Emer knew he meant the horses and not the actual riders themselves; hunters were huge stallions, capable of jumping over wide ditches and stone walls with the greatest of ease. Every stable hand jumped to help hitch the beasts. There were more than a dozen; Caillen and Gawain had joined their neighbors early that morning to seek out the skulk of foxes who had been laying the farmers’ coops to waste every night.
“What’s all the bustle an’ pother?” the groom asked as he went to the pump in the yard to fetch water for the animals.
And then they both saw the reason for the disturbance. Caillen’s horse was dragging a litter behind it, and on the litter lay Gawain.
He was groaning in agony and had his arm draped over his eyes to stop others from seeing how contorted his face was with the pain.
One of the men in charge of the hounds stopped to answer as he fed the dogs scraps of meat, “A dastardly bowman took a shot at Gawain Maclachlan. He must have been an expert archer because the arrow came from so far away he was able to make his escape before we made our way to where the shot came from. But that turns out to be lucky for Gawain because the arrow was almost spent when it struck his leg. Still, if it had hit a vein, we would be carryin’ his corpse back home on the litter instead.”
Emer was too shocked to say anything and ran inside to tell her sister, so she was not there to see Caillen tenderly lift his brother off the litter and order two strong footmen to hold his brother’s legs while he supported Gawain’s head. One of the horsemen had already ridden into town to fetch the surgeon and a page came running to where Emer was telling an upset Davinia about what had happened in the kitchens.
“Laird asks ye to prepare his brither a potion, Emer!” the lad said.
Glad she could do something to help, Emer dashed off to the distillery. She was already proficient in pain-relieving potions and familiar with the contents of the room. It was not long before a thick syrup of poppies and other healing ingredients was mixed together and poured into a vial. Emer added a few drops of honey to sweeten the whole, gave the small flask a shake, and ran to Gawain’s bedchamber. It was full of guards, riders, and clansmen.
Emer, happy she could provide Gawain relief from his pain, handed the potion to his manservant and returned to comfort her sister.
The clamor in the kitchen was almost as loud as it had been upstairs.
“Who would want to harm a nice young man like Gawain?” Mistress Drummond was asking the room in general, “what is the world coming to with evil archers and nasty bowmen lurking around every corner and up all the trees?”
Emer smiled to herself when she heard this exaggeration but could not help thinking that Cook was nevertheless not far off the mark. Davinia was trying not to let her tears fall into the apple pie she was making. Emer handed her the old lace kerchief Gawain had given her. She had washed and dried it that morning and hung it out to dry in the scullery yard.
Davinia took the kerchief, used it to dry her eyes, and then stopped dumbfounded when she saw the item she was using.
“Where did ye get this?” she asked Emer.
Aware that more than a few eyes in the kitchen were observing them, Emer prevaricated,
“I-- disremember. I think I bought it at a Nethy fair...,”
Davinia clutched the delicate scrap of lace in her hands, her face was turning very pale, but her cheeks were bright red.
“Then why has it got the initials, ‘GM,’ embroidered in the corner?”
Emer wanted to howl in frustration. Why did Davinia have to be so single-minded and obtuse? Could she not take the time to think about where they were and what the consequences might be if she insisted on keeping up this line of questioning?
“It came to me secondhand,” Emer said abruptly.
It was no use. Emer could see her eldest sister whipping herself into one of her unreasonable rages and gritted her teeth for the tongue lashing that was to come.
“This is Gawain’s kerchief. Ye’re a liar.”
Emer tried to remain cool and calm, “Nay, I’m nae liar, Davi, and if ye came down off yer high horse for a minute, I can tell ye where I got the kerchief from if ye would be so kind as to give me a few minutes with ye in private.”
Cook, fully as interested in the cause of the squabble as the rest of the kitchen staff, said, “Nay, she cannae. She’s working.”
Emer had had enough, “Ye’re right, Mistress Drummond, and so should I be working. I’m off to go upstairs.”
Emer turned to walk out of the room when she felt the back of her hair being pulled hard and the white cap she always pinned to the top of her ringlets came popping off.
“Ye have been up to skuldudrie with Gawain, have nae ye, ye shameless bedswerver! Tell me now afore I pull out every strand o’ hair on yer head!”
Davinia was now puce with rage and threw Emer’s cap onto the floor, stamping on it.
Emer knew it was time to tell the truth.
“Nay, ye stupid bobolyne, I have nae! He gave it me after I hurt me head.” Emer was now nearly as angry as her sister.
