The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  The placement of this arrow left no room for error. It had pierced through the mail coif and entered the front left side of MacGregor’s throat at an angle, coming to a stop at the back of his neck. The arrowhead was lodged inside.

  Magnus had managed to stop the bleeding, but he knew if he attempted to pull the arrow out, one wrong move would kill MacGregor.

  “Can you remove it?”

  He lifted his head from his extensive examination of the wound to look over at Arthur Campbell. He stood with the rest of the Highland Guard around the trestle table they’d requisitioned from the Great Hall and set up in the adjoining laird’s solar. The only other people present were the king and Campbell’s new bride, who was coordinating water, fresh linens, and whatever else they might need with the servants.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s in a dangerous location. I fear that if I try to pull it out …”

  He didn’t need to finish.

  “What other choice do you have?” MacLeod said somberly.

  “None,” Magnus admitted. “It has to come out.” He just didn’t know if he had the skill to do it. “Perhaps the healer will have another idea,” the king added.

  But the old woman who arrived a few hours later had no more expertise than he. Nor did the priest, who advocated bleeding the opposite side of MacGregor’s neck to restore his humours, praying for his soul, and then leaving it to God’s will.

  To hell with God’s will! Magnus wasn’t going to let him die.

  “Is there anyone else?” MacRuairi asked Lady Anna. Campbell’s wife was a MacDougall and had been raised at Dunstaffnage. “Perhaps you know of someone in the area?”

  Magnus stood. “I know someone.”

  Helen. She wasn’t a surgeon, but she seemed to have an unusual gift for healing. He’d seen her perform a miracle once. God knew, MacGregor was in need of another one.

  So Magnus swallowed his anger and asked Lady Anna to send for her.

  After the way he’d lashed out at her, he knew he had no right to ask for her help. But he would, just as he knew she would give it.

  Only a few minutes passed before he heard the door open. He felt a stab of guilt, seeing her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy, tear-stained face. If his harsh relating of Gordon’s death had been intended to make her conscience suffer, it appeared to have worked.

  He felt a second stab, this one more of a cinching in the region of his heart, when he saw the caution in her eyes as she approached.

  He clenched his jaw and met her gaze. “My lady, I’m sorry to disturb you in your grief, but I thought … I hoped you might be able to help.”

  She looked so tiny and young in the room crowded with the big warriors. For a moment, the fierce urge rose inside him to protect her. To tuck her under his arm and tell her everything was going to be all right the way he’d used to do. But it wasn’t. And it never would be again.

  Though her chin trembled, she lifted it determinedly and nodded her head. For the next few minutes the room was deathly silent as she examined the fallen warrior.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said, when she’d finished. “It’s a miracle he survived.”

  “Can you take it out?”

  Without killing him. Their eyes held; the unspoken words passed between them in silent understanding. “I don’t know, but I can try.”

  The quiet note of determination in her voice did much to soothe the frayed edges of his tightly wound nerves.

  She straightened, shedding the pale, uncertain, griefstricken girl as easily as she would shrug a cloak from her shoulders. And just as she’d done the first time they’d met, when she’d boldly stopped him from ending his dog’s life, she snapped into action. Claiming the room was too stuffy, she ordered everyone from the small solar—even the king—except for Lady Anna, whom she sent about procuring her the items she would need.

  When Magnus started to follow the rest of the guardsmen out, she stopped him. “Not you. I may need your help.” She looked at his arm. “But if I do this, you must promise to let me see to your arm as well.”

  He bit back the automatic refusal, knowing he was in no position to argue, and nodded. Curtly. He didn’t like being coerced.

  She murmured something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn ox” and resumed her tending of MacGregor.

  “I need you to lift his mail coif, while I look at the entry wound.”

