The Highlander’s Healer (Blood of Duncliffe Series)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Hey, sir?” Jenkins spoke from beside his elbow.

  “What?” Alexander said sourly, upset to have his fog of healthy indignation parted.

  “Sir, messenger coming up the column.”

  “Already?” Alexander groaned. They had just started riding from the fort. How was it possible that, already, their orders were being changed? Ride as fast as possible to Sunderland, to relieve his captain. That was what he had been briefed. Already he had new orders? He sighed.

  “Halt, men,” he advised, raising his right hand slowly. “Let the messenger catch us up.”

  A flurry of whispers announced that last comment. The men were, it seemed, eager for any distraction. Not that he could entirely blame them – in the monotony of the drizzle-soaked forest, anything would be a pleasant diversion.

  “Sir! Captain Lachlann?”

  “I am he,” Alexander said curtly, looking the messenger up and down. The youth must be about fifteen, he judged, and eager to prove his value. He held out a hand, waiting for the message.

  “Here, sir! Dispatch from Lieutenant Selkirk.”

  Alexander raised a brow, not knowing the name. It seemed odd that a lieutenant would be sending him orders, but, he reckoned, shrugging, there might be some desperate reason why that would be so.

  I find myself besieged at Lammure, he read. My captain is fatally injured and our men lack direction. Send any troops you can spare, for we are in desperate need and must reach Falkirk by week's end. In haste, E. A. S.

  Alexander frowned. He turned over the dispatch. It had the usual seal; it was signed. It seemed genuine. All the same, something about it sat ill with him.

  “You were told to bring it to me?” he asked the message-bearer.

  “I was sent to catch up with whoever had just left, sir,” he said quickly.

  “Colonel Brewer sent this?” Alexander asked, holding the youth's gaze firmly.

  “No, sir. I...I had it from an officer. I dinnae recall his name. Bradway or summat.”

  “Oh?” Alexander frowned. Of itself, that sounded suspicious. He checked the seal again. It was the genuine seal of the Fifth Battalion, marching under a fellow called McGlaston. It seemed reasonable to assume the boy's source was genuine. But...

  “You spoke only with this fellow you mentioned?”

  “He was with three other men, sir. They were riding through the woods. They looked like...like they'd ridden all night tae reach us, sir.” The youth looked down.

  “That's as may be. Did they show any sort of insignia? Make any attempt to prove they really were from this Lieutenant Selkirk they mentioned?”

  “Sir...I didn't ask,” the boy stammered. “It was all so urgent, like.”

  “Fine,” Alexander said grimly. With no way of knowing whether the message was genuine or not, he had to think fast. “This is what we'll do. Jenkins?”

  “Yes, sir?” Jenkins looked quite hopeful. Any action, it seemed, was better than marching in these rain-sodden woods. Alexander knew how he felt.

  “Tell the men to carry on with you alone. I'll take Miller, Carter and McLenner with me.”

  “Sir?” Jenkins looked at him, a frown creasing his brow. “You're sure about that?”

  “Those are my orders, Jenkins,” he said with a touch of anger, lightly done. “I suggest you don't gainsay them.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  With a last hard glance at Jenkins and the rest of the men, to make sure they didn't disobey him, Alexander turned back to the message-bearer.

  “We're going to take you with us to this Selkirk fellow at Lammure. If this message is false, I will let him decide what to do with you.”

  “Y...yes, sir,” the youth stammered.

  “Good.” Alexander nodded, pleased that the younger man didn't automatically protest at that. If he himself didn't think the message genuine, he might have been less prepared to risk facing Selkirk alone.

  “Come on, then,” Alexander said, as Jenkins called his chosen group forward to join him. “Let's go.”

  They rode on into the rain.

  While they went, a strange quiet descended on them. Alexander felt his heart start to thump, heavy slow beats in his chest. He knew that what he had chosen to do was somewhat foolish. He had split his force and left the bulk of them under the command of an inexperienced junior officer. If he was correct, and this was a deliberate ruse to draw them away from the beleaguered Sunderland, and into some wild-goose-chase, it could prove disastrous.

