Jaime’s whole body shook as she knelt before the bloody body huddled at her feet. She placed her fingers on the gashes to his head, where more blood was seeping through his skull. She tried to stop the bleeding, with her hands at first. That failing, she raised the hem of her skirt and tore a piece from her underskirt, pressing the white linen against the two places. She didn’t dare look up. The tears in her eyes—the grief that was tearing at her—were something she couldn’t hide.
“Is he dead?”
Jaime felt Edward's hand on her shoulder. Without looking up, she moved her hand to Malcolm’s throat, where she could feel a pulse, weak and irregular.
“Not yet,” she answered under her breath. “But he is bleeding, and ‘tis only a matter of time before you lose him. Unless...unless we bring him a physician.”
Jaime turned her head as Edward's boots left her side. He drew one of his officers away and spoke under his breath with him. Though she couldn’t hear their whispers, the officer nodded and strode off in the direction that they’d entered. Tearing another section from her skirts, she replaced the blood-soaked linen at his head with a new one. She pulled him slightly, rolling him onto his side, and drew the cloak away from his chest and back. There was a huge, jagged gash on his back and a smaller one in his chest right above his heart. A sword had run him through from the back. Jaime gasped, a knot of fear rising sharply in her throat. It was a miracle that he had survived the blow. How the blade had ever missed his heart, his lung...
Edward's boots appeared again at her side.
“He’s bleeding from his chest, as well,” she said.
“We are taking him back with us,” he announced. “I’d wager a crown he wouldn’t survive the night in the hands of Reed, here.”
Jaime stood up at once. There was no time to be lost. They had to take him now. As she turned to Edward, the Englishman’s hand reached out and roughly took hold of her upper arm. She looked up into his gray eyes.
“I am proud of you, my little raven,” he announced. “You have done me a service this day...a great service.”
Chapter 5
Turning his back on the two men in the room, the lean, well-dressed courtier glanced out the diamond-paned window, only to catch sight of the raven-haired Jaime Macpherson hurrying through the garden in the direction of the stables. How odd, he thought, watching as the young woman’s eyes darted nervously over her shoulder every few steps. So unlike her, he thought.
“The devil take me, Surrey, but you’re weak and you’re bookish. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you hadn’t a drop of Howard blood in you!”
Henry Howard, the earl of Surrey, tore his gaze away from the window and stared at his brother with a bored expression. “Swear what you like, Edward. Though I think, little brother, you should stop swallowing these French ships whole when you capture them. The wind in their sails is affecting your head quite adversely, I’m afraid.”
Surrey was a slightly built man, not as tall or muscular as his younger brother, but he carried a quiet confidence in his face, a hint of carelessness in his attitude, that told of a man quite at ease with himself.
Edward glared back. “Once again, Harry, rather than congratulating me for my latest victory, you insist on being critical of my successes.”
The duke of Norfolk fought back a grin as the fierce exchange of words began again. He watched Edward’s warlike posture, and took in Surrey’s careless response—the leisurely grace in taking his time to walk back across the middle of the room and then to lean comfortably against the carved oak panel that surrounded the fireplace in the study.
Norfolk paused, considering the tremendous difference between his two sons. Harry, though proven in bravery and courtly behavior, had not found the soldier’s life particularly appealing. Instead, his eldest son had found a curious delight in poetry, of all things. It was bad enough when he began translating Virgil’s Aeneid for his friends, the duke thought, but this Petrarch fellow and his love poems were truly beyond the limits of decency.
Edward, on the other hand, reminded the duke so much of himself. Proud, ambitious, short tempered—Edward was a man of action. Like the duke himself, who as a young man had led the attack in the wondrous rout of the Scots at Flodden Field, Edward was now straining at the bit to prove himself, to take his ships and invade France itself. All his younger son needed was a bit of patience—the ability to consider all of the alternatives—and Edward would become a fine leader, Norfolk thought. A very fine leader.
