Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

  Soon, he would fight.

  Soon, he’d return home to Dunadd. To Ashley.

  Ashley.

  A pang cracked through his battle-focus. He’d found it increasingly difficult to suppress thoughts of Ashley back at Dunadd alone, without him by her side. Perhaps he’d been wrong to deny himself—if he allowed thoughts of her to have free rein, its power could dwindle. So, he indulged on the rest of their march by contemplating what she might be doing at this moment. Did she think of him during his absence?

  Would she choose to remain?

  Had he made the right decision in denying her request to address the council? At the time, he’d justified his decision by recalling what happened the last time he’d advocated on behalf of a woman. But as the days passed, he began to think that was flimsy indeed. For that had been when he was but a child.

  No. He’d been right to deny it. In time, she’d learn to trust that he had her best interests at heart.

  He touched the spot on his kilt where her pin would normally be, still absent, for he’d not been able to locate it before his departure. And he tried not to let the Romans’ superstitions rub off on him that the only tangible piece of her he possessed was no longer in his keeping.

  The acrid tang of spilled blood infused Connall’s nostrils as he swung his body around and blocked the blow from a charging Caledonian. His left arm holding his targe vibrated, the attacker’s sword glancing off with a dull scrape. Steam rose from the ground, the result of warm blood hitting cool air. He adjusted his stance. It would not do to slip in the mud and gore.

  His men, all naked as was their custom, were in tight formation around him as they cleaved their way—along with the Romans—through the enemy. Like his own people, the enemy battled naked, but they also smeared their bodies in woad-dyed paste, streaking them in grisly blue swirls.

  Quickly dispatching his attacker, Connall pushed forward. Their main task was accomplished, however. The Romans had wanted his men to counter the first wave who attacked on chariots, for the defense against such an attack was more familiar to them than to the Romans.

  The whole time he fought, the words of Ashley’s first foretelling echoed through his bones—ware the Painted People at the cragged rock—for such a formation loomed over the battlefield from a nearby hill.

  Another blue-streaked warrior charged, sword raised, his face twisted with a hate that seemed more personal than mere blood lust. Puzzled, Connall blocked the man’s powerful swing with his targe, and then kicked the man’s knee. His opponent stumbled but cocked his arm back for another swing. It was then that Connall recognized the man—the Caledonian who picked on warriors smaller than him. The one he’d taught a lesson to back at Bearsden.

  Renewed strength and energy suffused his muscles as he met and countered each move of the warrior. Though evenly matched, the Caledonian tended to favor his right side. As soon as an opening appeared, Connall took it—a feint to his right, a blow to the man’s head with his targe, and then a quick slice across the warrior’s throat.

  He took no pleasure in ending the man’s life. It was part of their tribe’s survival. The Romans were their new allies, and these were enemies of the Romans. It was as simple as that.

  A persistent sting registered, and he glanced down. Red trickled down his chest. His own. The sight renewed his determination. Taking advantage of a rare lull in the battle, he quickly stabbed his sword in the ground and daubed his fingers into the blood. Then he drew a sacred circle on his forehead and a jagged line across his chest.

  Half of battle was intimidation.

  He yanked his sword from the ground and swung around at the sound of another enemy yelling his approach.

  Letting the full fury of his blood lust power his voice, Connall lifted his face and shouted, “We are The Horse People. Be ware!”

  He blocked his attacker’s swing and worked quickly—more quickly than usual—for blood loss would eventually weaken him, and he’d be of no use to anyone.

  Parry, thrust, block, he and his blood-spattered warriors relentlessly cut forward, but his breathing grew labored. His men, still all standing, gathered tighter and switched to defense. His mind grew dizzy.

  Ashley will not be glad for this turn of events.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The long, low wail of a horn pushed its deep notes into Ashley’s consciousness, startling her awake. What the hell? It paused and sounded again, urgent and dire. She threw the blankets off and lurched out of bed, stumbling in the early dawn light barely illuminating her hut.

  The cold air slapped her bare legs and arms. Shivering, she yanked on her tunic top, skirts, and warm mantle, stuffing her feet into the fur-lined leather contraptions they called shoes.

  Skipping the tedious process of donning her mittens, she tucked her hands into the relative warmth of her arm pits and pushed her door open with a shoulder.

  The horn’s urgent tones blared louder now that she was outside. “What’s happening?” she asked her neighbor Fionnuala—an elderly woman who kept to herself and had also stepped outside.

  Fionnuala motioned downslope. “It’s the men. They’re returning from battle.”

  Ashley’s heart lurched. Connall!

  She hustled into the trickle of people heading down, the nervous energy rushing through her making her movements jerky. She pushed and twined her way through until she reached where the bulk of their people were lining up on either side of the path leading to the loch. A string of battle-weary men plodded up the incline, so Ashley scooted to the side, nudging her way between two other villagers.

  As the warriors approached, she eagerly scanned their faces for the one she wanted to see most, but he wasn’t in the front where he should be. Worry and fear became a sharp taste on her tongue.

