The Border Lord and the Lady (36 page)

Mounting his own animal, the clansman said to his companions, who had now rejoined them, “Protect the laird! He is wounded.”

With every bit of willpower he had, Ian Douglas managed to remain atop his horse while they returned to Glengorm. Finally, as his mount came to a stop before the house, he was overcome by a wave of weakness, and began to fall. But the clansman who had first come to his aid was there again, half lifting him from his saddle, half walking, half dragging him into the house, where Tam and Artair ran forward to help. One of the serving women saw and ran to fetch Cicely. Another hurried to find old Mab in her kitchens. The two women entered the hall almost simultaneously. Cicely shrieked.

“Get him onto the high board quickly,” Mab instructed the men. She turned to Cicely. “He’s alive, my lady, and I’ll need your help. Go and fetch hot water and clean cloths so I may clean his wounds.” She had her basket of healing stores with her.

Cicely ran from the hall to do the old woman’s bidding. She prayed Mab knew what she was doing, for Cicely had never seen a wounded man. She didn’t know what to do. Neither she nor Jo had been particulary interested in the healing arts when Joan of Navarre had offered to teach them years back. And, of course, their foster mother had later been accused of witchcraft, although she was cleared of all the charges leveled against her. Now, it appeared, it would help her to know what to do with a wounded man. If Mab could teach her she would learn this time.

In the hall Mab saw the two arrows with their broken shafts. One had pierced the laird’s shoulder in the front. The other had lodged in his chest just above his heart. She shook her head. These were both serious wounds, and would have to be packed tightly to stop the bleeding once she removed the arrows. “My lord,” she said to him.

Ian opened his eyes. “Where is my wife?” he asked weakly.

“Gone to fetch water and cloths for me, dearie,” Mab said to him.

“They killed Fergus, but we slew them all, Mab. My brother is avenged,” the laird told her. Then he closed his eyes, for it had been a great effort to tell her what he did.

Cicely returned from the kitchens carrying a pile of clean cloths, Bessie behind her with a small cauldron of hot water. “Is he all right, Mab? He has been wounded. Where? What else do you need? Blessed Mother! I don’t know what to do.” Her voice trembled. “I did not think to see a wounded man.”

“Now, my lady, there is naught to it,” Mab said soothingly. “Just watch what I do, and do what I bid you. You’ll learn.”

Cicely nodded nervously. She bent over her husband, and Ian opened his eyes.

“They killed Fergus,” he told her. “Go into the village and see if any others were killed, ladyfaire. Comfort Marion. Mab will take good care of me.”

Cicely looked to the old lady, and she nodded reassuringly. “I’ll teach you the arts of healing another day, my lady,” she promised.

Cicely hurried off to do her husband’s bidding. She was ashamed to be so useless, and vowed to herself it would not be so again. Being the lady of Glengorm meant more than just being gracious to visitors, managing her servants, and tending her gardens.

“It isn’t good, my lord,” Mab told him.

“I know,” Ian said. “I felt this enormous burst of strength and energy sweep over me after they killed Fergus. But then when it was over ...”

“You have two arrow wounds, my lord. You broke off most of the shaft from each, but I must draw the arrows from your flesh, and I fear you will bleed heavily from both, less perhaps from your shoulder. Have you pain anywhere else?”

“My right arm is beginning to grow numb,” he answered her.

Mab nodded. Then, turning to Artair and Tam, she said, “I will need your help, lads. Removing the arrows will give the laird great pain. You must hold him steady while I pull them so those arrows do not damage him further. I’ll take the one in his shoulder out first. When I tell you, I will want you to hold him down by his upper shoulders for me.” Stepping down from the high board, she reached for the
small decanter of whiskey on the sideboard and brought it back with her.

The two young men had nodded in response to her instruction. Although they looked uncomfortable, nonetheless they did as Mab had bidden them.

