“You didn’t get stabbed running?” She hoped that this question would go better than the last one.
“No. On the run I headed straight for my father’s castle trying to outpace and outfox the yapping hounds nipping at my heels. I just wanted to go home but found it burning. Those English bastards had dragged my father from his home to ridicule, torture and prepared to execute him just because I was a rebel soldier. I turned and run. What could I do? I asked, and it answered again. I could have tried. I returned just in time to see them kill him. My blood burned for vengeance. I shot the maggot who took pleasure in humiliating him before lopping off his head. I wish I could have killed the others who pinned him to floor too, and taken my time doing so. I wished I could have saved him. I got in a tangle with a couple of soldiers as I escaped and one of them got in a lucky stab before I gutted him. My father would have been so proud. he used to say that only true warrior get stab in the front, everyone else is weak enough to get stabbed in the back. And then I just wandered.” He went sullen and quiet again. Just how much could one man go through in a single week? She wished there was treatment as simple for soul as there was his flesh.
“I think I’d better look at this back in my hut.” She tried to help him to his feet.
“I’ll be fine girl.” He battered her hands away and struggled to his feet. “It’s just a scratch, nothing a stomach full of food and a good drink can’t fix.” He groaned in pain as he doubled over and shrunk back against the tree to support himself. His knees trembled as he struggled to stand. A fresh patch of blood bloomed on his shirt as the wound reopened.
Why were men such pig-headed fools? she thought. She ducked under his arm and pressed herself into his warm body propping him up. She couldn’t help but think about how Graham used to feel. He was the gentlest man alive, his head full of warm-head ideas and notions and yet he had to life through that too. It most probably broke him too.
“You know they’ll kill you if they find you with me?” Roland grunted between gasps of pain.
“Here.” She gave him her bloody shawl. “Press this against the wound while I get you back to my cabin.”
“Bloody hell woman, you work fast.” He moved back to stupid jokes.
“Although, if you keep on with those corny jokes, I’ll happily leave you here to die.” She wasn’t joking.
*****
Alice carried Roland up the dirt path toward her dilapidated log cabin. Two English soldiers stepped out from a rocky outcrop and she froze. Their vibrant red coats, and dirty white trousers stood out against the green of the highland. She cursed herself. She should have seen them from miles away. She knew she should have left him to rot.
“Put me down and run girl.” The same thought was running through her mind. She hesitated and the decision was taken out of her hands. One solider dropped to his knee and raised the musket to his face ready to fire.
“Put him down and stay there,” he ordered. She lowered Roland to the ground as gently as she could.
The musket wielding soldier ordered the other soldier to approach as he covered him with the rifle. He was big and looked a little slow witted, a think stubble covered the lower half of his face. A thick cross-like scar stretched across down the side of his face and across his forehead distorting his skull. It just looked wrong. He gave Alice a stupid but creepy smile.
“Hi.” He waved at Alice before unleashing his sword.
“Sorry.” The sullen guilty washed over Roland face again.
“Well what have we got here a rebel scum and the doting wife. How sweet.” The musket wielding solider came up and joined the first. His tapering over-shot jaw, narrow beady little eyes and long whisker-like sideburns made him look like a rat.
“I think she’s pretty,” the dumb one stated in a tone fit for a five-year old. His eyes groped over the curves of her body. Alice felt a little dirty at the look.
“Yeah, she’ll be a fine bit of sport. Will you enjoy watching your wife spend some time with us?” The rat-faced soldier threw his red coat to the ground.
“She’s not my wife. The bitch was just bringing me to you for the bounty. Tear her to pieces for all I care,” Roland snarled, lying to save her.
“Problem is us and the King, God bless his soul, have had a small disagreement. If we take your head back, they’ll take ours right along with it. So, we just take our rewards where we find them now. And it will be a pleasure taking this one.” Rat-face began to take off his white shirt.