  Magnus came up to stand beside her, ignoring the soft scent of lavender that rose from her hair. It had dried, he noticed. He’d seen the group of children sliding down the hill from the water, and somehow had known she was involved. It was something she would do. His suspicions had been confirmed when she’d appeared in the bailey, drenched with snow. Her unrelenting joy in the face of his own misery didn’t seem so wrong now. She hadn’t known. Every day is May Day, he recalled her brother saying. Sometimes he envied her that.

  “The entry wound is small and round, so I think it must be a needle bodkin.”

  He nodded, returning to the moment. “Aye. That’s what I thought as well.” To pierce mail at such a close distance, the long, thin, pointed arrowhead was more effective. The flat, broadhead arrowhead would have done much more damage, particularly had it been barbed.

  “Do you have an arrow spoon?”

  He shook his head. He’d seen them used before, but had never had need of one himself. It was a thinned piece of shaft with a wooden spoonlike end to cup around the arrowhead and help ease it out in one piece.

  “Then we shall hope the English soldier glued this arrowhead on with something stronger than beeswax. But if not, I shall need something to pull it out.”

  “I have a few instruments.” He unfolded the items he carried with him in a piece of leather that he’d fashioned with pockets and held them out for her inspection.

  She looked pleased by what she saw and removed a long, thin pair of iron pincers. “These will work well.” She paused. “All right, here it goes.”

  He knew from the way her cheeks flushed and her hand shook as she grasped the shaft that she was much more nervous than she appeared. But her concentration was as fierce as any warrior’s on the battlefield as she unhesitatingly started to pull the shaft out.

  She’s good at this, he realized. She seemed suited for this and more comfortable in her own skin than he’d ever seen her before.

  The arrow came out easily. Unfortunately, it was without the tip. But the removal of the shaft didn’t appear to have caused any extra bleeding.

  The small frown between her brows was her only reaction to the dangerous complication. “I would use a trephine to make the entry wound wider, so that I might be able to see the arrowhead. But with this location, I’m reluctant to try.” She picked up the pincers. Their eyes met. “Be ready to press that cloth on the wound as soon as I have it out.”

  He nodded.

  She inserted the pincers into the hole created by the arrow shaft. MacGregor moaned, but Magnus didn’t need to call for help to hold him down. The wounded warrior was so weak, he was able to keep him still with one hand. She bored the instrument steadily through his neck, taking care to follow the exact path of the arrow. Magnus heard the strike of iron on iron. With a deft, delicate touch she squeezed the pincers, attempting to grasp the arrowhead. It took a few tries, but finally, she stopped. Slowly, she began to pull it out.

  Each second was agony. He kept waiting for the telltale burst of blood that would indicate something had gone wrong. That she’d struck one of the deadly veins that ran through the neck.

  Even when he saw the arrowhead, he still didn’t believe she’d done it.

  “Now,” she said, “Press the cloth to his neck.”

  They both stared at MacGregor, watching for any sign of a change.

  “It’s Gregor MacGregor,” she said suddenly.

  He frowned. “You know him?”

  She gave him a bemused look. “From the Highland Games. But I shoul
d know him anywhere. Every woman over five has heard of that face.”

  Magnus knew well of MacGregor’s reputation—God knows they loved to needle him about his “pretty” face—but hearing it from Helen didn’t impart quite the same level of amusement.

  He clenched his mouth and turned away, concentrating on his friend while Helen found Lady Anna and gave her instructions on how to make a salve.

  By the time the salve was prepared, the wound had stopped bleeding enough to remove the cloth.

  “I’ll need to cauterize it with an iron,” she said.

  He removed one of the tools made for such a purpose—a long, thin piece of metal with a wooden handle at one end, the other end bent at a right angle with a flat nub on the tip—and heated it in the fire. He held MacGregor down firmly as Helen placed the hot metal on the wound, searing it closed. She never flinched from the smell. Finally, she spread the salve and bound the wound with a fresh cloth, before turning her attention to him.

