Fortunately, he didn’t embarrass her by commenting and merely asked, “How does yer stomach feel after the first couple o’ sips?”
“Fine, thank ye,” she whispered.
“Then Niels can give ye more in a minute,” he said and leaned in to look into her eyes.
Edith stilled, fighting the urge to look away, and simply waited.
“Yer eyes are back to normal,” he murmured.
Edith had no idea what that meant, but looked away with relief when he sat back again. She then frowned as her gaze fell on the woman in bed next to her. “Effie? Is she—?”
“She appears to have ingested the poison too,” Rory interrupted, sparing her voice. “I think, like Moibeal, she did no’ consume much o’ whatever had the poison in it . . . else she’d be dead now. Howbeit she’s old and frail enough that even a little might yet do her in.”
“Ye ken what was poisoned?” Edith asked, her voice cracking in several spots. Her throat hurt, it was so dry, and the few sips she’d had of mead hadn’t been enough to ease it.
“Niels, come give her more mead,” Rory said, standing and moving around the bed to examine Effie now.
Edith frowned, thinking he planned to ignore her question, but when Niels settled next to her on the bed again and slid an arm under her shoulders to ease her to a sitting position, she forgot all about her question. Niels smelled like the woods in the springtime, a scent she’d always loved. Edith couldn’t resist turning her head toward the curve of his neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply. When Niels stilled, she realized what she was doing and quickly turned her face back. Edith was quite sure she was blushing, but Niels merely smiled faintly and offered her the mug of mead.
“Thank ye,” Edith murmured before taking a sip.
“Moibeal said she had a couple mouthfuls o’ yer wine when ye did no’ drink it the night she fell ill,” Rory commented after she’d had several cautious sips.
Looking toward the other man, Edith saw that he had lifted both Effie’s eyelids and was peering at her eyes silently. His words hadn’t been a question, but she nodded and responded as if it was anyway. “Aye. I said she could. I did no’ have the stomach fer it after tossing it back up so many times, so she gave me her cider and I let her have me wine.”
“She said she did no’ drink much, though. Is that right?” Rory asked, sitting up straight and turning his questioning gaze to her.
“Aye. She only had a couple drinks. She did no’ care fer it,” Edith recalled, noting that her voice was getting stronger. The mead was making her throat feel better too.
“And did Effie have some o’ yer wine too?” Rory asked.
“I—” Edith paused, her gaze dropping to the woman before she shrugged helplessly and admitted, “I’m no’ sure. She may have. I do no’ recall much o’ the last week or so since I fell ill again.” Frowning, she explained, “At first I could no’ keep anything down, but felt better once I’d purged. That kept happening, and finally I refused the wine and broth Moibeal brought.” Eyes narrowing as she thought on it, she murmured, “Once I stopped having those, I was able to keep down an apple and some bread Moibeal brought me, and I started to feel better again . . . and then I wanted to build me strength so I had some stew and—” She grimaced with distaste. “It did no’ seem to make much difference when that came back up. I was exhausted and weary and just wanted to sleep.”
“Ye were weakening from no’ being able to keep yer food down fer so long,” Rory said solemnly.
“Mayhap,” Edith admitted and glanced to the woman in bed next to her. “I have a vague recollection o’ Effie trying to get me to eat or drink and saying I needed to build up me strength, but every time I did . . .” She shrugged and merely shook her head.
“Did ye ha’e wine with the stew while ye were tending Moibeal?” Niels asked, drawing her gaze his way.
Edith wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Frankly, I fear I’ll never want wine again after tossing it back up so many times. I did no’ have anything to drink that night.”
“So the poison was in both the wine and stew,” Niels said grimly.
“It was?” Edith asked uncertainly.
“Aye,” he assured her, his voice sounding angry. “Moibeal was poisoned from a couple o’ sips o’ yer wine, but ye fell ill again after eating stew. Both must ha’e been poisoned.”
“Oh, aye,” she said with realization and then noticed the grim looks Niels and Rory exchanged.
Still a bit fuzzy-minded, Edith wasn’t sure what that exchange meant. Noticing her confusion, Rory explained, “We were hoping that perhaps the family wine had been poisoned in an effort to kill yer father and brothers, and ye merely had the bad luck to have some o’ the poisoned wine. But if yer stew was later poisoned too . . .” He pointed out almost apologetically, “No one else fell ill from the stew.”
Edith’s eyes widened incredulously at those words. She understood what he was saying. After killing her father and brothers, someone had deliberately tried to poison her. Why would anyone want her dead? She was no one of import.
“Though,” Niels added now, turning toward Rory, “the maids both being poisoned is most likely an unintended result o’ trying to poison Edith.”
“Aye,” Rory agreed. “If Effie wakes up, I’m quite sure we’ll find she ate or drank something that was sent up fer Lady Edith.”
Niels nodded, his gaze shifting toward the table where the cask, vegetables, and rabbit skin sat. “So the liquid from the vial the maid was mixing into her drink is probably no’ the poison.”
“Nay. Probably not,” Rory agreed. “Effie would hardly deliberately poison herself too.”
“A little blue glass vial?” Edith asked, her ears perking up. She hadn’t noticed it on the table, but it was small and there was enough mess with the mugs and whatnot that it might be hidden from her view.
“Aye,” Niels said. “Effie was pouring the last o’ it into yer drink to give to ye as we entered.”
“Victoria gave it to Effie ere she left. She said it would help build me blood to aid in fighting the illness or some such thing,” Edith murmured and grimaced. “It was foul. Just the smell o’ it was enough to make me heave the first night Effie put it in me drink.”
“Really?” Rory murmured, and the way he looked toward the table now with interest convinced her the vial must be there somewhere.
“It can no’ be the poison,” Edith assured them quietly. “Victoria does no’ like me much, but she’s no’ stupid. She’d hardly give Effie poison to give me in front o’ others like that.”