by Aileen Adams
“What did the healer do wrong, then?” Padraig asked.
She all but growled in response, angered at the laziness of a healer like herself. “For one, the wounds were not properly cleaned. He’s been given nothing for the pain. If the man is bound to die, he might at least have been tended to, and his pain managed. He need not die in pain and filth.”
Rodric absorbed this, refusing to allow himself the luxury of wallowing in emotion. There would be time enough for that later. “I’ll see to it they answer for what they’ve done,” he vowed. “Is there anything you can do to ease his suffering?”
“Of course, and I intend to do it,” she promised. “If you could direct me to the kitchen, I’ll get to work.”
He looked over his shoulder, where Caitlin hovered just outside the room. “Caitlin knows. She can direct you.” It wouldn’t do for her to be there while he and Alan spoke their last words to one another. Sarah seemed to understand this, going to the door and exchanging a quiet word with Caitlin before the two of them disappeared.
“I’ll go, too,” Padraig announced. “I must see to the men and make certain they don’t tear the house down.”
This left just Alan and himself.
For the briefest moment, he wasn’t certain he wanted to speak to his brother at all. What good would it do? Alan was likely delirious with fever. Nothing he said would mean anything.
And yet…
Perhaps it would do him good to speak of that which he’d never have another chance to address. What would he have said to his father if he’d had the opportunity? It was that lack of opportunity, of knowing they would never share another hour, which haunted him.
It was this knowledge which drove him to the side of the bed, which made him stand over his brother’s dying body. The stench which rose from him was not unknown to Rodric. It brought to mind the battlefield, throngs of men whose bodies had been torn to shreds. Tents filled with the wounded, arms and legs missing, eyes and ears, wounds which couldn’t be kept clean thanks to hovering flies and the blood-soaked earth in which the bodies rested.
But this man wasn’t one of those nameless wounded. He wasn’t even a friend made while training side-by-side. This was Alan. Alan who might have taunted and lorded advanced age and skill over his younger brothers, but who had spurred Rodric to improve himself as a result. He’d fought to become stronger, smarter, a better rider and an unbeatable fighter.
All because he had longed to live up to his brother and eventually surpass him.
Alan’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first but soon narrowing once he recognized the figure standing beside him. “You.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Aye, I’m here, brother.” Rodric drew up a stool which sat nearby and perched on it, leaving them a roughly the same level.
“Didn’t think you’d come.”
“I almost didn’t—not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know. Once I found out what’d happened to you, I rode through the night.”
“Wanted… to get here before you lost the chance…” Alan grimaced, his body tensing from head to toe as a wave of pain washed over him.
Rodric found himself grimacing along with his brother.
“The chance for what?” he asked once it appeared Alan had once again relaxed.
“The chance to tell me you were right, of course.” His body shook again, but Rodric soon realized that laughter was the cause. Even while dying, his brother was able to laugh.
“You don’t truly believe that was the reason I came, do you?”
His question went unanswered. “We all knew I would come to such an end,” Alan gasped, grinding his teeth in pain. His eyes were bright with fever, searching Rodric’s as though searching for something beyond what he saw. Reassurance? Comfort? Rodric wondered if he could offer either.
“From what I understand, you weren’t at fault for this last battle,” he pointed out. To his surprise, there was a lightness in his voice which belied the dread in his heart. He was watching his brother die.
“Ah, but I was,” Alan breathed with a slight shake of his sweat-drenched head. “Would that I’d died quickly, then and there, so as to avoid thinking.”
“Thinking?”
“A man thinks quite a bit when he knows the end is upon him. I’ve had nothing to do but lie here and think over my mistakes.” He ground his teeth again, tendons standing out on his neck as he battled the pain.
Where was Sarah with the potion?
“I suspect you’ll have to live much longer,” Rodric attempted to jest, forcing a chuckle. “After all, you have so many mistakes to think over.”
Alan tried to smile as beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his head and soaked into his pillow. His smile was tight, desperate, as though he smiled through something too terrible for words. Every time he moved, the stench of rotting flesh wafted up toward Rodric and wrapped itself around him.
“I suppose… it was for the best that I had this time to think.”
“Why do you say that?” Though he loathed leaning in closer, knowing it would only mean smelling more of his brother’s death stench, he did so in order to hear him better. Alan’s sour breath made his nose wrinkle in distaste—but he held steady.
“I thought about… what I’ve done. Who I’ve hurt. I wasn’t… a good son. Brother. Leader.”
Rodric turned his head in order to meet his brother’s eyes. “Alan, don’t do this to yourself, brother.”
“I cannot help what has already plagued me. I haven’t been able to keep from thinking. When I sleep, when I wake.” He groaned in pain, frustration, and possibly many other things he dared not speak of. “If there is a hell, I’m in it, brother.”
Rodric clasped Alan’s hand as tightly as he dared. “I’m here with you. You aren’t alone.”
Sarah burst into the room a moment later, balancing a tray.
Rodric glared at her. “What kept you?”
