Chapter 23: Morning
Two mornings after their return from Denerim, the great household of Highever was a stirred anthill. Lady Eleanor Cousland, graceful as a silver heron amid the chaos, stood in the doorway of the main kitchen, her hands folded. The cavernous room was a storm of noise and heat: the rhythmic thud of a cleaver on a butcher’s block, the gurgle of vast kettles, the peppery scent of roasting boar, and the frantic shouts of under-cooks. Her voice, though quiet, cut through the din.
"Where is Elspeth?"
"I am here, milady."
Elspeth emerged from the fog by the scullery sink, wiping her hands on a clean towel. She’d been elbow-deep in scaling river trout for the banquet.
"Kerr is unwell," Lady Eleanor said. A faint crease marred her otherwise smooth brow. "He did not come down to break his fast. A servant boy reports he feels feverish and wishes to stay abed." Her tone was laced with a mother’s weary concern. "Have one of the girls take up a restorative—honey, lemon, warm cider with ginger. And something simple from the kitchens. See to it, would you?"
The request was perfectly normal. A lordling under the weather. Yet Elspeth felt the familiar secret thrill, a wire drawn tight behind her ribs. Feverish.
"Of course, milady. I’ll see to it myself." Her voice was a model of dutiful calm.
Lady Eleanor gave a brief, grateful nod, already turning her attention back to the monumental task of the upcoming feast. "Thank you. Do not dally. He may be contagious." She drifted away, the silken whisper of her skirts disappearing into the hallway.
Elspeth set her towel down. She moved with efficient purpose, assembling the sick-tray. A small pewter pot of warm, spiced cider. A heel of fresh bread. A slab of pale cheese. A dish of stewed apples. She arranged it on a wooden platter, her movements brisk under the watchful eyes of the other kitchen staff. Young Moira, her face flushed from the fire, looked over hopefully.
"Need a hand, Mistress Elspeth? I could run it up?"
"Keep stirring that reduction, Moira. It’ll scorch if you blink," Elspeth said, not unkindly. "I’ll manage. Back to your work, all of you. The banquet won’t cook itself, and Her Ladyship is on a warpath." A gentle shooing motion dispersed the curious glances. Their world was her domain; her word was iron. They returned to their tasks.
She left the heat and cacophony of the kitchens, climbing the narrow servants’ stairs into the cooler, quieter upper reaches of the castle. Here, the air smelled of beeswax and old stone, of dust motes dancing in slants of pale autumn light from the arrow-slit windows. Her footfalls were silent on the thick runner.
Kerr’s chambers were in the family wing, separate from the guest suites. A heavy oak door, banded with iron. She balanced the tray on one hip and knocked softly. No answer came from within. She listened, heard nothing. Not a cough, not a groan.
She tried the latch.It lifted.
The room was dim, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the morning light. A fire smoldered low in the hearth, painting the room in shades of amber and deep shadow. The large canopied bed was rumpled, empty. The air didn’t smell of sickness. It smelled of clean linen, leather, and him.
Before she could set the tray down or call his name, he was there.
Movement, a solid shape detaching from the deeper shadows beside the door. His arm looped around her waist from behind, strong as an oak root, pulling her back into the solid wall of his chest. The tray tilted dangerously in her grasp. His other hand came up, fingers threading into the hair at her temple, turning her head just enough so his lips could find the sensitive shell of her ear.
"I heard you were unwell," she said, her voice steady despite the sudden, furious beating of her heart. She could feel the hard plane of his stomach against her spine, the warmth of him through her layers of wool and linen. Not a trace of feverish weakness. Quite the opposite. "Your mother sent a remedy."
He was fully dressed in soft breeches and an untucked linen shirt, his feet bare on the cold stone. He huffed a soft, warm laugh against her neck. The hand at her waist slid down, over her hip, and came to rest possessively on her lower belly. "Oh, I’m sick, Elspeth," he murmured, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. "Desperately."
His fingers took her free hand—the one not clutching the tray—and guided it behind her, pressing her palm firmly against the front of his breeches. Through the fine fabric, she encountered the undeniable, rigid heat of his erection, already at full, formidable thickness. It pulsed against her hand like a second, insistent heartbeat.