Mab carefully studied the placement of the wound. It was at the bottom of his shoulder, almost beneath his upper arm. She placed her hand flat on his chest, the shaft between her thumb and her forefinger. The fingers of her other hand wrapped tightly about the shaft, she nodded imperceptibly to her two helpers, who immediately did as she had bidden them. Pressing down just slightly, she yanked the shaft from his shoulder in one smooth movement.

Ian Douglas screamed, and then, mercifully, fainted. To Mab’s relief this wound did not bleed greatly. She poured a bit of the whiskey on it, and then decided that while he lay in a stupor it would be best to remove the other arrow. This time, however, she drew the jagged shaft slowly from the laird’s broad chest. The wound spurted blood, but briefly. Again she poured whiskey into the injury.

He moaned and opened his eyes. “Jesu, Mary, that hurts, old woman!”

“I’m sorry, laddie,” she told him, “but they’re both out now. I’ll bind your wounds for you.” She set quickly to work, gently patting the ooze from each wound, covering it with a salve made from goose fat and acorn paste, then binding it. When she had finished she said to Tam and Artair, “Help your master to his bed, lads.” And to the laird: “I’m going to mix you a soothing draft, my lord. It will ease the pain.”

And while Mab had seen to the laird, Cicely hurried into the village to learn whether anyone else besides Fergus Douglas had been killed. She was relieved to learn that no one had, although several of the men had been wounded by the flight of unexpected arrows. Fergus’s body had been carried to the large cottage that was his. He was already lying upon the tressle table in the main room of the cottage, which was filled with women.

Cicely went immediately to her sister-in-law. “I am told by women in the village that he put his own body before that of the laird. Fergus Douglas was a hero, Marion. You can be proud of him.”

Her two small daughters clinging to her skirts, Marion Douglas said bitterly, “I should rather he be here by my side. Damn the Grahames, and damn all the English!” Then she gasped at what she had said, paled, and looked at Cicely.

“Aye,” Cicely said. “Damn the Grahames, but do not damn all the English, for we are not all bad.” She took Marion into her embrace and kissed both of her cheeks.

Marion began to weep. “Is Ian safe?” she asked between sobs.

“Mab is tending him now,” Cicely answered quietly. “He asked me to come into the village to see who else had been injured or killed. I am relieved that while many were injured, no one else was killed. Fergus’s murderers are now dead, and will not bother us again.”

“What will become of us without Fergus?” Marion wept.

“You are Douglases,” Cicely said. “Ian will take care of his kin.”

“Of course he will,” Marion’s mother said. “You are foolish, daughter.”

“I must return to the laird now,” Cicely told them, and she left the big cottage.

Mab was waiting for her in the hall. Taking Cicely aside, she said, “I will not lie to you, my lady. The laird’s wounds are bad. Especially the one near his heart.”

Cicely was overcome with fear. “Will he live?” she asked.

“Perhaps he will, and perhaps he won’t. I am no physician, my lady. I got the arrows out, and cleaned and bound his wounds. I brought him a soothing draft into which I had infused some poppy juice. He will sleep for many hours, and sleep is the greatest healer. On the morrow I will teach you how to dress his wounds, for they must be changed regularly if we are to keep ill humors from infecting him.”

Cicely nodded wordlessly; then she ran from the hall upstairs to the bedchamber where her husband now lay. He was so pale, she
thought as she brushed a lock of his rich chestnut brown hair from his brow. She had never seen an injured man. Never realized a man could look so frail, so helpless. Kneeling by his bedside, she prayed, and then, rising, she lay down on the bed next to him.

But she did not sleep. She dozed in fits and starts for hours, but mostly she lay awake listening for the sound of his breathing. And when he began to snore lightly for a short time, Cicely thought it was the best sound she had ever heard. As the night waned Ian began to moan with his pain, for the poppy was wearing off. Cicely got up and saw that both of his wounds were oozing through the bandages. What should she do? Blessed Mother, why had she not listened and learned from her foster parent?

“Water,” Ian croaked.

