The Highlander’s Dilemma

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Sister! What are you...oh! Marjorie!”

  She stared at Leona in surprise. There was no real reason for her not to be there, or for Sister Florentia not to be talking to her: she had sworn no vow. The older woman still looked surprised, and then turned to her fellow nun. “Sister, if you could fetch the abbess for me please?”

  “Yes, Sister!” Sister Florentia hurried out, blushing furiously, glad to be let off without comment.

  “Marjorie,” Sister Marcia said, turning to Leona. “My child, I cannot tell you how pleased I am you are out of seclusion! I think I need your help.”

  “My help?” Leona frowned.

  “Yes,” her mentor said kindly. “You are the best seamstress among us. Your young eyes are much better. And you have taken no vow! Could I ask you to leave our precincts and go to the storehouse? I requested the patient be taken there, since no woman can enter the monastery. You can stitch this wounded man for us.”

  What if he is Conn? Could I..? She swallowed hard, and then nodded. “I shall do this, Sister.”

  How could she refuse? If it was Conn, and he died for lack of her help, she would never forgive herself.

  “Bless you,” Sister Marcia said fervently.

  Leona took the bundle from Florentia and followed her direction to the storehouse. She tiptoed through the door, holding her breath. It isn't. It cannot be.

  Nevertheless, it was.

  Lying stretched out on the bench was Conn. He was pale, his reddish hair matted to his brow. His shirt front was sluiced with blood. His arm was bent unnaturally and two priests hovered around him.

  Leona bit her lip, too shocked to move. “Conn...” she whispered. “No.”

  One of the priests looked up. He smiled hesitantly at Leona. “Ah! My child. Come. We have need of your assistance.”

  “Father. Is he...”

  “Yes, child, he's alive. We need to staunch that bleeding soon, though. And if that wound isn't closed aright, he might never use his hand again.”

  Leona bent over, looking where the priest indicated. She gasped when she saw it. A slice had been cut from his right forearm as if someone drew a knife through butter. It left a great flap of skin loose, blood, black and life-giving, oozing from beneath it in a flow that had almost stopped.

  “We have fastened a tourniquet over the elbow, here...” the priest indicated. “He is sedated, but I have not the eyesight to sew the wound.”

  “Yes, Father.” Leona swallowed, the iron scent of blood wafting up from his shirt front. He had other wounds, evidently, though none, it seemed, as serious. She closed her eyes, not wanting to think of how much pain he might be in. She reached out and touched his hair. He stirred, and then his head flopped restlessly away.

  “Come, my child. While he is sleeping.”

  Leona nodded. Hands shaking, she took out the needle and threaded it, then bent to where the other priest had busied himself with sponging away the blood, revealing the slice wound in his forearm.

  This is Conn. I played with him. Chased him up hills. He lifted me with those very arms, held me when I cried. I can't stitch him as if he was a torn piece of bed linen!

  However, she had to. If she didn't, that wound would never heal and he could die. Leona closed her eyes, said a silent prayer and began to sew.

  She felt Conn tense as she pushed the needle through the skin and heard him start to moan. She winced and wanted to weep. She had never actually done this before and the feel of her needle in skin revolted her. She pushed it through as fast as she could, gritting her teeth over the sob that escaped her lips.

  “Imagine it's leather,” the priest said helpfully. “I do that. I would sew it, but my eyesight is much worse now. We need your young eyes, my child. I wish we didn't have to ask this of you.”

  “I can do it. Father,” Leona whispered. She set her teeth and began the slow, tugging strokes. She was shaking and wanted to cry, but after what felt like hours, the wound was closed.

  She stumbled back as she tied off the last stitch, sobbing with relief. She knelt on the floor, exhausted.

  “Come, Father Tobias. Let us take the poor child back to the convent. She's done enough.”

  “No,” Leona whispered. “I want to stay. Please?”

  The priests looked at each other. They shrugged. “If you wish, my child.”

  Leona nodded and leaned against the wall, looking down at Conn. “I do wish.”

