by Fiona Faris
Freya turned her attention to a bloodied Andrew on the cold ground as he passed in and out of consciousness. His body was laced with deep lacerations, and his internal injuries appeared equally as serious as he continued to cough blood, and his breath was short with each attempt.
She crawled to Andrew’s side, and the tears streamed down her face. Several of the female villagers and members of Andrew’s battalion arrived and were equally as appalled at his gruesome injuries. Blood dripped from various parts of his body, and there was no telling the extent of the internal damage.
“Someone help me get him inside,” Freya stated as she wept uncontrollably.
She feared the worst outcome possible would come true. She imagined this brutal attack as the end of Andrew’s life and worried that nothing would enable him to recover.
Freya spotted her mother in the crowd of onlookers and pleaded with her.
“Mither, ye hae tae help him. Look at whit happened tae my beloved Andrew. Ye treated a’ the warriors’ injuries when father was alive. Please help Andrew the best ye can!”
Freya’s mother examined his wounds from head to toe, and her expression of bewilderment did nothing to ease Freya’s troubled mind.
“These lacerations are very deep. We must act fast oor infection will set in an’ make treatment much more difficult,” Freya’s mother said.
Two lads from the battalion lifted Andrew by the legs and underneath his armpits to carry him inside Freya’s cottage. She directed them to place Andrew down on the cot.
“Whit daes this mean regardin’ the invasion? Are we leavin’ today oor no’?” one of the lads asked.
Freya’s mother shook her head. “The invasion should be the least o’ yer concerns. If we are no’ careful, he will die right ‘ere on this cot. That is the significance o’ these injuries.”
The two lads looked at each other as they both stood behind Freya’s mother and were clueless as to what to do in this situation.
“Why are ye two still ‘ere? If ye cannae dae anythin’ tae help, then get oot o’ the way,” Freya snapped as tears continued to trickle down the sides of her fair-skinned face.
Freya’s mother again examined the slashes all over Andrew’s body. One was so deep that she gagged at the sight of the puss that oozed from it. From past experience, she knew exactly what needed to be done. She had to hurry or else it may be too late to save him.
“Freya, I need ye tae stay ‘ere with him. Try yer best tae keep him calm. I am goin’ tae gather the supplies I need tae stitch up his wounds,” Freya’s mother stated.
Freya’s mother dashed to the barn where she stored a secret stash of medicinal supplies in case a situation such as this one occurred. Before the devastating attack on Kellie Castle, which nearly killed all the men of the Erskine clan, she was the one in charge of mending the warriors’ wounds in battle. She had a magic touch when it came to the human body, and she attempted to utilize her vast knowledge to save Andrew’s life.
Freya held Andrew’s hands and attempted to coax him in any manner she knew how in a desperate effort to keep him calm. The more he panicked, the less likely his treatment would be a success.
Freya sang a soft tune into his ear, and his convulsions ceased for the time being. She continued to sing lullabies from her youth to prevent his body from another violent rage.
The news of the attack on Andrew quickly spread throughout the village, and as the sun rose above the horizon, more soldiers surrounded Freya and Andrew’s cottage to remain briefed on the situation.
Freya’s mother finally returned to the cottage with a blend of ingredients to treat Andrew’s wounds. Freya appeared stunned at the mixture she held in her hands, and she was befuddled at its apparent use.
“Whit is the use o’ this, Mither? I dae no’ understand how this will help him recover,” Freya said as she grimaced at the mixture.
Freya’s mother shook her head at her daughter’s lack of knowledge of the art of healing the human body.
“This mixture has healin’ properties, Freya. Take this brush an’ coat a’ his wounds with it, sae it can sink deep beneath his skin. Once it has been absorbed intae his body, I can begin tae stitch up his wounds.”
“I hope this works…” Freya started gently coating Andrew’s lacerations with the mixture and brush.
Andrew’s uncontrollable tremors commenced once again and Freya became infuriated as she had yet to smear the healing mixture along two gashes on his chest.
“Andrew, please, stay calm. I am beggin’ ye,” Freya pleaded as Andrew’s limbs twitched out of his control. “Mither, would ye please help me with this?”
Her mother pressed Andrew’s muscular arms to the cot with every last ounce of her strength.
Freya grasped the brush again and smeared the concoction of healing ingredients along the final two lacerations on his chest. She collapsed to the floor and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The sweat dripped off her brow from the strenuous effort it’d taken to apply the medicine.
“Whit now, Mither?”
“I can stitch his wounds once he is settled. Efter every laceration is sewn, he will only need rest an’ fluids. He will need days, maybe even a week, tae get some strength back.”
Freya proceeded to sing lullabies to Andrew’s as it seemed to be the most suitable way to keep his spasms at bay. Freya’s mother grabbed the cloth needed to sew his wounds together. She used nearly every last strand of cloth she had in her medicinal stash, as the quantity of slashes across his body was overwhelming.
Twenty minutes later and the deed was complete, despite the fierce challenge it was to administer the medicine under such dire circumstances.
