by Jenna Stone
I pushed my way towards his head and realized instantly that I would have to take charge of this situation or Brennan would surely die. It was clear that no one knew what to do for him, and consequently, no one was doing anything! No one except Leti, who was bawling her eyes out as she held onto his hand for dear life. To what good her efforts were, I was not sure.
A kitchen maid was gawking at the scene, and I pointed in her direction, breaking her trance with my harsh orders. The authority in my voice surprised me. “Get clean, boiled water. Lots of it. Bring a kettle of cold water too. I need clean cloths for bandages and garlic. See if you can find willow bark tea as well. Get whisky for the others, they will need to wait their turn for treatment. Organize them in order of most grave injury.”
The maid nodded in immediate acceptance of my orders, looking relieved to have something purposeful to do that would remove her from the scene in the hall.
“Everyone else, get out of here!” I barked as I made my hasty preparations for my impromptu healing debut.
The crowd of onlookers dissipated, either from the authority in my voice or from relief that they would not have to be the one who let Brennan die. I moved up beside Brennan’s head and placed my palm flush against his forehead. His eyes fluttered behind his eyelids. His skin was dreadfully hot.
My requested supplies arrived moments later and I knew that my first priority would be to reduce his fever. “Dip the rags into the cold water, and drape them over his limbs. We must change them as often as possible, keeping them as cool as we are able to. This should help to reduce his fever,” I explained.
My assistant was quick to follow my orders, soaking the cloths in cool water, ringing them out and laying them over Brennan’s arms. I took a sopping cloth and draped it over his forehead, covering his rapidly moving eyes. Next, we draped the larger cloths over his legs, and began changing the cloths that were already placed, refreshing them with the cold water each time. In only a few minutes, Brennan began to shiver in response to the cold cloths. I hoped that this was a good sign.
Leti sat as if she was made of stone, still holding on to Brennan’s hand for dear life. Her beautiful features were clouded with red, puffy eyes. The color was still completely absent from her face. She looked like a different person all together.
“Thank you,” she whispered, making eye contact with me for a fleeting instant as I peeled back the woolen material of the kilt that was crusted to Brennan’s upper thigh, dangerously close to his nether regions. Now was certainly not the time for modestly, but I placed the shreds of his kilt in such a way that they covered his masculine parts from view.
I inhaled swiftly, and my eyes darted towards Leti, “You need to go,” I said sternly.
“No. I’m staying with him, Kate,” her eyes were full of challenge.
I sighed as I turned back to Brennan’s leg. I had never seen such a grave injury before and I was taken aback as I exposed it’s entirety to view. The gash went from Brennan’s lower abdomen and stretched towards his groin and down his upper leg. His flesh looked like it was about to explode from the pressure of the infection that had overtaken the wound. The edges of the cut were a frightening, angry red. There were clear red lines radiating from both the top and the bottom of the wound. My heart sank. I knew what these streaks meant. Brennan had blood poisoning from the infection.
My stomach began to churn and roll as I took in the situation at hand. I felt like I was going to be sick from the smell emanating from Brennan’s wound coupled with the fear of knowing that I would likely not be able to do much to save him. Poor Leti. My eyes darted back in her direction, and she looked back at me encouragingly. She thought that I knew how to handle this! I faked a smile, exhaled slowly, and turned back to Brennan’s infected leg.
I tentatively probed the wound with my fingers, applying light pressure near the swollen cut inflicted by the sword. The flesh felt sickeningly full and tight beneath my fingers. I pushed back my gag reflex, knowing what lay inside the wound. I would have to abrade the wound.
“I need the whisky,” I said, as I looked hard in Leti’s direction. “I need you to leave for a few minutes, and no matter what you hear, don’t come back until I tell you to.” I ordered, challenging her with my eyebrows knit together to disobey my orders. “Nathan!” I shouted across the hall to the older clansman. Nathan and I had become bonded after he had discovered me in the forest. I knew that I could count on the clansman to not only help me care for Brennan, but to keep Leti away while I worked. “Can you take Leti out for a few minutes?” I asked, although it was meant more as an order than a question.
