“Aye, thanks,” the man said softly. Brodgar looked at him, but could sense neither anger nor acceptance. The fellow was simply too jaded with commands to either care or trust anymore.
Curse my uncle.
This was somehow his doing, Brodgar thought angrily. He knew it was ridiculous – this was his half of the men, and it was his job to lead them – but somewhere he saw his uncle’s hand in all of this.
“You’re just shirking your responsibilities,” he told himself harshly. It was his men, it was his fault. It was that simple.
He marched on, aware suddenly of how tired he was. Every step he took felt like a punishment, each weary footfall feeling like the last he could take.
“Sir! The men!”
One of the soldiers marching at the head of the column shouted it back. Brodgar felt his own head jerk up wearily before he was even aware he’d done it. He had fallen into the role of command quite naturally, he realized. He nodded to the fellow.
“What is it?”
“The other men! They’re here!”
Brodgar felt his heart thud and he was suddenly full of energy again. He walked to the front of the column, and realized that the fellow spoke true – the other group was there, with his own uncle riding slightly ahead. By his side, he noticed his deputy.
In all the commotion, he hadn’t thought about how suddenly Callum had disappeared.
“Where is my nephew?” his uncle demanded.
Brodgar felt as if he’d been slapped. He had led the men this far – how dare his uncle speak as if he was a reluctant child, hiding somewhere in the great hall from punishment?
“I chose to lead my men here,” Brodgar said, stepping forward. In the darkness, lit only with torchlight, his uncle’s lean face had a sinister cast. He looked down at him from the elevation of horseback, his thin-lipped face not amused.
“I saw your men arriving, yes,” his uncle said, suggesting that he had not noticed Brodgar lead them. “I am told you were fallen upon in the woods. How long ago was this?”
“Maybe half an hour,” Brodgar said curtly. “How were you so swift in coming?”
His uncle inclined his head in the direction of Callum. “He rode to warn us. I thought it was the right course of action to take, under the circumstances.” His uncle raised a brow, thin-lipped.
“I preferred to stay and lead my men, as I was appointed to,” Brodgar said darkly. If that was a slur on his leadership, he was not accepting it.
His uncle smiled, his eyes as harsh as flint. “I think that initiative is a better quality in a leader than doggedness.” He spat.
Brodgar just looked at him. There were men close enough to hear him being reprimanded, but at this moment all he cared about was the fact that he was alive, his men were tired, and he had a duty to do.
“Alright, fellows,” he called over his shoulder. “We can camp here in the woods. Get a fire going, make shelters and choose a guard. Tend the wounded.”
“Nephew…” his uncle hissed.
However, he was too late. His men were already going about his orders, some of them simply standing there, too tired to go on. He noticed several of them with arrow wounds and went to a fellow who was unpacking pots and fire starting gear.
“Get some water on the boil. We’re going to have to treat them.” He jerked a head in the direction of a group of wounded, who were already starting to form up into a rough line beside them.
“Yes, sir.”
Brodgar checked that the fellow was sending a runner to find water, checked that the man was taking somebody else as a scout who could defend him. He joined men who were assigning watchman duty, and signed himself up for the first watch. Then he headed to the edge of the camp, where he saw a face he recognized.
“You getting helped?” he asked the wounded man he’d assisted earlier.
He nodded. “Yes, sir. Sir?”
“Yes?” Brodgar frowned.
“I think there’s somebody tracking us, sir.”
Brodgar felt his head swivel automatically in the direction the fellow stared. He saw a movement in the brush…not anything big, just a small rustle, then another. There was something living, concealing itself there.
If that’s the betrayer, I’ll give them such a beating.
He stood side on to the torchlight that ringed them, trying to make his approach less noticeable. All his attention was fixed on that one spot of brush, all his mind focused on reaching it and capturing whoever was hiding there.
“Who goes there?” he said, as he grabbed for the person, his hand contacting something soft. Somebody screamed.
“No!” a voice shouted.
He realized he was face to face with a woman he recognized. It was Barra.
“Barra?” he said in astonishment as, sobbing, she extracted herself from his grasp and wrapped her arms around him.
Finding New Ways
Barra stared at her attacker with shock. It was only as she took a second look that she recognized him.
“Brodgar!”
She felt her legs give way, horror giving way to utter relief. It was so long since she’d felt safe! She’d been tracking the men across the countryside all day. At first, it had been so easy to follow them – fifty men and fifteen horses left obvious disturbances – but as night had fallen she had become enmeshed in terror.
Now, without meaning to, she had walked straight into the one man she was following.
“Brodgar,” she said softly. “What happened?”
She studied him closely. He had ash and dust all over him, and his shirt was soaked with blood. His eyes had the impossible weariness of someone who has just lived through something terrifying.
“I’m well,” he slurred, almost too weary for talking. “How are you here?”
She shrugged. “I followed the men.”
“You followed us?” he looked at her and she felt her heart soar as he grinned. She couldn’t have felt prouder. “You followed us all the way here?”
She grinned shyly. “It wasn’t really hard…the men and horses left a clear trail.”
