Highland Healer

by Willa Blair

  “Bring him in,” she told the men and reentered the tent. Ranald followed, and the men supporting her patient came right behind him. “On the table.” She cleared away the tray and cup, all that remained of the Highlander’s breakfast, and worked to gain the calm that she required to do what she must. Too many distracting thoughts would keep her from the focus she needed. The men laid their burden down, and she waved them out. Ranald stayed, watching her.

  “How was he injured?” She raised her hands and began her assessment, knowing Ranald would not remain for long.

  “He went out this morning to survey his new territory. So far, he’s the only one returned.” Ranald said volumes in a few quiet words. Never before had Colbridge been a casualty. That might mean that they’d met an overwhelming force, which could now be on the way here. Or they’d met a scouting party who were simply much better fighters than the MacAnalens had been yesterday. Either way, it did not bode well if they meant to finish this campaign and leave these mountains before winter set in. And with their leader down, his army might fall apart and none of them survive the day.

  Aileana met Ranald’s impassive stare with one of her own and then turned back to Colbridge. She suspected she knew what went on behind Ranald’s expressionless eyes. Colbridge lay pale as death. Blood soaked the tunic and leathers meant to protect his upper body, and pooled on the table beneath him. The metallic tang of it filled the tent. If she let him die, Aileana fretted, what would be the consequence? Another pretender? More battles and more death? Was he really any worse than any other who might follow him? His methods were more brutal than necessary to achieve his ends, but he’d come so close to having everything he’d fought for—including, she hoped, peace.

  Yet she knew what likely lay in store for Toran Lathan if Colbridge survived this day. Could she condemn the laird who so captivated her to die slowly, in agony, at this man’s hands? Or did her contempt for Colbridge influence what she thought he’d do? And what did she really know about Toran…Laird Lathan? Perhaps he was as bad as Colbridge, or worse. He wore the body of a hardened warrior. He’d fought; he’d very likely killed, for his clan. Did that make him any better than the man on her table? How could she know which was the right path to take?

  Then she recalled the calm certainty in her mother’s voice as she’d told her daughter and apprentice, “Our place is to care for the wounded and the ill, no more than that.”

  Aileana took a deep breath and shook off her doubts. She had no choice. She placed her hands a breath above the slope of Colbridge’s shoulder. Her Talent told her much more about the injury than her eyes alone.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood. His collarbone is broken,” she told Ranald, her voice even, betraying none of her concerns, “but he’ll live. Get the leathers off him while I stop the bleeding and check for other wounds.”

  Ranald scowled and opened his mouth to speak. Aileana frowned and shook her head, demanding his silence, and his compliance. His teeth clenched on what he intended to say and with none of his usual care quickly stripped Colbridge’s upper body. Then he turned Colbridge’s limp form to bare the ugly gash that split the top of his shoulder and ran in a deep slice along his back to the shoulder blade. She’d seen worse, but this would tax her energy. She’d sensed no other injuries, so went back to the shoulder.

  Ranald stepped back as she began. On his way out of the tent, he turned and announced, “I’ll have food and drink waiting for you when you finish.” Then he left.

  She sighed and tried to put Ranald out of her mind so she could set to work closing the wound, knitting bone, muscle, and tendon. Ranald’s comment reminded her of the many times he’d provided for her when she was too exhausted to see to her own needs after a difficult healing session. Was he trying to make amends? Or trying in a subtle way to tell her that he would support her if she changed her mind and let Colbridge die?

  In the time that passed while she worked, no attack came. Despite her concentration, she heard several men from Colbridge’s scouting party calling out as they straggled into camp. The sounds seemed distant and faint, and she quickly forgot them as she focused on the minute repairs that severed blood vessels and nerves required. At last, Aileana finished. Exhausted, she left her patient to recuperate on his own, and ducked out of the tent.