  “I hope you know what you're doing,” he murmured to the message-bearer, who was too far away to hear.

  “We should follow him, sir?” Carter, riding close to him, asked nervously. The men all seemed to feel his uncertainty. Alexander blinked.

  “No. We're going to Lammure. It's ten miles north of us.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, sounding uncertain.

  Alexander jerked his head toward him, indicating he wished to say something without the message-bearer overhearing.

  “Yes, sir?” Carter asked, riding closer to him. The other two men also gathered closer about.

  “We won't go into the fort itself. All we need is a brief overview from the woodlands as to whether it's besieged or not. If there's smoke, we'll scent it. If there's guns, we'll hear them. We're not doing anything besides looking around.

  “Yes, sir,” Carter said, sounding relieved.

  Moreover, if, as Alexander suspected, they were being deliberately led off course, he would take great joy in having the message-bearer appropriately punished. It was inattentiveness like his that cost men their lives.

  I only hope I haven't jeopardized my own men in doing this.

  Biting his lip, he focused on the ride, leading his horse down a steep hill. It was better not to think too much about what they might find ahead. All the same, it was a relief to be back in action. He couldn't fret anymore about the irritating indifference of a certain field nurse.

  “Come on, men,” he called sharply. “We need to keep sight of him.”

  The last thing he wanted was the message-bearer heading off into the trees unaccompanied. He already thought of him as a prisoner.

  It was when they reached the foot of the gradual slope, where the woodlands receded to the moorlands, that something terribly wrong became apparent.

  Silence.

  The place was a river of absolute silence, barely disturbed by the birds, rustling about in the bushes. Where was the sound of gunfire, the shouts of men besieged? There was nothing. Only silence and, somewhere, the sighing roll of cart-wheels on a track.

  “Halt, men.”

  Alexander raised his hand, hair starting to prickle on his scalp with discomfort. He felt his heart thudding. He looked down at the moorlands.

  A cart was rumbling patiently down a parallel road, a fellow hunched in the seat. He was a miller, Alexander reckoned, or a farmer, for his cart was filled with sackcloth bags of produce. He whipped around to the message-rider, angrily.

  “You lied,” he said. “If there's a siege in Lammure, why is that fellow not aware of it? Hey, you?”

  The carter heard his shout and looked up at the higher road, eyes widening in surprise as he saw the officer standing there. “Aye, sir?” he touched a knuckle to his forehead, a gesture of respect.

  “Where're you going to?” Alexander asked, pleasantly enough. “We're in need of directions.”

  “I'm on my way tae Lammure, sir,” the man called, grinning with evident relief that it wasn't anything worse. “For to sell my sacks of flour.”

  “Oh,” Alexander called back, voice flat, but with a tide of acid running below. “In that case, on your way.”

  As the message-bearer cleared his throat, worriedly, Alexander shot out a hand toward him. He grabbed his wrist, dragging it off the rein, spinning the youth round to stare, terrified, into his eyes.

  “You liar,” Alexander snarled. “Who paid you..?”

  “N...nobody, sir,” the youth stammered. “I swear, sir! I
saw the officer. Bradway. I did! I truly heard...”

  The message – whatever it was – that he'd truly heard was something Alexander was never to know, for at that moment a shot rang out, breaking the eerie silence.

  “Sir!” McLenner yelled. “Sir! We're being ambushed.”

  “Yes!” Alexander yelled, partly amused at the ridiculous blatancy of the statement. Chaos exploded the silence then, the sound of hooves flying, of shots ringing out, of the yells and whoops of men.

  “How many are there?”

  “I don't know!” Carter, riding close to him, yelled back.

  Alexander looked round sharply. Miller, he could just make out. McLenner, he could no longer see.

  “Men! To me!” he yelled, drawing his sword as he crashed into a mounted rider in plain clothes. The fellow snarled, and swung out with the musket he held – it was too close range for firing it to be of any use, and Alexander's sword-tip grazed his throat. The fellow turned and rode, sharply, away.

