by Carmen Caine
Alec didn’t make a sound. Not even when Ewan’s sword pierced the Cunningham’s back and the man collapsed with a gurgling gasp upon Alec’s prone body.
And then Merry discovered that she was running, each step filling her with a pervasive sense of dread. But Ewan arrived first. Tossing the lifeless Cunningham aside as if he weighed no more than a twig, he knelt by Alec, his face registering true alarm.
And then Merry was there, standing at Alec’s feet, breathless. Instinctively, Ewan rose as if to shield her from the dreadful sight, but she caught a glimpse of a bloody gash across Alec’s abdomen. His shirt and plaid were soaked in blood.
She covered her mouth with both hands.
No man could survive that wound.
Dimly, she was aware of Ewan barking orders. There was strength mixed with the harshness in his voice. Somehow, it enabled her to put aside her horror. At least for the moment.
“Tear that plaid into strips, lass, and do it now!” he was shouting. Both of his hands were pressed against Alec’s abdomen, as if he were in some way holding the man together. “Be strong for him, lass. He needs us now.”
Merry nodded with a stricken expression.
With shaking hands, she stumbled to the dead Cunningham and unsheathing her dirk, began hacking a length of cloth from his plaid. The man’s face yawned open and his glassy eyes stared unseeing toward the sky. Only a few moments ago, he’d been shouting at her.
She swallowed and closed her eyes. She was caught in a nightmare. When would it end?
With a vicious jerk, she ripped the rest of the cloth away and staggered back to Ewan’s side to begin tearing the plaid into strips. But her hands were shaking so badly, she could scarcely move her fingers.
“Ewan—” Alec gasped, his teeth chattering in agony.
“By the blood of the saints, be silent, Alec!” Ewan thundered, and then throwing his head back, he let loose a torrent of ragged expletives and pounded his fist into the ground.
“Aye, ‘tis bad,” Alec panted weakly.
“’Tis not just, Alec,” Ewan choked. “I’ll see Cunningham hanged for this, I swear!”
They all could hear the tears in his voice. Merry didn’t have to look to know they were coursing down his cheeks.
And it was then that Merry knew there truly was no hope.
Alec was going to die.
She swallowed, unable to weep and instead struggled with the irrational desire to run. Part of her wanted to dash across the meadow as fast as she could and pretend that nothing had happened.
“Allow me to aid ye,” a soft voice said from behind them then.
Both Merry and Ewan jerked around to discover a young lass peering down at them with a strangely intent gaze.
She was slight. Her hair was a dark auburn shade and her eyes, a striking light blue ringed with dark gray. She held a woven basket tucked under one arm, and when she brushed back a strand of hair from her face she left a smudge of dirt across her delicate cheekbone.
“I am fair knowledgeable in healing,” she said calmly, smoothing her blue woolen kirtle. “I can ease his suffering.”
They were both still startled and didn’t answer, but she ignored them anyway and stepped forward to kneel at Alec’s side.
“I saw ye afore,” he gasped, his eyes locked upon her face.
“Nay,” she disagreed in a steady tone. “I’ve only just arrived.”
He opened his lips as if he would speak again, but she frowned and tapped his nose with a finger.
“Dinna speak,” she said crisply. “Ye need what strength ye have.” Delving into her basket, she drew out a rolled bandage and a leather bag filled with a mixture of cobweb and herbs. “There is no stitching this wound, I fear, but I can ease your pain.”
No one spoke as she heaped the mixture upon the gaping cut and then proceeded to bind it tightly with the bandage.
And then Alec turned his head to lock eyes with Ewan. He smiled weakly. “One look at your face tells me I’ve not long,” he said through white lips.
“What would I know?” Ewan choked again. He looked as though he would have said more but words seemed to fail him. Instead, he bowed his head as his shoulders shook.
Alec grimaced and closed his eyes.
And then the lass patted Alec’s bandage with a nod of satisfaction and, wiping his blood from her hands, looked up at Ewan.
“He hasn’t much time afore the pain becomes unbearable,” she said quietly. “Bring your horses quickly. ‘Tis not wise to remain here, there might be more Cunninghams on the way.”
There was no denying the wisdom of her words.