Andrew lay in bed unconscious, and his breath was at an eerily slow pace. Freya kept a close watch on his heartbeat which seemed to be a normal rhythm. Even though Andrew’s brush with death had seemingly come to an end, the uneasiness of the situation created a tremendous amount of stress for Freya.
She sat on a chair at the side of the cot which Andrew slept on, and she became so overwhelmed with emotion that she vomited several times.
* * *
Just after dawn, Rory gathered the men.
“Good mornin’ a’. It is the day o’ the invasion. I hope ye a’ slept as well as I did. I slept like a wee lad,” Rory said to the crowd outside Andrew’s cottage.
“We dae no’ know if there will be an invasion onymore,” one of the lads commented. “Andrew was attacked an’ nearly murdered this mornin’. His stoater said he would survive, but who really knows.”
Rory’s jaw dropped, and he barged into the cottage without knocking.
“Whit dae ye think ye’re doin’? Daen’t ye ever knock on someone’s door afore enterin’?” Freya asked Rory.
“I am terribly sorry. Apologies fer my lack o’ manners. I was jist informed o’ the news o’ Andrew’s attack. I am in utter disbelief,” Rory commented as he placed his arm on Freya’s shoulder.
“I was ootside last night, waitin’ fer Andrew, an’ I heard whisperin’ an’ footsteps comin’ from the direction o’ the woods. Whoever was oot there, I am sure is responsible fer this,” Freya said.
“Did ye see ‘em?” Rory questioned, squinting.
“When they attacked Andrew, they wore masks. I could no’ make oot their faces, but they were strong men. One o’ ‘em flung me o’er his shoulder as if I was light as a child’s doll.”
“Wait a minute. Are ye tellin’ me they attacked ye as well? How is that possible?” Rory asked with confusion.
“One o’ ‘em held some sort o’ blade in his hand an’ he surely would hae killed Andrew, but I jumped on his back tae distract him. He threw me aff him an’ ontae the ground. That is why I hae this bruise on my side. It was useless, though, because he still used his blade on Andrew.” She burst into tears again.
Rory scowled and clenched his fists when Freya elaborated on Andrew’s attack and the details of what she’d witnessed.
“Rory, I am fearfu
l that at least two o’ the men under Donald’s command snuck intae the village an’ wanted tae murder Andrew in the middle o’ the night. I dae no’ think I can sleep at night knowin’ they are still oot there. Many o’ the soldiers were ‘ere this mornin’ an’ they feared fer the safety o’ the village much like I dae. I recommended tae them that the invasion should be postponed until we know fer sure what the hell is goin’ on. They all seemed tae agree with me,” Freya explained.
“Ye whit? How dare ye suggest battle strategies tae these lads. In the event o’ somethin’ like this happenin’ tae Andrew, I am the one in charge. They listen tae me! No’ ye oor onyone else!” Rory shouted. “We still must invade, Freya, whether Andrew is healthy oor no’. If they refuse tae commence the invasion, then ye hae put this village in grave danger.”
Freya became livid at Rory’s words and stood up. “Maybe if ye would get tae the bottom o’ it yoursel’, then ye could kill the persons responsible. Ye said if we dae no’ attack soon then the village is in danger, but the village is already in grave danger!”
Rory deliberated to devise his next plan of action – since the soldiers were convinced they should not invade Blair Castle that day.
“How aboot this, Freya? Once I bring the ones responsible tae face justice, we will begin oor journey tae vanquish Donald. How is that?” Rory asked her.
“I guess that is a’ right.” Freya sighed. “I simply want everyone in the village tae be safe, an’ that includes Andrew. Ye can find the two men who did this? Can ye assure me o’ that?”
“Ye hae my word, Freya. Anythin’ fer my best friend’s lass!” Rory stated with a grin. “I will begin an investigation right away tae find oot who is responsible fer this despicable attack on Andrew.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Days passed, and Rory reported no good news to Freya about who was behind the assault on Andrew. She grew impatient of waiting around for him to come to her, so she decided to hunt him down to force an answer out of him.
After Andrew’s miraculous survival, he slowly but surely was on the mend to making a full recovery from the lacerations and internal bleeding.
Freya sat by his side as he rested on the cot. A bright smile illuminated her face as she recalled warm memories they’d experienced together. Then, she heard hushed chatter outside the cottage and recognized Rory’s voice. She poked her head outside the cottage door and observed Rory in a conversation with one of the Murray warriors.
Her suspicion of Rory had grown stronger after Andrew’s attack. He revealed no emotion whatsoever after his friend was nearly killed and still battled to make a full recovery. Would this conversation reveal any information regarding Rory’s unusual behavior? Had he found out who attacked Andrew?
“Wait till the peak o’ night when the cloud coverage is jist right. I will give ye a signal when ye can ride aff,” Rory instructed the Murray warrior.
“Whit if I am spotted?” the Murray warrior asked.
Rory wrapped his arm around the brute’s shoulders. “If someone spots ye, then ye leave that tae me. I hae a way with words ‘round ‘ere.”
