Medieval 01 - Untamed

though Anna were still alive, words came to Meg. Do that which you can, daughter. Leave the rest to God .
    After a moment Meg straightened, wiped away her tears, and tried to concentrate on the tasks that had always soothed her in the past. One of her favorite jobs was to create the fragrant bouquets of herbs that both pleased the senses and kept vermin from hiding within mattresses and sleeping pallets. Harry’s wife was bedridden with a difficult pregnancy, and in special need of anything to ease her days.
    Everything Meg needed was in front of her, for she had been preparing sachets for the wedding mattress that was even now being made up from fresh straw; the mattress upon which she would have lain down a virgin and arisen the next morning a maid no longer.
    Unbidden came the image of Dominic’s fingertips soothing the falcon so sweetly that the fierce bird calmed. Meg had wondered then what it would feel like to be so carefully touched. There had been little of gentleness in her life from the man who was her father in name only.
    And, even though she sensed that Dominic’s restraint had been a tactician’s cool calculation of the quickest way to victory, his caress had raised a hunger within Meg to be gentled like that again.
    If we had married, would Dominic have treated me like a falcon or like an opponent to be vanquished?
    Meg remembered the tip of Dominic’s tongue gliding warmly over her lower lip, a tasting as light as a breath, a caress so sweet and unexpected that remembering it made her shiver. The tactile memory sent odd frissons shimmering through her. She had felt nothing like Dominic’s caress in her life. She had imagined nothing like it in her dreams.
    If that is what marriage offers, ’tis no surprise that women settle to it after a time .
    Then came the memory of Dominic’s words to the young mews girl he so casually had offered to buy.
    Small falcon, marriage has nothing to do with this .
    For Dominic, marriage was a matter of cold calculation. It had nothing to do with Glendruid hope, much less affection between a man and a woman.
    A pot tilted and dried leaves leaped from Meg’s suddenly uncertain hands. The herbal bouquet cameapart like a flock of ducks at the shadow of a peregrine flying overhead.
    â€œKeep that up, girl, and I’ll have you out weeding the garden as though you were six once more.”
    Gwyn’s familiar voice made Meg jump. More herbs scattered.
    â€œAre you ill?” the old woman asked, her voice suddenly earnest rather than wry.
    â€œNo. Just…” Meg’s voice died.
    â€œJust what?”
    â€œClumsy.”
    â€œPah. Better to accuse Blackthorne’s cats of barking than to accuse you of clumsiness.”
    Smiling, Meg turned around and hugged the old woman with a need that went deeper than words. Old Gwyn’s seamed face, white hair, and faded green eyes were as familiar to Meg as her own hands.
    â€œWhat is it, child?” Gwyn asked finally.
    â€œMy father…”
    Meg’s voice faded as she remembered John’s flat denial that he was her father.
    At the mention of John, followed by silence, Old Gwyn’s pale green eyes went to the shelf where a second vial of his medicine was kept in reserve for future need. The shelf was empty.
    â€œIs he worse?” Gwyn asked.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œOh. With the last of his medicine used up, I assumed he was failing.”
    â€œMedicine?” Meg looked over her shoulder. Her breath came in swiftly. “It’s gone!”
    â€œYou didn’t take it to him?”
    â€œNo.”
    Uneasily Meg went to the table and searched among the pots. She found only leaves and dried flowers. The shelves yielded nothing unexpectedwhen she went through them quickly, shifting the contents in her pursuit of the missing medicine vial.
    â€œThat’s odd,” Meg said finally.
    Frowning, she stepped into the outside aisle, grabbed a fat candle from its holder, and went back into the herbal. Gwyn watched through narrowed eyes as Meg rummaged efficiently through the nooks and shelves, bins and basins of the room.
    When Meg finally gave up, the fear she had felt in Lord John’s room returned redoubled.
    â€œGone?” Gwyn asked.
    â€œYes. And the antidote with it. Perhaps Duncan fetched both. John was beset by coughing and I was in the mews.”
    The old woman said something in an ancient language. Whether it was a curse