by Aileen Adams
Another sound, again muffled.
He found and grasped her other ankle, then positioned himself to pull.
“One… two… three!”
He pulled, as hard and as quickly as he could.
At first, the shrub didn't want to release its grip upon her, but then, with the sound of rending cloth and a squeal from her, it did. His first tug exposed her breeches as far as her knees.
The thorns had torn the leg, and he caught sight of a shapely calf. He shook his head and pulled again. The second tug pulled her out far enough that he saw her hips. Unfortunately, he could also see several tears in the breeches now, slowly oozing blood.
Once again, he cursed under his breath. He leaned down, saw that she was doing as he told her, elbows clasped close to her body, arms and hands covering her face.
“One more pull, and you should be out. Keep your face covered!”
He barely heard a muffled yes beneath her hands.
He repositioned his feet, wrapped his hands around her knees, and with one, mighty pull, extracted her from the bushes.
The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. The tunic, torn and dirty, her arms scratched and oozing blood, her hair a tangled mess, her hands still covering her face, dirty, scratched, one of them showing a bruise on the outside of her palm.
He crouched down, quickly scanning her body for more serious injuries. She didn't remove her hands from her face.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She refused, but sat up, shoulders hunched forward, head still buried in her hands.
She trembled.
“Dalla, look at me.” Fighting back his frustration and impatience, he reached for her hands.
Though she tried to prevent him from doing so, it didn't take much for him to pull those petite, finely boned, yet surprisingly strong hands from her face.
Her expression startled him.
Dried tears had made paths down dusty cheeks, streaking their trails down her cheeks. A reddened nose and wide eyes swimming with tears.
He frowned. “Are you hurt?”
She didn't answer, but then, wordlessly pointed to her right knee. He looked down at it.
It wasn't twisted at an awkward angle, and he didn't see any blood, but when he touched it, she winced. He carefully palpated the joint with his hand, much as he would be tending to his horse’s fetlocks.
When he gently squeezed the outside of the knee, she winced.
He shook his head. She either had a very bad sprain, or she had managed to pull a muscle or ligament. It was at that moment that his anger once again began to burgeon.
“What were you thinking? Did you think you could run from me, survive in these highlands all by yourself?” He took a breath, trying to tamp down his rising anger. A pulse pounded in his neck, and his head throbbed with emotion. “And take my horses? Both of them?”
Her eyes widened even more, staring up at him now, in not only fear, but dismay. “But I didn't!”
He frowned, not understanding as he gestured around them. “What are you doing out here?”
She swallowed, took a breath, and replied. “I was in the woods, behind the hut and near the stream. I was gathering some nuts for one of the squirrels… you saw the one that—”
He slashed the air with his hand. “Tell me what happened.”
“I saw some men—“
“Men?” He frowned. “By the hut?”
She gingerly shook her head, a clump of hair that had loosened from its braid hanging alongside her cheek. He barely resisted the urge to brush it away and tuck it behind her ear.
“I saw them a little bit down the hill. Three or four of them. Two of them looked like—they looked like you. Dressed like you. Scotsmen,” she mumbled. “Long hair, beards, wearing leathers and tunics.”
Hugh didn't have a beard, but he gave that some thought. Since he had arrived at the hut he'd shared with his brother so long ago, he'd seen no sign of inhabitants in the area. He wasn't aware of any clans claiming this land, but it had been a long time since he'd been here. He could understand why she had run. She continued.
“One of them was dressed in finer clothes, as he came from a town—”
They both heard the noise at the same time.
He quickly stood and turned, both ax and the knife at the ready, his gaze scanning every bit of the landscape around them. He had to get back to his horse. Something was out there, and it wasn't anything good.
The noise had come from a distance, like a rock hitting another. He quickly turned and looked down over his shoulder at her.
“Can you walk?” He didn't wait for her to answer, but reached down to help her up.
While she managed to stand, her face lost its color, and a most definite grimace of pain marred her features as she placed even the slightest bit of weight on her right foot, he had his answer.
“Climb up on my back,” he said, hunching down.
“What?”
“Quickly, Dalla. Climb onto my back! Make no noise!”
She scrambled onto his back and clasped her arms around his shoulders, clasping her hands together at the base of his neck. She wrapped her left leg around his hips, the injured leg to a lesser degree.
“We have to get back to my horse.” He felt her nod and then she buried her head against his shoulder as he quickly darted through the trees, again careful to make as little noise as possible. A short distance away, he found his horse, no longer grazing, but looking downslope, ears twitching in that direction.
He quickly lowered Dalla off his back, and then immediately swung her up onto his horse. He followed, climbing up behind her.
Just as he turned his horse away from the trees, prepared to climb higher, a wisp of sound flew past his ear and hit the tree just beyond them.
He looked to find the shaft of an arrow vibrating from the tree bark. A chunk of bark shot off from the pine tree beside them, grazed by another arrow, causing Dalla to utter a gasp of alarmed surprise.
He felt several pieces of bark strike his arm as he urged his horse forward, hunched down over her as she huddled in front of him, protecting her as best he could while his horse lunged upward.
