In the Kingdom's Name (Guardian of Scotland Book 2)

by Amy Jarecki

  Now William knew something was terribly amiss. Andrew’s mother had been dead for years. The knight pushed back his chair. Just as he stood, he tumbled to the floor with a clatter of furniture. Dashing around the table, William stopped short. Andrew’s eyes clamped shut as if completely unconscious, his body lurched and jerked, then stilled.

  William dropped to his knees and grasped Andrew’s shoulders, giving him a firm shake. “Guards, Fetch Brother Bartholomew!”

  A group of soldiers hastened to the dais.

  “I’m afraid the monk has gone to Edinburgh to collect supplies,” said Graham.

  “When?” William barked, then pointed to the big double doors. “Have a rider go after him.”

  “He left at first light. I doubt anyone would be able to catch him afore he reaches the city.”

  “Send a cohort out at once to bring him back.” Reaching for Andrew’s uninjured arm, William bent down and hefted the big man over his shoulder. “I’ll carry Sir Andrew above stairs. Inform Lady Christina she is needed in his chamber straight away.”

  William huffed under the strain of lugging a good eighteen stone as he climbed the stairwell, bellowing for everything he could think of—bandages, water, fresh linens and more. He pushed through the door, then carefully unfolded Andrew onto the bed.

  Lady Christina hastened in behind him. “Oh my Lord in heaven,” she gasped. “What happened?”

  “God only kens.” William’s heart filled his throat like a pounding lump. “One minute we were talking, then he said something that made no sense at all, and the next thing I kent, he was sprawled on the floorboards.”

  She pressed praying hands to her lips. “Heaven help us, and Brother Bartholomew left this morning to consult with the Council of Physicians in Edinburgh to see if there was anything else that could be done.”

  “God’s teeth, I’ve just ordered the guard to stop him and bring him back.” Damnation, if things couldn’t grow worse.

  “But he must go,” Lady Christina deplored. “We’re down to our last resorts.”

  Bloody hell. “I’ll send word to the guard to wait.” William quickly ran his hand over Andrew’s burning forehead. “How long has he been fevered like this?”

  She wrung her hands. “A fortnight or more. Well before we traveled to Torphichen.”

  Wiping his hand on a cloth, William shook his head. “I fear he is far worse now than he was a sennight ago.” He headed toward the door. “There’s but one person I ken who might be able to set him to rights.”

  Christina pattered after him. “Anything to help him, Sir William. Please.”

  “Guards,” William shouted loudly enough to be heard in the passageway. “Stop the retinue from leaving for Edinburgh.” Grasping the latch, he glanced over his shoulder and regarded Lady Christina. “I’ll return anon.”

  ***

  Eva’s eyes flew open when someone burst into her chamber.

  “Get up!” William slammed the door and marched to the bed. “Ye’re needed and I’ll not listen to a word of excuse this time.”

  “For Christ’s sake, what the hell are you talking about?” Eva jolted up and flung the covers aside. “What do you think you’re doing, storming in here like a freight train?”

  “I’ve had enough of your newfangled phrases.” William marched across the floor, scowling like a mad bull. “Sir Andrew collapsed in the hall.”

  Springing from the bed, Eva covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my God. Is Brother Bartholomew with him?”

  William threw his hands to his sides and huffed. “The bloody monk left for Edinburgh at first light.”

  With her head whirling from the news, Eva dashed to the garderobe. “Oh for heaven’s sake, that’s horrible.” She grabbed her kirtle and slipped it over her head. “Have you sent for a physician?”

  William strode in behind her. “Ye have been here at the castle all along. Did ye not ken the physician bled him to within an inch of his life?”

  She yanked the laces on her kirtle. Jeez, William resembled an angry bear. He acted like Andrew’s illness was her fault. “Lady Christina oversaw his care—same with Brother Bartholomew. I only lent a hand when asked.”

  “Damn it, woman!” William grasped her shoulders and shook. “Ye claim ye are from the future. I’ve seen your newfangled treasure. I ken ye know more than ye let on. Ye canna say with advancements like telephones and trains there has been no development of the healing arts in seven hundred years.”

