“Didnae ken ye needed one.”
“Ah, but there’s the wrong in it, aye? Weel, get the lad home. He needs tending. That bastard nay only refused to treat his wounds or e’en give him water, but I caught him beating on the lad whilst he was tied up like that. Put a stop to that and gave your lad a drink. The man is a fine warrior and he will make a far better laird than that weasel Malcolm. Wasnae right to treat him as if he was some common thief.”
Artan groaned with pain as Ian hefted him up across his shoulders. Cecily grabbed a blanket from the bed. As soon as there were other men to help, they could carry Artan in the blanket. Being carried over Ian’s shoulder like that could start Artan’s wounds bleeding again, and she could see that he had already lost enough to make him dangerously weak.
To her surprise, the cut that Artan had made in the tent when he had rescued her was still there, simply laced shut. Angus held it open as wide as he could for Ian to get through, then slipped out after him. Cecily was just about to follow the men when she suddenly realized that all MacIvor had gotten as thanks was a grunt from Angus. She turned and started because he was standing right behind her.
“Thank ye, m’laird,” she said, and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the tiny part of his cheek that was not covered in beard just as she heard Angus’s whistle, the signal to the others to make for home.
Looking bemused, Laird MacIvor said, “Tell that old fool I will give him five minutes.”
She nodded and started out of the tent only to have Angus reach in, grab her by the arm, and yank her out. “I had to say thank ye to Laird MacIvor.”
“Ye can write him a pretty note.”
“He said he can give ye five minutes.” Seeing that Bennet and another young man had joined them, she handed Angus the blanket. “Ye can use this to carry him home. ’Twould be better, I think.”
“Aye,” agreed Angus. With the help of the others, he immediately started getting Artan moved from Ian’s shoulders and onto the blanket. “Ye will have a lot of work to do to fix this, lass.”
“I fear so,” she whispered, then followed the four men as they carried Artan in the blanket. When she saw the shadowy form of the others heading toward Glascreag she realized that Angus had brought quite a large force of men with him. “Why so many men, Uncle?”
“In case there was a fight.”
“Do ye think there will be any retaliation for Sir Fergus’s death?”
“Nay, MacIvor will blame me if he has to, but he will let it be widely kenned that Sir Fergus died because he tried to kill a mon, an already wounded mon who was bound hand and foot and leashed to a stake. And think on this, lass. Considering the sort of mon he was, do ye really think there will be many mourners?”
She sighed. “Nay, I have met some of his kinsmen. All there will be is a hard scramble to see who can grab the most of whatever he has left behind.”
“A mon reaps what he sows.”
That sounded heartless, but it was also true, she mused as she did her best to keep up with the men. When she was sure five minutes had passed, she tensed and waited for some sign of an outcry. None came and Cecily thought that was even sadder. She felt no grief for Sir Fergus Ogilvey, only for the sad waste of a life, and the waste had been mostly of Sir Fergus’s own making. The man had had several chances to step down a different path right up until the end, but he had not taken up any of them.
The moment they were inside Glascreag’s walls, Cecily took command. She quickly had Artan settled in his bedchamber. Crooked Cat helped her undress him and wash the dirt from his body. She almost wept like a bairn when she saw the damage done to his big, strong body. It also troubled her to see him so weak and insensible, but she was glad of it as she began to clean his wounds.
He had three sword cuts; all needed stitches, but only one of them was a truly serious wound. His capture and Sir Fergus’s beating had left Artan bruised from head to toe. Cecily was astonished that nothing was broken, although she suspected his ribs had taken a lot of punishment, so she wrapped them tightly. With Crooked Cat’s help she even managed to get some hearty broth down his throat.
“That is a verra fine-looking mon ye have there, lass,” said Crooked Cat as she collected up all the rags they had used to clean him off.
“I certainly think so, but if ye dinnae keep your eyes averted next time, I may have to kill ye.” She smiled when Crooked Cat laughed. “His color isnae good.”
“Nay, it isnae. I think he lost a lot of blood and ’tis ne’er good to leave wounds untended for too long.”
Cecily slowly nodded in agreement. She wanted to stay at his side, but at Crooked Cat’s insistence she hurried away to wash, change her clothes, and go and have something to eat. The woman was right to say that Artan was insensible right now, but also clean and comfortable. Now was the time for her to see to her own needs before she settled in at Artan’s bedside for what could prove to be a long, harrowing night, if not many of them.
“How is the lad?” Angus asked the minute Cecily sat down at the head table in the great hall.
“He remained unconscious throughout all the stitching, cleaning, and bandaging,” she replied as she filled her plate. “While I am most grateful he wasnae sensible as I tended his wounds, I cannae like it. It seems he should have stirred a little. I but pray that it is a natural sleep, that Artan heals himself in that way. Crooked Cat is sitting with him now.”
Bennet frowned. “The few times Artan has been ill or badly wounded he did sleep a lot and slept verra deeply. And nay with the help of any potions.”
“That is good then. There are few cures which are better than a lot of rest,” Cecily said, struggling to convince herself as much as she tried to convince the men. “It can e’en help ye recover from losing too much blood.” She looked at Angus. “Only one of the sword cuts, one on his back that curls around to his side, was a serious one, but ’tis clean and it bleeds no more. The beating Sir Fergus gave him left him covered in bruises, livid ones. But there are no broken bones; nay, not e’en his ribs, although I wrapped them as weel.” She noticed Bennet grinning, and asked, “What do ye find so amusing?”
“Ye are a healer, arenae ye?” he asked.
“Weel, aye, I suppose I am. ’Tis all I was e’er trained in and I was allowed it, I think, simply because I convinced Anabel that I hated it and she felt it was demeaning. Peasant’s work, she claimed.” She suddenly felt concern grip her heart. “Are ye thinking Artan willnae like it? Crooked Cat said a lot of women in your clan are healers.”
“They are, and Artan will think it a fine thing. What amused me was thinking on how far afield he went and yet he ends up with a lass who will have much in common with all the lasses he grew up with.”
