The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  Jenny didn’t move, just stood there, giving her a dubious look.

  “When have ye ever known me to abide by any rules?” Sorcha twisted and strained to undo the laces herself. A painful cramp knotted in her shoulder, hindering her progress. Frustration and urgency made her stomp her foot. “Jenny, please! When have ye ever minded the rules yerself?”

  “The chief will surely have my arse if anything happens to ye.” Jenny relented and undid the dress, holding the fabric out of the way so Sorcha could step free of it. “He’s always sterner than stern when it comes to me, and ye know it. The only reason he allowed Mama to take me in was to help with her grieving for yer wee brother. I dinna think he’s ever really liked me—more like he just tolerated me for Mama’s sake and now yer’s.”

  Sorcha’s tiny brother, born far too early, had lived only three days. She had been too young to remember much about that dark time, but Mama had told her all about it when explaining womanly things. She had stressed time and again how great a blessing it was to survive giving birth and then holding a healthy babe in your arms. Poor Mama had never borne another. She had said it was God’s will. Sorcha spun around and pulled Jenny into a tight hug. “Da does love ye as his own, Jenny. Ye know that as well as I. He just doesna show it.”

  Jenny shrugged. “Maybe he’s fond enough, but I do get tired of all his scolding.”

  “If he didna love ye, he wouldna scold ye when ye do things ye know good and well ye shouldna do.”

  Sorcha rushed to the tall wardrobe just inside the bedchamber and threw the doors open wide. Reaching into its depths, she pulled out the work clothes she and Mama had designed and sewn without the help of the seamstresses from the village. Sorcha smiled as she pulled on the simple lèine cut with a closer fit and narrow sleeves, then donned the loose overdress that was actually sewn to be trews rather than a skirt. Comfortable boots came next, and a belt fitted with several leather pouches and loops perfect for holding tools. Da had nearly fainted dead away when he had caught sight of the strange outfit, but he loved Mama and Sorcha, so he never refused them anything. His only edict was that the work clothes could only be worn while Sorcha helped with the cattle inside the stables. She was not allowed to wear the ungodly things, as Da called them, anywhere else.

  “Let me help with yer hair.” Jenny pulled free the combs and twisted her hair into a bun, securing it snug with pins and ribbons. “Now the kertch. I’ll pin it good and tight, so the wind canna snatch it away.”

  Wrapping the white linen around her head, Sorcha struggled to hold still. She so needed to be on her way. Jenny secured it, seeming to take forever. As soon as her hands fell away, Sorcha turned. “I’m off now. I’ll be back as soon as I can, aye?”

  “Be careful.” Jenny gave her a fierce hug, then stepped aside.

  Sorcha made it down the stairs and through the keep in record time. As soon as she went outside, the acrid smell of smoke and heartbreaking sound of frightened animals charged her with renewed fury to do whatever she could to help.

  Crackling flames danced across the thick thatched roof of the calving house. Sparks shot up into the night and sizzled as the embers mixed with the snow. Thank heavens for the large, wet snowflakes and blanket of white covering the ground and coating the other buildings. The frozen moisture would help keep the fire at bay.

  Men shouted as they hauled buckets of water from the troughs and wells. Several had taken up shovels, scooping up snow and flinging it on the blaze.

  Melting snow and mud made walking treacherous. Sorcha stumbled and slid across the area to the side paddock adjacent to the burning structure. Several cows, their sides swollen with their unborn calves, jostled and bawled at the far end of the wooden fence, attempting to flee the fire. Sorcha prayed the frightening chaos wouldn’t cause the poor expectant mothers to drop their calves before their time and lose them. Climbing atop the fence, she scanned the milling animals, searching for Peigi and her little one. Neither the cow nor her calf appeared to be among the herd.

  Sorcha hopped down and slipped between the rails of the fence, giving the jostling animals a wide berth as she made her way into the blazing stable. Heavy smoke burned her eyes and throat, threatening to choke her. Flames crackled with greedy abandon through the winter stores of hay. Timbers groaned overhead with the deadly promise that the roof would soon collapse. Blistering heat licked at her flesh, promising to claim her, too, if she didn’t take care.