  Her teeth rattling, Eva twisted from William’s iron grip and rubbed her shoulders. “First of all, I will not tolerate your bullying.” Her entire body trembled. How dare he storm into her chamber and treat her like a liar. “I don’t care if you’re a hundred times stronger than me, I will not be treated like a doormat—I-I mean thresh on the floor.”

  “Jesu.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “Ye push me to the brink.”

  “Me?” She stamped her foot. “It’s you who are acting like a hothead.”

  He looked to the ceiling and groaned. “For all that is holy, I need ye to heal him, damnation!”

  Eva stared at him in disbelief. He expected her to heal Sir Andrew? How on earth could she do that?

  I can’t. First of all, I’m completely unqualified, and secondly…I just bloody can’t.

  But she needed to make him understand. “You’re right. There have been huge advancements.” She’d explained a gazillion times. “It’s just I’m not a doctor. I’m a journalist for Chrissake. I don’t know what to do to make him better.”

  “Och.” He shook a defiant finger. “Ye always say ye canna heal him, yet ye ken what’s ailing the poor blighter. I see it in your eyes every time we speak of Andrew—and I ken ye’re holding back from me.”

  “I have a suspicion. I cannot say I know for sure what is wrong.” Eva folded her arms and hugged them tight to her trembling body. “I think aside from an infection, he has lead poisoning.”

  “What? He’s been poisoned?”

  “It’s not quite what you think.” She held up her palms. “At Abbey Wood after the Battle of Stirling Bridge, I found the arrow Brother Bartholomew removed from Sir Andrew’s shoulder. It was made of lead and had a broken tip. I’m afraid a bit of it might still be lodged inside the wound.”

  Knitting his brows, William leaned into her. “Ye mean ye’ve known this all along, and ye’ve kept it to yourself?”

  “No!” Eva stepped backward as the medallion heated against her skin. “Brother Bartholomew said there was nothing more he could do. I’m not even sure the piece is still in his shoulder.”

  “Christ, woman. Do ye think ye are God Almighty? This is Andrew Murray of whom we are speaking. The man who took the north from the English—the only man in the resistance who can bridge the gap between commoner and noble. Did ye not consider that?”

  Eva’s face grew hot and she clenched her fists against the urge to slap him. Jeez, she loved William, but at the moment, she’d taken just about enough of his medieval hot temper. “Of course I’ve thought about it. Every time I see his face I—”

  “Ye shirk away,” he accused. “I’ve seen it.”

  “I do not.” She stamped her bare foot so hard, shooting pain spiked up her leg. “I wish I could take him back to my time so he could be cared for in a proper hospital and receive antibiotics—I told you about antibiotics.”

  “Aaaaye, but still I’ve not seen ye lift a finger to help him.” William pointed to the door. “Finish tying your bodice and haste ye to Andrew’s bed. I’ll not hear another word about what ye ken and what ye canna do. Ye’ll help him so help me God.”

  Eva pulled her laces taut, then shoved her feet into her boots. It was no use reminding him that she had no ability to change the outcome of Andrew’s illness. That fact had been shredding her insides to pieces since the knight was injured at Stirling Bridge. And dammit, she hadn’t hidden anything. She’d told Brother Bartholomew to use boiled salt water, clean bandages, and to ensure there was nothin
g of the arrow remaining in Andrew’s shoulder. Hell, she wasn’t a goddamned doctor. She hardly knew how to apply a Band Aid back home. The little monk had taught her everything she knew about medieval healing and herbalism and now William assumed she was some sort of miracle worker.

  She grabbed her healer’s basket—the one she’d put together under the tutelage of Brother Bartholomew. With a huff, she barged past William and out the door.

  Of course the man plodded after her, his anger radiating through the passageway as if a fire blazed around him.

  Eva stopped before entering Sir Andrew’s chamber. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Ye may not, but my wager is on your knowledge. Ye dunna give yourself credit for the things ye ken. Bartholomew never cleansed the bandages afore ye set him straight.”