“I had to find my way around the kitchen,” she hissed, glancing Alan’s way. “It’s in a bit of disarray at the moment, with so much of the clan staying in the house.”
She leaned closer to her charge, seeming to disregard the stench which hung about him. “I’ve brought you a potion for the pain, which I’ll mix with strong broth.”
“You should’ve mixed it with strong ale,” he gasped, chuckling softly through gritted teeth.
Sarah chuckled along with him. “Perhaps I should, then. You’ve given me an idea.”
Rodric could hardly believe his ears. “You’re not serious.”
She fixed him with a hard stare. “It cannot harm him any further. He’ll suffer no more.”
“Lass, tell me true.” Alan’s glassy eyes fixed on Sarah’s face. “I’m not much longer for this world, am I?”
She let out a soft sigh, taking one side of his face in her hand. “I’m afraid you aren’t. It’s sorry I am to say it. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Och, I’ve known all along the end was upon me,” he assured her, going so far as to pat the hand which still caressed him. “There’s only so much a man can fight his way through. When the time comes, no man can hold it back.”
Rodric listened to this, watching the tender scene unfold. If Sarah couldn’t pull his brother back from death, she could at least make his final moments warm and peaceful.
This knowledge did not make it easier for him to accept his helplessness. Alan was fading away, slipping from the world and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
If anyone had told him only a day earlier that he’d sit at his brother’s bedside and wish desperately to stop death from making a claim, he might have laughed. Now, he wanted to scream and rage against the cruelty of it all—Alan’s suffering, the helplessness of it all, the fact that it was too late for either of them to do bridge the cavern which had stretched between them for most of their lives.
A knock at the open door introduced Padraig, who looked very nearly apologetic as he entered. �
��They’re asking questions,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on Alan.
“Let ‘em ask all the questions they want, the vultures,” Alan grumbled. “They’re here to pick the bones, nothing more.”
“You’re their leader,” Padraig reminded him. “Surely, they’re here to offer their allegiance to you, and to whoever you name as your successor.”
Successor. The word turned Rodric’s blood to ice. Everything around him seemed to fall away—even the stench of the sweat-soaked bedding which had commanded so much of his attention up to that point. None of it existed any longer.
Successor.
He was the second son.
The clan would, by rights, be his to lead.
Should he choose to do so.
26
Kill the bastards.”
“Run them through.”
“Make them pay for what they’ve done.”
“Anderson forever. They forget who they’ve crossed swords with, the bastards.”
Their words sent chills up Caitlin’s spine. She pressed herself to the wall running the length of the corridor, not daring to venture from the deep shadow in which she’d hidden herself when it became clear there was nothing else for her to do.
They hadn’t recognized her when she escorted Sarah to and from the kitchen, which was certainly a blessing—though if they had, what could they have done? She was an Anderson by marriage, in spite of her having run from her husband. Their clan was hers.
Even so, the very thought of bearing the weight of their rage had they stared at her, muttered, whispered vile threats toward the clan which had been hers since she was a child…
She shivered, running her hands up and down her arms in a weak attempt to warm and comfort herself.
There was nowhere for her to go, really. Nothing in the world could have convinced her to sit at Alan’s deathbed, not even if Rodric had begged her to join him. She had no wish to watch a man die, even a man who’d caused her so much pain.
And there was no telling what he would say to her. What he’d accuse her of.
Because, once again, she’d brought death upon the head of another. It may have been Connor McAllister’s dirk which had slid into Alan’s body. It may have been Connor’s hand which held the weapon, his arm which had delivered the force which drove the blade into the soft, yielding flesh.
But it had been she who’d put the dirk in his hand, because she’d been the one to break the agreement. If only she’d seen into the future, if only she had seen the string of events which would lead from her escape.
At the time, in the room which had been prepared for her the day of the wedding ceremony, there had only been one concern: escaping before he had the chance to put his hands on her. Escaping before he could truly solidify the bonds of their marriage.
Nothing else had mattered. Nothing else had even entered her head.
Fool! For she’d known Alan well. She’d known her stepfather, too. She should’ve seen what might come of her hasty escape.
She’d behaved selfishly, and now Alan was near death.
What would Rodric think of her once his brother had passed on to the other side? It was one thing for a rivalry or bad blood or whatever it was which stood between the pair to stand strong while both parties were healthy and vital. Let one or the other die, and suddenly, everything in the past might fade away until brotherly love was all that remained.
He might blame her for his brother’s death.
And then what? He would no longer love her. She would truly have no one. No clan, no stepfather’s protection, no protection from the Andersons as Rodric would surely assume leadership as the second-born son.
She might live with Sorcha, but how long could that last? While she loved her aunt, life with her would be cold comfort compared to the brief promise of paradise which Rodric’s love had afforded. If he loved her no longer, nothing could make up for that loss.
A tear escaped her eye, one which she knuckled away before willing no others to follow. If she was on her own—she hoped not, prayed not, but had learned how unfair life could be and wished to be prepared—she had to harden herself against emotion. Wallowing in self-pity would not serve her.