  One hand shielding her mouth and nose, she batted away the thick air, struggling to see. She yanked off the kertch and tied it over her mouth and nose, wishing she had dampened it before entering the stable. The air closer to the ground seemed a little clearer. She dropped to all fours and crawled to her cow’s stall. With all the chaos created by the fiery hell, she couldn’t tell if any of the distressed animals she heard bawling were inside the building or outside in the paddock. That thought struck fear into her heart. What if Peigi and her baby had been overcome by the smoke and lay inside the stable?

  She crawled faster, made it to the stall, then came to a halt and sat back on her heels. The space was empty. But if Sutherland had already led the cow and calf outside with the others, why hadn’t she seen them in the paddock? Somewhere in the distance, the building groaned and shifted. A deadly pop threatened her with an ominous crackling. Time to get out before she became trapped. All she could do was pray the building was empty. She crawled back the way she came, clearing the door just as a section of the roof caved in behind her. Once out of the stable, she stumbled to her feet and ran back to the small herd still milling against the fence. Her anxiety reached a fevered pitch. Nay, she’d not overlooked her pet. Her precious cow was not there.

  Another roaring crash filled the night as the remainder of the roof gave way. As the sparks shot even higher and lit the darkness, Sorcha’s heart fell. If anyone, either man or beast, had still been inside, they were now lost. Knotting the linen back around her hair, she scanned the area, searching for Sutherland.

  Her cow hadn’t been in the stall nor the paddock. Surely, that meant he had led them to one of the other stables, and both he and the beasts were safe. She kept that thought front and foremost, but the longer she looked among the men without finding Sutherland, the deeper her fears rooted. Panic threatened to overtake her.

  “Move him inside the keep and fetch the healer! Now!”

  Sorcha recognized that shout. It was Da. A welcomed bit of relief washed across her. If Da was shouting orders, at least that meant he was safe. But who were they moving inside the keep? Who was hurt? She made her way to the cluster of men staggering under the mass of the large body they carried.

  “Sutherland!” She rushed to Magnus, who held his friend by one of his arms as they labored up the steps of the front landing. “What happened? How bad is he?” She felt such a fool, so worried about a cow that the man she had just married had risked his life to please her. “Please tell me he’ll be fine. Please.”

  “I dinna ken,” Magnus grunted as they carried him through the entry hall and hefted him none too gently across the length of a table. “I found him in the snow between the fire and the main stable. Almost hidden at the far end of the buildings. Dragged off in the shadows against the base of the skirting wall.” Magnus stepped back, his worried scowl locked on Sutherland’s seemingly lifeless body. “He was well enough earlier when I saw him leading a cow and a calf into the largest of the shelters. But then he disappeared.”

  Her poor Sutherland was soaking wet, coated in filth, and the part of his face not black with soot was covered in blood. He looked as though they had dragged him from a battlefield.

  Sorcha yanked the linen off her head and started wiping away the mess from his face, searching for the source of the bleeding. “Water and linens and be quick about it!” she shouted without looking up. From what Magnus had said, Sutherland had saved Peigi and her calf, but then what had happened?

  “I thought I told ye to take care?” she softly scolded, nearly
choking on the threat of tears. Nay. Now was not the time to cry. She had to care for her husband. At last, she found the source of the bleeding. An ugly gash on the right side of his head, deep into his hairline. A fierce swelling surrounded the cut.

  “He’s taken a fierce bash right here, and it’s split him open.” She pressed her cheek to his chest, relieved when his heart beat steady and strong. Praise God Almighty. “What wouldha caused such an injury?” she asked Magnus as she straightened and returned to gently cleaning away filth and blood. “Reckon a beam fell and hit him? But why would he have gone back into the fire if all the stock were safe?”

  Magnus rounded his friend and bent close to examine the wound. “Whatever struck him came from behind, not above.” He eased Sutherland’s head to the left and ran his fingers across the rest of his skull. “And he was hit twice. There’s another knot a bit lower. Right here.”

  A troop of maids appeared, bearing bowls, linens, and steaming kettles. “Want we should send for Mistress Aderyn?” one of the girls asked. “Did the chief call for her?”