  “After them!” Alexander yelled, his blood flowing with the thrill and rage of combat. He could think of nothing now, save the need to finish their foe-men and that treacherous messenger who had misled them.

  “Sir!” Carter yelled. “Sir! Stay! They're breaking formation...”

  Alexander barely heard the words, too intent on pursuing the men. All he knew was that the encircling horsemen had broken formation and were riding away, and that he, Alexander, could catch them and finish them off now. Treacherous swine! Why could they not lie in wait and ambush his men, along the path? That would, at least, have been honest. Why take all the trouble to lure them here, and...

  “Sir!” Carter's yell was urgent.

  “What?” Alexander wheeled round, stopping his headlong flight. At that moment, something hit his shoulder, hard, jerking him backward.

  “What in hellfire…?” Alexander yelled. He was an experienced rider, which was the only reason he managed to fall back, neatly, from the horse instead of being dragged headlong behind it as it bolted. Bruised, shocked, he rolled over quickly.

  His shoulder burned. Alexander, annoyed, rubbed it. All he needed was to have broken something!

  Something was wet on his shoulder. He drew his hand back, frowning.

  “Sir!” Carter yelled, Miller behind him. “You've been hit.”

  “So I see,” Alexander said, examining the blood on his palm with something that was a mix of morbid fascination and horror. “It's bleeding, isn't it?”

  The statement struck him as funny, under the circumstances, and he laughed, and then grimaced as he saw his men exchange a worried glance.

  “Get McLenner,” he ordered them crisply. “Stop chasing the riders. We're going back.”

  They had to go back to see if any of their men still lived.

  Perdition take me, but I've been a fool.

  Alexander swore at himself. His heart thumped with urgency and his shoulder started to burn. He had barely noticed, but the pain was like fire, burning and grinding. He stood, dusted his trews off and looked around, worried, for his horse. Whistling, he waited lest the panicked horse was still close enough to hear him and find him.

  “Sir?” Carter called urgently. “We have to get you back! You need help.”

  “I'm...fine,” Alexander said, clutching a hand to his shoulder. It was soaked with blood instantly, the flow of it increasing with alarming alacrity.

  “Sir...?” Carter called down.

  Alexander blinked. Damn it, why was his eyesight blurring?

  “Get Miller,” Alexander ordered firmly. “And get back to Jenkins. I'll walk.”

  “Sir!” Carter protested. “Captain, sir! We cannot leave you here.”

  “I said I'll walk, damn you,” Alexander growled.

  That was when his legs gave way and everything abruptly went dark.

  A RELUCTANT HEALING

  Prudence leaned against the wall in the infirmary, suddenly exhausted. It had been a strange day, and she was feeling drained, though she could not have said exactly why.

  “I just feel empty.”

  It was odd. Ever since that last encounter with Alexander, she had been possessed of a strange hollowness. It felt as if nothing she did really touched her, as if she functioned in a strange empty space where her feelings could not reach.

  “Hello, miss,” one of the soldiers, a fellow called Greer, called on his way through the door.

  Prudence raised a hand, waving to him. “You're taking a walk?” she asked.

  “I'm leaving, miss,” he said, grinning brightly. “I'm all mended today.”

  “Oh? That's grand, Greer,” she noted, admiring. “So pleased you're better now.”

  “Me too, miss,” he nodded, and, leaning on the crutch he had beside him, walked steadily out into the gathering darkness.

  Prudence closed her eyes, sighing, when he had gone. She felt so drained! Even an event like that – seeing one of her patients finally recovered enough to return to his duties – meant little. It was as if the part of her where feeling resided was an empty space.

  “Pull yourself together,” she reprimanded, annoyed. It wasn't possible that she was missing Alexander. The fellow had been a menace!

  Arrogant, thoughtless, without feelings...

  “Miss!” an orderly yelled.

  “Yes?” Prudence looked up, as the fellow – a tall, balding man she didn't know – erupted from the courtyard and ran into the infirmary.

  “Miss! Urgent help needed! In the surgery.”