“We will go to Heather House,” she continued then. “‘Tis not far.”
Ewan drew a long shaking breath, and raising his head, repeated, “Heather House?”
“Aye, ‘tis where the Old Mother lives,” the lass replied. Rising to her feet, she stepped away and beckoned for Ewan and Merry to follow. When she was satisfied Alec could not hear, she murmured, “I canna give ye false hope. Even the Old Mother willna be able to save him, but she can ease the pain of his passing.”
Merry choked.
And then Ewan’s hand squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of strength and comfort. Briefly, she laced her fingers through his, and then with hot tears gathering under her lashes, she silently helped him round up the horses.
As gently as they could, they hefted Alec onto the back of the shortest horse. But even that was enough to make him scream in agony and faint from the pain of it. He would have fallen had not Ewan mounted behind him to hold him in his arms.
“I’ll lead ye,” the auburn-haired lass volunteered once they were settled.
And with the sun hanging low in the sky, she took the reins and led them back along the road, toward the entrance to the glen.
They’d gone but a short way when Ewan nodded his head at the willow a few feet ahead.
“Did I not see ye afore, standing by that tree?” he asked in a curiously hushed tone. “Your red hair, ‘twas about your shoulders and ye wore a green plaid.”
The lass looked up at him in surprise. “Nay, I’d only just arrived when ye saw me,” she answered, puzzled.
Ewan frowned and shook his head. “’Twas over an hour ago,” he insisted. “Ye wore a green plaid with a silver cross. A Celtic cross, it was. Ye stood by the old druid stone there.”
He pointed to the ancient stone standing next to the tree.
The lass glanced uneasily over her shoulder at the willow, and her brows creased into a deep frown. “’Tis a cursed tree,” she said, and then she shrugged and added, “The Old Mother wears a green plaid with such a cross, but it’s been many a year since her hair was as red as mine. Most likely, ‘twas a trick of the light.”
Merry swallowed. Undoubtedly, there was a simple explanation, but she couldn’t suppress a shiver.
Ewan seemed similarly unsettled as he asked, “The Old Mother?”
“Just an old woman. ‘Twas she who sent me to aid you,” the lass said in an almost bitter tone. “Some say she has the ‘second sight’. Some claim she has fairy blood. Still others say she should be burned as a witch from the dreams she suffers.”
Merry drew a deep breath. She’d heard tales of those immersed in the old ways and blessed with “second sight”, but she’d never met one who truly possessed it.
“And ye?” she prompted. “What do ye say of the Old Mother?”
The lass smiled a little as if in private jest but then grew serious. “The Old Mother is a canny sharp-eyed trickster, nothing more. Most likely, she saw the lot of ye ride into the glen. ‘Tis well known in these parts that blood flows whenever a Montgomery and a Cunningham meet.”
“Aye,” Ewan said then, but he sounded more as if he simply desired to switch the subject rather than that he’d been convinced.
At the entrance to the glen, the lass led them off the road and onto a dark, narrow woodland path. The forest was thick and dark there, a place where moonlight could never
penetrate.
They walked through ancient pines for a short distance, and then the trees began to thin. Crossing an old bridge, they came to a small mossy clearing with a stone cottage standing at the far edge. Untamed roses spilled over the reed-thatched roof, and a small herb garden with a beehive bordered the wide pavers leading up to the door.
They had just lifted the still-unconscious Alec down from the horse when the cottage door opened, revealing an aged woman with snowy white hair. Leaning upon a walking stick, she stood framed in the light spilling from the dim interior, and indeed, she wore a green plaid about her shoulders, clasped with a silver Celtic cross.
From the expression upon Ewan’s face, Merry could tell he found her appearance as unsettling a sight as she did herself, but then Alec moaned, and suddenly, nothing else was of importance.
“My name is Catriona,” the woman introduced herself as she hobbled forward. “Bring the lad in, will ye? And be quick!”
Gently, they carried him inside and laid him on a small bed next to a warm, crackling fire.
“He’ll need more than cherry bark for the pain,” the wizened woman said as she shuffled to his side. Picking up a homespun plaid, she shook it out and covered him with it carefully before waving at the auburn-haired lass. “Bring me the rosewood box, Sorcha, and then while I tend this one, ye see to the braw lad there, aye?”