"I have a fever," he whispered, nipping at her earlobe. "And it won’t go down. A terrible, persistent condition."
A breathless laugh escaped her. She flexed her fingers, feeling the impressive length and girth, remembering it all with a vivid, liquid clarity. Denerim had been an exercise in excess, a marathon of sweat and slickness that should have left them both sated for a week. Yet here he was, after a single day’s rest, as vigorous as ever.
"We must be quick," she said, the practical part of her mind asserting itself. "The entire kitchen is preparing the banquet. I’ll be missed." She set the tray down with a clatter on a side table, the cider sloshing in its pot.
He spun her around to face him. In the dim light, his eyes weren’t mischievous; they were dark, intent, hungry. "Quick, then," he agreed, but there was a languid promise in the words that suggested no such thing. His hands went to the laces of her bodice, his movements deft, impatient. "I thought," she gasped as the first laces gave way, "that you might have had your fill. After Denerim. Thirty-six hours, near enough. A man would be hollow."
His mouth found hers, swallowing her words in a deep, searching kiss. He tasted of sleep and mint. He walked her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the wide, polished table beneath the window. He broke the kiss, breathing hard. "You’d think so," he said, rucking her skirts up past her hips with a single, sweeping motion. The cool castle air touched her thighs. "But no." His fingers slipped beneath the simple cotton of her smallclothes, finding her already wet, swollen, ready for him. He groaned, a sound of pure want. "It doesn't work like that. Not with you."
He freed himself, the broad head of his cock nudging urgently at her entrance. He hooked his hands under her knees and lifted her, seating her on the edge of the table. Parchment crinkled beneath her, a half-finished letter shoved aside. He pushed into her in one smooth, deep stroke, filling her completely, a sensation that was at once familiar and stunningly new each time.
She arched against him, her head tipping back. "Oh, Maker..."
He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, the table rocking slightly with each thrust. It was not the slow, luxurious grind of the inn, nor the frantic fury against the door. This was something focused, driven, a claiming in stolen minutes.
With each deliberate push up into her sopping heat, he spoke, his words matching the cadence of their bodies. "I have not," thrust, "grown tired," thrust, "of this." His voice was gritted, raw with feeling that went beyond the physical. "I will never," he gasped, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his hips pounding, "grow tired of this."
Each declaration was a punctuation, a vow driven home by the joining of their flesh. It was a reassurance that bordered on desperation, a rejection of the hollow world of ledgers and responsibilities that waited outside the door. Here, in this primal rhythm, there was no doubt, no duty, only this perfect, sweaty truth.
Her climax built swiftly, tightened from that deep, internal place only he could reach. It crested and broke over her in sharp, silent waves that made her thighs clamp around his hips, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth wood of the table. He followed moments after, his release shuddering through him, spilling into her with a low, choked groan that he muffled against the skin of her neck.
For a long moment, they stayed locked together, breathing in ragged unison, the only sound the soft pop of the dying fire.
Reality, crisp and demanding, filtered back. The distant clang of a pot from the kitchens, three floors below. The urgent shout of a steward in the courtyard. The banquet.
She slid off the table, her legs trembling only slightly. She straightened her skirts, her fingers fumbling with the laces of her bodice. He tucked himself away, watching her, a soft, sated look in his eyes that would be gone by the time he reached the great hall.
She smoothed her hair, took a steadying breath, and picked up the tray. The cider was still warm.
"You should drink this," she said, her voice regaining its customary evenness. "For the fever." She allowed herself a small, private smile. "Might help with the... symptoms."
He took the pewter pot from the tray, his fingers brushing hers. He drank deeply, his eyes never leaving her face. "It’s a chronic condition, I fear," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Requires frequent and intensive treatment."
"Best not tell the court physician," she said, turning towards the door. "He’d bleed you dry trying to cure it." She paused, her hand on the iron latch. "Will you be down?"
"In a bit." He looked towards the curtained window, the boyish lordling slipping back into place, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. "Have to face the musicians’ complaints about the acoustics in the hall. And taste the wine selections. A terrible burden."
"Indeed," she said, and slipped out.
The corridor was empty, silent. She walked back towards the servants’ stairs, the empty tray held before her like a shield. The secret warmth inside her was a live coal, a comforting echo of his vow.
Never grow tired of this.