Roland struggled to his feet and the small flintlock pistol sprang into his hand. Unsteady on his feet, he could hardly prepare the gun, let alone aim straight and Rat-face knew it. He was bemused if anything. The dumb one appeared more worried and lifted his hands to his ears and began to shriek while dancing on the spot. Roland discharged his shot into the ground, missing them by a mile.
“It’s okay, George. It’s okay. Calm down.” Rat-face sound worried and concerned. “Break his nose George.”
George rammed the hilt of his sword into Roland’s nose and it made a sickening crunch. Roland was sent sprawling to the ground, blood rushing for his shattered nose.
“God man. Make up your mind. Are you happy to watch or not?” Rat-face jeered.
“What shall I do boss?” George squirmed anxiously. “Should I kick him?”
“It’s okay George. He should be fine now, he’s already shot his load.” Rat-face smirked at his own joke.
“Okay boss.”
Alice’s paralysis faded as the dread of what was happening sunk in. An overwhelming urge to run gripped her, and she prepared to bolt. She knew they might shoot her as she fled, but she’d be better off dead than this. The Rat-face’s hand darted out, clasped her arm and yanked her forward.
“Oh no, you don’t love.” He must have read her body’s intentions before she had. She froze again.
He pressed his face close to hers and she could smell his hot rotten breath on her face as he tried to kiss her. She screamed, as she struggled to break free, slapping and clawing at his face with her free hand. His hand rocket into her stomach. The air exploded from her lungs, and her legs tumbled out from underneath her.
“Oh, feisty wench, I love myself a feisty one.” He pushed against the ground as she almost choked on the air she sucked back down into her lungs. Straddling her, he pulled out a small worn dagger and began cutting at her clothes.
A single musket resounded across the highlands and Rat-face grunted and toppled to her side. George began shrieking again. His hands over his ears and he danced about frantically.
Roland grabbed the dagger from the dead soldier’s hand, and leapt to his feet with a fierce groan. He ran the dagger across George’s throat and both collapsed back to the ground.
Another English soldier appeared from behind a rocky outcrop with his musket smoking. This whole day had been cursed and it was starting to feel like she’d never get a break. She was as doomed as this country. As he closed on them she could see his uniformed was worn, the red was darker from dirt and it had been torn repaired poorly numerous times. Unlike the other two he had the mark him of a deserter. His square jaw was clean shaven without a hint of stubble, and he had neat hair short blonde hair. His hair was shiny and clean despite the time on the road, and there was something delicate and sensitive about his thick lips and piercing blue eyes. He was almost the exact opposite of the clansman at her feet.
“Ma’am,” he said, greeting her with a bow, his eyes brushed against the cuts and tears in her clothes. She found her hands crossing her chest, and he swung his red coat off and draped it over her shoulders with an apologetic look. The heavy coat stunk of lavender though it barely masked the stench of sweat.
“By the heavens’ lad, are you still alive?” Roland sounding shocked.
“I’m doing better than you at least.” There was something bitter and angry in his voice.
“And Graham?” Roland asked his eyes flicking towards Alice.
“He took a bullet helping me e
scape from your…,” he paused as he sought for the word he wanted, “care. He died soon after.”
“Come for your revenge then lad? Aye, you deserve it.” Roland seemed to accept his fate. Alice stood there confused. Graham? Where they talking about her husband? What did any of this have to do with her husband? Had he run off with an English man?
“I’ve seen good men - God fearing men who’ve contemplated the service of priesthood rip apart defeated and injured soldiers, family men rape, and pillage entire villages. I’ve come to realize war makes monsters out of us all. I want no part of it. I merely came to pass on Graham’s last words to his wife. It was his final wish. You must be Alice?”
“Yes?” She was sure she was Alice, but pretty unsure of everything else.
“I’m Perceval. I was with your husband when he died. He was talking about you when he passed. It was his final wish that you knew how he felt.”
“She was all he ever talked about, had I known she was a real goddess though I’d have been more understanding,” Roland laugh.