  She found Ranald on a bench he’d placed near the entry. He held a tray filled with bread and cheese. Two tankards of mead waited beside him, untouched. Without a word, he handed her one tankard and she drained it quickly. Collapsing beside him, she consumed the food and the second tankard. Finally she could speak. “He’ll be fine, but he’ll sleep the rest of this day and night. In the morning, he’ll need broth and mead before other food to help him replace the blood and strength he’s lost.”

  “I know, Aileana,” Ranald said quietly. She was aware that he chided her gently because of her fatigue. They’d been through this many times. Ranald knew what to do.

  But she saw his tension in the stiff way he sat and stared off into space, and knew that he disapproved of her saving Colbridge. She doubted that she approved, either. But she had followed her mother’s teachings and done as she had been trained to do. She dared not stray from that path. There was little else left to her. No home, no parents, no real friends. Just her God-given Talent and her training, to be used to the best of her ability. She did not wish to decide who should live and who should not. After she did all she could do, whether her patient lived or died was in God’s hands, as it should be.

  “And what of the rest of the scouting party?” Aileana asked.

  “Half made it back and have been cared for,” Ranald answered simply. “They reported that they drove off the raiders. Escaped them is more likely.”

  Grateful for the news that there were no other urgent needs for her Talent, she raised a hand in weary salute, stood, and crossed back to her sleeping tent with nothing on her mind but getting the rest she required after an intense healing session.

  But oblivion eluded her as she remembered the scene between Colbridge and the laird called Toran. Colbridge held the chief of an unknown clan already in his clutches, but knew it not. That Aileana did know gave her an unaccustomed sense of power.

  While she enjoyed some small status as the Healer, she lived at Colbridge’s beck and call. Her Talent was her protection. No one accosted her, but no one accepted her, either. Here she had neither friend nor foe, only wary companions among the other healers. Even Ranald kept a circumspect distance.

  What would her life be like, she mused, if Toran, who could captivate her with a look or a gentle touch, made her his own? Could he give her the home she missed? Was the attraction between them something real or something borne of her longing for a different way of life, a different use for her Talent? This would bear thinking about. While she did, Toran’s secret was safe with her.

  ****

  A chill breeze laden with the remnants of morning mist swirled in the shade under the tree where guards had tied Toran. Some of the leaves overhead were still green, but most were tinged with rust and gold. Autumn had begun to paint them with bright hues, but Toran suspected jealous winter snow waited, not far off, to strip the branches bare with cold and wash the colors away. Shirtless, Toran hunkered down and tried to keep warm.

  The survivors of the MacAnalen fighting force, hands and feet securely bound with leather strips, sat or stretched out on the ground, leaving a clear space around each. Two guards walked slowly among the prisoners, then joined other soldiers at a nearby fire to warm up. Toran kept an eye on them, knowing they or others like them would be back. It was fortunate that the tartans of the two clans were so similar. Except for the torc that had probably saved his life, Toran blended in with the other captives.

  Toran’s men were missing, which worried and saddened him. Had they fallen in the conflict or gotten away to carry the warning to the Aerie? Nor was the MacAnalen laird anywhere in sight, and Toran feared he’d met his fate on the field of battle. The leader of these
invaders, Colbridge, had threatened Toran on his way from the healer’s tent, and clearly mistook him for the laird of this clan. Toran couldn’t decide whether that gave him some advantage or not. But he was disturbed by the fact that the invader needed the services of the healer a day after routing them. Did the battle still rage closer to the Aerie, and were Toran’s men caught up in it as they searched for him?

  If he weren’t bound, he’d kick himself for ignoring Donal’s warnings. He should not have been out of the Aerie, not after the news had come of the rabble headed their way. But the meeting had been set with the local lairds a month past and no one expected an invader to arrive so quickly. It was just bad luck that Toran had stayed behind after the meeting to consult another day with the young MacAnalen, which was why he’d wound up fighting alongside his hosts. Damn fool stunt, that’s what Donal would call it, especially since it had gotten him captured for his troubles. It could have gotten him killed.

