Highland Healer

by Willa Blair

“Oh, Senga, I’m so sorry,” Aileana whispered. How could a lifetime go by with no relief from such sadness, and perhaps such stubbornness? A chill skittered along her bones that past heartbreak could still be affecting them today.

  “He refused you?”

  “Oh, aye, that he did.” A small, sad smile played at the corner of her mouth, then disappeared as she remarked, “Loudly.”

  “Do you hate him, then, the son of your love and his lost lady?”

  “Hate him? Nay, lass. I love him as if he were my own. He’s a bit of my own laird, living still. Ah, there, I’ve said it, haven’t I? Now ye ken it all. I protect him as I can, with the skills that I have.”

  “How long has Toran been laird?” The last of the tension in Aileana’s chest loosened at the mention of his name.

  “Since Flodden. His da and brother died there. He became laird—something he never wanted. But laird he is and a good one. Fair and far-seeing. Perhaps he has a touch of the Sight, himself. He’s been forging alliances with the neighboring clans.”

  “That is why he was with the MacAnalens?”

  “Aye, and a good thing, too, for he brought ye to us.”

  ****

  Toran was with the blacksmith early the next morning inspecting his repairs to shields and blades when word came that Angus MacAnalen was on the approach to the main gate, riding hard. “Let him in, quickly!” Toran ordered. “We’ll continue this later, Parlan,” he said, handing a heavy longsword back to the smith. “Keep at it; yer work is good, as always.”

  “Aye,” the big man replied, and Toran took off at a run. He arrived just as Angus passed through the inner gate into the outer bailey.

  “Lathan,” he hailed Toran as several lads ran up to take his horse.

  Toran stood with fists on hips as Angus approached. “What brings ye?” Toran asked. “Is there more trouble?”

  “Aye,” Angus answered. “And good news, as well.” He dismounted and handed the reins to one of the lads who stood by. “Walk him to cool him down,” he said with a nod to the groom.

  “Let’s go inside where ye can fill me in over a cup,” Toran offered, and began moving toward the gate to the inner bailey. “The lads will see yer mount cared for.”

  “I must get back as quickly as I can,” Angus said, pacing alongside Toran. “The MacAnalen’s life depends on it.”

  “The MacAnalen? Ye found him alive?”

  “Aye, more dead than alive, but still breathing. I’m here to ask a boon, Laird Lathan. My hope is that the Healer can save him.”

  Toran froze in his tracks. “She canna leave here.”

  “Without the Healer, he will die, and soon.”

  “There’s naught yer healer can do for him?”

  “He’s tried everything he kens. That the laird still breathes speaks well of Craig’s skill, but he lies in a deep sleep and we canna rouse him. After the tales we heard in the camp, I’m thinking her ways may be different enough to succeed where my healer has failed.”

  A chill swept over Toran and he resumed leading Angus into the keep. Events such as this—aid rendered or denied—could set the course of relations between clans for generations. This was more than a simple request to borrow a skilled member of Clan Lathan. It was an appeal from one chieftain to the laird of an ally. Denial of the appeal could mean war.

  But to risk Aileana? How could he? And how could Angus ask that of him? She was safe behind the Aerie’s walls. A journey to Augus’s hideout meant avoiding enemy patrols, something a party large enough to protect her would have difficulty doing. If they kept the group small enough to avoid detection and luck turned against them, there would be little chance of keeping the Healer out of Colbridge’s hands.

  Inside the Great Hall, Toran signaled for ale as Angus settled onto a bench close by the fire.

  “Ah, warmth!” he sighed. Toran took a seat across from him. They both took cups from the serving girl.

  “Hungry?” Toran asked while she waited.

  “A bite would not go amiss,” Angus replied and Toran sent the girl for a tray.

  “The MacAnalen’s condition must be grim for you to risk running Colbridge’s lines in broad daylight to get here,” Toran said.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I waited until their patrol was well gone before making a break for the gate. ’Tis unlikely I’ll be able to do that twice. And we’ve seen patrols in the area near the caves. They may be looking for us or for deserters from their camp. We’ve spotted strangers heading south alone or in small groups, two or three at a time.” He took a sip. “We’ve talked to a few then let them pass. They’re eager to escape our winter weather, it seems. And traveling back the way they came is the only path they ken out of the mountains.” He set the cup aside, leaned forward and continued. “Since our escape, Colbridge has few horses left. He uses those for his patrols. So the men desperate enough to escape do so on foot. If they make it out of the mountains, they might survive.”

