Dragonfly in Amber (112 page)

"Gordon McLeod of Ardsmuir," said another voice I didn't recognize.

"And Ewan Cameron of Kinnoch," said another. "Whose is the horse?"

"Mine," I said, sidling cautiously out from behind the altar. The sound of my voice caused another outbreak, but Dougal put a stop to it once more, raising his own voice above the racket.

"QUIET, damn the lot of ye! Is that you, Claire Fraser?"

"Well, it isn't the Queen," I said testily. "Willie Coulter's in here, too, or he was a minute ago. Hasn't anyone got a flint box?"

"No light!" said Dougal. "Little chance that the English will overlook this place if they follow us, but little sense in drawing their attention to it if they don't."

"All right," I said, biting my lip. "Rupert, can you talk? Say something so I can tell where you are." I didn't know how much I could do for him in the dark; as it was, I couldn't even reach my medicine box. Still, I couldn't leave him to bleed to death on the floor.

There was a nasty-sounding cough from the side of the church opposite me, and a hoarse voice said, "Here, lass," and coughed again.

I felt my way across the floor, cursing under my breath. I could tell merely from the bubbling sound of that cough that it was bad; the sort of bad that my medicine box wasn't likely to help. I crouched and duck-walked the last few feet, waving my arms in a wide swathe to feel what might be in my way.

One hand struck a warm body, and a big hand fastened on to me. It had to be Rupert; I could hear him breathing, a stertorous sound with a faint gurgle behind it.

"I'm here," I said, patting him blindly in what I hoped was a reassuring spot. I supposed it was, because he gave a sort of gasping chuckle and arched his hips, pressing my hand down hard against him.

"Do that again, lass, and I'll forget all about the musket ball," he said. I grabbed my hand back.

"Perhaps a bit later," I said dryly. I moved my hand upward, skimming over his body in search of his head. The thick bristle of beard told me I'd reached my goal, and I felt carefully under the dense growth for the pulse in his throat. Fast and light, but still fairly regular. His forehead was slick with sweat, though his skin felt clammy to the touch. The tip of his nose was cold when I brushed it, chilled from the air outside.

"Pity I'm no a dog," he said, a thread of laughter coming between the gasps for air. "Cold nose…would be a good sign."

"Be a better sign if you'd quit talking," I said. "Where did the ball take you? No, don't tell me, take my hand and put it on the wound…and if you put it anywhere else, Rupert MacKenzie, you can die here like a dog, and good riddance to you."

I could feel the wide chest vibrate with suppressed laughter under my hand. He drew my hand slowly under his plaid, and I pushed back the obstructing fabric with my other hand.

"All right, I've got it," I whispered. I could feel the small tear in his shirt, damp with blood around the edges, and I put both hands to it and ripped it open. I brushed my fingers very lightly down his side, feeling the ripple of gooseflesh under them, and then the small hole of the entrance wound. It seemed a remarkably small hole, compared to the bulk of Rupert, who was a burly man.

"Did it come out anywhere?" I whispered. The inside of the church was quiet, except for the horse, who was moving restlessly in his own corner. With the door closed, the sounds of battle outside were still audible, but diffuse; it was impossible to tell how close they were.

"No," he said, and coughed again. I could feel his hand move toward his mouth, and I followed it with a fold of his plaid. My eyes were as accustomed to the darkness as they were likely to get, but he was still no more than a hunched black shape on the floor before me. For some things, though, touch was enough. There was little bleeding at the site of the wound, but the cloth I held to his mouth flooded my hand with sudden damp warmth.

The ball had taken him through one lung at least, possibly both, and his chest was filling with blood. He could last a few hours in this condition, perhaps a day if one lung remained functional. If the pericardium had been nicked, he would go faster. But only surgery would save him, and that of a kind I couldn't do.

I could feel a warm presence behind me, and heard normal breathing as someone groped toward me. I reached back and felt my hand gripped tight. Dougal MacKenzie.

He made his way up beside me, and laid a hand on Rupert's supine body.

"How is it, man?" he asked softly. "Can ye walk?" My other hand still on Rupert, I could feel his head shake in answer to Dougal's question. The men in the church behind us had begun to talk among themselves in whispers.

Dougal's hand pressed down on my shoulder.

