because they did not have to wait for the inevitable with only the melancholy thoughts of all she had lost and all she was leaving behind to occupy her.
Malcolm sat nearby, flexing his hand and fisting it as best he could, but even in the dark she could see it pained him.
There was something she could do besides just sit and wait through most of the long night. She pushed up from where she sat on the cold ground and crossed over to him.
“Come with me,” Jeanette said. “I need to tend your arm while the torches still burn enough to see by.”
She led him to where a torch was set into a sconce on the curtain wall near the tower. “Roll up your sleeve,” she said, sorry that she would not get to see all that tawny skin the man had.
When he did, she unwound the binding and handed it to him, and gently pulled away the moss padding to reveal what was still an angry gash on his arm, but was already better than it had been this morning. The red streaks that had begun to reach out from it were gone. She laid the back of her hand next to it, feeling the fever that was still there.
“This must hurt a lot,” she said.
“ ’Tis nothing I cannot bear, lass. ’Tis far better than when ’twas new.”
She nodded, well believing that, for this was a wound that had clearly been very deep. “You are lucky the bone was not broken by this blow.”
“Aye.” His voice was tight and when she glanced up to see if she was causing that tightness by hurting him, she saw not pain, but anger in his normally cheerful eyes.
“How did this happen?” she asked, her curiosity suddenly flaring as she dug out the salve Morven had given her to keep wounds from festering. She was hoping it might also aid in treating a fester such as this man had.
“I had a moment’s distraction during the battle of Dalrigh and one of the English bastards got lucky.”
“Your kinsmen must have been distracted, too.” She’d seen her father and Uilliam train the warriors of her clan often enough to know they seldom fought alone if they could help it. As the son of their chief, Malcolm would have the warriors who would become his advisors and his champion when he himself became chief, fighting with him no doubt, as Uilliam had always fought beside her father.
Malcolm grunted as he handed her the binding and, without prompting, held the moss in place. Jeanette whispered the healing chant she had used at the wellspring as she once more wrapped the strip of linen around his arm to hold the moss in place. When she had tied off the wrap, she laid her hand gently over the covered wound and once more whispered the chant.
“Why were you not taken home?” she asked. “Surely they were not so distracted—”
Malcolm’s arm went tight beneath her hands and when she looked up, he was staring out toward the inky loch, his mouth set in a hard line as if she’d said something that angered him. She thought back, and realized that if his kinsmen had not taken him home after he was injured, it was likely they had not lived. Perhaps it was grief she saw in him, not anger.
“Oh, Malcolm.” She rolled his sleeve down for him so she could stand close to him for a little longer. “I am sorry,” she said, genuinely ashamed that she might have opened another wound in the man, for the loss of his close kinsmen could not be easy to bear. “My curiosity sometimes outruns my sense.”
“Nay, angel, ’tis only that the battle was very nearly a rout of our army and though I do not remember it, I got myself off the field and into a thicket. Someone bound my arm—I do not ken who, perhaps it was even me—but it kept me from bleeding to death. I do not know if my kin survived or not, but I suspect they did.” He did not say why he thought that and she did not want to press him to reveal things he did not wish to reveal.
He touched her hand, holding it gently against his arm for a moment. “My arm feels better already.”
He took a deep breath and she could
Malcolm sat nearby, flexing his hand and fisting it as best he could, but even in the dark she could see it pained him.
There was something she could do besides just sit and wait through most of the long night. She pushed up from where she sat on the cold ground and crossed over to him.
“Come with me,” Jeanette said. “I need to tend your arm while the torches still burn enough to see by.”
She led him to where a torch was set into a sconce on the curtain wall near the tower. “Roll up your sleeve,” she said, sorry that she would not get to see all that tawny skin the man had.
When he did, she unwound the binding and handed it to him, and gently pulled away the moss padding to reveal what was still an angry gash on his arm, but was already better than it had been this morning. The red streaks that had begun to reach out from it were gone. She laid the back of her hand next to it, feeling the fever that was still there.
“This must hurt a lot,” she said.
“ ’Tis nothing I cannot bear, lass. ’Tis far better than when ’twas new.”
She nodded, well believing that, for this was a wound that had clearly been very deep. “You are lucky the bone was not broken by this blow.”
“Aye.” His voice was tight and when she glanced up to see if she was causing that tightness by hurting him, she saw not pain, but anger in his normally cheerful eyes.
“How did this happen?” she asked, her curiosity suddenly flaring as she dug out the salve Morven had given her to keep wounds from festering. She was hoping it might also aid in treating a fester such as this man had.
“I had a moment’s distraction during the battle of Dalrigh and one of the English bastards got lucky.”
“Your kinsmen must have been distracted, too.” She’d seen her father and Uilliam train the warriors of her clan often enough to know they seldom fought alone if they could help it. As the son of their chief, Malcolm would have the warriors who would become his advisors and his champion when he himself became chief, fighting with him no doubt, as Uilliam had always fought beside her father.
Malcolm grunted as he handed her the binding and, without prompting, held the moss in place. Jeanette whispered the healing chant she had used at the wellspring as she once more wrapped the strip of linen around his arm to hold the moss in place. When she had tied off the wrap, she laid her hand gently over the covered wound and once more whispered the chant.
“Why were you not taken home?” she asked. “Surely they were not so distracted—”
Malcolm’s arm went tight beneath her hands and when she looked up, he was staring out toward the inky loch, his mouth set in a hard line as if she’d said something that angered him. She thought back, and realized that if his kinsmen had not taken him home after he was injured, it was likely they had not lived. Perhaps it was grief she saw in him, not anger.
“Oh, Malcolm.” She rolled his sleeve down for him so she could stand close to him for a little longer. “I am sorry,” she said, genuinely ashamed that she might have opened another wound in the man, for the loss of his close kinsmen could not be easy to bear. “My curiosity sometimes outruns my sense.”
“Nay, angel, ’tis only that the battle was very nearly a rout of our army and though I do not remember it, I got myself off the field and into a thicket. Someone bound my arm—I do not ken who, perhaps it was even me—but it kept me from bleeding to death. I do not know if my kin survived or not, but I suspect they did.” He did not say why he thought that and she did not want to press him to reveal things he did not wish to reveal.
He touched her hand, holding it gently against his arm for a moment. “My arm feels better already.”
He took a deep breath and she could
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