Nathan scurried over to our table, looking ragged from assisting the wounded. He nodded in reply to my request as he pulled Leti away from Brennan and whisked her from the hall. He shot me a nervous glance from under his bushy eyebrows after looking at Brennan’s leg. I could tell that he thought that Brennan didn’t have a chance in Hell of making it.
“We’re going to open the wound,” I stated matter-of-factly to the kitchen maid. She nodded briskly in response and let out a heavy sigh, preparing herself for what lied ahead. “I’ll open it, and we need to flush out as much of the infection as we can with the boiling water. I need you to hold down his shoulders in case he wakes up.”
Without further prompting, she moved around to Brennan’s head and stood behind him, placing one hand on either of his shoulders. Her freckled face was red from exertion and her brown hair was a frizzled mess.
She rolled her shoulders in a final preparation and said, “Go to it, lass. I can be braw enough when I need to be.” Her muscles tensed and she pressed down on his slack shoulders with all of her might.
I took a deep breath and placed one hand on either side of the wound. As I slowly exhaled, I pressed both hands down and slowly drew them apart, causing a thick stream of pus to flow from the gash on Brennan’s lower torso. The amount of pus and the smell that leached from the wound caused me to choke and gag and I turned my head away as I continued to drain the wound. I moved my hands up the entirety of the wound, repeating the same movement and releasing the infection from Brennan’s fevered body.
The maid had been holding her breath with her eyes clenched tightly closed for what felt like minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. She finally exhaled and released her grip on Brennan’s shoulders. He had not moved during the entire procedure. She opened her eyes and timidly peeked at the wound. Her eyes bulged when she saw the infection that I had leached from the wound.
“Lord in heaven,” she mumbled before looking away. “Ready for water?” she asked, already moving around the table to the basin of steaming water that she had brought from the kitchen. “He’s not going tae be moving, let’s get on with it,” she remarked with a glance towards Brennan’s lifeless face.
I touched my hand to his face and it seemed slightly cooler. Maybe the fever was breaking, or at least I hoped it was going down from the cool cloths.
The maid nodded, hoisting the steaming pitcher above the wound. “Ready?” she asked, holding eye contact. I nodded in response and she immediately poured the near boiling water directly onto Brennan’s infected flesh. The last bits of pus were washed from the wound and the water running from the incision was stained pink with blood.
“Again,” I prompted her to pour the second pitcher directly into the wound. There was no response from our patient, a fact that terrified me. I wanted him to scream, to rise up, to respond in some way. I wanted him to show some sign of life! “Now the whiskey,” I coached, eyebrows knit together in concentration.
She grabbed the stoneware bottle of whiskey and removed the cork. “Hold him,” she ordered as she tilted the bottle towards the injury and let the amber liquid flow directly into the bloody incision.
Brennan’s scream was agonizing. At the same time, I was relieved that he had finally responded to our torture, showing a sign of life. It broke my heart knowing that Leti had most likely heard the cry of her betrothed and was probab
ly being restrained from running to his bed-side. Restrained from what would most likely be his death bed. I used all of my strength to press Brennan against the table, and was thankful when the strong arms of his clansmen took over Brennan’s restraint and allowed me to step away.
Brennan abruptly stopped screaming due only to the fact that he had passed out again from the overwhelming pain. I could not imagine what pouring whiskey into such a raw and inflamed wound must have felt like.
“Go get Leti,” I coaxed the maid, whose eyes bulged with fear from what she had done to Brennan. “He’ll be better for what we’ve done,” I encouraged, as she gently set the whisky bottle down and strode from the room, smoothing her skirts.
Leti returned, glaring at me, obviously believing that I had first tortured and then killed her beloved. After finding him still alive, hastily feeling his forehead and inspecting the gash in his torso, she hesitantly asked, “Will he live, Kate?”
