Silence fell then, swelling between them as the wind whipped her hair across her face. Reaching up, he gently brushed it away.
Hazel’s breathing caught. He shouldn’t be doing that. Especially not up here on the walls, where anyone could see them.
As if reading her thoughts, Craeg sucked in a deep breath and stepped back. “Very well, Hazel,” he said, his expression veiling. “But I’m coming with ye.”
18: A CUP OF WINE
ARCHIE MACQUARIE EYED Hazel with naked suspicion. “What’s this then?” he muttered as he watched her arrange her supplies on a clean linen cloth spread across the oaken table in her infirmary. Earthenware pots of dried herbs. A stoppered clay bottle of vinegar. Clean rags. Her small knife, its blade honed sharp for lancing. “Are ye going to torture me?”
Craeg snorted a humorless laugh. “Now, that’s a fine idea.”
Hazel cut the chieftain a quelling look. He stood behind them, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. Despite his relaxed posture though, tension rolled off him. His gaze was narrowed, his jaw tight.
He still wasn’t happy about this, yet he was allowing it.
She appreciated his cooperation, although she’d been ready to argue with him. If he wasn’t going to condemn this man to death, they had to help him.
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m going to see to that arm … before yer blood sours.”
The barmkin beyond the infirmary was quiet at this hour, the afternoon sun slanting through the open doorway.
Archie Macquarie sat on a low stool opposite Hazel, his massive frame hunched forward, cradling his left arm. He looked less threatening today—just a man in a sweat-stained linen lèine, his shaven head gleaming in the glow of the nearby brazier. His stench made Hazel’s eyes water: the sickly-sweet smell of corruption, mixed with unwashed flesh and the damp rot of the pit where he’d been imprisoned.
His arm was grotesque. The skin stretched tight and shiny, mottled red and purple. Pus oozed from the original flea bite, which had swollen to the size of a plum. Angry red streaks radiated up toward the crook of his elbow—the telltale sign that the matter was now serious.
Hazel plunged her knife blade into the brazier’s flames, watching until it glowed red. She then extracted it and turned back to Archie.
His gaze narrowed as he watched it cool.
“This will hurt,” Hazel warned him.
Clenching his jaw, he nodded.
Steadying her breathing, Hazel positioned the knife over the swollen bite. “Hold still.”
She pressed the blade in, piercing the taut skin. Pus erupted, thick and yellow-green, streaming down Archie’s arm. The warrior hissed through his teeth but didn’t pull away.She squeezed gently, coaxing out more of the foul discharge, her stomach roiling at the smell.
“Good,” she murmured. “It needs to drain.”
When the worst of it was out, she reached for the vinegar, unstoppering the bottle. The sharp, acrid scent cut through the stench of infection. “This part will be worse.”
Archie grunted, bracing himself.
She poured the vinegar directly into the open wound.
He jerked back with a strangled curse, his entire body going rigid. Sweat broke out across his forehead, his breathing harsh and ragged. But to his credit, he didn’t cry out or try to pull away.
“Almost done.” Hazel poured more vinegar, watching it foam and bubble in the wound, cleansing it. Archie’s free hand gripped the edge of the stool, knuckles white.
Behind her, she heard Craeg shift and felt the intensity of his gaze burning into her back.
Finally, she set the vinegar aside and began mixing her poultice. Woundwort, crushed in her pestle and mortar. Fresh garlic, mashed to a paste. She combined them, working the mixture until it formed a thick, pungent salve.
The smell was overwhelming—sharp and green and raw. But she was confident it would work.
“Thank ye, Maclean,” Archie said suddenly. He was looking past her, toward Craeg. “For asking her to—”
“Don’t thank me,” Craeg cut him off sharply. “This wasn’t my choice, but Hazel’s. If it were up to me, ye’d still be rotting in that pit.”