Cicely stumbled across the chamber and poured some water from the pitcher into a small goblet. Hurrying to her husband’s side, she braced him while she put the goblet to his lips. “Is that better?” she asked him as he sipped.

“Aye,” he said huskily. “I was parched.”

“Do you hurt?” she asked shyly.

“Aye, but ’twill ease with another of Mab’s soothing drafts,” he said.

“It isn’t even dawn yet,” Cicely told him.

“Marion and her bairns?”

“She’s devastated, but the wee ones don’t know what’s going on at all. They’re so young it’s not likely they’ll remember their da—more’s the pity, for Fergus was a brave man, and a good one,” Cicely said quietly.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she replied.

“This has not disturbed the bairn you carry?”

“Obviously it hasn’t,” Cicely replied. She had been so worried over Ian she had forgotten entirely that she was with child. “Ian, I am sorry I did not know what to do when you were wounded,” she said.
“I never thought to be in a place where my husband could be injured. Mab has promised to teach me what I must know.”

He laughed weakly. “You’d have been in worse difficulties if you had wed Gordon. The Highlands bubble constantly with clan disputes, more so in the north and west, but also in the eastern regions. Only the Grahames would have been so dishonorable as to send a flight of arrows at a group of unarmed men. You understand why I had to go after them, ladyfaire, don’t you? It is important that you comprehend.”

Cicely nodded. “It will be some time before the Grahames, or any of their ilk, consider attacking Glengorm. There was no choice but to go after them, Ian. I know it. Even if poor Fergus hadn’t been killed you would have had to chase after them and punish them. Had you not we would have been vulnerable to attack from all and sundry. Word of the carrion birds hanging above the moor and hills will travel quickly. The Grahames will regret their boldness, and all in the borders will know of it. Glengorm will be the safer for it. Aye, my lord, I understand now what I did not before.”

“Good,” he replied. “Should the day ever come that I am gone from Glengorm and it is attacked, I can rest easy knowing you will be able to mount its defense and attack our attackers. Our son will have to depend upon you if I am not here.”

“Do not speak such words to me, my lord. You will be here for Glengorm, for me, and for our child.” Cicely leaned over and kissed him softly and gently.

“Our son,” he said, kissing her back.

“Or our daughter,” she returned.

“Or our daughter,” he agreed with her, smiling.

J
an’schest wound healed quickly, but his right arm was stiff now. Mab taught her lady the use of herbs, like lavender for sleep, and comfrey for healing bruises and knitting bones back together. She showed Cicely how to mix powders and poultices, and how to make pills. Cicely learned how to examine a patient for a broken or dislocated bone. How to bind such injuries.

There was another lack in her education she now had to make up. She began to learn about how to defend the house should they be attacked. The captain of their men-at-arms was a burly, baldheaded Douglas man named Frang. At first he was loath to discuss defense with Cicely. She was, after all, English born.

“I am capable of keeping the house safe,” he told her.

“But what if you were away?” Cicely asked him in dulcet tones. “You could come back to find the house burned, and the rest of us dead or carried off. You must teach me what I need to know should you and the laird not be here, Frang. I know I may rely upon you at all times, but if I could not keep my own house and servants safe from attack I should be a poor border wife.” She gave him a small smile. “I would make my lord proud of me. You know he has not been well.”

Frang looked at the dainty English girl with her swelling belly. And then he looked across the hall to where his laird sat pale and still weak by the hearth, a wool coverlet about his knees like an old
woman. He nodded. “I will teach you what you need to know, my lady, though it’s unlikely I’ll be away anytime soon.”

“Thank you,” Cicely said softly. She had seen where Frang’s eyes had gone as he considered his decision. Ian still wasn’t well, and he was as weak as a kitten. The wound in his chest had finally healed, but the one in his lower shoulder was troublesome. Mab was at her wits end, for just when this second wound appeared to finally be cured it would suddenly fill with green matter again, which would sometimes turn yellow and be streaked with blood. And each time Ian Douglas grew weaker. Finally one morning he was unable to get out of bed.