“I don’t know. His injury is grave. We did our best to rid him of the infection, but it may have gone into his blood. I don’t know if he will live,” I said honestly, fear once again unsettling my stomach.
“Thank ye, Kate. I ken that ye did yer best for him,” Leti mustered an anguished slight smile as she resumed her place next to Brennan, again holding his hand for dear life. She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, then whispered something in Gaelic into his ear.
“Ye did braw well, lass,” the kitchen maid smiled up at me with her broad grin and gapped front teeth. “Braw well,” she encouraged. “I can mind Brennan and the lassie from here, I’ll wager that there are other patients in need of yer help,” she said, patting my hand with assurance that she had the situation under control.
My final patient of the evening was clearly in the advanced stages of inebriation. Self assessment of his injuries must have brought him to the conclusion that as he was not on death’s door, and thus not in danger of losing neither life nor limb, he would kindly wait his turn and allow his more seriously injured comrades seek treatment first. While he waited, he had partaken heavily in self-medication for his wounds in the form of my “medicinal” whiskey. He had a long wait while I performed my medicinal ministrations on his peers and due to the quantity of whisky he had consumed and perhaps the late hour, he had finally passed out atop a table near the fire.
Throughout the night I had felt his hot gaze on me, watching my movements, watching how I tended to the men. I knew from the cautious concern in his steely gaze that he was their leader. He watched to make sure that their needs were tended before his own.
I approached his prostrate form cautiously so as not to wake him while I accessed his injuries. He was neatly laid out atop the table, the fingers of his hands were intertwined and rested on his abdomen. He looked as though he had laid down for a peaceful nap except for the incriminating empty whiskey bottle next to him on the table. He was breathtakingly handsome.
“Ha!” declared Nathan, snapping me out of my appraisal of the sleeping warrior, “Devon’s a nasty gash across his chest, though I would imagine that his pride is a damn sight more wounded that his body. The lad is well into his cups partially for the wait, maybe for the pain, but mostly for his pride. I’m sure that he kens that his sister will likely finish him off if Brennan doesna pull through this,” Nathan said, casting a quick glance to Brennan’s still form in front of the fireplace.
So, I thought to myself, this was the mighty Devon that Leti had told me about. She had spoken earlier of her fearless brother, the leader of the warriors. Even in his slumber he looked like a warrior. Massive and strong, his body covered most of the large wooden table. I couldn’t help but notice his well-muscled body and the sharp line of his jaw.
“Hell hath no fury,” I whispered as I leaned over my last patient of the evening, listening to Nathan recount the glory of the raid with only half an ear. I turned to my patient and gingerly began to peel the filthy homespun shirt from the wound on his chest. The blood had dried, cementing the shirt and subsequent grime to the injury. I looked up to see that he had not awoken, and admired the shape of his well boned, masculine face.
I knew women that would kill for lashes and hair like this man. His dark, chestnut hair sprung from his scalp and curled in loose masses about his shoulders. His face was tan and darkened further with the shadow of a beard. He had not shaven in days. A strand of hair had fallen across his face and I brushed it aside carefully so as not to wake him. In his sleep, the corner of his mouth curled into a slight smile, an action that I found endearing despite being so tired. He smelled of man, leather and horse, and was clearly in desperate need of a bath.
My body thrummed with energy as I examined his face. My heart beat more rapidly, and I quickly looked away from Devon McClain. He was intensely handsome, but I had been pulled to him by something else.
I dismissed my feelings with a shrug, accepting that exhaustion must be overpowering my rational thoughts. I busied myself with preparing to remove his grimy shirt. The homespun gave way and revealed a nasty wound that even to my novice eyes was in the early stages of infection. The angry gash began on his left shoulder and spanned the length of his pectoral muscle. Someone had intended to sever this young man’s head or at the very least inflict a mortal wound. They had missed their intention by mere centimeters. I determined that this injury would likely benefit from stitches by the way that the flesh was gaping open, still oozing.