"What d'ye need to help him? Your wee box? Is it on the horse?" He had risen before I could tell him that there was nothing in the box to help Rupert.

A sudden loud crack from the altar stopped the whispers, and there was a quick movement all around, as men snatched up the weapons they had laid down. Another crack, and a ripping noise, and the oiled-skin covering of the window gave way to a rush of cold, clean air and a few swirling snowflakes.

"Sassenach! Claire! Are ye there?" The low voice from the window brought me to my feet in momentary forgetfulness of Rupert.

"Jamie!" All around me was a collective exhalation, and the clank of falling swords and targes. The new faint light from outdoors was blotted out for a moment by the bulk of Jamie's head and shoulders. He dropped down lightly from the altar, silhouetted against the open window.

"Who's here?" he said softly, looking around. "Dougal, is that you?"

"Aye, it's me, lad. Your wife and a few more. Did ye see the sassenach bastards anywhere near outside?"

Jamie uttered a short laugh.

"Why d'ye think I came in through the window? There's maybe twenty of them at the foot of the hill."

Dougal made a displeased noise deep in his throat. "The bastards that cut us off from the main troop, I'll be bound."

"Just so. Ho, mo cridh! Ciamar a tha thu?" Recognizing a familiar voice in the midst of madness, my horse had thrust its nose up with a loud whinny of greeting.

"Hush, ye wee fool!" Dougal said to it violently. "D'ye want the English to hear?"

"I dinna suppose the English would hang him," Jamie observed mildly. "As for them telling you're here, they won't need ears, if they've eyes in their heads; the slope's half mud outside, and the prints of all your feet show clear."

"Mmphm." Dougal cast an eye toward the window, but Jamie was already shaking his head.

"No good, Dougal. The main body's to the south, and Lord George Murray's gone to meet them, but there's the few English from the party we met still left on this side. A group of them chased me over the hill; I dodged to the side and crawled up to the church on my belly through the grass, but I'll guess they're still combing the hillside above." He reached out a hand in my direction, and I took it. It was cold and damp from crawling through grass, but I was glad just to touch him, to have him there.

"Crawled in, eh? And how were ye planning to get out again?" Dougal asked.

I could feel Jamie shrug. He tilted his head in the direction of my horse. "I'd thought I might burst out and ride them down; they'll not know about the horse. That would cause enough kerfuffle maybe for Claire to slip free."

Dougal snorted. "Aye, and they'd pick ye off your horse like a ripe apple."

"It hardly matters," Jamie said dryly. "I canna see the lot of ye to be slipping out quietly with no one noticing, no matter how much fuss I made over it."

As though in confirmation of this, Rupert gave a loud groan by the wall. Dougal and I dropped onto our knees beside him at once, followed more slowly by Jamie.

He wasn't dead, but wasn't doing well, either. His hands were chilly, and his breathing had a wheezing, whining note to it.

"Dougal," he whispered.

"I'm here, Rupert. Be still, man, you'll be all right soon." The MacKenzie chieftain quickly pulled off his own plaid and folded it into a pillow, which he thrust beneath Rupert's head and shoulders. Raised a bit, his breathing seemed easier, but a touch below his beard showed me wet blotches on his shirt. He still had some strength; he reached out a hand and grasped Dougal's arm.

"If…they'll find us anyway…give me a light," he said, gasping. "I'd see your face once more, Dougal."

Close as I was to Dougal, I felt the shock run through him at these words and their implication. His head turned sharply toward me, but of course he couldn't see my face. He muttered an order over his shoulder, and after a bit of shuffling and murmuring, someone cut loose a handful of the thatch, which was twisted into a torch and lit with a spark from a flint. It burned fast, but gave enough light for me to examine Rupert while the men worked at chiseling loose a long splinter of wood from the poles of the roof, to serve as a less temporary torch.

He was white as a fish belly, hair matted with sweat, and a faint smear of blood still showed on the flesh of his full lower lip. Dark spots showed on the glossy black beard, but he smiled faintly at me as I bent over him to check his pulse again. Lighter, and very fast, missing beats now and then. I smoothed the hair back from his face, and he touched my hand in thanks.

