Page 2 of Leila’s Legacy

“Death will not come for me.” There was confidence behind Leila’s words, the same as there had been when she finally made the declaration of the incoming arrival of the pestilence to her family. “Not until I meet the Lion.”

Isla slid her a wary look. The older woman didn’t like when Leila brought up her visions of him. For it would not be the pestilence that took Leila’s life, but the man with golden hair, bronzed skin and hazel eyes. A man who was as ferocious as he was beautiful. A man who would first steal her heart, then her life.

It was preposterous, the idea that she would love a man she knew would kill her. But was it not equally as preposterous that illness would consume the population of the world as readily as a spark set to dry tinder?

Leila shuddered as they stepped into the empty village. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a market day. But now where once there had been the bustle of people, there was emptiness; save for several bodies strewn out for collection. Where once people called out to bring shoppers to their wares, now cries of anguish and mourning pitched through the chilly air.

A woman moved on the ground as they passed, lifting her hand to them. “Water,” she groaned.

It was not an uncommon sight, seeing those who dragged themselves to the filthy streets in search of water as Death reached for them. Before Leila could bring the flagon to her, Isla was at her side crouching with knees that popped in protest.

The woman’s breath huffed in white puffs in the icy air. Her skeletal fingers clutched the flagon to her lips, drinking greedily then releasing it with a gasping breath.

“Thank you.” The woman struggled to sit up. “My neighbors. We must go to them.”

Isla assisted her so that her back rested against the wall of the hut they stood near. “Is it the swelling?”

From what Leila and Isla had gleaned from tales of travelers, there were two sorts of pestilence. One which caused swelling in the form of knobs of darkened skin that rose at the neck, armpit or groin, and one which covered the sufferer in a rash and made them vomit blood. Of the two, the latter was almost always fatal.

“’Tis the swelling.” The woman brushed aside her tangled red hair and touched the side of her neck where the skin remained flushed with infection beneath a bump that appeared to be diminishing.

Leila breathed a sigh of relief. Thus far, they had only seen the swelling in the village. At least it was possible to survive that, even if the chances were higher for death.

“Ye shouldna be outside,” Isla chastised gently. “’Tis colder than a witch’s soul.”

The woman’s cheeks were sunken from her illness, and her pale blue eyes were bright with the effects of her fever. She had not been outside long for if she had been, she would not have survived. Not in the bitterness of the winter.

“There are children nearby.” She pushed up as though she intended to walk. “I could hear them crying.” She gazed out desperately to the small home beside hers. “I was trying to go to them.”

That was all Leila needed to hear. She left Isla and the woman behind and hastened into the small cottage. The putrid odor of sickness within was like a slap, even with the facecloth of herbs covering her nose. Two skinny children lay side-by-side on the cot, their hands clasped together. Their wails did not cease as she entered, but instead continued even as they stared up at her with large, dry eyes.

They were emaciated, filthy, and obviously had gone too long without water if they were devoid of even tears. Leila rushed to them with her flagon of water. Fleas darted over the bedding, but she ignored them as she settled beside the children.

She called out to Isla and bent to offer the children water. They parted their cracked lips and drank with a thirst that hurt Leila’s heart.

Isla appeared immediately and together they were able to get the woman, a widow named Rose, as well as the children, to the large hut that had been erected to assist those who had fallen ill with the plague. It was a way of containing the illness, not that it had done much good. But also, it was a means of having all assembled to offer the most care.

While the swelling pestilence had some survivors, there was an alarming number of people who entered the structure and did not emerge alive. Rose, who had insisted on walking without help, appeared to be in the healing stage of the illness and would doubtless be one of those who lived.

Once she and the children were tucked into pallets near one another within the pestilence hut, Leila and Isla returned to the village in search of more souls to aid. Every day it seemed there were more in need. As well as more stacks of dead.

An old woman scurried by them, her haste indicative of good health. “They’re here,” she hissed. “Hide yourselves.”

Leila met Isla’s gaze, but the old healer merely shrugged with equal confusion. The villager stopped and glared irritably at them. “Reivers.” And with that, she was gone.

A hot wind of anger blasted through Leila. In this time of death and suffering, when all were losing so many souls, the marauders still thought only to take what belonged to others. She handed her basket to Isla and slid a pair of daggers from her belt. This was why she wore trews, instead of a kirtle, when she attended the ill, and why she was never without her weapons.

Whoever sought to take advantage of those within the village would not leave unscathed.

Niall Douglas cursed the day the Keeper of Liddesdale made him his deputy. Granted, it was a position Niall had coveted, but he hadn’t thought his duties would someday include stomping through a pestilence-ridden village in search of a witch.

And it had been a witch responsible for the illness, of that Niall was certain. There was no better explanation for the disease that had ravaged their land. He brought only five men with him, men who joined him at the risk of death and disease solely because of his reputation.

The Lion. Fierce and brave, honest and loyal, all things Niall had spent his adult life working toward. And it had led him to this stinking lot of land outside the opulence of Werrick Castle. The massive structure stood safe behind its protective curtain wall where the English West March Border Warden lived without fear of illness, with his witch of a daughter who nine years before had cursed the Armstrongs.

Niall put his arm to his nose to prevent the foul-smelling miasmas from transferring contagion to him. He had no dried herbs with him, or even a sponge of vinegar to protect himself from inhaling the illness. He would ensure he had at least that much next time. If there was a next time. If he survived this fool’s errand for information.

He pushed his nose into the crook of his gambeson sleeve and breathed in the musty smells of worn leather and dirt. The five men following did likewise. Mayhap it would save them.