“You followed us,” he repeated. It seemed like the most wonderful thing. She grinned shyly and looked away as he shook his head.
“You look terrible,” she said. “What happened?”
He sank down to sit beside her on the grass. He shut his eyes, and it was obvious to her just how weary he in fact was. He leaned back against a tree, and she saw how his one leg was jumping with weariness.
“We were ambushed.” His voice came as if from down a long tunnel.
“Ambushed?”
“It was dark,” he said. “We were marching through the forest, down one of the paths. I heard one of the men cry out, and…” he paused. “Suddenly, there were arrows, and smoke…so much smoke.” He shook his head.
“Were many affected?” Barra asked. She clutched her bundle where it had slipped from her back to rest on her knee. It contained only enough bandages for perhaps a half dozen men. There was no way she could safely treat more than that.
“Not many,” he said. “I don’t know.”
Barra swallowed hard. “And you?” she asked.
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Somewhere, maybe.”
She felt her own heart stiffen with alarm. “Where, Brodgar?” she asked. “Let me see it!”
He opened one eye, giving her a weary look. However, he sat up, shrugging off his shirt. She tensed, as she saw how it stuck to a place on his shoulder, caked with dried blood.
“An arrow wound,” she said, reaching for it, noticing as she did so how the cloth of his shirt was slashed through. The blood was black in the torch lit darkness, but she could feel no fresh stains, which was good. It had dried and hardened cold and thick. She tenderly pulled the shirt away.
“Blast,” Brodgar swore, as the cloth came away from his torn skin. Barra winced, smelling and feeling a fresh trickle of blood. She reached for her bag, pressing a wad of cloth to the wound, and felt, with rel
ief, how the blood flow quickly dried.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “It isn’t as bad as it seems,” she added, fumbling to find the strips of bandage. She unrolled a length and started winding, keeping the cloth ball in place where it stuck to the blood on his back. It would help to absorb the excess blood. At least, she thought, it was clean.
“There,” she said, reaching with trembling fingers to wind the cloth around him. It was only as she finished making the bandage that she realized that she was touching his bare chest, and that they were alone.
“Thanks,” he said. He shut his eyes.
Barra sat beside him, knowing that he was impossibly tired. The air smelled of dew, and warmth from his body. She felt her own eyelids waver, feeling safe and oddly happy, despite danger.
“You found me,” Brodgar said softly.
“I did,” she agreed.
His hand moved to hold hers, and she squeezed his fingers, her own heart starting to thump at the sweet contact. His fingers were warm and full of life and their touch was strangely intimate, strangely reassuring. She was used to touching him now, and yet in the darkness the firm grip of his fingers was the anchor she had sought all day, the one firm, safe place in the whole world.
She stole a glance at him where he rested against the bole of a tree. His hair was resting on his shoulders, the long auburn flow of it black in the darkness. His profile – fine, sculpted – was at rest, his generous mouth turned down at the corners as he slept. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, knowing that it was essential for him to sleep. She felt tenderness for him fill her heart, overwhelming her. He might have been a strong war leader, but to her he was oddly vulnerable. An enemy could have killed him at this moment, while he was so unguarded – but he slept beside her and knew that he would be safe.
“Sir?” a man called. “Your turn on watch.”
Barra looked at him, and he shrugged, indicating a small watch fire that a man sat alongside, sheltering the glowing embers with his body. He raised a brow to indicate she should come with him.
The next morning, Barra awoke, stiff and sore. She looked around. The watchman’s fire had burned to dark charcoal, and she was alone in the clearing where a cloudy rising light lit trees and green grass.
“Brodgar?” she called.
She heard someone step out of the woods and turned to face him. Standing, he was every inch the soldier. He had washed himself this morning, for the stains of the fires were gone. His hair was bound back from his face and he looked tired, but not exhausted as he had done.
“You’re awake,” he said. She could hear fondness in his voice. She shrugged, knuckling sleep out of one eye.
“I didn’t realize I slept.” She stifled a yawn. It must have been cold last night, she thought, but she had been so tired she had barely noticed. She sat up stiffly, looking around.
“You slept a bit,” he acknowledged. “It’s getting on to time the men moved,” he added. He was looking towards the field, and Barra glanced that way too, noting how the men were busy packing up. She realized that she had fallen asleep without treating any of the men besides him.
“Have you a tent for the wounded?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not too many wounded.” He had a puzzled frown on his face, and she guessed that he found that untoward. “We treated them last night. A few arrow wounds, no burns.” Again, she saw a confused look cross his features.
“I should like to see them,” she offered. “I brought some herbs in my pack…”
He smiled at her. “Thank you. I think the men would be very glad to have proper treatment. First,” and she heard steel in his voice, “I have to consult with my uncle.”
She looked up at him, wondering how she should interpret that comment. His expression was closed, voice hard. She felt her heart ache.
“Brodgar,” she said softly. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was soft. “I just…something about this feels strange, Barra. Sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you,” he added, holding out a hand to her.
“You didn’t.” She paused.
Somewhere down in the camp, the men were arguing. She heard raised voices, but the words were too muffled to distinguish. She noticed that Brodgar had heard them too.