  “There are many ways to get lost in these mountains. Most willna make it.”

  “We’ve followed a few of them for a couple o’ days to see them well on their way. They’re worn, but they’re tough, and they havena turned back. That’s the good news. Colbridge is losing men every day that the siege continues. The deserters say that rations are short in that camp and Colbridge’s temper is worse by the hour. But the men he has left are ranging close to our hideout. As it is, we havena dared a fire. Smoke would be seen during the day and the glow at night. We’re living on bannocks and bring the horses into the cave at night for warmth.”

  “Are the women and weans with ye?”

  “Nay, I sent them on to Iain MacIntosh right away. That was a fight, let me tell ye,” Angus said with a quick but mirthless chuckle. “Some o’ the lasses were eager to pick up a sword. But they went for the good of the bairns. And to carry news of the invaders to Iain.”

  “Aye, that was well done.”

  “I had little choice. We couldna risk them.”

  “What about sending the MacAnalen to him?”

  Angus took a pensive sip. “Iain is too far away. The MacAnalen wouldna survive the trip.”

  “Perhaps there’s another answer,” Toran hedged. “Ye ken the risk to all of us if Aileana were to fall into Colbridge’s hands again.”

  Angus could only nod. “I ken what I’m asking. But ye ken what it means to my clan, do ye no’?”

  “Aye, Angus. I’m afraid I do.”

  “How goes it here?” Angus changed the subject as the tray of food arrived. “Ah, hot stew and real bread! I canna tell ye how tired I am of oat cakes.” He put a thick slab of cheese on a piece of bread and eagerly bit in. A bite of the meaty stew followed immediately.

  “Well enough,” Toran said while Angus groaned his appreciation. “If ye think it safe, start moving yer men here at night. We’ll make room for the lot of ye.”

  “It’ll have to be done a few at a time,” Angus agreed when he finished chewing. “Unless ye’re ready to end the siege and attack the camp?”

  “Nay. With the cold coming on, and what ye said about deserters, the longer we wait, the fewer men he has to fight with and the better for us.”

  “Verra well. Brodric will come with a few of my men first. Ye ken him, and he can identify any MacAnalen ye havena’ already met. We wouldna want any of Colbridge’s men to sneak in among ’em.”

  “That’ll do. In the meantime, ye can rest in comfort and enjoy another hot meal. I’ve been sending patrols out at odd hours. One will go out tonight.”

  “So ye’ll send the Healer back with me?”

  Toran shook his head, making the decision that he had no doubt he’d come to regret. “Nay.” At Angus’s stricken look, he continued quickly, “I willna send her, but I will take her. I’ll come, along with enough of my men to keep her safe. But we must wait until dark.”

  “Aye.” Relief was evident in the sudden drop of Angus’s shoulders. “There’s no way we’ll get out past the invaders in daylight no
w that they’ve seen me arrive.” Angus took another bite and chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes. Toran left him in peace. Whatever he had left to say, he’d say soon enough.

  “Now that I mention Brodric, well, he told me a bit of a strange tale after we got free.”

  Toran kept his face impassive, remembering Brodric’s performance of his feigned illness that drew Aileana among the prisoners and allowed Toran to steal her from the camp. But he suspected that he knew what Angus was about to say.

  Hearing no comment, Angus continued, “He told me that after the Healer did, well, whatever it was that she did to him, he felt better than he has in months. And he’s no’ been plagued by the pain in his hip that has been with him since a fall from his horse early this summer.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Indeed, that tale is what convinced me to come.” Angus lifted his gaze from the food in front of him to Toran’s. “If the tales are true, if she is a witch, then surely she can help.”

  “A witch? Or a healer, a wise woman, or a seer?” Toran prompted.

