by Barbara Bard
“I dinnae care. They wi’ die fer this treachery.”
Myra gripped Greer’s hand tightly, fear riding her like an evil imp. “Does this mean war?” she whispered.
“Aye. It dae.”
Voices raised in the outer chamber drifted in, forcing Myra, Kerr and Fiona to glance around at the commotion. Leith entered the bedchamber with a small, stout woman in a peasant’s plain woolen gown, a knitted shawl over her shoulders, a scarf over her head. A small leather satchel rested against her hip. Fiona embraced her with a small cry. “Sondra, please help me lad.”
The healer’s eyes took in Greer and the arrow, then patted Fiona on her cheek. “I wi’, lass, I wi’. Now I wi’ need hot water and cloths. Fetch them fer me, then begone wi’ ye. Ye dinnae need tae see this.”
Fiona nodded, and quickly left the room.
Sondra pointed a finger at Myra. “Ye wi’ stay and help. Now, all ye useless buggers need tae leave. Be gone now.”
Like a general issuing orders, she hustled Kerr, Leith and all the warriors out of Greer’s chambers, leaving only herself and Myra with Greer. “What do you want me to do?” Myra asked.
“Start cutting his tunic from the arrow.”
With her dagger, Myra gently sliced the bloody cloth from Greer’s torso, pulling it away and baring the wound. Blood seeped slowly from it, and Sondra eyed it critically. “When I pull the bugger oot,” she said, “it be a gusher.”
Opening her satchel, Sondra set small corked vials on the table beside the bed. Myra exchanged a glance with Greer, who offered her a tiny smile. “Is it going to hurt him when you pull the arrow out?” she asked Sondra without turning away from Greer.
“Aye. He goan yell a bit.”
Fiona returned with a basin of steaming water, bandages and clean cloths over her arm. She glanced at Greer’s bared torso, and grimaced, swallowing hard. “I can stay and help, Sondra.”
“Just as long as ye dinnae faint when he gets tae screaming.”
Fiona set the basin and cloths on the table with the vials, and wiped her hands down her skirts. “I will nae.”
“Good. Now help the lass hold him doon.’
With Myra on one side of the bed and Fiona on the other, they both held Greer down. Sondra wadded up a small cloth and wedged it between Greer’s teeth. She took a moment to stroke her hand over his brow. “Ye ready, lad?” she asked, her voice kind.
Greer dipped his chin once in a nod. Myra pushed down on his left bicep while Fiona put her weight on his right shoulder. Placing her hand on the arrow, Sondra took a deep breath.
She yanked the arrow out.
Greer’s back arched, his head back, his scream of agony muted by the cloth in his mouth. Myra was nearly thrown backward by his strength, but kept him pinned until the worst of the pain passed. Sondra instantly pressed a cloth against the gush of red that poured from the hole in his shoulder. “Hand me that vial on the left, lass,” she ordered crisply.
Taking her hands from Greer, who had relaxed a fraction, Myra picked up the clay vial and uncorked it. Sondra lifted the cloth briefly, and poured a powder liberally over Greer’s shoulder, then pressed the cloth against the wound again. “It wi’ help stop the bleeding,” she said. “Now, thread a needle wi’ the catgut, lass, and hae it ready.”
Myra obeyed her, picking up the needle and sticking the end of the length of catgut through the eye. Fiona gently plucked the cloth from between Greer’s teeth, and stroked her hand down his sweaty cheek. “Me brave lad,” she murmured.
Greer tried a smile. “Enduring pain is nae bravery. It be stubbornness.”
Myra chuckled. “He has plenty of that.”
When Sondra deemed the blood flow had stopped, she asked for the water to wash the wound, and gently cleaned the excess blood from it. Greer shut his eyes and teeth against the obvious pain, but made no sound. Fiona gripped his hand tightly throughout the ordeal while Myra watched in fascination.
With the gory hole now cleaned, Sondra asked for another vial from Myra. Once more, she poured a yellowish powder into the wound. “This wi’ help it tae fight infection. Now, we sew him up.”
Myra took the vial from her, and handed Sondra the needle and catgut. Stitching the wound closed seemed to hurt Greer the least, for he opened his eyes and even managed a tiny smile now and then throughout the process. Though Myra couldn’t hold his hand, she could, and did, brush her fingers down his cheek in love and affection.
At last, it was done. “Fiona, lass, I wi’ need fresh, clean water tae wash wi’ and wine fer the lad here. I wi’ gie him herbs that wi’ help his pain, and encourage his healing.”
Fiona nodded. Stepping away from the bed, she took the now reddened water and bloody cloths with her out the door. Sondra folded fresh linen to cover the neat row of stitches to protect them, and bound his shoulder up tightly. “Ye wi’ be just fine in a few weeks, lad,” Sondra assured him. “I wi’ stay wi’ ye fer a day or two, make sure ye never turn feverish.”
Greer nodded. “Thank ye.”
Myra wiped the sweat from his face with a soft cloth. “You should try to get some sleep,” she murmured.
“I wi’.”
As Sondra stepped away from the bed, Myra took Greer’s hand and squeezed it. “You scared me.”