The argument between the two men went on and Norfolk realized he’d perhaps let it continue too long. He’d watched his sons fight this way since they were lads—Surrey holding the edge until their arguing escalated into violence. But he didn’t want them drawing swords on each other right now.
“Harry. Edward. That’s quite enough.” Norfolk’s face was stern and he rapped his gnarled knuckles peevishly on the table beside his chair. “We need to hear all of what happened at court, not this foolishness about whether Edward has sunk one too many ships at sea.”
Both men turned their attentions back to their father at once.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Surrey replied, smiling and bowing with a flamboyant show of courtesy. His face changed a bit, then, darkening with seriousness. “But to get to the point, Father, the king’s displeasure with me has become more consistent, of late. You know that I have been too vocal in my objection to his attentions toward Catherine.”
“What difference does it make if he should take a fancy to Catherine?” Edward interjected irritably. “Everyone knows the king’s marriage to that ugly toad, Anne of Cleves, is about to be annulled, and then...”
“The difference, Edward,” Surrey said quietly, turning to his brother, “is that since our cousin, Anne Boleyn, met her rather untimely end, the family’s fortunes have suffered tremendously. If our cousin Catherine...if any female in the Howard family were to cause the king any further disappointment, it would probably mean the end of Father’s influence at court. And that might just mean no more ships for you to play sailor in.”
“Play...?” Edward said angrily, taking a step across the room.
“Stay where you are, Edward,” Norfolk commanded, pausing for a moment as his younger son struggled to regain control of his temper, finally throwing himself into one of the carved, upholstered chairs.
Pretty Catherine Howard certainly did present problems, it was true. Norfolk considered his niece for a moment. For more than two months now, the king’s interest in her had continued to grow. She was certainly a lusty wench, Norfolk thought, smiling to himself. So full of life and yet so ambitious, she was. No wonder she caught the king’s eye. But just before she’d gone off to court last fall, Norfolk had needed to step in himself and put an end to her antics with the damned music master. Aye, he thought, she could be a real problem if she didn’t settle down.
Norfolk rapped his knuckles softly on the wood. But Catherine’s a bright girl, the duke argued silently, and she would settle down. Of that he was certain. And marrying a king such as Henry Tudor...well, she knew what had happened to her haughty cousin, Anne. Aye, she would fall into line quickly enough. Just the honor of Henry taking her as a wife rather than as a mere mistress...
“Harry.” Norfolk turned to face his older son. “Catherine will make as suitable a match for the king as any woman in England.”
“Aye, Father. I hope you are correct.” Surrey crossed his arms over his chest and stroked the sharp line of his jaw. “But she is so much younger than he—in body and in spirit. And her youth and vigor will certainly prey on his mind...well, in no time.”
“And I suppose,” Edward said with sarcasm, “you were fool enough to tell him.”
Surrey faced his brother with a wry smile. “Aye. And his face went as black as the day Thomas More defied him.”
“You know,” Norfolk said darkly, “that you play with fire when you trifle with the king’s pleasures.”
“Aye, Father. But
I thought...” Surrey cast a glance about the room. “We all know how wild Catherine can be. She won’t even last as long as Anne. Just think, as virtuous as we all knew Anne Boleyn to be, once she displeased him, nothing could stop Henry from sending her to the block. Even you, Father...”
“That’s enough, Harry.”
Surrey paused, staring for a moment at the old man before continuing. “Well, it matters little what is past, I suppose. But the short of it is that once the king’s color returned to his face, he sent me on my way.”
“Well, lad,” the duke said wryly, “you didn’t have such a long ride home, now, did you?”
“Nay, Father. Nor will your ride be long, either.”
“Eh?” the duke asked, shooting his son a questioning look. “What’s that?”
“The king sends word that he wants both you and my illustrious younger brother to attend him immediately.”
“Why didn’t you...By His Wounds, I just left him a month ago!”