  “Very well. We must finish our work here first, though.”

  Leona stayed where she was, drained of energy. They finished bandaging Conn's arm, and washed the blood from his chest and neck. They left then, casting worried glances at Leona, who stood by his bedside.

  She waited until they had gone. Then she spoke.

  “Conn,” she whispered. “Beloved. I lied to you. I am sorry. Now you might die. You might never know how much I love you. Conn,” she sobbed. “I love you. I love you as big as the summer sky and the mountains.” She laughed. It had been something they said when they were children. Then she sobbed wordlessly, the memory too painful, filled with their innocence and love.

  Conn sighed. He stretched up, and then relaxed into his sleep.

  “Conn,” Leona said, sobbing. “I love you so much. I cannot let you leave me. I didn't know, until now, that nothing else matters. It doesn't matter that I cannot come to you pure. It doesn't matter that you thought I had forgotten you. It doesn't matter to me. All that matters – all that ever mattered – is our love. Come back to me?”

  Leona wept. She leaned back against the wall of the storehouse and sobbed until she thought she would never stop.

  When the priests came back, she was still crying. They looked at her. Father Antoine came to take her hand. “My child, we have done all we can. You were superb. If he can ever move his hand, it will be thanks to you. But now, all we can do is wait.”

  “I know, Father,” Leona sobbed. “I know.” She left after she had watched them salve his wounds: at least she knew every care was taken, as he had said.

  Now all they could do was wait.

  Leona sat down heavily on the bed in her cell. She didn't think she would ever move from there. She was exhausted: mentally, physically, and emotionally.

  She curled up in a ball, and she must have slept, because the next thing she knew it was dark and she was hearing someone call her name.

  “Marjorie?”

  She sat up, blinking as a lamp was lit in her cell. “Yes? Yes, Sister?”

  “I know I shouldn't talk to you, but I can't help it,” her friend whispered. “I just came to tell you that Sister Marcia just heard from Brother Antoine. The patient is awake.”

  Leona stared at her. Wordlessly, she embraced her. He was awake! Conn was awake! He was alive. “Let us pray,” she whispered.

  There was nothing else she could do except give thanks. Conn was awake. She also had the answer to her question: she would follow Conn wherever he went. To the ends of the earth if need be. She loved him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BACK TO LIFE

  BACK TO LIFE

  Conn rolled over. His head ached. He inhaled, smelling the acrid scent of metal, the smell of parchment, burning, and the all-overpowering smell of myrrh. He recalled the fight, the wound in his arm, the blood. The smells and the crackle of fire wound into his skull, conjuring up images from his nightmares. He groaned aloud.

  “I'm in hell, aren't I?”

  He heard someone put a bottle on a table. Then someone laughed warmly. “Maybe, young man. Though some call it France.”

  Conn moaned and sat up, then wished he hadn't. His arm tore with pain and his head ached. “Father?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, it is I, Father Antoine,” the priest said patiently. “I am surprised you confuse me with Mephistopheles, but I am going to assume it's the result of the Valerian my good sister sent, and not an indication of what you think of me.”

  Conn opened his eyes. Everything was dark. “Where am I?”<
br />
  “You're at the monastery in Bois, son,” the priest explained. “In the storehouse, if you have to know.”

  “How did I get here?”

  He heard someone sit down on a rope chair, the creak of the ropes under his weight. Then the priest sighed. “You're one for questions, aren't you? The guards from the bishop's palace brought you. They know our reputation for healing. You are lucky. Not only because they got you here before you bled to death, but because they thought to bring you at all. You should have been arrested else.”

  “Oh.” Conn sighed. “So I'm a criminal?” Brilliant. He presumed that was the Comte's idea, which meant the Comte still lived. Damn him. His head was swimming, he felt nauseous and his body stung. Now he was facing criminal charges too? “Father? Am I an outlaw?”

  “No, son,” the priest smiled. “You're a fugitive.”

