Using his teeth to free the bandages, he unwound them until the splints fell to the ground. Though his skin was a pale grey colour, the texture did not bother him as much as the gnarled bones. His fingers had not grown straight, the right hand resembling an animal claw more than a human limb.
He could not bend his wrist, nor move his fingers more than a hair’s breadth.
Despair warred with his anger. He had held on to this hope, that somehow Aileen held the skill to heal him. Now, he doubted such was possible. She had saved his life. But for what?
He should have ignored his hatred and gone to see the Ó Banníon healer. He should have put away his pride. Instead, he’d trusted Aileen.
He could not help but cast a small portion of responsibility upon her. If the elderly healer Kyna had lived, could she not have spared his hands? Aileen had not the experience of time.
As the sun dusted the edge of the tree branches with light, the morning waxing into afternoon, he feared his future as a soldier had ended. The grief of loss festered inside his mind, for he could not see how he would ever grip a sword, much less fight against an enemy. Logic and willpower raged against one another. If these hands belonged to another man, as a commander he would not allow the soldier to fight.
The thought of never lifting a sword again meant giving up his dreams. How could he lead a tribe when he lacked the strength to do so? A hollow feeling thrust itself into his mind, anger infusing him.
He could not give up yet. He’d rather die than surrender. No matter the cost, he swore he would regain his former strength. Even if it brought his death.
The welcoming aroma of lavender and rosemary filled the interior of Aileen’s hut. She recalled the nights when Eachan would sit with her, sipping a warm drink. Of course, he preferred a strong dash of poteen mixed with it. Sometimes he would take her hand, caressing her fingertips before coaxing her to bed.
A smile tugged at her mouth as she remembered. He had been a gentle lover, bringing her sweetly to fulfilment. Always courteous of her needs, they had found a pattern of comfort within the marriage. The thoughts of Eachan deepened the void of loneliness welling up inside her.
Tonight she would prepare acraibechanof chopped bacon mixed with vegetables from the garden. Connor’s comments about her poor cooking skills had chafed at her pride. She would prove him wrong. While she chopped the meat, a muffled pounding sound at the door caught her attention.
‘Aileen!’ Connor called from outside.
She unlatched the door. Connor entered, and upon his face Aileen saw the lines of frustration. He kept his hands behind his back, hiding them from view. She understood his chagrin at not managing the simple task of entering the cottage.
‘Did you have a nice walk, then?’ Signs of fatigue shadowed his face.
Connor held up his hands, the bandages gone. Though he said nothing, accusation glowed in his eyes.
‘Why did you remove the bandages?’ She spoke sharply, her own anger rising. By taking them off too soon, he endangered his healing. ‘You should not have removed them. The splints keep your bones together. They need more time.’
When he didn’t answer, she reached out to his hands. He jerked away, his face lined with fury.
‘Is this your healing, then?’ Connor demanded, holding up his right hand. His skin had healed, but the bones would never be completely straight. She had done all she could for him. He could regain motion, though perhaps not the same range of movement.
‘Sit down.’ She refused to justify herself, when he only wished to rage at her.
‘What did you do to me?’ he growled.
‘I saved your ungrateful life. Now sit down so I can mend the damage you have done,’ she commanded. Without waiting for a reply, she gathered fresh linen and searched for wood to splint his fingers.
How could he be so foolish to remove the bandages this early? Each day was critical for the bones to knit, particularly those in his wrist. His misshapen fingers did not matter. The true damage had harmed his wrist, and this affected all movement.
He remained standing. Aileen sensed an indefinable emotion from the tall warrior. The sun had brought colour into his skin, and his harsh face remained unyielding.
She took his wrist into her hands, his muscled forearms corded with wrath. As she bandaged his hands and wrists, his gaze grew cold. He spoke not a word, his silence damning.
When at last she had finished, she moved back to the forgotten vegetables, picking up her knife. Her hands shook as she sliced them, but she hid the trepidation behind her task.
‘I met a boy this morn,’ he said at last. ‘Whelon is his name.’
Aileen’s knife slipped, and she nicked her finger. She pretended as though he had said nothing. ‘Did you now?’
‘Rinne mé.’ Connor took a step closer, but Aileen could not retreat. ‘How did he lose his leg?’
‘He was hurt in a small skirmish with the Normans. He was bleeding badly, and the men made a tourniquet.’ She paled, closing her eyes at the memory. ‘They did not use it properly, and when I removed it, his flesh had already begun to rot. I had to remove the leg to save him. He would have died if I hadn’t.’
‘I have seen a sickness as you’ve described. Men who have lost a great deal of blood often lose their limbs.’