Norfolk considered for a moment. His relationship with King Henry had as many ups and downs as a well bucket. This summons was surely to finalize the marital arrangements concerning Catherine. And perhaps the king simply wanted to reward Edward for his excellent service, but it was always difficult to know whether Henry Tudor intended to reward or punish. One thing he’d learned over the years, though, the quickest way to bring Henry’s wrath down on one’s own head was to keep His Majesty waiting.
The duke looked from one son to the other. Edward’s handsome face was now shining with satisfaction at the news that the king had called for him.
“Well, Edward,” Norfolk said with a heave of his chest. “Before you burst with pride, don’t you need to do something about that Scot your men have trundled down from Norwich?”
Edward’s face clouded for a moment. “Aye, Father,” he responded, moving toward the window and gazing out in the direction of the stables. “Perhaps I should take him to the king, as a token...”
“Never!” Norfolk cautioned. “You have already given Henry a new French warship to add to his fleet. This man and the prize he’ll bring us is yours to keep.”
“What have you got, Edward? The Black Douglas?” Surrey asked, moving next to his brother and peering out over his shoulder.
“Nay, Surrey. But I’ve caught the laird of the MacLeod clan, and I have him in one of the stable cells.”
“The laird of the MacLeods?” Surrey paused. “Well, if you’d like, Edward, I should have time to torture him for you while you are with the king at Nonsuch Palace.”
The duke broke in with a short laugh. “Seriously, Surrey, your brother has made a fine capture. But the man is wounded, that’s why he is here.”
“So, he might not live?”
“It depends,” Norfolk answered, “on our treatment.”
“Well, I believe that we’ve enough experience killing Scots in this family that one more should be no challenge.” Surrey smiled, but his humor was lost on the old warrior.
“The Howard family has gained the position it holds because of that experience,” Norfolk interrupted gruffly. His glare softened a bit, then, and he glanced at his younger son. “Surrey will be able to look after things here, Edward. Your Scot will be in good hands.”
Surrey gazed for a moment at his father, then shrugged and turned to his brother. “Certainly, little brother. We’ll nurse your prisoner back to health.”
Edward smiled.
“Aye, Surrey. Do that for me, won’t you?”
“That we will,” Surrey said quietly as his brother moved away from the window. “But the cost may be high, brother.”
The earl turned his gaze in the direction of the stable yards.
“Very high,” he whispered.
Chapter 6
Malcolm’s head jerked to the side as the smell of rotting meat invaded his senses. The world inside his head began to spin, and his stomach heaved as the fibers of his brain twisted under the pressure. There were noises—the sounds of wind and drums, pounding—jumbled in his head. He tried to open his eyes, but even that tiny movement brought on more pain, rushing through him with a sensation of bones straining, cracking, exploding inside. Indeed, Malcolm could feel his bones melting within a gelatinous casing of battered flesh.
A momentary fear...nay, terror...pushed into the fogged consciousness of his brain. The Highlander suddenly found himself afraid to breathe. He feared, for a moment, even the rise and fall of his chest. Surely in filling his lungs—if he could fill his lungs—his chest would burst, pierced by the thousand daggers that even now must be protruding from his perforated carcass. And then there was his burning throat—parched, tight. So dry that he thought it could never again open to the cool elixir of life.
Malcolm MacLeod prepared to give up his spirit.
“My dear, this is no place for a lady of His Grace’s household. Why don’t you go and call for one of the serving maids to come and give me a hand with the lad.”
Jaime shook her head, putting down beside Malcolm’s head the potion she had been stirring for the Welsh physician. “I brought him here, Master Graves. Now I have to see to it that he lives.”
“It might be that his fate lies beyond the scope of our abilities, my dear. Surely beyond my skill. He has lost too much blood already, and what we have left to do...”
“...Won’t get done if all we do is simply stand and talk now, will it?” Jaime cut in decisively, pausing to gently raise Malcolm’s head and carefully lowering it onto her lap. “Tell me what we must do next, and let’s just get on with it.”