  Eva met William’s stare. “Then I’ll need your help, dammit. You’re not going to mosey out to the courtyard and spend the day sparring with your men.”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed nod. “I’ll hold vigil beside his bed for a fortnight if that’s what’s needed for his recovery.”

  When they entered, Lady Christina stood and faced them. Wringing her hands, worry and fear pinched her ladyship’s features. Eva glanced back to William, wishing she could run, but he wore that expression on his face—the same determined stare he assumed before he rode into battle.

  Planting her fists on her hips bolstered her utter ineptitude. “I need boiling water. The sharpest knife available, pure alcohol—uh—whisky, and piles of clean cloths.”

  “What can I do to assist?” Lady Christina asked.

  Eva couldn’t even look the woman in the eye. Worse, she couldn’t think of any task to occupy her. Andrew’s fate is in history’s hands. “We need a miracle.” And she couldn’t endure Christina hovering over her along with William. “Perhaps if you go to the chapel, drop down on your knees and pray like you’ve never prayed before.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said with a tremor in her voice. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lady Christina whisked past and out the door.

  “I’ll set to collecting all ye need,” William said as he followed the lady out.

  Eva nodded. Taking in a stuttering breath, she moved to Andrew’s bedside. His face ghostly white, he looked cadaverous with sunken cheeks. “Sir Andrew?” When he didn’t move, she folded the linen sheet down to his waist. “I’m going to try to help you. See if I can remove the piece of lead left by the arrow,” she said as if he could hear.

  Finding a pair of shears on the bedside table, she cut the bandage from his shoulder. With a gasp, she clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at the wound in horror. It was worse than she’d imagined. The entire shoulder was distorted with swelling, and she didn’t need to touch it to tell it was fevered. The swollen skin gleamed angry red. Worse, it stank like the castle middens fermenting in the hot sun. Puss oozed from the jagged hole where the arrow had entered over a month ago.

  Eva swallowed against her revulsion, rubbing her fingers together. Cringing, she stepped toward him and scrunched her nose as she reached out to press her fingers around the grotesque wound. If only I had a pair of latex gloves.

  But she didn’t.

  She had no choice but to touch the repugnant, infected skin with her bare hands. Sickly bile burned her esophagus as she started at the outer edge of the swollen red ring, swirling her fingers as she felt for a sign of the lead tip she suspected might still be embedded in muscle.

  Working her fingers completely around the hot, burning flesh, she came up with nothing. She stared at the puss weeping from the open wound and couldn’t bring herself to stick her finger in it. After taking in a deep breath, she picked up the damp cloth Lady Christina had been using to wipe his forehead. It wasn’t sterile, but Eva doubted that mattered at this stage.

  Before she brushed the ooze, the door opened and William strode inside carrying an iron kettle filled with water. “I’ll just put this on the grill.”

  Robbie followed with an armload of rags.

  She beckoned the boy. “Put them at the foot of the bed, then you’d best go.”

  “Aye, Miss Eva.” The lad’s face scrunched as if sickened by the stench. “Do ye need anything else, Willy?”

  William kneeled beside the hearth and set the pot on the iron grill above the fire. “Nay, be off with ye.”

  Eva tossed the wet rag aside. “Is the water hot?”

  “Warm,” he said over his shoulder. “Couldna carry it up here if it was scalding.”

  “Did you bring the whisky and the knife?”

  “Aye.” William stood and pulled a very small knife from inside his sleeve.

  Eva peered closer. It looked like a scalpel. “Where did you find that?”

  “’Tis a bloodletting lancet.”

  With her pincer fingers she took the thing and examined it. “It’s sharp?”

  “Like a razor.” He pulled a second knife from his belt—a good sized dagger. “But if that one’s too small, I’ve another.”

  Eva shirked from the sharp point. “Let’s try the lancet first.”

  William replaced the knife in his belt, reached to his back and pulled out a flagon. “Here’s your spirit.”

  Eva took the whisky and poured a bit into a cup, and then rested the lancet inside.

  “I was wondering why ye wanted a wee tot,” William hummed.

  “It isn’t for me.” She gestured to the cup. “I needed it to act as a sterilizing agent.”

