Taking a cup of watered ale, Owen lifted it to the man’s lips. “Drink this, Lad. Ye’re nae dead, though ye’re nae out of trouble just yet.” He rested a hand against William’s forehead and grimaced at the heat of it. “Once yer fever breaks, ye’ll mend more quickly.”
“Where is… my father?”
Owen tilted his head toward the entrance. “He’s gone to speak with his men about movin’ ye back to England. I wouldn’ae have ye move so soon, but I’m eager to be on me way, too.”
I’m sure Sawyer is, an’ all.He had visited his friend once since their capture, and though Sawyer was unharmed, he was being held in a wooden cage. Naturally, Sawyer was not taking kindly to that sort of treatment, and it would not be long before one of the English soldiers retaliated at Sawyer’s spitting and throwing attacks.
“Do ye want me to fetch him back?” Owen reasoned that a son probably wanted to see his father, but William shook his head limply.
“No. I do not… want him to… know,” he murmured: his eyes foggy with delirium. “It all… happened so… quickly. I do not know… what is real and… what is not. I… am drowning, and I do not know… what to do. It is so… warm. Is it warm? Who… are you?”
Owen smiled. “I’m the fool yer faither captured to help ye. If I’d kent that healin’ men could forge a truce between the English and the Scots, I would’ve taken me needle and thread to auld Cromwell and stitched him up.” He sank back on his haunches. “Are ye breathin’ easier?”
“Breathing? I cannot… breathe with this… weight on me,” William hissed in reply, sounding panicked. “It is all… too much. It is crushing… me. I need to… get it off… my chest. I need it… gone! Save me, whoever you are! Save me!”
The injured man began to writhe and thrash, twisting up the fresh bandages that Owen had just wrapped around him. Already, fresh patches of red were appearing against the white material, where the violent motions were opening up healing parts of the wounds.
Seriousness furrowed Owen’s brow as he leaned forward to push down on William’s shoulders. “Ye have to stay still, William! If ye daenae, ye’ll tear everythin’ all over again!”
“William? You know… my name? How do… you know me? Were you… sent to… kill me?” William’s eyes widened with the madness of his fever, prompting him to flail and thrash harderagainst Owen’s restraining push. “He is… killing me! He… is killing me… again!”
With only one arm possessing its full strength, Owen knew he would not be able to hold William down without resorting to less comfortable measures. So, he pressed his good arm across William’s collarbone and heaved down with all of his weight, while his injured hand clamped as best it could over William’s mouth. It would not do Owen any good to have an Englishman shouting that he was trying to kill him.
“Hold still, William!” Owen commanded. “Ye’re goin’ to undo all the healin’ I’ve done, and I will nae be doin’ it all again for ye! I’m nae tryin’ to kill ye. I’m tryin’ to save yer life, so ye best do as ye’re told!”
Gradually, William relaxed, and his breath returned to a steady, albeit shallow, rhythm. Still wary of another outburst, Owen slowly removed the pressure of his arm and weight and sat back.
“Are you… truly trying… to save me?” William whispered.
Owen nodded. “Aye. Nae willingly, but aye.”
“Then, there… is something you… must—” William’s words turned into a spluttering cough that shuddered through his weakened chest, darkening the red stains of the bandages.
Owen placed a gentle hand on William’s chest and tapped lightly to release some of whatever was building up in there. “Daenae try to speak, William. Conserve yer strength.”
William’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “I have to… tell you. I have to… you are going… to save me, so I have to…” He trailed off into mumbling incoherence as his eyes rolled back into his head, wheezing out the nonsense of those with a burning fever. However, two hoarse words stood out, making Owen lean closer: “attacked… me.”
“Who attacked ye?” Perhaps, Owen reasoned, he would know the Scot who did it.
But no sound escaped William’s lips. Not even the rush of breath.
“William?” Owen pressed his fingertips to the side of the man’s neck, feeling for the pulse of life. No movement met his touch. “William? William, can ye hear me?”
The man had wilted on the cot, lifeless as a plucked weed. His lips, already drained of color, were now a deathly pale. Nevertheless, Owen brought his ear close to William’s mouth, hoping to hear a faint whisper of breath, but that miracle did not come. The wounds had been too severe, and William had likely waited too long to be tended to by a healer.
“What have you done?” a shaky, terrible voice snarled from the entrance to the tent. “What have you done to my boy?”
Owen’s head whipped around. “I couldn’ae save him, Elias. If ye’d brought help to him quicker, he might’ve lived. Even a sawbones could’ve given him a better chance! I did what I could. I did everythin’ but he was too badly hurt!”
“Did you…killmy boy?” Elias flew across the tent before Owen could even think about defending himself.
As Elias tackled Owen with his full, portly weight, a cluster of guards raced into the tent. Seeing their commander in what must have looked like a scuffle, though Owen was merely trying to stop himself being strangled to death by Elias, the guards hurtled toward the scene and grabbed Owen. Wrenching his arms behind his back, not caring about his injured one, the guards hoisted him backward.
“He murdered my boy!” Elias screamed: his face purple with rage. “Take him out of my sight! Throw him in the cage with the other Scottish vermin!” He flung himself at his son’s dead body, hugging the limp figure tight to his chest as he wailed at the top of his lungs, “My boy! My only boy! My sweet, dear boy!”
In that moment, Owen wished he had done as Sawyer jokingly suggested, and ridden back to the English to have himself captured. That fate could not have been worse than what was surely about to befall him, for if Elias truly thought he had murdered William, there would be only one sentence awaiting him.
3