“I thought he’d exaggerated about her beauty until now too. I think it’s hard to admit such a beauty could exist without experiencing it.” Perceval smiled, and blushed sweetly at his own words.
“Smooth English. Don’t make the mistake that a clanswoman will drop her panties for pretty words like your courtiers. Scottish women prefer action to poetry.” The thumping of Alice’s heart and his earlier talk of angels and goddesses contradicted that statement.
“We need to talk but I better hide the bodies and scout around a little, too. His eyes refused to meet hers, as he was embarrassed at his words. “The gun-fire might attract more, and we are all wanted men here.”
“Good God,” Perceval exclaimed looking down at the body of George.
“What is it?” Roland asked.
“I knew him. He used to write the most beautiful poetry and send it home to his wife. The last battle we fought in together he got shoot in the head. They said he’d never survive. It’s just hard knowing the person I knew would do something like this.”
“I don’t think he did,” Roland answered as Perceval bent down and grabbed the body dragging it toward the valley.
Alice tried to ignore the thousands of questions that swamped her mind. She bent down and carried the wounded Roland into the cabin. The small run-down cabin was really just a tiny room with a bed stuck in one corner and stove in the other. Alice couldn’t help but think it’d be a far cry from the luxurious rooms at the castle his lordship was used to. His carried him to her bed and draped him across it.
“I feel like the luckiest man alive.” His voice was distorted due to his bloody, broken nose.
“More lucky to be live,” she delivered as deadpan as she could manage.
“I told you, it’s just a scr…” His words ended in a painful grunt as she pressed a cloth against his nose to help stem the blood.
“And I warned if you continued those jokes it wouldn’t the wounds that kill you.” She smiled as sweetly as she could and gave him a wink.
“God lass. You’re no fun,” he said through the cloth.
“Now you’re getting it. Stay still, rest and keep pressure on that. I have to go and gather some stuff. I won’t be long.” She left the cabin before he could reply.
*****
With the ingredients and herbs collected for a numbing ointment and a healing poultice, Alice went back to the brook to collect her bucket and some water. As she drew the brook she could hear someone splashing about in the water and mutilating a hymn. Whoever it was should just bash the poor chorus on the head and put it to rest. She’d heard goats with a better voice. She crept in closer, picking her way through the undergrowth slowly and carefully. The enigmatic Perceval stood in the stream naked. He scrubbed down his hard, flat chest over his rippling abs with some kind of plant. Alice could feel herself hold her breath as she watched him and a small stab of disappoint when he turned his back. His back was covered in thick crisscrossing scars and burns. She couldn’t even imagine the amount of pain he’d suffered through. Who’d do such a thing?
The song died as he waded from the shallow stream and led on the wild grass. He set about cleaning his uniform, trying his best to scrub out the fresh patches of blood and dirt. He poured over examining the tiny holes and all threads of disrepair. Alice couldn’t help but think he showed a diligent and loving attitude for a man that had abandoned the army and forsaken all wars. Just why did he care about it so much?
Alice felt ashamed for spying and crept back up the path. Once a safe distance away she started down once again making as much noise as she possibly could. Perceval had managed to pull his breeches on and was struggling with his shirt when she arrived. It was with regret that she watched his amazing body being hid behind the tattered old shirt.
“Oh hello.” She tried to sound shocked that he was at the brook.
“Hello” His face flushed a deep scarlet red and he glanced away timidly as he pulled at his shirt making sure it covered his body.
“Just come to get my bucket.” She pointed at the discarded pail before moving to collect it. He said nothing and the silence hung heavy in the air.
“Oh lavender.” She picked up the crumpled plant he left littered along the bank. “Continue perfuming your body like that and all the men in Scotland will be chasing you.”
“All the men in Scotland are already chasing me. One half for being an English Solider and the other for not being one.”
“You could always ditch the uniform. It makes you stand out,” Alice pointed out.
