The clansman shook his head. “They were dressed in black, wearing hoods. It was dark on the road, hard to tell foe from shadow.”
“How many were there?” Dair asked. “Did you kill them?”
“I don’t know. I swear we landed blows, but the chief—we had to see him safe. We left the dead on the road.”
“Where’s Will?” Angus asked, looking for Padraig’s captain.
“Here,” Will Sinclair said, coming forward. “I need to speak with ye, Dair.” He looked at the gray and bloodless face of his chief and swallowed hard.
Will’s plaid was dark with blood.“Are you hurt?” Dair asked.
Will shook his head. “No—’tis the chief’s blood. He told me to tell ye . . .” He swallowed again and shifted his feet. “He named you as the next chief, if . . . I mean, if he shouldna—”
Ina arrived, and Fia gave the stitching of Callum’s arm over to her and crossed to the bed again. She took the chief’s limp hand in hers, checked his pulse, then looked at Dair. “Moire may be some time yet,” she said, wordlessly asking his permission to tend his father. He nodded. She set to work at once, used the chief’s own dirk to cut away the bloody bandages. Dair’s belly rolled at what he saw beneath. “Ina—fetch me some clean shirts,” Fia said quietly. He watched as she pressed the linen against the wound. The fine lace trim was quickly soaked with gore.
“Is it bad, mistress?” Angus asked.
“Aye, ’tis bad,” she muttered as she rolled up her sleeves, revealed slender arms that seemed too delicate for the task before her, saving a man’s—a chief’s—life. The silver lines of her scar twined around her wrist like a vine.
“What do you need?” Dair asked. He needed to do something, to help, to save his father’s life. He could not be chief. Not now.
“We need to stop the bleeding. Press here,” she said, taking his hand, putting it over the wadded cloth. He felt the strength in her fingers. It went through him like a bolt. Then he felt the wet heat of his father’s blood seeping through the fabric, and tears pricked his eyes. Fia lifted his hand, replaced the sodden cloth with another shirt, and another after that, calm and careful. Ina softly hummed softly a lament under her breath. The room was silent around them as the clan watched and waited.
The warriors stepped back to let Moire in. She leaned over Padraig and lifted his eyelid. “He lives,” she said. She looked at Fia. “Bleeding?”
“He’s lost a great deal.” Fia replied.
Moire lifted the linen pad. “Woundwort, and yarrow,” she muttered as she opened her bundle. She put a handful of dry leaves into the wound, and Padraig flinched.
“’Tis a good sign, not too far gone to feel pain,” Fia said. Moire didn’t reply.
The midwife put a clean wad of linen over the raw wound, then looked around her, noticing the crowd of clansmen for the first time. “Go on out, all of ye, great oak trees crowding out the light. Out—there’s naught for ye to do but wait.”
“We’ll stay, old woman. He’s our chief,” Angus said.
She pointed to the far corner of the room. “Then ye’ll stay over there, so he has room to breathe.”
The men took places along the wall. Dair remained by the bed. There was a white flower petal caught in Fia’s red hair, and he stared at it. The crown of flowers had gone, and her blue gown was soaked with blood.
“Dair?” The word was a thread of sound, and Dair turned to look at his father. Moire was there before him, her gnarled hands fluttering over the chief, checking for fever, keeping him still.
“Here, Da,” Dair said.
Padraig frowned at Moire. “Stop fussing, old woman.”
She scowled at him. “Chief or no, you’ll do as I say now if you want to keep on breathing.”
Padraig grimaced. “We both know there’s little chance of that, and I need to speak to my son and Angus while I’ve time to do so.”
Dair took his father’s hand. Padraig’s signet ring flashed in the candlelight. His grip was feeble, his hand already cold.
“Your note said there was trouble here,” Padraig whispered. “I expected you to meet me at the river.”
Dair frowned. “I sent no note. Nor did I receive yours.”
Padraig shut his eyes. “A trick. Then there is danger indeed. You know how to handle that. You’re a pirate, a Highlander, and the best of all the Sinclairs.” He coughed, and blood bubbled over his lips. “It is my will that you shall be chief after me. Angus—are you there? Bear witness.”
“Aye, Chief,” Angus said.