  Most were on foot, having just disembarked down at the docks, but near the back, a figure sat hunched forward on a horse. Black hair fluttered behind him, the familiar, sharp cheekbones and proud nose set in a face paler than usual. Dread slithered through her heart.

  “Connall!”

  At her screech, all heads turned to her, and she dashed down the slope. He raised his head, his face creased in pain. When recognition dawned, he straightened and his features smoothed.

  She rushed to his side, hopping sideways to keep up with the horse’s gait. “Connall, are you all right?”

  The stubborn man nodded, but his hand came away from his side and clenched into a fist on his thigh. Revealing a makeshift bandage, bloody and caked with grime, wrapped around his torso, just visible behind the folds of his kilt.

  Knowing he wouldn’t want her to fuss over him in front of everyone, she restricted herself to reaching up and squeezing his thigh. “You’re home now,” she whispered so only he could hear.

  Gratefulness flared in his eyes so briefly, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  Man, she wanted to drag him off that damn horse and simultaneously kiss him, shake him, and swaddle him up in cotton balls. Instead she wrapped her arm around his calf and walked proudly beside him. Tension hummed through her, and it seemed to take forever to make their way up the incline as the villagers welcomed him and the warriors back home.

  At their hut, Connall stiffly reined in his horse and slid to the ground, his movements slow as if moving through molasses. He stood erect in front of her, his face unreadable.

  It unnerved her. Why didn’t he move? She nearly vibrated with the need to hug him, but she was constrained by his strange stance. He was home, though. And alive. She should be happy about that.

  Domnall, who’d been walking on Connall’s other side, came around. “I’ll help him to your hearth.”

  Help him?

  And it was only then she noticed the light sheen of sweat coating his skin. His unfocused gaze.

  Connall swayed slightly, and Domnall caught him up and draped an arm over his s
houlder. Together they hobbled over to their hut.

  Her knees momentarily dipped as a bolt of fear spiked her heart beats. It’s worse than I thought.

  Willing her jelly legs to cooperate, she rushed ahead and yanked open the door. Domnall nodded his thanks and brought Connall inside, who was now clearly drained. As if all his remaining strength had been expended on making a dignified return home. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  She hurried to the bed and threw back the blankets. “Lay him here, and I’ll get the fire going. Tell me, please, what happened? Will he be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Connall grunted. He sat heavily on the bed, his large body bouncing slightly, and his face contorted in pain. But the stubborn man didn’t lie down.

  At the same time his brother straightened and said, “Taken a fever, he has. We sealed the wound, but the gods must not be happy with him.” Domnall glanced down at his brother, his lips thinning, and his forehead creased.

  The words it’s not a punishment from the gods choked her throat and she pulled in a deep breath and swallowed. “The wound’s infected.”

  Matching frowns greeted her, though Connall’s head turned much more slowly toward her.

  She rounded on Domnall. “Get Eithne for me. I have work to do.”

  “Work?” Connall croaked. “I’d think…” He dragged in a slow breath and wet his lips. “I’d think you can take a rest and talk sweetly to me now that I’m returned home.” His upper body swayed.

  “I was referring to you. You’re part of my job description, remember?”

  His eyes flew open and it took a moment for his gaze to find hers and focus. “I told ye, that was not my intention.”

  She pushed a confused Domnall out the door and smiled back at Connall, though she couldn’t help biting her lip. He looks so weak. “I was only teasing.” She crossed to where he still sat on the bed’s edge.

  Men.

  The same in every time period, it seemed. She pushed on his shoulders until he fell back onto their heather-filled mattress. “Lie down and let me fuss over you, all right?”

  When he didn’t protest this time, she frowned.

  Oh God. Please, let him be all right.

  Okay. First things first. Boiled water.

  She rushed over to the iron kettle on the hook and retrieved water from outside. A week ago, tired of going down to the river every day to bathe, she’d set up a large waterproof barrel to collect rainwater and used it for daily sponge baths, saving the full river bath for once a week. She coaxed the fire to life and set the pot on the iron rod suspended over the flames to bring it to a boil.

  Next. Bandages.

  She tugged one of her skirts from a shelf and ripped it into strips, the tearing sound filling the small confines. She tossed them all into the now-boiling water.

  By then a scratch sounded on her door, and Eithne peeked inside.

  Ashley straightened from the fire and wiped her hands on her skirts. “Come in. I’ll need your help.”

  The older woman entered and quietly shut the door. “I heard Connall was wounded,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yes. And infection has set in.”

  Eithne cocked her head, because “infection” had come out in English.

  “He has a fever. I need to cure it.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  Ashley grabbed her divining kit, spread it out on a bare spot on the floor, and formulated her question. What herbs are available in Iron Age Scotland that will combat infection?

  She threw the dirt, but no answer appeared. Panic fired along her veins. That was a simple enough question. Lately, she’d noticed the answers were more sluggish in coming to her, but she’d never had it not answer completely if it was something Google would know.

  Shit. Not now, of all times.