“And lose half of my appeal, never.” He examined the uniform again. She could see there was something deep down he was not saying. Something deeply rooted in his character that made it impossible for him to leave the uniform behind despite his disdain and hatred for war.
“We need to talk about Graham.”
“I have to get back, he needs attention.” She wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear it. Since the cryptic exchange between him and Roland her imagination had run wild. Whatever her husband had been mixed up in, it got him killed and labelled a traitor. Her feelings toward him were already so mixed. She loved the great stupid idiot, but not only had he abandoned her, but he left her for a cause he didn’t even believe in.
“Okay, but soon. I don’t want to stay long but I can’t leave until I tell you.”
Alice turned to go back up the slope.
“Be careful around him,” Perceval warned.
“Who?” Alice asked over her shoulder.
“The Scotsman.”
“Okay.” Alice retreated back up the slope to her cabin.
*****
“Eyyy-owww, are you still trying to kill me?” He had protested as she spread the cold ointment across his hot and tender flesh. “What is that foul-smelling gunk?”
“Just something my father used on the sheep when they got into a scrape.” Alice had spent hours learning all sorts of balms and potions to use on cattle.
“Sheep? Do I look like a goddamned sheep to you? If I start to sprout... oww.” He released a fresh squeal of pain she reapplied the anointment. “You’re the devil incarnate, woman.”
He sulked with a sour scowl on his face until she brought out the needle. Then he had really made started to make a fuss. He may have pretended to be tough but she’d never seen such a baby in her life. How he managed to survive a battle, let alone a whole war, she’d never know.
“Don’t be such a baby, the anointment should numb your flesh. And I’ll stitch you up prettier than a tapestry.”
“You’re no doctor, woman,” he grumbled.
“And you’re no sheep. They never made all this fuss over a little scratch,” she teased as she began stitching the wound.
“Could have offered me some whiskey at least,” he pouted.
“I’m afraid the sheep drank me dry.”
She finished stitching him up and applying a poultice and bandage to the wound. Not too long a
fter, he was sound asleep. As he slept she gazed at his face, and stroke down the top of his soft check, over his coarse beard. With the broken nose and the scar across his cheek he may not be pretty anymore, but he could certainly still be the luckiest man in the world. She was half-tempted to lift his kilt and have a look. Its size was always one rumor that’d always been hotly debated among the village girls.
What was there about this man not to trust? Broken, maybe a little desperate, but there didn’t seem to be anything evil about him.
Alice shifted the screen around so it blocked the bed from her sight. She wasn’t used to having company. especially not male company. It was nice to talk to someone that wasn’t spitting in her face or displacing the burden of their loss on to her traitorous husband. Even if he was sulking worse than a five year with a bee in his honey. But now that she wanted to get undressed and clean herself, it almost felt like an invasion. She peered out from behind the screen to double check that Roland was still fast asleep in her bed.
Deciding it was safe, she slipped out of her dress and started to wash down with a piece of lavender she had stolen from Perceval and bucket of old water. She massaged the herb slowly over her body. As her hands moved over her flesh, she pictured Perceval’s hands as he caressed himself. Her thoughts lingered on the sensation of her hands going across Roland’s chest. The image flickered and Roland’s chest become Perceval’s. His hands were massaging her chest. She shook her head trying to get the thoughts out of, trying to deny the heat in her. But her thoughts were drawn to imagining what their hands were washing over her body and how great it would feel. She imagined Roland’s hand being hungry, grabbing at her while Perceval would be slower, and almost innocent.
God, she been alone too long.
She should hate Roland. Hate him for taking everything from her. If anything, she kind of pitied him, and admired him. After what he’d been through he seemed so broken, but he still managed to throw on the charming joker facade that the little responded so positively to. And he had rescued her just like in her fantasies. They both had. And not just from the soldiers but the solitude. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated her like a human being.
THE HEALING HEART Page 21