In the bustling kitchen, no one noticed the faint flush high on her cheeks, or the slight unraveling of her normally immaculate braid. They saw only Mistress Elspeth, returned from her errand, her eyes already scanning the room, assessing, commanding.
"The boar is basting unevenly. Turn it, Samon. Moira, those herbs need chopping, not massacring. The bread—check the bread!" Her voice was the steady, reliable beat of the household heart.
But beneath her stern instructions, the coal glowed. She had taken the remedy to his room, and he had taken his remedy from her. The balance, for now, was perfect.
The balance, for now, was perfect. It lasted until sundown.
By then, the Great Hall of Castle Cousland was a riot of false light and louder laughter. Torches guttered in sconces, casting long, dancing shadows over the linen-draped trestle tables groaning under roasted boar, glazed fowl, and mountains of sugared fruits. The mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and rich meat created a thick, warm haze. Nobility from across the bannorn glittered in silks and furs, their voices a constant, chattering buzz against the mournful strain of the minstrels in the gallery.
Kerr sat at the high table beside his mother, a sculpture of noble composure. He wore the Cousland blues, his dark hair neatly combed, the mischievous glint replaced by a polite, attentive sheen. He laughed at the correct moments, exchanged light barbs with a visiting knight, and dutifully tasted every dish presented to him. He was playing his part flawlessly, the young lord holding court in his family’s absence. Elspeth, moving with a battalion of servants from the kitchen screens, saw him in flashes between the crowd. Each glimpse was a stitch in the tapestry of the evening, normal and expected.
She was overseeing the final service of the main course, her senses attuned to the rhythm of platters and the level of wine in the guests’ goblets, when the dissonant note struck.
A sudden, sharp silence bloomed at the high table. It was a pocket of dead air amidst the roar. Elspeth’s head snapped up. Kerr had just taken a sip from his silver-chased goblet. He went utterly still. The polite mask he’d worn all evening melted away, eroded by something far more visceral. His face drained of color, then flushed a deep, violent red.
He looked down at the wine in his hand, his expression one of utter, bewildered betrayal that curdled into pure, unadulterated rage. His fingers tightened. The fine glass stem of the goblet gave a sharp ping and then simply popped, crushed into glittering dust and red liquid that dripped from his clenched fist onto the white table linen.
A woman gasped. Conversations nearby stuttered and died.
Kerr didn’t look at anyone. His eyes, hard and focused as flint, fixed on the bottle before him—a deep red vintage from the castle’s own cellars. He stood so abruptly his heavy chair screeched on the flagstones. He grabbed the bottle by its neck. With a wordless, guttural roar that silenced the entire hall, he swung it in a short, savage arc and smashed it against the edge of the stone hearth. Wine and glass exploded in a crimson shower. The shattering report echoed in the sudden, total quiet.
He turned on his heel and strode from the dais, his boots crunching on spilled wine and crystal. He didn't look left or right, pushing past a stunned servant, his broad shoulders carving a path through the frozen crowd. He was headed for the servants’ entrance. For the kitchens.
Elspeth’s blood turned to ice water. She slipped through the screens door a heartbeat before he did, her heart hammering against her ribs. The kitchen was a tableau of shocked faces, everyone having heard the explosive crash from the hall.
The door flew open, banging against the stone wall. Kerr filled the doorway, breathing heavily, his right hand bleeding from a cut, his eyes wild and haunted. He scanned the room, not really seeing the terrified scullions or the head cook with a ladle dangling from his hand.
“Kerr.” Her voice cut through the kitchen’s stunned silence. He blinked, his gaze finally finding her by the central preparation table. He stalked towards her, the crowd of kitchen staff parting for him like wheat before a scythe.
“What’s got into you?” she asked, her voice low and urgent. She reached for his bleeding hand, but he jerked it away.
He leaned close, his breath coming in short, angry puffs. The smell of the wine on him was wrong—beneath the fermented grape was a bitter, coppery tang, like almonds and burnt metal. “The wine,” he hissed, his voice ragged. “Someone poisoned it.I tasted it. I know that taste.”
The words were a physical blow.Poison. Not a spoiled cask. Not a curious mold. Poison. In his own hall. The intended target was horrifically clear.