“Sir?” a man walked up to join them. “The men…they want to ask you something.”
Brodgar looked at Barra, and she sensed that he was nervous, and also that this wasn’t that unexpected.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said. “But…rather follow us down. You can tend to the wounded. Better that you don’t stay up there on the outskirts of everything.”
You’re less likely to be attacked if you’re in the camp where I can guard you.
She knew he didn’t want to say that, but she also knew that it was true. She followed him and his companion down the hill, feeling uneasiness churn inside her.
Down in the camp, most of the men seemed subdued still. The discord – whatever it had been about – had fallen silent. Barra looked around the camp, spotting a fireplace with a cauldron of water. She headed in that direction, guessing that the man tending the fire would know where the wounded were.
“Hello!” he greeted her. He looked friendly enough, but Barra hung back a little, feeling naturally weary. When he repeated the greeting, sounding confused, she coughed.
“I’m here to tend the wounded,” she explained as she watched the expression on his face change. He grinned and nodded.
“Oh! Aye. Bless you, lass. There’s not that many of them – I pulled out a good few arrows last night, so I did.” He spat onto the grass, grinning and showing crooked teeth. She wondered how rough the surgery had been, and wished she had brought more supplies.
“Good,” she said. “Are there any men who cannot walk?” She glanced around, hoping to see some sort of healer’s tent set up. There was no sign of any such thing, but that might be, she reasoned, because the camp was being dissembled at that moment.
“Not many – one fellow hit in the leg.” The man winced, and she nodded. That was a bad injury. She felt about in her pack, glad that she had enough tansy and valerian to do some good. The former would staunch bleeding, the latter would help the man sleep.
She nodded at the man, who seemed to understand what she wanted, for he started blowing on his fire, heating the water up. She headed across the field towards the place he’d indicated. As she neared it, she realized that there were indeed several men lying on the grass, one of them on a makeshift stretcher made of a sheet.
“Hello?” she greeted. She looked at the men, who all stared up at her. One, with startlingly blue eyes, seemed more alert than the rest.
“We’re the wounded, aye,” he nodded. “Here to have a look?”
“I am,” she said, feeling somewhat at a loss. She glanced down at the camp, scanning the place for any sign of Brodgar. She would have felt safer with him at least knowing where she was. She couldn’t see him, though, and she turned back to the men.
“He’s badly hurt,” the blue-eyed fellow observed. “Got his leg hit.”
“I heard,” Barra said, and knelt down fluidly beside the fellow. He looked up at her, eyes bloodshot and with signs of long pain crimping the edges.
“I want to clean the wound and re-bandage it,” she said, already reaching into her bundle for the strips of bandage. She could see the fellow was frightened, and so she did her best to show no emotion at all, even though she herself was frightened too.
This was, she thought grimly, the first healing she had ever done. Once, on the farm, a man had injured himself while plowing the field. She had helped to make a tourniquet on the wound, but that was the furthest extent of her experience. Besides with Brodgar.
She tried not to think about him, filling her mind with the injured man who lay before her. She could see the dark blood and the torn, ragged gash in his thigh. Whoever had removed the arrow had managed surprisingly well. She guessed they had cut behind the tine
s first, so that they could pull it out without tearing the flesh. Nevertheless, it was a horrible sight.
“I need water,” she said in a low voice. “If one of you could go to the cauldron over there? Just a dish of hot water to steep these leaves in.”
She felt her heart sink as nobody answered. Who was she to give orders? She looked from one face to another, and after a moment one of the men, with a blooded bandage on his bicep, but no other signs of injury, stood.
“I’ll go.”
“Thank you,” she breathed. Once the man was out of the way, she folded part of the shirt she’d brought with her and swabbed the edges of the wound. The blood was caked dry, but as she touched it a fresh well of blood started in the depths of the wound. She felt queasy. However, she had to forge ahead. If she didn’t help him, nobody would.
The water arrived. She soaked a strip of linen in it, steeping the tansy leaves to make a poultice. In the meanwhile, she re-bandaged the wound with clean linen, tying a pad of cloth in place. It was already almost wet through when she finished tying the knot.
“Now I’ll add a poultice,” she said, instinctively deciding to use one of semi-dry tansy leaves, not a wet one. She bound them on and covered the wound with a fresh bandage, then washed her hands in the water. It was already tepid. She turned to the next man.
“Where is your wound?” she asked.
Reluctantly, he raised his shirt, showing a slash across his chest.
She worked on that, and then on the man with the arrow wound in the arm. Continuing to another, until the morning was almost through.
“Barra!” a voice made her turn as she stood, tucking her hair into a band around her head. She was impossibly weary, and it took her a moment to register that someone called her name. She let her eyes focus wearily on his face.
“Brodgar! What news?”
He walked up wearily. She realized how much the wound, and the whole camp, weighed on his shoulders. His usually youthful face was creased with a frown, and his steps were heavy. He came to stand beside her. She glanced across at the wounded men. They looked in better condition, and were, she thought, just too far to overhear.
Protection By Her Deceptive Highlander (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 5) Page 14