She pointed a spidery-veined finger at Ewan.
Merry frowned, puzzled, but then her eyes widened. There was blood on Ewan’s shirt. She’d assumed it had all been Alec’s.
Horrified, she gasped. “Are ye wounded, Ewan? Nay, not ye, too!”
He looked at her tiredly and held out an arm, but whether it was for comfort or a silent appeal for support, she didn’t rightly know.
And it really didn’t matter.
As he slipped a comforting arm about her shoulder, she slid hers about his waist and guided him to where Sorcha had scraped a small three-legged stool across the floor and had pointed for him to sit down.
“There’s no cause to fret, lass,” Ewan assured as he sat down with a groan. “’Tis an old wound.”
“Old?” Merry repeated with a scowl. “And how old is an old wound to ye, Ewan MacLean?”
“Just a scratch from afore when Lothar was—“ he cut his words short with a gasp as Sorcha yanked at his shirt.
“A gentle touch, Sorcha,” the old woman admonished from her post at Alec’s bed. “Gentle fingers, lass. And bring me the rosewood box.” Still focused on Alec, she began to croon softly under her breath and fluffing a limp pillow, placed it under his head.
With a clenched jaw, Sorcha nodded, and assuming a polite smile, she turned her attention back to Ewan. This time, she gingerly poked at the blood-encrusted shirt before finally lifting it free from the wound. An angry-looking cut ran across his lower rib.
“Ye’ve been hurt this entire time?” Merry asked, feeling all at once helpless and angry.
But he only sent her a tired smile and closed his eyes. His gaunt face was shadowed by several day's growth of whiskers, and he looked so exhausted that she suddenly wasn’t angry anymore. She only ached to hold him close in her arms.
She heaved a bitter sigh, wondering if the sadness of the night would ever end.
“Wash it, will ye?” Sorcha asked her then, pressing a warm damp cloth into her hands. “He’s reopened his wound, but ‘twill be a simple matter to prevent it from festering. I’ll make a salt-and-honey poultice.”
As Merry dabbed Ewan’s wound, Sorcha moved to a nearby worktable cluttered with crocks, baskets, and a large chest with brass fittings. Pulling the large chest closer, she unlocked it with a key and lifted a small box from its depths. With a quick step, she delivered it to Catriona before returning to make the poultice.
At Alec’s side, Catriona sprinkled the contents of the rosewood box upon his wound, crooning softly all the while. He moaned softly in response, seeming to find the lull of her voice peaceful, and Merry was grateful he no longer writhed in pain.
Silence fell over the small cottage then, a strangely serene silence, and Merry found her eyes wandering.
Bundles of dried herbs and flowers hung from the rafters. A small wooden cupboard stood under the window. Nearby, a white cat perched with its paws tucked beneath it, moving only the very tip of its tail in a slow, peaceful rhythm. A small table with a leather-bound volume resting upon it stood next to the fireplace.
Sorcha then returned to smear the salt-and-honey mixture upon Ewan’s wound and wrap his chest with a clean bandage.
It was then that Merry realized just how young she was. Ach, she was little more than a child, and her blue eyes held a melancholy in them that tugged at the heart.
And then, obviously sensing her, Sorcha lifted her gaze to Merry’s.
The lass’s eyes were stunning. Three rings of pale blue, not two as she’d originally thought—eyes that seemed far too old for such a young body.
And then Sorcha glanced away.
Tying Ewan’s bandage with a secure knot, she rose to her feet. “I’ll wash your shirt,” she offered, gathering the bloodied cloth in her arms. “There’s nettle soup in the cauldron on the hearth and bowls in the cupboard. Ye should eat to gain your strength, the both of ye. Ye’ll need it.”
And with that, she strode out of the cottage without a backward glance.
As soon as she’d left, the old woman sighed. “Forgive the lass,” she said, nodding kindly at them. “She’s an angry one. Life has treated her harshly.”
“There’s naught to forgive,” Ewan replied at once, rising slowly to his feet. “There’s only much to be grateful for.” He nodded his head at Alec.
