Page 49 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Aileana, wait!” Brighde snagged her hand. “Ye must remain safe with us whilst the menfolk withstand the bombardment.”

“Nay! Our men need a healer, and I’ve vowed to Angus to set up a surgery!” Aileana pried her hands free from her sister-of-marriage, but Brighde snatched her again.

“Ye cannae go outside! What if a stray arrow should clear the wall and strike ye down? Sakes, sister, are ye nay frightened? This enemy has been known to capture women and force them to wife. They nearly killed ye!”

Sister? Brighde accepted her as a sister through marriage? She summoned her resolve. Now was not the time to succumb to fear or sentiments.

“But they didnae,” Aileana argued. “I’ve been in the fray more than once in my life, for yer own brother sacked Urquhart, or did ye forget?”

Shame darkened Brighde’s fair visage.

Aileana took her hands, squeezing them. “I shall be fine, and will flee to safety should the enemy gain the bailey. Bar the door behind me, and open it for no one but our own.”

She disengaged her hand once more from Brighde’s delicate grip, ignoring the sting her remarks about James might have made upon the woman, pushing away what a claim to sisterhood might truly mean.

“But James will be furious that ye put yerself in harm’s way. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to ye. The MacLeods killed Marjorie, and if they kill ye, he’ll no’ recover, for he’s falling for ye.”

The words hung in the air, suspended like icicles upon an eave. No, nay dwell on emotions. Nay when lives are at stake.

“James should ken well by now that I do what I must when I deem I must. ‘Stand fast, stand sure.’ That is the Grant way and is imbued in Grant men and women alike. Fear no’ for me.”

She pushed shut the door and was heartened to hear a bar slide across it. Hoisting up her skirts once more, she ran up the steps and emerged into the silent corridor, racing to the pantry. She scrambled for a basket and began dumping sun-bleached bandages, clay vessels of salves, needle and catgut, various bits of equipment, and soaps into the wide bottom.

With her arms laden down, she hurried through the abandoned hall to the door. The sound of weapons and shouting filled her ears. The bailey, mostly empty now except for the alarmed horses, was surrounded by MacDonald laymen and soldiers alike atop the walls, all able bodies ready to assist. Aileana waved to a pair of lads in homespun tunics, summoning them. They scrambled down the ladder and hurried to her.

“Bring me the pot of boiling water from the kitchens, and find me a flask of whiskybae.”

The children ran off to do her bidding, and she carried her supplies to the shed in hopes that the thatching would protect her from stray arrows. The injured archer lay within, writhing in pain. Her pot of boiling water was brought outside soon after, each boy lifting it by a handle and walking it carefully so it didn’t spill.

“They attack! They attack!” Angus shouted. “Gunners! Prepare a fire!”

Aileana closed her eyes, crossing herself, and offered up a Pater Noster as a shiver skittered over her skin. Not even Urquhart had a cannon, and the idea of one seeded terror in her gut.

The unified whirling of arrows sprang from MacDonald bows, and Aileana peered out from beneath the shed to see another archer fall backward with a cry, an arrow embedded in his arm. Aileana gasped, throwing her hand over her mouth. A fire arrow landed in the bailey, and servant boys tasked with extinguishing them dashed to douse it in water.

“Take him down to Lady Aileana!” a man at arms shouted, and the wounded archer was carried along the wall to the nearest ladder to be brought down, the arrow protruding from him.

“Over here!” Aileana called, and the men hauled him to her shelter.

She whirled away to treat the first man, an arrow in his shoulder, and rummaged for an arrow spoon among the supplies in her basket, finding one. Blast these sleeves! She ripped at the ties at her shoulder, slipping the folds from her arms and discarding them on the ground. So much for the beautiful dress. Rolling up her chemise, she held each arm out for the page boys to tie off with spare ribbons from her pockets and draped a sheet of bandage around her waist as a makeshift apron.

The arrow-shot man, groaning, was hustled in.

“Lay him over there; we’ll start in the back and fill in to the front,” Aileana directed, then knelt beside the first injury and called to the boys, “What are yer names, lads?”

“I’m Will, and this is Harris, mi lady.”

“All right, Will, Harris. I’m going to need ye to assist. Can ye manage the sight of blood?”

They nodded earnestly, excited to help the lady of the castle. She turned to the two soldiers who had yet to leave. “I need ye to hold this one down, for I must get the arrow out and he is sure to thrash.”

“Aye, mi lady,” they replied, and Aileana washed the arrow spoon in boiling water.

“Master Will, run to the smithy and bring me a hot iron.”

The child sprinted away, and Aileana readied to begin the grueling task of inserting the spoon into his wound to clamp around the arrow and drag it free.

She worked diligently, forming a routine with the two lads—