He felt the gelding's muscles bunching with the effort, scrambling for purchase on the steep slope, over rocks and tree roots.
Shouts from below echoed up into the hills, reverberating off the walls.
He had rounded a cluster of pine interspersed with birch before he felt something warm on his thigh.
He glanced down and cursed.
An arrow had pierced his thigh, and he was bleeding.
Badly.
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Hunched over the neck of the horse, climbing upward, hanging desperately onto clumps of the horse's mane, Dalla tried to stifle the panic that threatened to rise, before it ripped from her throat in a terrified scream.
Why?
Why was this happening to her? What had she done, against her family, against God, to deserve such hardships?
She felt the warmth of Hugh's body hovering over her, so close that his chest pressed against her back, arms wrapped around her while he guided his horse.
He offered a stalwart sense of security, of protection; but what was one man alone against three or more who would likely be carrying not only quivers full of arrows, but swords and axes?
And who was that better-dressed man with them that she had spied before disappearing into the woods?
She had run away from the hut, ignoring the pain of stones beneath her thin slippers. Behind, at the hut, she'd heard the sound of shouts and then the horses galloping away. Where was Hugh? What would he think when he returned to find her gone? What would—
A soft grunt behind her caused her to stiffen and cast a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes widened in alarm when she saw Hugh's face.
What—
She glanced down at the leg beside her, saw his leather breeches drenched in blood. Oh Lord. help her! She saw the shaft of an arrow protruding fro
m the center of his thigh.
“Hugh! You're—”
A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the sky, seeming to rise from the ground itself.
Seconds later, a crash of thunder crackled overhead, echoing between the spires of rock through which they climbed and then rumbling even further down through the narrow valley.
Just over the rumbling, she heard the sound of voices, not far in the distance. There were catching up to them! But who were they and what did they want?
And then, horror of horrors, Hugh suddenly toppled from the back of the horse. The gelding immediately stopped, prancing nervously around his master.
She slid off as well. Taking a chance that the horse wouldn't go far, she slapped its rump, shimmying quickly away just in case the gelding decided to show a fit of temper toward her.
He gazed at her a moment, then trotted away, weaving its way among the rocks until it disappeared. She prayed that he'd come back, but not too quickly.
She glanced down at Hugh, half-conscious, lying on his side in front of a cluster of shrubs. She had no idea what kind, but they were thick and leafy. The ground felt damp beneath her feet—one bare, one foot still wearing a slipper.
It started to rain, big fat drops at first, then mellowing into a gentle, steady rain.
She placed a hand on Hugh's shoulder and leaned down close.
“I heard voices,” she said, speaking close to his ear.
Suddenly, he lifted an arm and flattened her onto the ground beside him, holding her close.
At first, she struggled, but then, noticing his pain and the firm shake of his head, she stilled. Her heart thundered in her chest as she heard the snap of a twig not far away.
“I saw them go up this way.” The voice was thick and heavy with a Scottish brogue.
“Find them! They can't get away!” That wasn't a Scottish voice, that accent was English.
What was happening? Were they looking for Hugh or her?
They both lay still, hardly daring to breathe.
She glanced at Hugh's face, saw that his eyes were closed. At first, she thought he was unconscious, but then she saw the grimace of pain in his expression. She noted that the arrow had fully pierced his thigh, perhaps a hand's width of the shaft with the bloodied arrowhead protruding from a point along the front of his thigh, having entered from behind.
Another flash of lightning, followed again by a rumble of thunder rolled across the gray sky.
Dalla tried to make herself sink deeper into the soft, loamy soil beneath her, praying that the attackers, whoever they were, didn't see them through the shrubs. She heard them moving around, and then, ever so gradually, the men moved away, and the sounds disappeared. They remained unmoving, listening.
All was silent, save the sound of the rain pattering onto the tree leaves and then dropping to the ground with soft plops. A cool, wet breeze ruffled her hair. Without moving, she glanced down to find Hugh tightly clasping the shaft of the arrow in his leg, blood continuing to ooze through his fingers. With a grunt, he grabbed the arrow protruding from the front of his thigh with both hands, and gritting his teeth, broke the shaft with a garbled cry of pain. He lay back, panting.
“Pull it out,” he finally murmured.
What? He wanted her to pull out the arrow? She gazed down at him, eyes wide with fear.
“Do it… I can't. Pull it out. In one movement. You… must pull with all your strength.”
“But—”
“Do it now!” he hissed.
She scrambled back, took a deep breath, and then grasped the shaft still protruding from the back of his thigh tightly with both her hands. Then, biting her lip, she yanked. Hard.
At first, nothing happened.
“Harder!” he gasped.
She put her back into it, and in one, hard tug, the arrow slid free, caked with blood and—
Dalla landed hard on her backside, barely squelching the urge to throw up. Hugh lay stiffly, panting for breath. He either felt it was all right or was too weak to protest.
“We have to find some shelter,” she said, the statement obvious. “I'm going to look for shelter, or at least somewhere we can hide and take care of your leg,” she said, again leaning close to his ear.