I felt Dougal's hand on my elbow, and sat back on my heels, turning to face him. I had faced him once like this before, over the body of a man mortally wounded by a boar. He had asked me then, "Can he live?" and I saw the memory of that day cross his face. The same question stood in his eyes again, but this time in eyes glazed with fear of my answer. Rupert was his closest friend, the kinsman who rode and who fought on his right-hand side, as Ian did for Jamie.

This time I didn't answer; Rupert did it for me.

"Dougal," he said, and smiled as his friend bent anxiously over him. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed as deeply as he could, gathering strength for the moment.

"Dougal," he said again, opening his eyes. "Ye'll no grieve for me, man."

Dougal's face twitched in the torchlight. I could see the denial of death come to his lips, but he bit it back and forced it aside.

"I'm your chief, man," he said, with a quivering half-smile. "Ye'll not order me; I shall grieve ye and I like." He clasped Rupert's hand, where it lay across his chest, and held it tightly.

There was a faint, wheezing chuckle from Rupert, and another coughing spell.

"Weel, grieve for me and ye will, Dougal," he said, when he'd finished. "And I'm glad for it. But ye canna grieve 'til I be deid, can ye? I would die by your hand, mo caraidh, not in the hands of the strangers."

Dougal jerked, and Jamie and I exchanged appalled glances behind his back.

"Rupert…" Dougal began helplessly, but Rupert interrupted him, clasping his hand and shaking it gently.

"You are my chief, man, and it's your duty," he whispered. "Come now. Do it now. This dying hurts me, Dougal, and I would have it over." His eyes moved restlessly, lighting on me.

"Will ye hold my hand while I go, lass?" he asked. "I'd like it so."

There seemed nothing else to do. Moving slowly, feeling that this was all a dream, I took the broad, black-haired hand in both of mine, pressing it as though I might force my own warmth into the cooling flesh.

With a grunt, Rupert heaved himself slightly to one side and glanced up at Jamie, who sat by his head.

"She should ha' married me, lad, when she had the choice," he wheezed. "You're a poor weed, but do your best." One eye squeezed shut in a massive wink. "Gi'e her a good one for me, lad."

The black eyes swiveled back to me, and a final grin spread across his face.

"Goodbye, bonnie lassie," he said softly.

Dougal's dirk took him under the breastbone, hard and straight. The burly body convulsed, turning to the side with an coughing explosion of air and blood, but the brief sound of agony came from Dougal.

The MacKenzie chieftain stayed frozen for a moment, eyes shut, hands clenched on the hilt of the dirk. Then Jamie rose, took him by the shoulders, and turned him away, murmuring something in Gaelic. Jamie glanced at me, and I nodded and held out my arms. He turned Dougal gently toward me, and I gathered him to me as we both crouched on the floor, holding him while he wept.

Jamie's own face was streaked with tears, and I could hear the brief sighs and sobbing breaths of the other men. I supposed it was better they wept for Rupert than for themselves. If the English did come for us here, all of us stood to be hanged for treason. It was easier to mourn for Rupert, who was safely gone, sped on his way by the hand of a friend.

They did not come anytime in the long winter night. We huddled together against one wall, under plaids and cloaks, waiting. I dozed fitfully, leaning against Jamie's shoulder, with Dougal hunched and silent on my other side. I thought that neither of them slept, but kept watch through the night over Rupert's corpse, quiet under his own draped plaid across the church, on the other side of the abyss that separates the dead from the living.

We spoke little, but I knew what they were thinking. They were wondering, as I was, whether the English troops had left, regrouping with the main army at Callendar House below, or whether they still watched outside, waiting for the dawn before making a move, lest anyone in the tiny church escape under cover of darkness.

The matter was settled with the coming of first light.

"Ho, the church! Come out and give yourselves up!" The call came from the slope below, in a strong English voice.

There was a stir among the men in the church, and the horse, who had been dozing in his corner, snapped his head up with a startled snort at the movement nearby. Jamie and Dougal exchanged a glance, then, as though they had planned it together, rose and stood, shoulder to shoulder, before the closed door. A jerk of Jamie's head sent me to the rear of the church, back to my shelter behind the altar.

Another shout from the outside was met with silence. Jamie drew the snaphance pistol from his belt and checked the loading of it, casually, as though there were all the time in the world. He sank to one knee and braced the pistol, pointing it at the door at the level of a man's head.