  With help from Boyd and MacRuairi—the sadistic bastard seemed to enjoy watching Magnus bite back his pain—she forced the broken bones back into position. The shoulder where the first stone had hit wasn’t that bad, but his forearm where he’d tried to block the falling walls had been snapped nearly in two. The only good part, according to Helen, was that the bone hadn’t broken through the skin.

  When she had finished, Helen braced Magnus’s forearm arm between two thin pieces of wood just like she’d done with his dog, and wrapped it with linen bandages soaked in egg white, flour, and animal fat to harden. His shoulder had to be kept immobilized in a sling. And miraculously, MacGregor was still alive.

  Because of Helen, one of his friends had been saved tonight.

  But his happiness was tempered by the loss of the other. When Helen met his gaze, he turned away.

  The death of William Gordon cast a dark pall over the castle that not even Gregor MacGregor’s continued improvement could lift. The guests who’d celebrated their wedding only a week before now listened to the same priest pray for the groom’s immortal soul.

  Helen sat on the first bench in the chapel beside her brothers, listening to the priest drone on in Latin, still unable to fully comprehend the horrific turn of events. It seemed inconceivable that the handsome, lighthearted young man who’d stood beside her in this chapel a week ago could be gone.

  She didn’t belong here, sitting in this place of honor due his wife. The knowledge that she’d intended to dissolve the marriage with the husband she now mourned ate at her mercilessly. The sadness she felt for his loss seemed insufficient in the face of the suffering of those who truly loved him. Magnus. Her brother. Even Lady Isabella had been devastated.

  She should feel more, shouldn’t she? She wanted to, but how could she muster the grief he was due when she’d barely known him?

  She kept her gaze down-turned, fixed on her hands shaking in her lap, afraid that everyone would see the truth. She was an impostor, suffering from her own selfish guilt and not for the man who’d died …

  She didn’t know how he’d died. An attack, they said. His body lost at sea.

  Suddenly, Helen felt her brother tug on her arm, helping her to her feet. The funeral was over, she realized.

  Kenneth kept hold of her, propping her up like a poppet, as he led her out of the dark chapel. She couldn’t meet the sympathetic gazes of the people who watched them pass. She didn’t deserve them. Magnus was right—William had deserved more.

  Magnus. Her heart stabbed. He couldn’t even look at her. Since the day she’d pulled the arrow from Gregor MacGregor’s neck, he’d assiduously avoided her. He hadn’t even thanked her for removing the arrow or for tending his arm. She shuddered, recalling how badly his arm had been broken and how stoically he’d weathered what must have been excruciating pain. He might have been maimed for life if she’d not insisted on tending it. As it was, she couldn’t be sure how well the bone would mend.

  They made their way back to the castle through the snow, a path forged two hours earlier by the footsteps of the many mourners who’d come to pay their respects to the fallen warrior.

  A light repast had been prepared for them in the Great Hall. As they passed the laird’s solar, she removed her hand from the crook of Kenneth’s arm. “I will join you in a moment,” she said. “I need to check on MacGregor.”

  Her brother frowned. “Right now? I thought a nurse had been brought in to tend him.”

  “I shall only be a minute.”

  She left before he could argue with her. She ducked into the darkened room and heaved a sigh of relief to escape the oppressive weight of the day, if only for a moment.

  The nurse stood as soon as she entered. The girl from the village was young, but Lady Anna assured her, quite capable.

  “How is he?”

  “Sleeping, my lady.”

  She managed a half-smile. “That’s the best thing for him now.” He’d regained consciousness, but only for a few minutes each day. It was to be expected; he’d lost a lot of blood. He would have lost more had she not insisted the priest be prevented from bleeding him again.

  “Any signs of fever?”

  The girl—Cait—shook her head. “I’ve made him swallow a few sips of the beef broth, just as you said.”

  Helen smiled. “That is good. And the medicine?”

  Cait wrinkled her nose. “Aye, a bit of that as well. But he doesn’t seem to like it much.”