  The captives around him carried on subdued conversations among themselves. Several greeted him quietly after the guards who’d tied him to a tree left the area. A few complained that as their closest neighbors and advocates of the peacemaking talks, the Lathans should have supported them in the battle. Angus MacAnalen, one of the MacAnalen chieftans, who sat nearby Toran, quickly silenced them.

  “Stop yer foolish blather,” he warned them. “If our runners had gotten through, the Lathans would have fought with us.” He slanted a look at Toran.

  “Aye,” Toran agreed, keeping his voice low, “and now that I’m overdue, my men will come looking for me. We’ll all get out of here then.” Angus and his men could count on the Lathans for support when the need arose. Despite the old lairds’ feuding before Flodden, their clans had long been linked by fostering and marriage.

  That got a chorus of nods and soft “ayes” until Angus again motioned them to silence by opening one bound hand and closing it into a fist, not wanting to draw the guards’ attention.

  “How long before yer clan arrives, do ye think?” Angus quietly asked Toran.

  “Not long,” Toran replied. “If my men got away, they could have reached the Aerie during the night and be on their way back now. Perhaps the invaders’ leader was injured by Lathan scouts on their way here.”

  “Injured?”

  “Aye, he went into the Healer’s tent with a sword cut to the shoulder. He’ll be out of action for a while, perhaps permanently.”

  “That’s good news,” Angus replied. “Cut off the head and the body dies. We may yet get out of this with our skins whole.”

  Toran studied his surroundings, noting the size and strength of the invading force encamped here. He tried to ignore the chill that crept down his naked back with every breeze. What he saw surprised him. The army was not a large one, nor was it well supplied, so far from home. But it was large enough to take on Highland clans, crofts, and villages decimated by the loss of their most experienced fighting men three years ago. And here it camped, within hailing distance of Toran’s home. But the Aerie would be a much more difficult challenge for this rabble.

  The type of restraints they used spoke volumes, too, as the MacAnalens were bound as Toran was, hands in front. “Angus, why have yer men no’ untied each other?” Toran asked. “We must break free. According to the Healer, those who don’t join with this Colbridge are put to the sword.”

  “We wondered why they left us here. They must be waiting for their leader to decide what to do with us,” Angus mused, then shrugged and continued. “They don’t want to bind our hands behind our backs because they’d have to feed us, or untie us to take care of necessities.” He gestured at the space between his men. “That’s one thing the guards do enforce. If we get too close to each other, they move us farther apart. As long as they see enough ground between us, they stay by the fire.”

  “Best yer men start working their bonds loose while the guards are over there, then,” Toran whispered. “Donal won’t bring in more than a scouting party until he kens what he’s up against. There won’t be enough men to cut everyone loose and fight off Colbridge’s guards, too.”

  “Aye,” Angus agreed. He passed the order to the men around him in a low voice and told them to tell the others. “When the guards come this way, stop what ye’re doing,” he warned. “Have a care, lads. That lot will stay by the fire most of the time, but others may not.”

  Toran was gratified to see that the MacAnalen captives retained the sense to be careful. If a few could get free, they could help free the others when the time came. Toran kept his gaze moving around the camp as he carefully flexed and stretched the leather binding his hands. His efforts in the Healer’s tent that caused the abrasions on his wrists had resulted in a small measure of space, but not enough to slip his hands through the loops, and not enough to break the bindings. He kept working, stilling only when the guards moved their way, and beginning again as soon as the guards turned their backs.

  Eventually, another low rumble of conversation caught his attention. He turned to see what interested the men and saw the Healer cross the camp. The skirt of her green kirtle swirled around long legs as she strode, then draped over a pleasantly rounded backside as she bent to enter a small tent.

  Toran’s pulse kicked up at the sight of her. What was it about that Healer that drew him so?

  “There’s a lovely lass,” one of the men said, leering after her and distracting Toran from his troublesome thoughts. “Had we won the field yesterday, there might have been a better use for these fetters on her.” He tugged on the leathers binding him to the tree. “Just let me get free of here and...”