Elspeth didn’t hesitate. She didn’t gasp or cry out. Her mind, honed by decades of practical emergencies, snapped into a terrifyingly clear lane. “Right.” She turned, her hands already moving. “Mari, fetch my kit from the stillroom.Now. The small oak chest.” The young girl fled.
Elspeth went to the herb cupboard, her fingers flying over bundled dried leaves and roots. She snatched a mortar and pestle. Mustard seed. Ipecac root.Powdered charcoal. A handful of salt. She threw it all into the mortar, grinding it into a coarse powder with furious speed.
“Hot water,” she barked. A kettle was thrust forward. She sloshed water into a sturdy ceramic mug, dumped the powder in, and stirred it into a thick, greyish slurry. It smelled foul, like bitter earth and decay.
Kerr watched her, the rage in his eyes now mixed with a strained trust. He was sweating, a fine sheen on his pale forehead.
“Here.” She thrust the mug into his good hand. “Drink it all. Don’t think about it.” His knuckles were white where he gripped it.
She didn’t wait for him to obey. She took his elbow and steered him, not towards the bustling main kitchen or the hall, but down a narrow, damp corridor lined with sacks of grain. It led to the old, disused winter larder, a cold, stone-flagged room that smelled of dust and old apples. It was isolated, away from every prying eye.
The moment the heavy door swung shut behind them, Kerr lifted the mug and drank the concoction in three great, gulping swallows. He gagged, his body shuddering in revolt.
It took less than a minute. He bent double, bracing his hands on his knees. A deep, wrenching convulsion tore through him, and he vomited violently onto the flagstones. The contents were mostly wine-dark, the unmistakable scent of the spoiled vintage filling the cold room, laced now with that bitter, almond smell. He retched again, and again, his whole massive frame shuddering with the effort.
Elspeth stepped close. She placed a firm, steady hand on the center of his back, feeling the powerful muscles contort beneath his fine tunic. She rubbed slow, firm circles. “That’s it,” she murmured, her voice calm and low, a bedrock in the storm. “Get it all out of ya. Don’t fight it. Let it go.”
He obeyed, his body heaving until it was bringing up nothing but bile and thin, stringy mucus. Finally, the spasms subsided. He stayed hunched over, spitting, breathing in ragged, wet gulps of the dank air.
Slowly, he straightened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his cut, trembling hand. He looked at her, his face pale and clammy, his eyes bloodshot from the strain. A shaky, terrifying smile touched his lips—a testament to sheer, stubborn will.
Elspeth reached up and placed her palm flat against his cheek. His skin was cool, damp with sweat, but there was no unnatural heat.No fever. The poison’s grip, caught early, had been broken.
Relief, sweet and fierce, washed through her. She smiled back at him, a small, sweet, unguarded expression she rarely showed anyone. “Good,” she whispered. She went to a small barrel in the corner, used for salting, and ladled some of the cold, fresh water from it into a clean tin cup. She brought it to him.“Here. Rinse. Then drink.”
He took the cup, his fingers brushing hers. He swirled the water in his mouth, spat it onto the mess on the floor, then drank the rest in slow, careful sips. He nodded, once, his eyes clearing slightly. He was putting himself back together, piece by piece, the brave face slipping over the raw terror and fury.
He knew the game. The nobles in the hall would be whispering behind their hands, already constructing palatable stories—too much to drink, a fit of youthful temper, a sudden illness. Anything but the truth. An uncomfortable conversation was a greater sin than an attempted murder in polite company.
He handed her the tin cup. His breathing was almost even now. “The tourney,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady.
“You’re not competing,” she said, the words leaving no room for argument.
“I have to.” He met her gaze, the lord of Highever again, the duty crashing back in. “If I don’t, it confirms something is wrong. It gives them… strength.” He meant the shadow in the wine bottle, the person who had done this. He straightened his tunic, ran a hand through his disheveled hair. The boy who had been sick was gone, folded away. “I’ll need something. To steady the gut.”
Elspeth studied him for a long moment, seeing the iron resolve beneath the pallor. She gave a single, sharp nod. “Ginger. And mint. I’ll make a tea. You’ll sip it before you mount.” She looked at the vomit on the floor, at the shattered man who was now whole again through sheer force of will. “Now go. Smile. Let them see you’re made of stone.”