He barely managed to shake his head. “No… wait… too dangerous…”
This time it was she who shook her head. “If I don't do something about that wound, you might bleed to death, and soon!”
Without waiting for his reply, she quickly scrambled away, hiding behind a nearby tree as she slowly rose to her knees, peeking this way and that.
Rain pattered onto her head, and cold drops trickled down her neck. She ignored the pain in her own leg as she tried to stand. When she placed even the slightest weight on it, a shaft of pain jolted upward, but she could bear it. She would need a crutch of some sort. Looking around, she found a fallen tree branch, maybe half as tall as she was, but it would do.
Grabbing onto it, she lifted herself upright, placing most of her weight on that stout piece of wood. Another almost blinding flash of lightning and crackle of thunder exploded overhead.
At first, she cursed the rain and the storm, but then realized that it would, although uncomfortable, provide them with a benefit. The rain would hide any trace of them or any trail they left.
Wincing and trying to ignore the pain with every step she took, she sought a hiding place, preferably one that would take them out of the rain. She looked for a cave or an indentation in the rocks, something with an overhang. If she had to, she'd look for low- hanging tree branches from one of these huge pines that might at the very least offer some shelter from the weather.
Upslope, she saw a slit of shadow, dark black, behind the growth of some type of berry bush. Most of the berries that remained were dried up and withered now, so late in the season. She brushed a few branches aside, stumbling forward to take a better look at the gap in the rocks. It was perhaps twice as wide as she, and as she studied it, she realized that it widened gradually. It wasn't deep, but it would be enough to hide them and keep Hugh out of the rain while they determined the severity of his injury.
As quickly as she could, she scrambled back to his location. If anything, he looked worse than he had just moments ago. Her heart sank, and fear burgeoned. What would she do if something happened to him? Where would she go? She swallowed her panic and focused on him.
Painfully, she got down on one knee and placed her hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up at her.
“I found a small cave—or almost a cave, a short distance away, but it's going to be difficult—”
“Help me up.”
Her nerves frayed, her heart pounding, fearful that those men would come back at any moment, Dalla reached for Hugh's uplifted hand. Bracing herself on her good leg, she tugged, while with a groan of effort, he managed to get himself up onto one knee. He breathed heavily, trying to hide a grimace of pain, without success. Not thinking twice about it, she shuffled forward, still using the stick of wood to brace her injured knee.
She bent under his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders. She didn't expect to be able to hold his weight completely, but she could help. They made a fine pair, didn't they? She with an injured knee, him with a wound bleeding in his left thigh.
It seemed to take them forever to scramble their way upslope. The rain caused the dirt to grow slippery, but at the same time, she was grateful for it because it hid the trail of their passing. They had barely gone twelve precarious steps before Hugh stumbled to a halt, leaning heavily against a tree trunk.
“Just a moment,” he muttered. “Need to catch my breath.”
She wasn't arguing. She needed a rest too. Her knee throbbed, and she could just imagine what Hugh's leg felt like. Blood saturated his pant leg now, and she feared that if he lost much more, he would die, right in front of her eyes.
He pushed away from the tree and they scrambled higher, deeper into the trees, sometimes pushing their way through the thic
k underbrush, winding between the close-growing birch and pine.
His breath came in harsh gasps. Every step seemed shorter, more difficult.
Finally, she spied the cleft in the rock. “There!”
He didn't look up, just told her to make their way toward it. A gust of rain-drenched breeze blew past them, sending shudders through her body. Drops of rain trickled down the back of her neck and underneath her tunic. Garnering the last of her own strength, she wrapped her left arm around his waist, grasped her makeshift crutch more firmly in her hand, and tried to urge him forward. If he stumbled and fell, she would never get him back up.
They had reached the rock wall, Hugh grasping one edge of the gash in the rock, when suddenly, he toppled forward, now half in and half out of the opening. He took her down with him, and she also toppled, grimacing in pain as she fell on her injured leg. Both of them lay gasping for several moments, exhausted.
“Can you crawl inside?” she finally asked.
No answer.
She looked up at his face from where she lay and saw that he was unconscious or very close to it.
“Hugh!”
Again no answer.
Groaning, seeking a strength that she didn't know she had, she crawled past him on her side, trying to protect her injured knee. Then, sitting behind him, her legs straddling his shoulders, she reached forward and grasped him under the arms, thinking to pull him further into the cave. Her first effort proved fruitless. He didn't move at all.
“Hugh, you've got to help me! Please!”
She tried again. This time, digging the heel of her good foot deep into the dirt, tugging and leaning backward with all her might, she managed to move him a short space.
He lifted his knees, dug his own heels in, and her next effort proved more fruitful. By the time she brought him completely into the interior, she was gasping for breath, her arms trembling, every muscle in her body throbbing with fatigue.
They both lay still for several moments, breathing heavily. While it was warm and dry inside, she still had to deal with his wound, and quickly. She glanced at the overlarge tunic she wore, saw that the bottom had been torn in several places by the brambles she had hidden within. Twisting, she managed to tear off a good section of the bottom.