  Conn whistled through his teeth. “Thanks, Father. Next time I need someone to split hairs for me, or argue at the Bench for me, I'll come and find you.” He closed his eyes.

  The priest chuckled. “I'm glad to hear it. I thought about being a judge, actually.”

  “You should have been,” Conn said sourly.

  They both laughed.

  Conn's chest hurt and he hissed out through his teeth. “Father?” he asked. “What exactly is wrong with me?”

  He heard the priest clear his throat. “Son, it's more a case of what isn't wrong. You have enough cuts on your chest to compare favorably to my best cheese and you're weak from blood loss. I've reason to believe something hit you hard on the head, though it's anyone's guess whether that happened in this fight or when you were just a boy,” he added, standing to bathe Conn's shoulder with a cloth.

  “Thanks,” Conn said wryly. “Next time I need my pride dented, I'll come to you.”

  “Any time, my son.”

  The priest continued his work. Conn opened his eyes and noticed he was smiling. He checked the wound on his upper arm; the one that bled across to the skin of his torso. Seeming satisfied, he grunted, and then settled back down beside the bed. “Son, I am so glad you are well.”

  “Thanks, Father. And...” he paused, indicating his body, which he could just make out in the half-light of the flame. “Thanks for all of this.”

  “Oh, I didn't do that alone. Thank the Lord for that. And Father Tobias and Marjorie.”

  “Marjorie?” Conn said. The name meant something to him distantly, but he couldn't remember. He frowned at the priest, who nodded.

  “Marjorie. That's the name my dear sister gave to the poor girl who lost her wits. The countrywoman of yours who...” he trailed off as Conn felt himself flush darkly.

  “Leona? You brought Leona to heal me?”

  The priest winced. “I'm sorry, my son. But I cannot see to stitch wounds anymore. So, we did fetch her, and she did it very well.”

  Conn stared at the holy man in amazement. He didn't know how exactly he felt. Part of him wanted to laugh, part to cry. It all melted together in his chest and came out as a deep, resounding sob, forming the sound of her name. “Leona!”

  At that moment, he heard something. The priest jumped and looked at the door. Conn followed his gaze.

  There, in the hallway, red hair outlined with flame, thin face tight with emotion, dressed in white, stood Leona.

  “Conn?” she said. Her voice was soft and hesitant, as if she thought she would be sent away.

  His jaw dropped. “Leona! Leona! You know me!” He was crying then, and did not care who saw it. She knew who he was! She’d said his name! “Leona!”

  He shouted it again as she launched herself across the space between them.

  “Conn!” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him tenderly. She smelled of lavender, warmth, and soap-wort.

  He held her close, laughing and crying at once. “Leona! My Leona! You're well!”

  “Oh, Conn,” she breathed out, looking into his eyes. He stared into her face, marveling to see it present, smiling, and sane. He stroked her hair and they kissed again, slower this time, more tenderly.

  Leona turned when the priest gave a gentle cough.

  Conn felt his cheeks flame and he moved back instantly, turning to his holy friend, hanging his head. “Father, forgive me for lying. Leona is not my cousin, but my promised wife.”

  The priest gave him a watery grin. “I guessed,” he said. “I have many cousins and I don't tend to...to greet them like that.”

  Conn laughed. To his delight, after a momentary look of utter embarrassment, so did Leona. The three of them all laughed and then the priest stood, clearing his throat.

  “I think I should go and finish taking stock of the wool shed.”

  Conn opened his mouth, about to protest. It must be one o'clock in the morning! He couldn't go outside now into the cold night! As he began to voice his objections, he realized that it was an excuse to leave them alone together. He smiled, wishing he could thank him aloud.

  Then he was alone with Leona and all other thoughts fled. “Leona,” he whispered. “My life! You're here. My love.”

  “Oh, Conn,” she whispered. “I am so sorry. I love you so much!”

  “I love you too,” he whispered, squeezing her hand firmly. “I love you, too.”