Watching his chest peacefully rise and fall as he enjoyed his drunken stupor, I almost hated to intrude. I felt exhaustion beginning to rise up within myself, and I fought an intense urge for sleep as I watched his peaceful slumber with marked jealousy. I worried that I too would be the victim of Leti’s fury if I didn’t rally the strength to treat her beloved brother, drunken sot that he appeared to be.
I sprung into action in an effort to cling to my last threads of wakefulness by barking at Nathan, “Hold his shoulders, please. He’ll probably wake up quickly.” Nathan obliged by placing a large hairy hand on each of Devon’s tan muscled shoulders. He nodded that he was ready, and pressed down firmly.
“I’m going to clean his wound with whisky so that it doesn’t putrefy,” I cautioned my reluctant nurse, “Its going to burn like hell.”
“Seems a waste to me lass.” Nathan shook his head and shot a wry glance in my direction. “What say we split the whisky and leave this young dolt to his devices? He’s drunk enough to cleanse his wound from the inside out!” the burly man chuckled, his rosy cheeks flushed beneath his bushy beard.
I laughed in a way that only the extremely tired do, finding his comment far funnier than in actuality it was. The late hour and lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll on my humor. “It would serve him right!” I exclaimed. “Might be difficult to explain to his sister though. I suppose we should give him the same chance to make it as the rest.”
“On we go then, lass.” Nathan resumed the pressure on the young man’s shoulders and braced for the worst.
I poured a dram of whisky directly into the wound and was greeted with unexpected silence. I looked up to see Nathan’s eyes clenched shut. His face was twisted into a grimace as he held his breath and waited for the fallout from my actions. The sight of his scrunched up face made me giggle and I made a quite unlady-like snort as a laugh broke free.
“Hmmmph,” murmured my patient. Roused by either the sting of the whisky or the laughing of his medical team, his eyes fluttered open and focused on my smiling face looming above him. They were a striking green. A shade that reminded me immediately of Collin McClain.
“Are ye an angel?” “Mom. Am I dead?” he mumbled, eyes slowly scanning the room as he tried to use his elbows to push himself up off the table.
“Uh, no,” I laughed in response, my eyes darting towards Nathan, catching him smirk as he tried to muffle his laughter. I put a firm hand on Devon’s chest and pushed him back down onto the table, afraid that if he tried to get up he might fall and hurt himself further. I clear
ed my throat and made a vain attempt to regain my composure. After all, now that I was the chief healer, I had a reputation to uphold. “No, you’re not dead, and I am certainly not an angel. You got hurt and I’m here to help you.”
“Oh good. I’m not dead.” And with that, his eyes closed and he promptly went back to sleep.
Nathan and I burst into simultaneous laughter and again sunk into the teamwork of caring for our inebriated patient. Nathan was clearly very tired and yet his motions were still methodical and precise.
“He’s out cold, Nathan. Why don’t you go get some rest?” I offered, seeing that Nathan was fading fast.
“I’ll stay with ye lass. Help ye finish up,” he replied.
“No really, I’ve got it under control. There’s nothing more that you can do to help me. I’ve just got to stitch this up, and it’s kind of a one person job,” I smiled, threading my needle.
“Are ye sure, lass?” Nathan asked.
“I’m sure. Go to bed,” I ordered, looking up at him. He was exhausted and it didn’t take much effort to talk him into retiring for the night.
“If ye insist,” he said, leaning over to kiss me on the forehead. “Goodnight, lass. Ye did well tonight,” he smiled slightly, praising my efforts.
“Thanks. So did you,” I replied, glad to have had Nathan working by my side.
Nathan walked from the great hall and I turned my attentions back to Leti’s brother. I grimaced as I pulled the wound together and gathering the flesh between my fingers. Cautiously, I began to stitch it closed. I bit my lip, loathing the feeling of the needle piercing flesh, and the effort that it took to drive the metal through the tough skin.
