“So they were both verra clean; but women have bairns all the time and many dinnae die of the birthing fever.”
“True, but this particular woman proved to be having a verra difficult birth. The bairn needed turning.” She nodded when Crooked Cat gasped. “Tall Lorna said both she and the woman kenned the possibility of the woman getting the birthing fever or worse and dying from what needed to be done, and that there were healers and others who say ye shouldnae try to turn the bairn in the womb, that women arenae sheep or mares, but Tall Lorna says they are fools. She did it and the woman had a fine son.”
“And the woman?”
“Lived. There was ne’er a problem, ne’er a hint of fever. Tall Lorna decided she would try a few more births and healings whilst being careful to keep herself, her hands, the wounds, and all as clean as she could.”
“And?”
“Her fame spread, for her successes increased tenfold or more.”
Crooked Cat stared at her hands and frowned. “Do ye ken those Murray lads are always clean and willnae let me tend their hurts until I have washed my hands. A lot of the women in their clan are gifted healers, too.” She nodded to a big, heavily bearded man sitting on a bench and holding a rag to a wound in his arm. “There is an easy one to tend to. I will be right back.”
By the time Crooked Cat returned to her side Cecily was tying a bandage over the man’s stitched and cleaned wound and Crooked Cat’s hands had been vigorously scrubbed clean. It was not until a little while later that Cecily realized the woman had ordered the other women to keep their hands clean, as well as the wounds they tended to. The men who returned to the walls not only had clean wounds and a clean bandage, but quite often a wide clean patch of skin on an otherwise dirty body.
As the day dragged on, Cecily caught only fleeting glimpses of Artan. Once, she saw her uncle and Artan standing shoulder to shoulder on the wall deep in discussion. The sight eased the last of her hurt over Angus’s bargain with Artan, over how her marriage to Artan would make him Angus’s heir. Artan may have only a little MacReith blood in his veins, but he was Angus’s son in many ways, including in his love for Glascreag. All her marriage did was make him fully acceptable to those who might offer a complaint about Angus’s choice and silence any who might be moved to support Malcolm’s claim. She should have been told of the bargain, but the fact that she had not been was no great crime. In truth, watching Angus and Artan work together to defend Glascreag made her feel that it had righted a wrong and put the right man at Angus’s side as the heir to all he had built.
Something Sir Fergus was trying to destroy, she thought angrily. The fact that this was all happening because Sir Fergus was a greedy man who wanted part of a wealth that he had no rights to made her even angrier at him. The man had no feeling for her. She did not know why Sir Fergus did not just return to Dunburn and use his knowledge to bleed Anabel and Edmund of a fortune. He was acting like a spoiled child who did not really care about what he had been denied, only that someone had saidnay.
She went to see how the youth with the three arrow wounds was doing and was pleased to see that he had not yet grown feverish. That was a very good sign. In fact, despite Glascreag being vigorously attacked twice, only two men had died. Cecily moved on to tend to a gash a young boy had gained when shoved against a wall by his father just as another torrent of arrows fell into the bailey. As Crooked Cat fed the boy a sweet, Cecily bathed his wound and prayed that this would all end soon and end with Sir Fergus dead and his men fleeing for home as fast as they could.
“The mon is verra weel supplied,” said Angus as he wiped the sweat from his face with a wet rag.
“I suspicion some of that is due to allying himself with Laird MacIvor, but, aye, heisweel supplied. There is one thing he will soon grow verra short of if he doesnae change his ways, and that is men.”
“And MacIvor willnae give him many of his if the fool refuses to change the way he fights.”
Frowning down at the people collecting the arrows shot over the walls by Sir Fergus’s army, Artan was surprised that the number of dead was so low. There was, however, a lot of wounded. Soon the spaces upon the walls would be hard to keep filled. The way Sir Fergus was fighting this battle was wasteful of men and supplies, but it could well win the day for him. Artan looked back toward Sir Fergus, Laird MacIvor, and all of their camped men.
“We need to do something about all those supplies he is using against us,” Artan murmured.
“Oh, aye? Such as what? Ask him to share?” Angus scowled toward Sir Fergus’s tent.
“Something like that.”
“Oh, nay. Nay, ye arenae going out there.”
“We cannae keep crouching here hoping he runs out of arrows. ’Tis costing us too much. After the first attack the man does seem have to grown a wee bit more careful with the lives of his men. So now we are the ones losing men to Sir Fergus’s archers. Do we just sit here waiting for who ends up the weakest first?”
Angus cursed and dragged his hands through his hair. “Do ye think ye can destroy his supplies?”
“I have been watching them closely every time I dared stand up and I ken where their supplies are.” He nodded when Angus’s eyes narrowed, knowing he had caught the man’s interest. “Five men to go with me as soon as the sun sets.”
“And ye are back here ere the man can curse over the loss of those supplies.”
“He will ne’er e’en ken I am there ere I am gone,” Artan boasted.
“Ready yourself then.”
By the time Artan was slipping out of Glascreag he was still wondering if he should have told his wife what he planned to do instead of leaving Angus the chore. It was too late to do anything about that now, he told himself firmly. Despite his boasts to Angus, Artan knew this was a very risky thing to do, but he felt he had no choice. He had picked out men he knew could disappear into the smallest shadow and move across the rough ground without making a sound. It was the best he could do to improve their chances of success.
They found the supplies, silenced the guards, and set fire to the carts holding them before Artan really began to feel confident of success. That confidence faded abruptly as, during their escape, they stumbled across five Ogilvey men laughing as two of their number wrestled two young girls to the ground. When Ian the Fair crept up to his side and softly cursed, Artan inwardly sighed. He had not been sure of the identity of the two girls, but it appeared that Ian the Fair was, and that meant they were of Glascreag. He knew he could not turn his back on the girls, probably could not have even if they had not been Angus’s people. The fact that they were only made his need to help them that much stronger.
“Those lasses are the daughters of the blacksmith,” whispered Ian.
“Why arenae they inside Glascreag’s walls?”
“The mon said they were off visiting their grandsire and wouldnae be back until the morrow. Ah, poor lassies. This will sore grieve their father.”