  She pulled in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Connall’s harsh breathing filled the hut, making it difficult to push out all thoughts, all worries. Again, panic clawed up her throat, but she breathed through her nose.

  C’mon, Zen.

  Finally, as calm as she could hope to be under the circumstances, she tossed the dirt. She could feel the answer coming, but it was like trying to remember a word that was just out of reach. She breathed in through her nose on a count of three, and out again. One. Two. Three.

  The answer finally came, and she turned to Eithne. “Can you bring me any Herb Robert or heather you might have?”

  Eithne nodded. “There’s a bit left in the storage room used by the old healer, I think. And there’s plenty of heather hereabouts.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This will help him?”

  Connall’s skin appeared even paler.

  “I sure hope so,” she whispered.

  When Eithne left to retrieve the herbs, Ashley fished out the sterilized strips of cloth from the boiling kettle and hung them over the clothesline she’d strung up on one side of the hut. All the while, she darted glances at Connall’s prone form. Since the clothesline was near the fire, she prayed it wouldn’t take too long for them to dry.

  She crouched down beside the bed and pushed aside the folds of his kilt, exposing the bandage. Where was the knot? She frantically felt around. Unable to roll his large body to the side, she hurried over to the shelf where they kept their tools. Luckily, a funny kind of scissors had been invented. They worked like tongs, but with sharp blades.

  Back at his side, she eased the blade under the fabric and cut away the filthy bandage until only the cloth caked to his wound remained. She sat back. How to get it off without hurting him or removing a chunk of skin?

  She’d have to undry the blood.

  She hopped up and tested a large strip drying on the line with her finger tips. Cool enough to handle and, more to her purpose, still warm and wet. She pulled it down and spread it against the caked bandage, but it wasn’t nearly enough moisture. She tore off another strip and dipped it into her outside bucket of water and carefully wrung it out over the wound.

  She needed to get that bandage off.

  Finally, after careful application of water and working the moisture into the fibers and the dried blood, she was able to peel the cloth away without disturbing the wound, though some of the dried mess around it peeled away with it.

  She gagged at the sight. And closed her eyes, her heart beating like a drunk thing.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  This was bad.

  She’d missed him while he was gone, and while that had scared her, as well as the abstract fear for him, seeing him wounded like this cut her deep. Deep enough that she had to acknowledge a simple truth—it would be so easy to lose him in this time period. And losing him?

  That was the deepest cut of all.

  Someone kept nudging Ashley’s shoulder, and she swatted the annoying creature away.

  “Ashley, wake up,” a familiar feminine voice said near her ear.

  Her shoulder was nudged again, and Ashley blinked eyes caked with sleep.

  Where was she? What was going on?

  Darkness cloaked the hut, with only the barest pink glow emanating from the fire. Eithne crouched into view, her face barely visible in the gloom.

  “Ashley, you fell asleep,” she whispered.

  So? Sleep was good. She straightened, and her neck pinched.

  Ouch.

  Then she blinked and looked down. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor and had fallen asleep with her head propped on the edge of the bed. Okay, yeah, sleeping that way wasn’t good. Why was she—?

  Connall!

  She jerked around, her arms stretching forward, seeking him. He was asleep, his features still scrunched from feverish dreams. His head wrenched to the side, and a low moan emerged.

  Hands caught her under her arms, and she was being guided upward. Eithne murmured
in her ear, “Let’s get you properly to bed. You’ll be of no use to him if you’re tired and take sick yourself.”

  Ashley’s body ached, and her mind raced, trying to piece together the haze of the last day. She’d finally scoured all the gunk from his wound, having found out it was sealed shortly after battle with the tip of a hot iron. She’d almost thrown up just picturing how painful that must have been, and she wished she’d been there to hold his hand through it, though he probably wouldn’t have let her.

  She’d flushed the wound, cleaned it with an herbal disinfectant she’d made, and wrapped it up tight with the clean linen she’d boiled. At one point she’d forced him to wake up and swallow some kind of nasty concoction to help reduce fever, judging by the grimace he made.

  Speaking of… “Help me get him to swallow some more of that stuff.”

  Eithne’s upper body was stronger than hers, so she directed her to get him semi-upright.

  His eyes, glassy with fever, blinked open.

  “Connall, swallow this,” she urged, bringing the hard leather cup to his lips.

  Luckily, he was too out of it to do more than twist his mouth, but she forced it open and got him to swallow down several gulps.

  Once he was horizontal again, she straightened. “Thank you, Eithne.”

  “You need to move him again, you get me or Domnall to help you.” She gripped Ashley’s shoulder. “Now you get some sleep, dearie. I’ll see you at dawn.”

  “I will,” she said, touched by the woman’s concern. “And thank you for checking in on me in the middle of the night.”

  “Of course.”

  Ashley carefully picked her way over Connall’s large frame on her hands and knees, unwilling to disturb him. Reaching the far side of the bed, she crawled under the covers and snuggled up to him on his good side. His skin was still too warm, and he still thrashed, but was it her imagination that it seemed to lessen with her stretched along his side?