  “So it seems. Whatever she is, she’s the only hope the MacAnalen has.” Angus went back to eating, and appeared content to drop the subject, warning given.

  Toran wondered what Angus would think if he’d seen how Aileana healed Jamie three days past. He could scarce credit the memory, even though he’d watched with growing horror as Jamie’s blood coated his hands. Senga’s despair at her own impotence had been terrible to see. He kenned what damage an arrow lodged in muscle would do. Besides the torn flesh, bleeding to death was a real possibility. Jamie’s wound had been much worse, and yet he still lived.

  But for Senga’s confidence in Aileana’s abilities, Jamie would be gone from them. Donal might have succeeded in arguing against bringing Aileana down to provide her aid. Toran had been too stunned by Donal’s defection to be terrified of her, or of what she was doing, until it had all been over. And then, he’d been terrified for her when he saw the toll the healing had taken on her, the price she’d paid to save Jamie’s life. It was something he’d never forget, holding her nearly lifeless body in his arms, and looking up to see the faces of his clan. If not for Senga’s evident concern for her, what might have happened?

  He pulled his wandering thoughts back to the present. Angus was still focused on the food in front of him and didn’t seem to have noticed Toran’s distraction.

  “How did ye find the MacAnalen?”

  “We searched for our missing, and we found some of them, none hurt as badly as the laird, thanks be to God.” Angus’s frown deepened. “Colbridge’s men have dumped the bodies of our dead in a crevasse, but we havena been able to get close enough to identify them. He keeps a patrol nearby, knowing we’ll try to go there. We know who we’re missing, o’course, but no’ until we’ve seen their bodies will we count them dead.” Angus heaved a deep sigh. “’Twas ill done, that day. Our men dead, our village burned. We’ve no homes to return to, once this Colbridge is gone.”

  “Ye’ll rebuild. We’ll help ye,” Toran promised, not liking the set of Angus’s shoulders.

  “Aye, then, let that day come soon,” Angus said, straightening, a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “Or we’ll guest with ye ’til spring comes again.”

  Chapter Ten

  Toran faced Donal on the practice ground, breathing heavily and leaning on his sword. As laird, Toran knew he had to set the example, so he sparred with Donal or anyone else, as often as he could, just as he took his share of watches on the ramparts.

  He signaled for a cup of cold, clear water, and drank it down in a gulp as soon as it was handed to him. Sweat sheened his body and ran down his chest and back despite the chill in the air. But Donal eyed him and he knew if he didn’t pick up his sword in the next few seconds, Donal would, putting Toran immediately on the defensive. So with a deep breath, he hefted his longsword and with no other warning, began their third mock battle of the day.

  It was the best way Toran knew to pass the hours until dark, when they would leave for Angus’s cave.

  The siege had been underway for nearly a week, and autumn was suddenly well advanced. Toran agreed with Angus that the colder weather signalled Colbridge wouldn’t be able to maintain the siege much longer. Morning mists now turned to heavy frost that coated the glens with diamonds that melted away in the weak sunlight—beautiful, but portending the deadly cold and snow to come.

  Colbridge’s remaining men had continued trying the walls without success, but their failures made no difference within the Aerie. Donal was a strict arms master who never relaxed his guard. Shouts and clangs, the familiar din of fighting, had echoed around the outer bailey all day. There might be a hostile force camped at their feet, but training never ceased.

  “That’s water that coulda been poured on the invaders,” Donal remarked, his parry countering Toran’s thrust precisely, with no wasted motion. Though odd for a man of few words, Donal often used taunts or conversation to try to distract his opponent, and to force his students to learn to deal with the distractions that occur in battle before they had to face them with their lives at stake. Two could play that game.

  “’Tis a good thing we have an endless supply.” Toran swung his blade, watched Donal twist out of the way.

  Donal grinned and picked up the pace. “Aye. Boiling water works as well as boiling oil or pitch to keep them off our walls.”

  “And Senga says it’s easier to treat our men for scalds than for the burns they get from hot tar or pitch. That damn stuff sticks,” Toran continued, turning to parry another thrust just before it connected with his shoulder. Thick practice padding protected them, and Donal was as skilled an instructor as he was a fighter, but Toran had no wish to suffer bruises at his hands, either.

