Flint met him in the bailey, his arms grabbing at the reins. Maddock had ridden ahead, and he and his father had awaited his return. Once Reade had stopped the horse, Seamus and Maddock were at his side, helping Blair off Motcha.
“Come. She must be seen by Mother,” Reade directed with urgency. Seamus threaded his arm through Blair’s as Maddock grabbed Reade around his waist.
“Aye, she will be cared for straightaway,” Seamus promised as he started toward the main doors with a milky pale Blair by his side. “Mona is on her way for ye. Ye’ve overdone it again, Reade. Let your mother care for the lass whilst the healer works on ye.”
Reade didn’t have it in him to disagree. The ride back to the tower had taken everything out of him, like a carved-out bowl. He was beyond weary. His arm throbbed to the point that he almost preferred it was cut off, and the wound had re-opened, dripping down his arm as he had ridden. The loss of blood made his head spin and his knees weak, and if it hadn’t been for Maddock, Reade may have lost his footing and fell face first into the mud.
“Laird, I vow to ye, I’m well –” Blair asserted to Seamus, who only made atsksound and patted her arm.
“I’m sure ye are, lass. But better to have Sorcha look at ye, just in case.”
Blair glanced over her shoulder at Reade and Maddock, her crinkled eyes speaking the worry that her lips couldn’t form. Reade nodded his head weakly at her.
“I’ll recover, wife. Go with my father. Have my mother see to ye. I will join ye straight away.”
That seemed to appease her, because she leaned into Seamus as he helped her up the stone steps into the keep.
“Are ye truly well, Reade?” Maddock asked. “Your weight on me would beg to differ.”
Reade’s chin dropped to his chest, and he emitted a long, wracking sigh. “The wound tore again as we rode home. I have need of spiced mead and a large bandage. ‘Tis all.”
Maddock grumbled under his breath. “Or cautery. The mead I can help ye with. The bandage shall have to wait for Mona.”
Hewie must have riddenlike the wind into the village to retrieve the healer. She entered the hall moments after Maddock eased Reade into a chair and slipped out from under his good arm.
“Och, Reade! Why am I no’ surprised ‘tis ye? What misery has your thick-headed behavior got ye into this time?”
Reade smiled weakly at the boisterous aging woman with perceptive eyes and a rough tongue ready to chastise anyone in earshot. She dropped her plaid cape on to the table and set her ancient basket next to it. Seamus, Hewie, and a few other MacDonald men remained in the hall to watch the spectacle of treating Reade’s injury. Hewie had the foresight to toss an extra log onto the fire for additional light and to warm the room.
“No’ my fault this time, Mona. A man surprised me with a sword.”
Mona clicked her tongue at him as she busied herself with her necessaries – cloth-covered pots and strips of linen. Maddock returned from the kitchens with a flagon of warm, spiced mead. Reade gulped the rich, frothy drink, relishing its slow warmth that spread through his chest, a spot of relief in a world of pain.
“Laddie!” Mona pointed at Maddock. “Get ye back to the kitchen and bring me a bowl of hot water. As hot as ye can make it.”
Maddock nodded curtly, then jumped to obey her command. Mona was more formidable than a general in the Scots Guard, than Laird Glengarry even, and Maddock wasn’t overeager to endure her wrath if he disobeyed.
“And ye,” she said as she whirled around back to Reade. “No’ your fault? Like the time that old donkey kicked ye in the shin? ‘Twasn’t your fault for poking it with a stick? That ass nearly broke your leg!”
Reade sunk down in his chair as the men around him chuckled. His face grew warm from her tease and from the blazing fire in the hearth next to him.
“Now, let us see what yedid no’get yourself into this time.”
Mona didn’t hesitate. With a strong hand, she ripped the rest of the dangling tunic sleeve off and tossed it in the fire. Then she leaned in, squirting, and poked at the wound. The world surrounding Reade went gray, and he gripped the chair arm, as if to hold onto his senses. She might as well have poke him with a hot iron. Had that Gordon injured his arm so badly? What if it meant he couldn’t use that arm again? Or, his earlier thought returned, he had to lose the arm? The prospect of a useless or absent arm made his vision go gray again.
“Och, I’ll wager it aches like the dickens,” Mona commented as her harsh poking lessened. “The blade got ye good. But if we put a poultice on it and keep the pus away, your arm should heal well enough. ‘Twill be awhile, and a bit o’work to use it fully again. But that shouldn’t be a problem for a braw mannie like ye, Reade. Your brothers will enjoy besting ye at swordplay for a while! My, how ye did grow up! No more thin chest or spindly legs for ye. ‘Twill help that ye have large arms. Any deeper and ye might no’ have had use of the arm again.”
Maddock had returned with the bowl of steaming water. Mona began by dipping a linen in the water, then rubbing at the wound with an aggressive hand. Reade groaned deep in his chest and despite his best intentions, jerked his arm away. Mona wasn’t flustered.
“Hold ‘im,” Mona instructed, and both Maddock and Hewie came to Reade’s sides, each gripped his forearms to hold them still. Maddock pressed his elbow into Reade’s chest for added control.
“Are ye going to cauterize it?” Maddock asked in a low voice. He knew that cautery oft hurt as much or worse than the original wound.
Mona looked down her nose at the wound as she rubbed it. Reade groaned and squirmed, kicking his feet against the stones, but Maddock and Hewie held him tight.
“Nay. The blood runs bright, not dark or in bursts. And here on his arm, cautery might limit him. Threads will be best, followed by a layer of rose honey and a linen wrap.”
Pleased with the appearance of the wound, Mona retrieved her needle and catgut. “Now, Reade. ‘Tis best if ye dinna fight and if ye dinna flex your arm. ‘Twill make it go faster.”