The aging physician stretched a rheumatic shoulder, wiped his hands on a clean rag, and scratched one of the tufts of red hair that adorned either side of his bald head. He studied the young woman sitting at his patient’s battered head. Even with her elegant gray cloak already stained with the Scot’s blood, Mistress Jaime Macpherson was totally out of place in the filthy cell that the duke kept for prisoners in the stable buildings. She’d stayed beside him since shortly after the prisoner had arrived from Norwich Castle, but they still had a long way to go with this one. Graves knew there would be a great deal more blood on that cloak before he was finished stitching the Scot back together.
He’d tried to send her away immediately; he didn’t need a hysterical woman swooning at his feet. But she’d held her own in the early going. She was a far cry from the rest of them. He glanced down at her firm but gentle hands as she coaxed the Scots lips open a bit, tipping the liquid preparation down his throat. Aye, she has her wits about her, Graves thought. I should always have such competent help.
“Make him drink it all, if you can,” the physician ordered, watching the throat constrict in an effort to swallow. “His fever will surely kill him without more fluids in him, and this is the only liquid he’s taken at all.”
Jaime nodded to the man as she trickled more liquid past Malcolm’s cracked lips. All the anger she’d felt in the past toward the Highlander amounted to nothing now. Nothing compared to the reality of his suffering. It was almost too much for her to bear. Malcolm MacLeod may have caused her humiliation and hurt, but even in her wildest moments of fury and grief, she could never have wished this misery upon him. Her heart ached in her chest. Looking down at Malcolm’s bruised face, swollen to the point of being nearly unrecognizable, she wondered briefly if he knew who was making him drink this. At the core of her soul, she wished he had the strength to lash out at her for what she’d done, for bringing him here. She wished he would go after her the way he had at Norwich Castle. She would bear his wrath any time in lieu of this life-draining stupor, this battered daze, this shroud of oblivion.
A gurgle erupted in his throat, and the liquid she had been feeding him bubbled out. He was rejecting her even in his unconscious state.
“He’ll not make it,” Graves said under his breath, watching the Scot’s suddenly labored breathing. “Look at his chest, his scalp. He is bleeding again...more than before. Much, much more. Look, this gash on th
e shoulder has begun to open again.” The surgeon’s hands hesitated for only a moment, and then commenced to sew the wound on Malcolm’s shoulder with quick, sure movements.
Malcolm thought the pain would drive him mad. But when his anguish was at its height, he drew back, realizing he had within his grasp the power to walk away from it all. So he did. Rising like a cloud, he moved away. At the sound of the voices, Malcolm turned—the words were murmured, indistinct, but the voices familiar somehow, as if they were a part of him. The Highlander was only mildly startled to see himself lying in a heap of straw, the dirty gold strands stained with his blood. Two heads bent over the motionless frame. Their voices wafted back to him, their words unintelligible, and he drifted weightlessly away from them. He had no pain now.
Somewhere far behind him a door opened, and as he turned, he felt himself slowly drawn toward it. Malcolm watched. Through the door he could see the bright light of a sun in a cloudless sky. He blinked his eyes and tasted the warmth. He could feel the presence of someone, something. It was so close. Within his grasp. A world beyond the door. A peace that pulled him onward.
“Damn you, Malcolm MacLeod. You will not die.”
Jaime thought of all who loved this man—of all the hearts that would be broken to hear of his death—and the thought weighed like a stone on her soul. Fiona and Alec, losing the son they’d raised as their own. His wife...what was her name? And...oh, by the Holy Virgin, what if there was a bairn? So much Jaime didn’t know. Leaving Scotland, severing the lines. She’d never so much as allowed the mention of his name. But, now, fate bringing him here, to take his last breath at her feet. She couldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t.
“Do you hear me, you pigheaded beast? This is not the place for you to die. I won’t let you cause me more pain!” Jaime cursed him again under her breath and pressed a wad of clean bandages against the wound on the side of his head. The blood was everywhere and a panic tore through her soul.
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