“Aye. I expect I did.”
Myra smiled. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I cannae make promises I may nae keep.”
“Bloody fool.”
“Aye.”
Fiona returned with clean water and a wineskin, setting the basin on the table for Sondra to wash with, then poured wine into a cup. Sondra pointed to a vial. “Add a bit o’ that tae it, lass, and hae him drink it doon.”
Fiona obeyed, and handed the cup to Myra. She held it to Greer’s lips, helping him to hold his head up as he swallowed the concoction down. After washing her hands, Sondra dried them, gazing at her two assistants.
“Now, ye both gae get yer own food while I sit with the lad here. He dinnae need all three o’ us, and we can take turns watching o’er him. He needs quiet and rest now.”
Myra nodded. Bending, she softly kissed Greer on the lips. “I will be back soon.”
Fiona also bent to plant a kiss on her son’s cheek. “Sleep now.”
Greer closed his eyes. Taking Fiona by the arm, Myra led her from his bedchamber, both of them glancing over their shoulders at him. Sondra settled herself into a nearby chair, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. As Myra opened the door that led out of his rooms, she thought she heard soft, melodic singing coming from the bedroom.
***
Myra and Fiona found Kerr and Leith standing over the three dead enemy Scots in the bailey. Kerr glanced up at they approached, the question clear in his eyes. Fiona nodded.
“He be well, Sondra be watching o’er him.”
Kerr breathed in deeply. “I be sending the bodies back tae McTavish wi’ a message. I be waging war against him and his kin.”
“Blood feud.” Myra didn’t ask the question.
“Aye. I ne’er dae such tae provoke this,” Kerr said, his voice heavy with rage. “We be allies once. I be sending the MacAnders lads home, they nae be o’ part o’ this.”
“It makes no sense,” Myra said, despair in her tone. “Why would a former ally suddenly turn on you?”
“It makes nae sense tae me, either,” Leith added. “”McTavish be a reasonable sort, nae given tae sudden outrage o’er nothing. Perhaps ye should talk wi’ him, Kerr.”
Kerr stabbed his finger down at the corpses. “Aye,” he snapped. “I let them dae the talking fer me.”
Turning, he bellowed orders for riders and three horses. “Take this filth back tae their master. Cover their faces with the red banner o’ the blood feud.”
Clansmen ran to obey him, bringing horses from the barns, tossing the corpses over their backs. Myra turned her face away as the dead men’s heads were bound in red cloth, feeling deep in her gut there was something terribly w
rong with this. Wanting to beg Kerr to not do send the corpses back in this manner, to talk to the McTavish laird first, she knew her words would be wasted. Leith walked away, his head down, striding into the keep.
She listened to the clatter of hooves on the cobbles as six clansmen led the three horses burdened with the McTavish dead out of the bailey. Once they hit the meadow, they speeded up into a gallop and rode north. Feeling Fiona’s hand on her arm, Myra glanced at her.
“Let us gae in, lass,” she said softly. “There be nothing more we can dae.”
Myra nodded. “I suppose we should.”
It seemed a lifetime ago when she and Greer rode across the moors, she thought, as she and Fiona walked across the bailey. In truth, it had been perhaps two hours, less, since the attack occurred. Calm had been restored to the castle, no more McTavish clansmen had been found, yet an uneasy tension remained. Clansmen rode on patrols over the moors, men stood with bows in hand, quivers bristling with arrows on their backs, gazing north.
In the dining hall, Myra and Fiona took their places at the high table, and were served the midday meal immediately. Not very hungry, Myra ate only a little while Fiona swallowed even less. “What will happen now?” Myra asked, her voice low, staring down at the clansmen who also came in to eat.
“The MacEilish and McTavish clans gae tae war,” Fiona replied softly. “People oan both sides wi’ die. I lived through a feud afore. I ne’er wish tae see one again.”
“Is there any way to avert it?”
“Nay.”
“What if I were to ride to the McTavish clan laird?” Myra said. “I’m not a member of the MacEilish Clan, I can be considered neutral. Try to reason with him.”
“There be nae reasoning wi’ a laird who wishes fer war, lass.”
“I can try.”
“And he can simply kill ye, Myra. Nay. Dinnae consider it any more.”
Myra did continue to consider it. Sitting beside Greer’s bed as he slept throughout that afternoon, she pondered what she planned to do. With discreet questions, she discovered the McTavish lands lay twenty leagues almost straight north of the MacEilish castle. If she started out soon after dark, rode into night, she would be well away from the castle before dawn.
It would take her nearly three days to ride there, and might possibly arrive shortly after the clansmen delivering Kerr’s challenge. She also knew she risked bandits, wolves, bad weather and God only knew what else. As she gazed into Greer’s face, she knew it was the only thing she could do.
Chapter 19
Fearing at any moment she would be caught, Myra took provisions from the kitchen while the cook and his assistants slept, stuffed a canvas sack with dried meat, fruits, turnips and bread. Finding a waterskin in the barn, she filled it from a trough, then set both aside. Nearly midnight, all the castle slept save those who patrolled the ramparts above. She had clad herself in a dark cloak with a hood, hoping that in the dark of the night she and the mare might leave the bailey undetected.