It would only make her suffering more unbearable. A winter of starvation had taught her this lesson.
Padraig walked past her without seeing, rounding the corner after climbing the stairs from the entry hall. She waited until he was inside Alan’s chambers before deciding to follow him. Her curiosity was too great to ignore any longer.
Also, she needed to get away from the vicious talk downstairs.
She hovered just beside the door, allowing only half her body past the doorjamb in order to cast an eye upon the scene inside. Sarah was just in the act of opening the draperies, allowing light and air into the room; all the while, she shook her head and muttered to herself.
While they were in the kitchen, she’d told Caitlin about the many mistakes the healer had made in treating Alan. “I do not believe the mistakes were intentionally made,” she was quick to point out. “I once treated a man who it was clear from the start had been deliberately poisoned. That is not the situation here. I believe ignorance and laziness have played a part. And, having heard all I care to know about Alan Anderson, stubbornness from the patient.”
Caitlin had merely nodded in agreement. She could just imagine Alan refusing the proper treatment, calling for his ale and his food while his body was dying from the inside out. He’d always been reckless, pretending to care little for the wisdom of others. She would have just bet he’d gone against the healer’s orders just to be contrary, to prove what a strong man he was.
The fool.
His foolishness was about to kill him.
And yet he looked somewhat at peace as Sarah guided a cup to his lips. Rodric sat on one side of the bed, facing Caitlin, and he turned his head away from the sight with his face contorted in a grimace she could not make sense of. Why did he appear so pained by what was going on before him?
Padraig stood at the foot of the bed, his head bowed. He’d done what he could with the men downstairs, placating them with food and drink, answering what questions he could with authority in his voice. She admired his courage and level head, neither of which she was certain she’d exhibit in such a situation.
Alan patted Sarah’s hand with a tenderness Caitlin never knew he possessed. He was a changed man—or perhaps pain and the knowledge of his impending death had stripped him of everything which had once made him insufferable.
“I thank ye,” he breathed.
Sarah nodded, smiling softly. “It won’t be much longer now.”
“I cannot believe I’m bearing witness to this,” Padraig whispered.
Caitlin noticed for the first time that his fists were clenched at his sides.
“It is for the best,” Sarah murmured. “He has already suffered much and would continue to suffer. Now, he’ll sleep until the time comes. He’ll feel no pain.”
“Padraig.” Alan stared at his younger brother. “I want it this way.”
“You always have to have your way, do you not?” There was no lightness in Padraig’s question—almost accusation, more like.
“Aye, and I know what you’re thinking,” Alan muttered, grimacing when he shifted slightly.
A spreading patch of reddish-brown ooze on the linen sheet caught Caitlin’s eye, turning her stomach.
“Because I had to have my way, I’m in this position. Like as not you’re right. Too late to do much about it now.”
He closed his eyes, taking as deep a breath as he could. “I see it all. Everything. I was cruel to you, Padraig, and I’m sorry for it. I hope you’ll not remember me uncharitably. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven,” Padraig murmured as a tear dripped from his chin.
Caitlin wanted to look away, suddenly uncomfortable at witnessing such a show of emotion.
Still, she remained.
“And you,” Alan grunte
d, turning his attention to Rodric.
Rodric who sat as still as stone, his face unreadable once Alan had finished the drink Sarah prepared. He met his brother’s gaze.
“The clan will be yours now.”
“I never wanted it.”
“I know. I always wished you did,” Alan snorted. “It would’ve been much sweeter if I’d taken something you wanted.”
Caitlin’s heart seized. So he admitted it. Was this what people did when given the chance? Did they unburden themselves so?
She held her breath, waiting for Rodric’s reply.
“Aye,” he breathed, a smirk touching the corners of his mouth. “So you kept trying, did ye?”
“I did.” Alan winced—was it pain or guilt? “I did, and it was wrong of me. Why didn’t I see it when there was something for me to do about it? It’s haunted me the entirety of my time in this bed, making it damned impossible for me to sleep. I canna stop thinking.”
“It’s in the past now,” Rodric offered, taking Alan’s hand.
“Aye, it will be for you—and for the lass.”
Her? Caitlin held her breath. He was talking about her! Admitting why he’d wanted to marry her! She leaned against the wall for support, her chest suddenly tight, tears threatening to choke her.
“Tell her for me…” Alan took a breath, smiling slightly. “…it doesn’t hurt, oh, thank you… Tell her… I’m sorry…”
“I will,” Rodric promised.
“And I’m sorry to you,” Alan added, squeezing Rodric’s hand.
“I know. You’re forgiven.”
Alan’s smile grew. He was at peace, at last. For the first time in his life, he was at peace. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed.
Sarah touched his chest, the side of his neck. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered. “It won’t be much longer before his body can take no more. Before dawn, I would imagine.”
Rodric rose, placing his hand on the top of his brother’s head. “Sleep well, then, brother,” he said in a tight voice.
The way he held himself, the tension in his arms and shoulders, spoke of how he fought to keep himself together.