  “Aye. Do it. It willna hurt to send another to fetch her.” Sorcha took one of the kettles and filled a basin with the hot water. She hated dragging the old woman out in the middle of the storm, but Sutherland needed a healer. “In fact, send Raibie and Kiff with the cart so she willna have to walk in the ice and snow.”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.

  “What in heaven’s name happened to ye?” Sorcha gently cleaned mud and ash from around Sutherland’s right eye. His brow had turned a purplish red and started swelling. It looked as though he had been hit from the front as well. She glanced up at Magnus. “Ye’re certain he was whole and well when ye saw him leading Peigi away? He looks like he’s been in a fight and lost.” The cow had never been violent before, but while afraid and protecting her young, the animal might have caused some damage. But only to his head? Wouldn’t his body have been more of a target for an enraged mother defending her young? She stole another quick glance across the length of him. He didn’t appear injured anywhere else.

  “He looked well enough,” Magnus answered, but his tone worried her. “Even shouted he’d soon join me to battle the flames once he got the animals settled.”

  “I would know yer fears.” She had no time for the man’s unspoken suspicions when she had enough of her own. As she soaked and wrung out a fresh cloth, she faced him. “I bid ye tell me now.”

  Before Magnus could respond, Sutherland groaned and stirred, lifting a hand to the side of his head. “Feckin’ hell,” he growled without opening his eyes. He rolled to his side, briefly tried to push himself upright, then sagged back to the table with his head clutched between his hands. “Damn me straight to bloody hell, what hit me?”

  “Be still with ye now.” Sorcha eased a pile of folded linens under his head. “I’ve sent for the healer. Ye’ve a gash on yer head in need of sewing, and we’ve nay had time to discover if ye’re injured anywhere else—although ye look to be whole.” She pressed a cool cloth to his temple, shushing him with a calmness that belied the storm raging within her. “Rest easy now, my brave champion, rest easy.” She found some solace in the fact he had awakened quickly and was able to see and speak. But she daren’t move for fear of stumbling from the weakening in her own knees. “After Aderyn’s looked ye over and tended yer wounds, we shall move ye to my bed, aye?”

  Sutherland grunted, wincing as he walked his fingers back through his hair and felt his skull. “Where did ye find me?” He cracked open an eye and fixed it on Magnus. “Last thing I remember was leaving the larger stable after settling Sorcha’s pets in a stall.”

  “Ye were face down between the burning stable and the one ye had just left. Back in the shadows against the wall. I like to never found ye when ye went missing.” Magnus bent closer, glancing around before he continued, “Ye had been dragged through the snow. Whoever bashed yer head didna think to erase the traces of their trying to leave ye somewhere hidden to die.”

  “Could it be that whoever moved ye was trying to get ye farther from the fire?” Sorcha didn’t accept that possibility even as she asked it.

  She wanted to believe it. But common sense labeled it wishful thinking. If someone was concerned enough about Sutherland to pull him through the snow, then why had they not run for help or at least sounded the alarm? Why had they not pulled him toward the keep rather than away? Both Sutherland and Magnus felt the same. She could tell by the looks on their faces. But who would do such a thing? And why?

  As the gaggle of maids returned with more water and fresh linens, Sorcha made up her mind. Aderyn could stitch him up and slather him with her stinking poultices after he had been moved to the security of her chambers. He’d for certain be safe in her bed if she had to stand guard at the door herself. She snapped her fingers, bringing the servants to a halt. “Place a covering across my bed. We’ll be moving Master Sutherland immediately. Take these things upstairs, and I’ll need even more to wash him proper. Set a pair of kettles to heating over the fire in my chambers, aye?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The lasses scattered to carry out her commands.

  “Do ye feel steady enough to walk if Magnus and I help ye?” Noting Sutherland’s sickly pallor, she tucked an empty basin in the crook of one arm. She would bet her favorite pair of boots the man was about to heave.

  “Aye,” he rasped, wincing as he nodded. “I can make it.” He pushed himself upright and held tight to the table’s edge. After pulling in several deep breaths, he attempted to stand.

  Magnus looped Sutherland’s arm around his shoulder. Sorcha wedged herself under his other arm, doing her best to support him.