  “Ye see.” He shook his pointer finger under her nose. “I never heard the term sterilizing afore I met ye.”

  Taking a clean cloth, she doused it with whisky and pulled it taut around her fingers. She held her breath and pushed against the eye of the wound. Yellow puss surged forth as she applied more pressure and swirled her fingers in a circular pattern. Eva clamped her lips taut to keep from retching.

  “What are ye doing?”

  Aside from trying not to puke all over Sir Andrew? “Seeing if I can locate the piece of lead,” she said soberly. “He’s awfully swollen.” Feeling nothing, she pressed harder. Then she found it—something hard at least. With a quick inhale, she used one finger to rub deep. Embedded in the tissue she’d found a hard lump no bigger than the tip of her pinky finger. “Give me a pen.”

  “Pardon?”

  Pens don’t exist you dolt. While holding her finger on the spot, Eva shook her free palm. “A bit of charcoal—anything with which I can make a mark.”

  William grabbed a stick of charcoal from the hearth and brought it over. “Did ye locate the arrow tip?”

  “I think so.” She made an “X”. Thank goodness, she’d probed first because the tip was about a half inch below the open wound. She picked up the flagon. “This will prevent infection.” She looked at the puss. “I mean further infection.”

  William grumbled under his breath. “Ye pour that directly on and it’ll hurt like Hades’ fire.”

  He’s not wrong there. “Fortunately, Sir Andrew’s unconscious.” She drizzled about a thimble full of whisky directly on the wound and watched it coagulate with the ooze. Then she added a bit more.

  With an ear-splitting bellow, Andrew’s eyes flew open. Flinging his hands up, he gaped at her as if she’d run William’s knife across his throat.

  Eva clutched the flagon to her chest and skittered backward. “It-it-it’s okay.”

  Andrew’s arms dropped and his eyes slowly rolled back until his lids closed. Together they watched for a moment until the knight’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

  Letting out a stuttered exhale, Eva’s shoulders dropped. “I didn’t think he’d wake.” When she blinked, an image of Professor Walter Tennant with his thick glasses and wiry, grey-streaked hair flashed through her mind, but only for a fleeting second.

  William pointed to the flagon. “Ye’d wake the dead pouring whisky on an open wound that size.”

  “Well, I don’t have any other options.” She shrugged, blocking the profess
or from her mind as she picked up another cloth from the foot of the bed. “I’ll need you to sop up the blood and keep it dry so I can see inside.”

  He took the cloth. “Verra well.”

  Her fingers trembled as Eva pulled the lancet from the cup and held it up. “No matter what happens, I love you.” She did—probably not the best time to declare it. God, she wanted to throw her arms around William’s neck and tell him never to grow angry with her again. Plead with him not to make her do something they would both regret, but from the hard line of his jaw, she knew, whatever the cost, she must prove the extent of her love.

  William pursed his lips and nodded. His action spoke volumes—aye, he loved her, but desperately needed a miracle to save his dying friend. Stepping to the very edge of the bed she bent down and placed the razor-sharp edge against Andrew’s flesh. The medallion flashed hot like a branding iron scorching her skin.

  The lancet dropped from Eva’s hand and clattered to the floor. An agonizing rush of air filled her ears as blackness consumed her mind.

  ***

  William bent down to retrieve the lancet. A brisk breeze swept past his face and a shudder slithered up his spine. Shaking off his trepidation, he straightened and held out the tiny knife.

  Gooseflesh crawled across his skin.

  Gasping, he blinked in disbelief.

  Eva had vanished—in the matter of a heartbeat.

  There’d been no footsteps.

  The door hadn’t sounded.

  His gut clamped and twisted.

  God in heaven, what have I done?

  Chapter Nine

  “Holy fucking shit!” Eva rubbed her hands over her face and pressed against her temples. Blinking rapidly, her mind caught up with her body as she sucked in consecutive shallow breaths.

  An intense, grating voice spoke loudly with affected importance. Eva turned toward the sound. A television?

  She spun the other way. “Walter?”

  The professor sat on the couch, gaping as if he were as stunned as she. Through an open door, papers rustled and a chair scraped across the floor.