  “And what?” one of his fellow prisoners jeered. “That’s the Healer, ye fool. She has the Sight and can make yer puny manhood wane even smaller than it already is. If ye cross her, even the wee fairy maidens willna have a use for it.”

  “Aye,” a third man laughed. “If she hears ye prattlin’ on this way, ye might begin ta feel a certain shrinking, even now.”

  The first man got a worried look on his face, then growled as the men around him laughed. “Go on w’ye,” he barked.

  Someone hissed, “Now look what ye’ve done—here come the guards.”

  Indeed, the two guards who’d made a round earlier were joined by another of the invaders. They stayed together, but looked the bound men over, one at a time, as they moved among them.

  Toran recognized the tactic, meant to intimidate and to quell the rising spirits of the prisoners. “Keep quiet, do you hear?” one of the guards finally demanded, kicking the nearest prisoner before the three turned and walked back to their bonfire.

  “With their chief under the care of the Healer,” Angus whispered to Toran, “it seems they lack the stones for more confrontation than that.”

  “What do ye ken about the Healer?” Toran asked.

  “We’ve heard she’s a captive, too,” Angus began, “but the benefits of her skills award her the freedom of the camp.” Angus hesitated, then at Toran’s nod, went on, “The men may have the right of it,” he said, clearly troubled by the subject. “Some of our men were seen to take grievous wounds in the battle, yet they sit among us, whole and healthy, just hours after they were taken near death to her tent, with no memory of their injuries. Had only one claimed to see this, I’d lay it to the confusion of the battle, but there are several.”

  Toran’s thoughts whirled as he wondered just what had happened to him to require her attention. Had he also been near death? This...Talent...Toran wondered what to make of it. But he did ken one thing: it would not be wise to leave her here. She’d learned too much about him. But even more important, it would be wisest to deprive the enemy of her skills and bring them to his clan. For that reason alone he should take her—or kill her. Toran put that thought firmly aside. That she was a prisoner here, just as he and the MacAnalens were, meant that she deserved to be freed with them. That he wanted her past all reason was perhaps the poorest of motives, but the one which drove his thoughts, and would
also drive his actions, he decided, should the opportunity present itself.

  “Angus, I have a plan, but I require the assistance of one of yer men.”

  “Aye?”

  “We can’t leave the Healer here to aid the invader. I’ll take her with me back to the Aerie, but one of yer men must feign illness to draw her among us once Donal arrives.”

  “Perhaps something he ate?” Angus suggested.

  “Aye, causing a great deal of belly pain. That might do the job. He must appear to be ill enough to fetch her, not one of the other healers.”

  “I think I know just the man,” Angus said, chuckling. “Brodric is always telling tall tales. This should suit his talents very well.”

  Angus leaned toward the man next to him and gestured to another nearby. Ah, the man who’d warned that the Healer could cause serious shrinking. Toran watched the whispered conversation as Angus told his man what they wanted. A grin split Brodric’s face. He clearly relished the challenge. Angus turned back to Toran.

  “Brodric is ready whenever Donal arrives.”

  Laughter drifted over from the bonfire, and Toran wished that some of the heat it generated would, as well. Glad he was to be wearing breeches instead of a kilt. At least his manhood suffered no immediate danger of shrinking from the cold. He rested his arms on his knees, and dropped his chin, making his upper body as compact as possible for a man as large as himself. It would be a long day, and an even longer night, even if he wrapped his plaid about him.

  But the position had the added advantage of allowing him to worry at his bonds with his teeth while appearing to simply rest his head on his hands. He’d made some progress when riders leaving camp had awakened him at dawn, but the damage he’d done to his wrists was greater than the damage done to the leather before the Healer arrived.

  As for what she’d done when she’d seen the condition of his wrists, Toran didn’t understand what he’d been feeling then, but even the brief touch he’d allowed her had helped heal the worst of the damage inflicted by the leather. In hindsight, he should have let her finish the job. He’d be in better shape, and he might have a better understanding of what exactly she could do.