  Donal used the momentum of his twist to step sideways and around Toran’s back.

  “Plunging a hand into a bucket of cold water has saved many a lad from deeper burns,” Toran added, his breath coming faster as he met Donal’s challenge. Donal, damn him, seemed unaffected by the pace he set

  Donal jumped out of the path of Toran’s sword and pulled his dirk. The claymore was long and heavy enough to be challenging to wield two-handed, but to fight one-handed with it took considerably more strength and skill. Donal now faced him with sword and dirk. Toran heaved a sigh and pulled his dirk from its sheath, too.

  “One less jeopardy we face,” he continued, as if the level of difficulty had not just doubled, or trebled. From the corner of his eye, he saw several people stop to watch as he and Donal sparred. He feinted with the sword and stepped in to threaten with the dirk. Donal saw him coming and danced out of the way.

  “Thanks to our walls, none here face jeopardy. Save ye.” Donal grinned as the flat of his claymore thwacked Toran soundly across the back.

  Damn! That was his weakness, Toran berated himself, and probably how he’d been ambushed during the battle in MacAnalen territory. He dropped his weapons and raised his hands, palm forward, his heart pounding. “Have done,” he said, conceding the match.

  “Well fought, Laird,” Donal said, sheathing his dirk and dropping the point of his claymore into the dirt. He took Toran’s arm in an iron grip and chided, “Except for that last.”

  Toran shook his head. “One day that ploy will fail.”

  “Not soon enough,” Donal answered, suddenly grim, “or I wager ye wouldna lain in the Healer’s tent, laddie.”

  “Aye,” Toran admitted, picked up his weapons, and then slung an arm over Donal’s shoulder, walking with him toward the great hall and tankards of mead to slake the thirst they’d both worked up. “But it turned out for the best. The Healer is with us now.”

  “Is she, lad? Despite her helpful ideas, do we truly know where her loyalties lie?”

  Toran dropped his arm from Donal’s shoulder and faced him. “Aye. Ye saw what she did for Jamie. What she’s done for others since then. Would ye turn aside from her when she saved his life and helped many more?”
>
  Donal shook his head, his expression turning stubborn. “Lad, she’s got ye bewitched and besotted, it seems. Aye, what she did for Jamie was fair miraculous, but there’s the problem. What else can she do? What dinna we ken?” Donal gripped his arm, urging him into the Great Hall. “I’m not the only one of yer clan who has concerns, lad. What she did lies in the realm of fables, no’ healing as we ken it. Ye canna dismiss this. I see the way ye watch the lass. No good can come of it.”

  “It already has, Donal.”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps it would be best to leave her with Angus.”

  “Nay. I’ll no’ do that. She belongs with us.”

  “I hope ye’re right lad, I do.”

  ****

  Dinner in the Great Hall was never a grand affair. The clan’s laird preferred to keep a more casual, comfortable home than had his father, the old laird, who sat at the high table and ran the servants ragged. Even with guests in attendance, Toran maintained the informality of the Hall. It was the way he preferred it to be, and after all, what was the point of being laird if he could not live the way he wished in his own home.

  Tonight, Angus joined him at an early dinner. It would be their last chance for a full, hot meal for the next few days. Toran took his obligation seriously to treat Angus to what comforts he could offer before they ventured out into the cold night to rejoin his clansmen and carry out the plans he and Toran had made. He and Angus sat at table, Toran at the head and Angus at his left, cups of wine in hand.

  Though it had become Aileana’s habit to take her evening meal with Senga, or in her chambers, Toran requested that she attend tonight after her preparations for the trip were finished. He was quite interested to see what Angus made of the Healer in her new setting.

  “I have to say, I’ve never seen the like before,” Angus told him as they waited for her. “Many clans hereabouts have healers, wise women, and seers among them, but none that I know of have the skill this healer is said to possess.”

  “Nor I.”

  “’Tis a rare thing, it seems. Is it better known in the Lowlands? In the camp, it seemed strange that Colbridge’s men respected her wish to remain untouched. Was that due to Colbridge’s orders? Or because they already knew about healers like her?”