, but simply held it out in the open for the other woman to see that she didn't just have the sword and asked, "Will ye really make me kill ye with Ronson here to see?"
"Do ye think ye can?" Bessie asked grimly.
"I'm no' sure," she admitted. "But I'm younger and stronger and have a lot to live fer."
"Aye, that husband ye love so much," Bessie said dryly, and then something in Edith's expression made her eyebrows raise. "Ye did no' ken ye love him? Or did ye no' realize it was plain to see fer anyone who bothered to look?"
Edith remained silent, but her mind was working. Did she love him? It was a question she'd asked herself earlier, but never found the answer to.
"Niece, yer so eager to please him ye slapped preserves on his fiddle and tried to play it with yer mouth," she said dryly. "If that's no' love, I do no' ken what is."
Edith stiffened. Well, that answered the question she'd had earlier as to whether there were peep holes in the bedchambers, she thought grimly.
"Wanting to please another is a sign o' love," Bessie told her. "As is caring fer their well-being more than yer own."
Edith let her breath out slowly. If Bessie was right, then it seemed she loved Niels, because she wanted desperately to please him and make him as happy as he made her. And she was quite sure she'd throw herself in front of an oncoming bear or arrow to save him. She'd rather die in his stead than live without him. Aye, it seemed likely that was love. Edith just wished she'd realized it earlier and told him while
she'd had the chance. She might not get another one.
"At least that's what me mother used to say," Bessie added now.
Edith peered at her silently, unwilling to let this woman sully what she felt for Niels by talking about it. Determined to get the answers to as many questions as she could, she said, "Ye've been at Drummond since May yet did no' start the poisonings until a month later. Why did ye wait so long to start killing people?"
Bessie shrugged and lowered her hand to her side so that her dirk was hidden in the folds of her skirts. Trying to lull her into a false sense of security, Edith supposed. The woman was like a snake waiting to strike and Edith was suddenly glad it was her here and not Niels. Her husband was very fond of Ronson, and if one of them had to kill the boy's grandmother, making him hate them, she'd rather it was her.
"At first I did no' plan to kill anyone," Bessie admitted. "I was just so stunned that me own brother did no' recognize me, I . . ." She shrugged. "I just tried to get by day by day and see what was what."
"And pretended to be half-deaf and near blind and much older than ye really are," Edith pointed out.
"The deaf do no' have to answer questions they do no' like," Bessie pointed out with a smile that suggested she thought she was clever. "Besides, thinking me deaf, no one worried about talking in front o' me. They did no' think I could hear them."
"And pretending to be half-blind and frail meant ye were allowed to sit and mend rather than being expected to actually work," Edith pointed out.
"Aye," Bessie agreed unapologetically.
Edith nodded solemnly. "Did ye poison the wine cask or pitcher the night me father died and me brothers fell ill?"
"The cask," Bessie said without an ounce of remorse.
"Ye poisoned the food brought to me when I fell ill," Edith added.