To prevent Idina from rousing the household when she did not return to her chambers, she told her second lie in her life – that she would be watching over Greer through the night. Idina merely nodded, accepting it. “Yer bed be ready if ye change yer mind, and I wi’ leave a candle lit fer ye.”
Wondering how she could saddle her black mare without waking the grooms, she tiptoed through the barn to the mare’s stall. Snores came from the rafters above her, and she constantly gazed upward, listening intently for any change that might indicate she woke a groom. The black mare nuzzled her arm as she gently set the saddle on her back, trying not to let buckles jingle. Above her, a groom shifted on his pallet, his snores changing, forcing Myra to freeze in place.
Nothing else happened. No one clambered down the ladder to investigate the interloper, or raise the castle. Slowly letting out her breath, she continued to tighten the girth, then bridle the mare. Leading her from her stall, Myra feared the sound of walking hooves would wake the men above, but what little noise the mare made was muffled in the straw.
Now to just get out of sight of the castle without being seen. After picking up her provisions, she opted to lead the mare rather than mount up and ride, she kept her hood pulled down low, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Tense, she listened for any outraged voices from above, the guards yelling that she had been seen, calling for her to stop. Whether by sheer luck or divine providence, she made to the moors without being stopped.
Taking a moment to tie her waterskin and sack to the cantle, and make certain the girth was tight, Myra mounted up. Guiding herself by the stars, she nudged the horse into a swift trot. Exhilaration rose in her. “I will find a way to stop this feud,” she told the horse. “I have to. The two clans must not go to war.”
Though she knew little of politics, in England or Scotland, it bothered her that the McTavish laird would attack the MacEilish castle without provocation. It made so little sense. If the two lairds were formerly allies, then sounded even less logical than had they been enemies in the past.
“Unless someone wants them to go to war with each other,” she mused.
Hours passed as she rode on, crossing small streams and dismounting to let the mare rest, drink and snatch a few mouthfuls of grass. In listening and learning about horses over the past few weeks, she knew the horse could not travel continually without dying of exhaustion. During these breaks, Myra munched dried meat and bread, never failing to listen or watch for potential danger.
Over the sough of the wind caressing the heather, she heard the calls of hunting owls, the sharp yip of a fox. Scanning the starlit darkness, she saw no fires that indicated other travelers, nor did she hear any hoof beats that might warn her of bandits. Mounting up again, she continued on through the night. Feeling the slight change in the wind, she knew dawn was not far away.
When dawn tinged the horizon pink, Myra and the mare were both tired enough to need rest for more than a few minutes. As the darkness slowly merged into faint light, she scanned the area around her for a place where she might sleep a few hours in safety, unseen. Above her, a rocky ridge offered a hiding place between the tall stones. After tying the mare to a thicket, she sat down for a short time to survey the moors. She observed nothing moving save a small herd of red deer, and a hawk circling over the hills.
Lying down on a patch of thick grass, Myra at last relaxed enough to sleep.
***
Sore from the long days in the saddle, weary beyond belief, Myra at last gazed down from the hills at the McTavish stronghold, a short, squat castle upon a pinnacle of rock, a river flowing at its base. “Now I hope they don’t shoot me on sight,” she said. “If I survive being seen, then perhaps the clan laird might listen to me.”
Turning in her saddle, Myra pulled from her sack a white cloth she would hold up as she approached the castle. Hoping the clansmen would be less likely to riddle her with arrows if she held up a flag of truce, she nudged the black mare down the hill. Naturally, she was seen immediately. Small with distance, she watched horsemen gather in front of the castle, and her heart beat faster with both fear and excitement.
“Surely they wouldn’t kill a lone woman waving a white flag,” she muttered, nudging the horse into a canter, the cloth lifted high over her head.
The thunder of hooves rolled across the moors as a dozen or so McTavish clansmen galloped toward her, and she saw none who pointed nocked arrows at her. Feeling slightly encouraged, yet with her mouth as dry as dust, she reined in, still holding the flag above her head. The warriors also reined in, within yelling distance, and also well within bowshot.
“I seek the Laird of Clan McTavish,” she called. “I must speak with him urgently.”
“Ye nae be a Scots,” yelled a voice. “Who ye be?”
“My name is Myra Travers, and yes, I am English. I am unarmed and come in peace. Do you plan to harm me?”
The foremost men in the groups bent their heads together, talking, though she could not understa
nd their words. At last three of them rode forward, leaving the rest behind. Nudging the black at a walk to meet them, Myra lowered her hand with the cloth in it.
“Nay, Myra Travers,” said the foremost man as they drew closer. “We nae harm unarmed women, even if they be Sassenach. I be Laird Allen McTavish.”
As she closed with the men, she studied Laird McTavish. He was tall and lanky, with thick reddish blond hair to his shoulders. A man of middle years, his blue eyes pierced her through, watching her just as closely. The two men flanking him could easily be younger versions of him, and she surmised they were his sons.
“Ye are a bonny lass,” Laird McTavish said, finally smiling. “What can I dae fer ye, Myra? Ye appear tae be saddle worn and weary.”