"Ye are the new lady of the keep, are ye?" asked the woman.
"Aye," Ilsa replied and introduced herself and Gay.
"Heard that the laird married another lass than the one he walked to the kirk, one he had forgotten about. Saw the Campbells ride away that day." She stuck out one surprisingly clean, smooth hand. "I be Glenda, the midwife."
Ilsa shook the woman's hand and, realizing the tale of her marriage had already spread through the village, decided to be perfectly honest. "The laird's memory was damaged by a severe beating."
Glenda nodded. "So tis said. I didnae have much to do with his care as the Murray women are skilled healers and his kin. Tis right and proper they came to his aid. I tend most other ails and hurts."
"Aye, and e'en sold the laird the potion he used to kill his wife, ye old witch," snapped a dark-haired man as he moved to stand beside Ilsa.
"Ye ken weel that I deal only in the healing arts, Wallace," said Glenda.
Wallace ignored the woman's protest and looked at Ilsa. "Ye best watch what ye eat or drink, m'lady. Lady Anabelle didnae and she is dead. He couldnae abide the truth, that his lady preferred another mon to him, so he killed her."
"I find it verra hard to believe that Sir Diarmot would kill a woman," Ilsa said, her voice hard and steady even though she felt chilled by his angry accusation.
"Then I pity ye, m'lady, for we will soon be burying ye as weel."
Ilsa watched the man stride away and told herself not to heed his words. He was a handsome man, young and strong, and she suspected he had been one of Anabelle's lovers. That would taint his opinion about the woman's death, his probable jealousy of Diarmot making him see guilt in Diarmot's every word and deed. Despite the logic of that argument, Ilsa felt uneasy and knew it showed in her face when she turned to look at Glenda. The look upon that woman's faintly lined face was one of gentle sympathy.
"Wallace speaks from anger and jealousy, m'lady," said Glenda.
"Is what he says what the people of Clachthrom think and believe?" Ilsa asked.
"Nay all of them. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Lady Anabelle wasnae weel loved." Glenda sighed and shook her head. "She was a strange lass. She had a handsome husband who cared for her, a fine keep to rule, and, though the laird isnae as rich as some, coin to spend. Yet, she was e'er unhappy, unsatisfied.
Twas as if she wanted to have every mon alive beguiled by her. I think she bedded near every mon about Clachthrom, those who werenae too ugly or too old, leastwise."
It was almost beyond Ilsa's understanding. For a woman to be so repeatedly and flagrantly unfaithful to a laird seemed mad. Punishment for such behavior was usually severe. The woman had been fortunate that all Diarmot had done was turn from her. Unless Wallace's accusation was true, she mused, then struggled to banish that thought.
"Were ye called to the keep to tend her when she was dying?" Ilsa asked Glenda.
"Nay. Lady Anabelle refused my help. She had tried to force me to sell her a potion to rid her womb of a bairn." Glenda nodded when both Ilsa and Gay gasped in shock. "I held firm against her for I dinnae deal in such things, but she was angry with me. Verra angry."
"Do ye think she found someone who would give her such a thing or tried to make one herself?"
"M'lady, I think a great many things about how and why Lady Anabelle died, but few of them point the finger of guilt at the laird." Glenda shrugged. "And, if he did have a hand in it, I cannae fully blame him. She shamed him time and time again and she told me herself that the bairn wasnae his."
"Diarmot wouldnae kill a bairn," Ilsa said, hating the tickle of doubt in her mind. "Whether twas his or nay, I cannae believe he would hurt a bairn, in or out of the womb."
"That is my belief as weel, m'lady, but, if the tale troubles ye, speak to Lady Anabelle's woman."
"Fraser?"
"Aye. She tended Lady Anabelle whilst she was dying."
"Are these suspicions often spoken of?"
"As often as most gossip."
Ilsa cast a nervous glance toward the alehouse her brothers had gone into. "I think I best gather a few facts as quickly as possible." She chose what she needed from the selection of herbs, and asked Glenda to send it to the keep before hurrying in that direction herself.
"Do ye think the laird killed his wife?" asked Gay.
"Nay. And, yet?" Ilsa shrugged. "All that has happened has weakened my trust in the mon, I fear. There is a verra small part of me that wonders if it is possible. Diarmot is a proud mon and Anabelle repeatedly shamed him, made him look a fool. That woman is the reason he is so bitter, so mistrustful of women.
For the brief time we were together, I did catch glimpses of such wounds to the heart, but I thought I had soothed them. There was arrogance."
"Weel, it might have been true ere he got his wits rattled."
"Possibly. What is important now is to get to the truth about Anabelle's death."
"To soothe that tiny doubt?"