"I am sorry to be laughing at you," she said, dimpling as she stepped down into the hollow where I stood. "I could not help it."
"I imagine I looked funny," I said rather ungraciously, rubbing the sore spot on top of my head. "And thank you for the warning, but I know those mushrooms are poisonous."
"Och, you know? And who is it you're planning to do away with, then? Your husband, perhaps? Tell me if it works, and I'll try it on mine." Her smile was infectious, and I found myself smiling back.
I explained that though the raw mushroom caps were indeed poisonous, you could prepare a powdered preparation from the dried fungi that was very efficacious in stopping bleeding when applied topically. Or so Mrs. Fitz said; I was more inclined to trust her than Davie Beaton's Physician's Guide.
"Fancy that!" she said, still smiling. "And did you know that these"—she stooped and came up with a handful of tiny blue flowers with heart-shaped leaves—"will start bleeding!"
"No," I said, startled. "Why would anyone want to start bleeding?"
She looked at me with an expression of exasperated patience. "To get rid of a child ye don't want, I mean. It brings on your flux, but only if ye use it early. Too late, and it can kill you as well as the child."
"You seem to know a lot about it," I remarked, still stung by having appeared stupid.
"A bit. The girls in the village come to me now and again for such things, and sometimes the married women too. They say I'm a witch," she said, widening her brilliant eyes in feigned astonishment. She grinned. "But my husband's the procurator fiscal for the district, so they don't say it too loud."
"Now the young lad ye brought with ye," she went on, nodding in approval, "there's one that's had a few love-philtres bought on his behalf. Is he yours?"
"Mine? Who? You mean, er, Jamie?" I was startled.
The young woman looked amused. She sat down on a log, twirling a lock of fair hair idly around her index finger.
"Och, aye. There's quite a few would settle for a fellow wi' eyes and hair like that, no matter the price on his head or whether he's any money. Their fathers may think differently, o' course."
"Now, me," she went on, looking off into the distance, "I'm a practical sort. I married a man with a fair house, a bit o' money put away, and a good position. As for hair, he hasn't any, and as for eyes, I never noticed, but he doesna trouble me much." She held out the basket she carried for my inspection. Four bulbous roots lay in the bottom.
"Mallow root," she explained. "My husband suffers from a chill on the stomach now and again. Farts like an ox."
I thought it best to stop this line of conversation before things got out of hand. "I haven't introduced myself," I said, extending a hand to help her up from the log. "My name is Claire. Claire Beauchamp."
The hand that took mine was slender, with long, tapering white fingers, though I noticed the tips were stained, probably with the juices of the plants and berries resting alongside the mallow roots in her basket.
"I know who ye are," she said. "The village has been humming with talk of ye, since ye came to the castle. My name is Geillis, Geillis Duncan." She peered into my basket. "If it's balgan-buachrach you're looking for, I can show you where they grow best."
I accepted her offer, and we wandered for some time through the small glens near the orchard, poking under rotted logs and crawling around the rim of the sparkling tarns, where the tiny toadstools grew in profusion. Geillis was very knowledgeable about the local plants and their medicinal uses, though she suggested a few usages I thought questionable, to say the least. I thought it very unlikely, for instance, that bloodwort would be effective in making warts grow on a rival's nose, and I strongly doubted whether wood betony was useful in transforming toads into pigeons. She made these explanations with a mischievous glance that suggested she was testing my own knowledge, or perhaps the local suspicion of witchcraft.
Despite the occasional teasing, I found her a pleasant companion, with a ready wit and a cheerful, if cynical, outlook on life. She appeared to know everything there was to know about everyone in village, countryside, and castle, and our explorations were punctuated by rests during which she entertained me with complaints about her husband's stomach trouble, and amusing if somewhat malicious gossip.
"They say young Hamish is not his father's son," she said at one point, referring to Colum's only child, the red-haired lad of eight or so whom I had seen at dinner in the Hall.