Chapter Two
Cailean MacNeil wrungout the sweat-sodden cloth, dipped it in a basin of cool, clean water, and pressed it against Drew’s damp forehead. It didn’t seem to be making any difference. His old retainer and friend was getting worse. Drew had thrown off the blankets that the healers had placed over him, and sweat streaked his limbs and torso.
Despite the cool September breeze coming in through the open window, he was burning up, the fever chewing through him as it had already done to so many others.
Helpless frustration welled up inside Cailean. He was the laird of this island, damn it! He should be able to do something to help his people. But in this, he was as helpless as a newborn babe.
He clenched his fists, trying to curb the anger that rose inside him like boiling oil. He’d tried everything. He’d brought healers from all over Barra, tried every remedy they knew, but nothing worked. The sickness was getting worse, and Cailean’s rage and frustration increased with each new report that came in.
“I’ll give him more willow bark,” Maggie said from Drew’s other side.
Cailean nodded. Maggie’s wrinkled face was drawn and haggard. Like him, she hadn’t been getting much sleep. He knew the castle healer was as frustrated as he was. She held a mortar and pestle in herhands, grinding down more ingredients for remedies.
“Yer heathen concoctions havenae helped in the least,” said Sister Beatrice, the castle’s other healer, who was folding sheets by the door. “Only the Good Lord can save him now. I’ll say more prayers.”
“Oh, because they’ve done the world of good so far, ye mean?” Maggie retorted. “Yer Christian god seems to have forgotten our little corner of the world!”
They fell to arguing, and Cailean sighed. Maggie and Beatrice were sisters, both healers in their own way, but had taken vastly different paths in life. Maggie was steeped in the old ways of gods and goddesses of field and furrow, Beatrice in the ways of the Christian god. Both thought their way was right and other wrong.
Cailean didn’t care one way or the other. He’d never held much faith in deities who seemed to care little for what happened to the mortals who venerated them. All he cared about was finding a way to save his people. Until now he’d always done that with a sword in his hand and a command on his lips. Norse raiders? He’d drive them off. Disputes among his people? He’d knock the leaders’ heads together until they saw sense.
But this? Swords and brawn were no use against this enemy, and the bickering of his two healers wasn’t helping any.
“I need some air,” he muttered, heaving himself to his feet.
He left Drew’s sickroom and made his way through the castle until he reached the main doors. Stepping outside, he stopped, sucking in a lungful of the sea air and trying to calm the tempest of emotions raging inside.
It was a cloudy, cold day, and the breeze coming in off the ocean held hints of the winter to come. If they couldn’t find a way to combat this illness, how many of them would make it through that winter?
“Papa!”
He turned just as a small body cannoned into him, wrapping skinny arms around his waist.
He gave an “oomph” and then a laugh, returning the fierce hug. “What’s this for?”
Catriona looked up at him, her freckled face breaking into a grin. “No reason. Just havenae seen ye since breakfast, is all.”
As usual, Catriona’s red ringlets had come free of the plait that he’d tied them in. And, as usual, there was a mischievous glint in her eye. He raised an eyebrow at his daughter.
“Dinna give me that. I know that look when I see it.”
Cat blinked, feigning innocence. “What look?”
“Thatlook. That look that says ye’ve done something ye shouldnae and are being extra nice so I dinna notice. Come on, out with it. What have ye done now?”
At nine years old, Catriona MacNeil was a handful. Tall for her age, and with her mother’s fiery coloring and temperament, she had seemingly limitless energy and was always getting herself into some scrape or another. She could usually be found with the other local children swimming in the coves that dotted the shore, fishing in the inland lochs, or climbing the trees that blanketed the hills inland. She flatly refused to behave like a lady, to the eternal despair of Sister Beatrice, who acted as her tutor.
She shuffled her feet and looked a little sheepish.
Cailean crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’m waiting.”
“Well…” she began, drawing out the word.
She was interrupted by a sudden high-pitched yapping and a scrabbling against the door of the stable that lay on the other side of the courtyard. A second later, the door burst open and a black-and-white puppy came racing across the yard towards them.
“Ye were supposed to stay there until I’d spoken to him!” Cat cried as the puppy started dancing around her feet.
“So that’s it!” Cailean thundered. “Ye’ve been and gotten one of Old Malcolm’s pups after I expressly told ye no!”