  Later, they talked. With the fire a crackling counterpoint to words, Leona snuggled closer on the bed and sat with his hand in hers, his other hand stroking her hair, as they talked about all that had happened since parting.

  Leona told him of her escape from the Comte. Her voice grew tight as she told of the attack by the outlaws. Telling him was something she’d never imagined she would do and she had no idea how to say it.

  “Conn...When I was unconscious, I...I don't know what happened to me. What was done to me. You understand?” She watched his face. He looked utterly blank. She waited for him to say something; for his shock, horror, and anger to crush her heart.

  When he said nothing, she cleared her throat. “Conn, I didn't want to see you again because I didn't want to tell you about...about that. Conn, I may be with child. I know you think I've cheated you. Oh, Conn! I wish I was worthy of you! I wish...”

  “Lass!” Conn interrupted her. She turned to look at him. He was laughing a little hysterically. “Lass! No! Are you mad? You've not cheated me. Leona, my sweetling. I love you. I don't care. Nothing else matters to me except you. I don't care about anything else.”

  Leona stared into his smiling face. He looked exasperated, if anything; but there was no scorn, no horror. No pity even. Just love. “Oh, Conn,” Leona whispered. “Oh, my dear.” She collapsed into his arms and they sat together on the bed, tears mingling.

  After a long time, Conn suggested his plan to her. They would wed.

  “...And in Scotland, we'll arrive as man and wife. That way, whether you're expecting a child or not, it would not matter. You'll be married to me. Like we always wanted it to be.”

  Leona looked into his face and stroked his head, beyond words. “Oh, Conn,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  Conn closed his eyes, tears running down his own cheeks. “Leona. My dear. I love you, too. You cannot believe how much I missed you, when I thought...I thought...” He cleared his throat and Leona kissed his brow.

  “I'm so sorry, my dear. I thought it was for the best. I thought that you would be better off without me.”

  “Oh, Leona.” He smiled sadly at her. “Whatever happens, we must promise ourselves now and always that we will never walk away from each other like that. Nothing is more important than our love.”

  Leona nodded, throat too tight for speaking. “Yes, Conn. You are right. Nothing is more important than our love.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A WEDDING IN FRANCE

  A WEDDING IN FRANCE

  Leona returned to the convent after that. She couldn't quite believe that everything had changed so fast. She and Conn would be getting married as soon as he could stand. Then they would be going back home together.


  She hugged herself, mute with happiness.

  The next morning, she couldn't help it. She had to tell someone. She found Florentia in the anteroom where they sometimes did their sewing.

  “Marjorie!” her friend said, looking up.

  Leona had not told them her real name; and even had she done so she would not have wanted them to change it. Marjorie was her name here. “Sister Florentia! I have such exciting news...”

  Leona sat down beside her on the bench and her story spilled out of her. She told her everything: how Conn loved her and she him, how he was healing, how he had promised to wed her when he was well.

  This last statement was met with a small frown. “Marjorie, you do understand, don't you, that this might take weeks? His wounds are bad,” her friend asked carefully.

  Leona swallowed hard. “I understand, Sister.”

  Florentia nodded. “Well, if you can be that patient, then you're more patient than I am!”

  Leona stared at her, surprised. “Florentia..?”

  “Well, if it was me marrying, then I declare I would do it as soon as possible! What?” her friend asked, blushing red.

  “Oh, Sister,” Leona said, and burst out laughing.

  The two of them collapsed in happy giggles. “Oh, Marjorie! I am so happy for you,” she said when they had their breath back again. “This is a miracle, my dear friend. A miracle.”

  Leona smiled. It certainly seemed that way.

  Two days later, she was at breakfast in the refectory, just finishing her bread, when she heard a voice whisper behind her. “Marjorie?”

  “Yes, Sister Allectia?” she asked.

  “There's a man from our brother monastery. He came with a message for you.”

  “Thank you. I'll come at once.”

  Leona went to the door, where a young novice told her to go to the storehouse. There, she had a surprise.