“Are ye bringin’ the horse tae, Rory?”
“Of course I am. I told ye no’ tae worry aboot anythin’. I hae it a’ under control. I will no’ be able tae secure the horse fer ye till complete darkness. It will be one o’ the fastest in the stable. I will make sure o’ it since yer task is o’ the utmost importance,” Rory explained.
Freya grew on edge after hearing the conversation. They were both supposed to be Andrew’s loyal supporters. She devised a scheme to wait until just before the moon was completely hidden before she ventured outside to stalk Rory and discover his intentions. She feared the worst, but hoped for the best, as she simply did not trust him, even though she had no proof not to trust him.
She gently shut the door and returned to Andrew’s side. She held his hand and sang him lullabies like she had that fateful night to see if it might coerce him to rise out of his slumber, but they had no effect.
It was a cloudy and dreary night with rain scattered in pockets. It certainly was not the night for riding on a horse, but Freya still had to find out for herself if this secret meeting of Rory’s was to indeed take place.
The monotonous weather placed Freya into a dull mood, and it slowly lulled her to sleep during her wait for Rory’s meeting. Her eyes shot wide open, and she jumped to her feet as she realized she dozed off for who knows how long. She prayed Rory had not conducted his secret meeting, but she first had to find where it was.
Freya ran outside in the heavy rain and searched everywhere in the village, but there was no sign of Rory. She trekked through the mud behind every cottage and inside the barn, but it appeared she had missed her opportunity.
It suddenly occurred to her that Rory had mentioned providing the brute a horse to ride through the night. She realized if Rory had indeed delivered a horse for him to ride, there would be one less horse in the stable than usual. Freya lifted her arisaid as she trekked back through the mud toward the stable.
She propped open the stable door and fell to her knees to catch her breath as her climb through the mud was more of a physical challenge than she initially thought. She examined the stables to determine the exact number of horses located inside. The amount she counted was the normal number, and she let out an exasperated sigh.
One of the colts approached her and breathed heavily against her ear. She looked up at the maturing horse, and she calmed her senses by petting him across his beautiful brown mane.
“Here is someone I know I can always trust an’ depend on,” she said, smiling as she scratched behind its ears.
Despite it being the middle of the night, Freya decided to give affection to the nearly two dozen horses the village housed inside the stable. For the first time since the tragic night of Andrew’s onslaught, she felt at ease. Troubled thoughts ceased to race through her mind, her heart rate slowed to its normal pace, and her anxiety seemed to melt away. Even though it might only be a temporary feeling, being near the horses provided her a feeling of comfort that she had previously only felt with Andrew.
“Ye want tae go fer a ride? Ye want tae ride across the valley?” she asked the colt as she held its face with both palms. “I wish we could, but the weather is no’ cooperatin’. Maybe I can take ye oot anither time.”
An endearing feeling consumed Freya as the horses within the stable returned the tenderness she showed them. The colt rubbed his snout against her chest in a manner she assumed to be its way of giving her a hug. Freya always had a special place in her heart for the horses the warriors in her clan rode into battle, and she possessed an unexplainable fondness for them. The colt continued to jostle its snout against her, and she naturally assumed it was being more affectionate.
“Aww, ye are such a lovin’ horse, aren’t ye? I love ye as weel,” Freya said.
“A’ right now. I hae tae go back tae the cottage. I must check on Andrew an’ see how he is farin’ with his wounds,” she added, and the colt neighed.
Freya was puzzled as it directed his snout to her waist and nudged her body in the direction of one of the wooden posts.
“Whit is it that ye are tryin’ tae tell me?” Freya asked in bewilderment as it pressed her closer and closer to the post.
Freya leaned against the wooden post and raised her arms in confusion to protest to the colt that she was clueless to what it wanted. It raised its front two hooves and stamped them to the ground as it released a shrill neigh. The colt repeated the same motion and refused to quit until Freya searched her immediate surroundings.
Freya sought to locate whatever it was the colt would not hush about in the dimly lit stable. The only light Freya possessed was the candlelit lantern kept inside the stable in case a horse was needed in the middle of the night. She placed the lantern on the ground and panned the area.
Her outreached hands struck a nail which had not been hammered into the wood all the way and her fingers stung in b
listering pain. Freya clutched the handle of the lantern to shine its light on the nail, and something peculiar caught her eye.
Attached to the nail was a piece of fabric barely the length of a small stone. Freya grasped the cloth and held it up to her eyes as she studied it. She was stunned when she finally realized the origin of the fabric.
“This tartan daes no’ belang tae oor clan. I hae only seen this design worn by the Murray warriors,” she muttered aloud.
Freya placed the cloth beside her bosom to keep it close. She embraced the colt in and then blew the candle out inside the lantern so the horses could go back to sleep.
Outside the barn, the cold rain persisted, but she cared no more about her arisaid becoming damp and filthy. The bottom had already collected ample amounts of mud and grime after her earlier hike into the mud during her botched attempt to track Rory down.