  The way she said it made Helen laugh. “I’m not surprised. It is quite bitter. Perhaps he is feeling better than we realized if his tastes are so discriminating.”

  The girl smiled back at her. “I hope so, my lady.” She cast a shy gaze toward the man stretched out across the table. “He sure is a handsome one.”

  “The most handsome in Scotland, it is said,” Helen agreed with a grin.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Helen spun around at the sound of Magnus’s voice behind her, not having heard him enter.

  Her cheeks flushed, embarrassed to have been caught … laughing, smiling, if only for a moment. “I was just checking on him.” She turned to the girl. “Thank you, Cait, you’re doing wonderfully.”

  The girl blushed with pleasure and bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Helen exited the room and was surprised to realize that Magnus was still behind her. For a moment, her heart caught, thinking that his anger might have abated. But one look at his rigid jaw cured her of that notion. Her heart ached for him. She wanted to give him comfort, but it was clear it would not be welcome. Not from her.

  “Is there something you wanted?” she asked.

  Me? She let herself dare hope.

  He shifted his gaze, not meeting her eyes—almost as if he’d heard her silent plea. “I should have thanked you. For what you did. You saved his life, and,” he motioned to his sling, “the use of my arm.”

  “You must not try to use it—”

  “I know. I heard you the first time.” One side of his mouth curved. “I never knew you could be so bossy.”

  She lifted her chin, ignoring the heat that rushed to her cheeks. “Only when I anticipate the patient will be stubborn and pigheaded by trying to resume activity before the bones are fully healed.”

  His mouth quirked. “I didn’t say it wasn’t warranted.”

  Their eyes caught for an instant, before he quickly looked away. The small exchange was so reminiscent of how things used to be between them that it made her heart tug with longing. Yet the uncomfortable silence that followed made clear it was no longer that way. It would never be that way again.

  He could barely stand to look at her.

  If marrying William had been unforgivable, what chance did she have now that he was dead? Unlike marriage, death was a bond that could never be dissolved. In Magnus’s mind, she and William were forever connected, and his loyalty to his friend would never let him forget it.

  Nor would he forget what would only add to his belief in her lack
of loyalty. To him all those years ago, and now to his dead friend.

  He cleared his throat. “You are leaving?”

  She stilled. “Tomorrow.”

  Say something.

  He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Safe travels.”

  Is that all, then? Her chest throbbed painfully. But it was clear he wanted nothing to do with her. “Magnus, I—”

  He stopped her with a hard look. “Goodbye, Helen.”

  Helen sucked in her breath against the hot stab of pain. Like a knife, his words severed any threads of hope. He’d cut her out of his life. The one person who’d always made her feel like she belonged no longer wanted her around.

  “Get away from her.”

  Helen gasped at the sound of her brother’s voice. Dread flooded her, anticipating the confrontation to come. Kenneth had made no secret who he blamed for William’s death, and nothing she’d said could convince him otherwise.

  Helen grabbed her brother, holding him back. Aware that they were in a corridor where anyone could hear them, she said in a low voice, “I was only saying farewell, brother. You have no cause for concern.”

  Helen could see the dangerous flush of anger in her brother’s face and knew he would not be so easily pacified. Kenneth wanted answers, and so far he’d had none.

  “You do not even wait until Gordon is cold in his grave before panting after my sister. Oh, that’s right,” he said sarcastically. “There is no grave to go cold. You took care of that.”

  Though Magnus gave no outward sign that the words had affected him, she sensed him tense. “What are you trying to suggest, Sutherland?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing. You’ve made no secret of your feelings for my sister.”

  Mortified heat crept up her cheeks. “You’re wrong, Kenneth. Magnus doesn’t feel—”

  “I know exactly how MacKay feels.” He gave her one of those patronizing brotherly glances and set her to the side, squaring off against Magnus. “He might have fooled you, but he didn’t fool me. He was half-crazed the night you married Gordon. He wants you. He still wants you. The only question is how far he’d go to have you.”