  “Wait!” Sutherland groaned, snatched the basin from her, and retched. She and Magnus kept him from falling as he shuddered over the bowl. “Damn it all to hell and back.” He rasped in deep wheezing breaths once the sickness stopped.

  “It’ll be better for a bit now, man,” Magnus reassured. “Remember Glencoe? Best get ye moved before it hits again.”

  Sutherland didn’t answer, just gave his friend a tight-jawed look, then latched hold of the man’s shoulder and started walking. Head bowed, he kept his eyes shut as he forced one foot in front of the other.

  Sorcha held tight, one arm locked around him, and his arm wrapped around her shoulders. When they reached the stairs, they came to a halt. The stairway to the second floor was steep and narrow. Three abreast would never fit. “Hold tight to the rail,” she said as she slipped out from under his arm, took his hand, and placed it on the wooden support bolted to the wall. “Magnus can walk at yer side, and I’ll follow, aye? I’m sorry, love, but ye’ll have to open yer eyes, I’m afraid.”

  “I can do it,” Sutherland whispered. He kept his fierce stare locked on the floor. Sweat dripped from his face.

  She ached for his suffering, but it couldn’t be helped. He might be in fearsome pain, but at least he was alive. Inch by painstaking inch, they climbed to the second floor. She rounded them and led the way through the sitting room and into her bedchamber. The place was abuzz with maids carrying out her orders. Two kettles and a large pot hung from iron rods swung across the freshly stoked fire. Her fine bed coverings had been removed and, in their stead, were linens that could later be boiled with lye to remove whatever soiled them. Additional linens, neatly folded and piled high, waited on the bench at the foot of the bed. Basins, pitchers of water, stacks of cleaning rags, and a covered crock Sorcha recognized as the balm Aderyn had instructed should be used for all manner of injuries waited on the table beside the headboard.

  Magnus helped Sutherland sit on the edge of the bed. “I think it best I stand guard in the sitting room. This doesna bear the feel of some random accident that might happen during a fire.”

  Sutherland waved him away as he sagged to his side, then rolled to his back and draped an arm across his eyes. “I thank ye,” he whispered.

  Sorcha snatched hold of Magnus’s arm as he tu
rned to go. “Case ye should need them, my bow and quiver are in the corner on the far side of the hearth, behind the chair. A pistol, a dirk, and my sgian dubh are in the top drawer of the sideboard.” With a squeeze of his forearm, she stepped closer. “Help me find out who did this to him, aye?”

  “Ye have my word, m’lady.” The man gave a curt nod, then left the room.

  Returning to the bedside, Sorcha eyed her poor husband, studying him from the tips of his mud-encrusted boots to his matted hair. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, she pondered how best to attack this situation. She had never undressed a man before. Nor washed one. She rolled her sleeves up past her elbows and decided to start with the boots. “I’ll be riddin’ ye of these muddy wet clothes so ye’ll be more comfortable, aye?”

  “I’d be grateful if ye wouldna shake me, love,” he said in a strained whisper. “My bloody head is pounding. Truly, I’m fine just the way I am.”

  “Nay, ye must be cleaned, and I grant ye that I’ll be quite a bit gentler than Aderyn. I promise to do my best not to shake ye too badly.” Boots were first. Those were simple. She pulled them off, then piled them on a cloth the maids had spread by the door for just such a purpose. His plaid, jacket, and waistcoat were not so easy, but one by one, she coaxed him through, allowing her to peel, prod, and pull them off his body and deposit them in a pile with the boots.

  “Damnation, woman, would ye at least give me a whisky and a bit of peace before we do the rest?” He waved her aside with one arm, still shielding his eyes from the candlelight that he had said made his poor head throb all the harder.

  Since the rest consisted of his lèine and his trews, she could use a breather and a bit of whisky herself. She was fair winded from undressing him thus far and couldn’t decide if it was from wrestling the heavy clothes off the uncooperative mountain of a man or because the more layers she removed, the closer she came to witnessing him in all his glorious nakedness. If not for his suffering, she would laugh, never imagining her wedding night to be anything like this. “I’ll fetch us both a whisky, and then we’ll finish this torture, aye?”