Almost as if he’d heard Ewan’s voice, Alec moaned, but the old woman lay her hand upon his forehead, and he stilled at once. She patted his arm once, and then turned her wrinkled face to Ewan.
“A man born for a nobler fate,” she said in a soft, barely audible voice. “He wasna supposed to die this way, I’ll warrant.”
Merry shivered and swallowed, wondering if the woman truly had the “second sight”. And joining Ewan, she slid her fingers through his. He gave them a comforting squeeze.
Then he frowned and glanced at the old woman. “Then was it ye that I saw by the willow, Old Mother? How could it be? Your hair was red even though ye wore the plaid and the cross.”
She eyed him up and down. “The willow?” she repeated, but she seemed only surprised. “Nay, lad. My hair has been white many a year, and these old bones canna walk far. I dinna know who ye saw, but it wasna me.”
Ewan’s brows only deepened into a harsher line. “Then ‘tis a strange … happenstance.”
“Happenstance?” The old woman cackled a bit. “The willow ye speak of stands in the stone circle, lad. There is magic still in those old stones, but I am not wise enough to fathom it. I only know that last night, Sorcha woke with fretful dreams of a Montgomery dying in her arms—the same Montgomery she’s dreamt of often in her young life. And the same Montgomery who was to walk by her side and give her his clan crest.”
Both Ewan and Merry froze.
“But did ye not send her to us?” Ewan asked then.
“Nay,” Catriona replied with a frown. “Though many name me the witch, ‘tis Sorcha who is truly gifted with the ‘second sight’. But, the wee lass is too angry to accept it.”
Merry blinked and involuntarily glanced at the door Sorcha had exited.
“Then it was her? At the willow?” Ewan asked, startled.
“The willow?” The old woman shook her head. “Nay, never there. I found her there, abandoned as a wee bairn. She was on death’s door, but I saved her and raised her as my own. Nay, she calls the willow cursed and willna step foot near it!”
It was clear that Ewan didn’t believe her. Merry wasn’t certain she did herself.
But then Alec moaned, and lighting a rush light from the fire, the wizened woman shuffled back to his side.
For a moment, he tossed his
head from side-to-side and then fell back into an uneasy slumber.
“Will he wake?” Ewan asked in a hushed tone, moving to the foot of the bed.
Catriona didn’t reply.
“Mayhap he will still live?” It took Merry a moment to recognize her own voice. It sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet cottage.
Catriona’s sharp eyes found hers, and she shook her head. “Nay, he’s already at death’s door, lass. He’ll not last the hour.”
Merry gulped, and then Ewan’s large arms circled her from behind. “He’s in the hands of God, Merry,” he whispered into her hair.
And then as the door opened and Sorcha entered, Alec opened his eyes. “Ewan,” he gasped.
Ewan was there at once
“Help me up,” Alec said faintly, his breathing shallow.
Ewan sat next to him and slipping a strong arm under his shoulders, carefully eased him into a sitting position.
“Aye,” Alec whispered, waxen-faced. “I dinna want to die lying down.”
And then Sorcha appeared by his side, holding out a small silver flask. “Drink,” she murmured. “’Twill ease the pain.”
But, he pushed the flask away and seized her hand. “I saw ye in the wood,” he rasped.
“Nay,” she denied once again, but then added quietly. “But I’ve seen ye often in my dreams, Montgomery.”
“And what did ye see?” he whispered.
“Ye and I walking hand-in-hand. And the Montgomery crest. And then …” she paused a moment, and then added, “Then flames. But I dinna know the meaning of it.”
He stared into her eyes a moment before turning back to Ewan. “My crest, Ewan,” he wheezed, twitching his fingers.
They all watched as Ewan took up Alec’s sporran and tilted the contents out onto the bed. Rifling through the collection, he selected a silver brooch of the crest of the Montgomery clan and pressed it into Alec’s cold fingers.
“Take it,” Alec ordered weakly, turning to the lass. “I canna help but think ‘twas ever yours to begin with.”
Sorcha’s blue eyes widened, and slowly, she took the brooch from his hands.
At the last moment, he caught her fingers in his and stared at their entwined hands for so long that Merry feared he had passed on. But then he whispered, “I dinna fathom your dreams, lass, but my heart tells me ye shouldna fear the flames.”