  “What?” Prudence felt her heart start to thud with nerves. What had happened? There were no battles about, were there? Maybe one of her patients had had a relapse? Maybe somebody had suddenly developed an infection, and they needed to remove a limb..?

  “He's just come in,” the fellow yelled. “In the surgery.”

  “Is Maybrooke with him?”

  “Aye!”

  Prudence felt her heartbeat steady somewhat. At least somebody experienced was there! She put her hand on her chest, breathing ragged, as she ran to the end of the hallway and peered hastily around the door.

  “Doctor..? Where..? Oh, for perdition's sake...”

  She stared. The man lying on the operating-table, white as his shirt-cuffs, was a man she recognized. Alexander.

  Her heart stopped. His shirt-cuffs were white, but they were the only things about him that were – his shoulder was dark with blood, most of it congealed now, stiffening the material into a black, clinging shroud. She ran to him, heart thumping.

  “Sir!” she said. “What happened? Here...let's get that off you...”

  He groaned, and his eyes opened and held her stare. She thought he showed a flicker of recognition, but it was the briefest flicker, quickly shriveling. He was close to death.

  “Maybrooke?” she called desperately. Suddenly, she felt inadequate to face this alone. She had dressed a similar wound in Randell, not yet a week ago. But this? She looked at the dark stain, feeling desperation chill her. This was different. She hadn't seen so much blood!

  “Prudence,” Maybrooke said, appearing in the room. Barely using her name, to hear Maybrooke use it now added to Prudence's sense of deep urgency. “I went to get bandages. He's bad.”

  “I know,” Prudence wanted to sob. “Here. I'm cutting away the shirt now...Should we try and get the bullet out? It must be deep,” she added, glancing at the blood-crusted and ragged bullet hole.

  She swallowed. The iron scent of blood was strong, the sticky darkness of it coating her fingers. She should, she thought, have been horrified. Instead, she felt only intense tenderness. As she cut the shirt away, she gently lifted it from the skin, wincing when she had to pull. She didn't want to hurt him. His face was still. So pale.

  “I will try and get it out,” the doctor said. “It may be very deep, but if we leave it in there, he will fester. I think, given a slow death by poisoning, or a quick death by blood loss, he might choose the latter.”

  “Mayhap,” Prudence said, fe
eling her heart ache.

  Don't die, she felt her mind will him. The thought surprised her, all the more so because of how insistent and strong it was. Don't die and leave me.

  “I need someone to hold the flesh back, so...while I remove the bullet,” the doctor said, demonstrating with a small metal implement a little like a spoon, while he reached for something like a pair of scissors, with long fine pincers where the blades would be.

  “Yes, Doctor,” Prudence nodded.

  She found herself averting her gaze while the doctor reached into the shoulder with the pincers. Her eyes held the closed eyes of the man.

  So beautiful, she thought. The thought surprised her. In repose, with that firm jaw, the pale skin, the strong, hawk-like features, Alexander was beautiful. His hair was the color of a fox-pelt, its contrast sharp with the white paleness of his skin. She felt her heart ache for him, even as she tried her best to help the doctor save him.

  “Almost there...” Maybrooke murmured, as much to himself as to her, as he carefully drew forth the bullet. The flesh clung to it, and Prudence winced, biting her lip and trying to ignore the sucking sound.

  “Almost....and...Got it!” Maybrooke gave a small hiss of triumph. “Now! The cautery. Quick,” he said, indicating for her to reach for the seal for the wounds, which was heating in the small fireplace.

  Prudence winced, hating the thought of cautery. It was, she thought, more damaging than the original wound. Both because of the pain – the shock weakened the patients – and the damage it inflicted on the flesh. She absolutely did not wish to see it used. Not on him, not here and now.

  “You think we...”

  “I think it's too deep for my stitching to do much good,” Maybrooke said quickly.

  “I disagree,” Prudence said, spirited. She caught herself and stared in surprise. Who did she think she was to argue with Maybrooke? The fellow was a trained physician.

  His brows went up. He had a mild, perpetually-worried face. Prudence looked away, feeling instantly ashamed.