by Eliza Knight
The heartaches he’d endured when he thought his wife, one of his children, or his people, were in peril had given him more than a few gray hairs, but none compared to the throbbing, heart-shredding pain he felt at watching his son Liam be pummeled with arrows. With every shot, Liam continued to fight, pain etched on his features and outlined by sheer warrior strength and determination. This was why Liam was the greatest warrior in Scotland, because when death should have defeated him, he fought on. Slaying more men with arrows protruding from his back than some men did wholly intact. Until he couldn’t any longer.
And then he’d fallen.
Magnus let out a roar that shook the earth when Liam sank to his knees. Rage and blinding fear caused Magnus to feel outside of his own body as he moved heaven and earth to get to his son. He sliced through the men that stood in his path as if they were mere clouds of dust and nothing more. Leapt over bodies, ducked beneath swords, rammed through the melee.
“Liam!” he bellowed over and over.
Nay, nay, nay.
This could not be happening. He wouldn’t allow it! A parent was never supposed to witness the death of their child. “Take me, take me,” he called up to the heavens, “Please God, take me instead.”
Time seemed to move slower with Magnus’s agony. Why couldn’t he get there fast enough! There were too many obstacles in his way.
To his horror, he watched a Ross warrior take note of his son on his knees and raise his sword to strike a final blow. Magnus let out another roar of pure fury and protective instinct and threw his sword with every ounce of power in his body. The weapon soared end over end and sank into the man’s back at the same time Liam thrust his sword through the bastard’s abdomen.
The enemy warrior fell to his knees before Liam, and it took only one breath before Liam, too, started to collapse. As his son fell, the earth simply stopped moving. The battle going on around him halted, as though time were suspended in this one agonizing moment. Liam’s gaze met Magnus’s as he crumpled, a faint smile on his lips, and then his eyelids dipped closed.
Magnus finally reached his son, halfway diving and halfway sliding along the blood-soaked ground until he was there beside him.
A cry of anguish ripped through his throat. “Liam! Nay! Liam!”
He shoved his thick arms beneath Liam’s body, but he couldn’t cradle him, not with five arrows protruding from his back.
“Why?” Magnus bellowed.
The men around him, seeing what had taken place, fought harder—Sutherlands bonded together to annihilate the enemy who’d seen to the death of one of their own.
Liam was still warm in Magnus’s arms, his breath shallow, but it wouldn’t be long. Not with this many arrows in his back; not with the blood soaking his shirt, turning it from white to dark red.
Even still, Magnus laid his son across his lap and broke off the shafts of the arrows. They would call a healer. He would pray. He would offer himself up to the Lord if only to give his son another chance.
“My laird,” a warrior dropped down beside Magnus. “I am Lucas.”
“I ken who ye are,” Magnus said, his throat tight making the words hard to get out.
“Let me help, my laird. I’m a skilled healer.”
Magnus was willing to do anything. If the Devil himself crawled from the depths of the earth and demanded his soul in exchange for his son’s life, Magnus would give it in an instant, even if it meant an eternity in hellfire.
He’d flay open his own chest to give his son breath.
“Help me carry him,” Lucas said to Tad, Ronan’s lad.
Between the three of them, they managed to carry Liam’s body inside the empty castle, no one caring that they were on enemy lands. He left his trusted men to finish vanquishing the enemy.
With Magnus and Lucas balancing Liam’s body, Tad swiped everything he could off the massive trestle table where the Ross warriors had been supping before their arrival.
Magnus bore the majority of the weight of Liam’s unconscious body to the table and laid him facedown.
Liam’s face was turned to the side, and Magnus put his finger beneath his son’s nose, grateful for the heated breath that blew across, no matter how erratic it was. He was still alive for now. But if he survived, it would be a miracle. Oh, God, what was Magnus going to tell Arbella? She would take to her bed and never come out again. Liam’s siblings would raise their weapons and eradicate everyone with a drop of Ross blood. Magnus himself would go to Stirling and kill Ina and Ughtred, even if it meant his own death.
Lucas stared hard around the empty castle: not a servant in sight. “They willna help us. We’ll need to—”
“They will,” Magnus said through gritted teeth. “Come out of hiding at once, or so help me God, I will gut ye and all your bloody family.”
Several men and women stepped out from where they hid behind tapestries or curtained alcoves, and one from beneath the table. He couldn’t blame them for taking cover. More often than not in these troubled times, when a siege took place, the entire castle was slaughtered.
“We need hot water, whisky and linens,” Lucas demanded. “And if ye’ve a healer, send them.”
“Our healer was…killed,” one of the servants offered.
“Bring me the healer’s medicine box.”
“Aye, my lord.” The servant rushed to do his bidding.
“Go, the rest of ye, and get what he’s asked for, else the Earl of Sutherland make good on his threats,” Tad bellowed, sending the servants scurrying.
Lucas took a dagger from his boot and started to cut away Liam’s shirt. The wide expanse of his back was covered in blood and past scars, along with the arrows imbedded in his body. Two on the left near his shoulder, one a few inches below that, one near his right hip and one in the center right of his back.
“None will have hit his heart,” Lucas said. “These two near his shoulder and this one near his hip are not life threatening. But the other two…” He pointed at the arrows that neared the center on either side of Liam’s back. “Could have punctured a lung. Or other vital tissue.”
Magnus ground his teeth together, unable to speak. He nodded, spared from having to say anything when the servants returned with the requested items.
“Tell me what ye need me to do,” Magnus said to Lucas.
“I need ye and Tad to hold him down.”
Magnus and Tad did just that. Tad at Liam’s ankles, and Magnus at his head and shoulders. Even unconscious, Liam was strong, and he bucked when Lucas poured whisky on the wounds to wash them. Blood seeped from where the arrows protruded. So much blood.
Lucas was able to slowly pull out three of the arrows, and judging that they hadn’t hit any organs, he cauterized the wounds. The scent of his son’s skin burning and the screams coming from Liam’s throat were enough to make Magnus want to retch, but he held it in and grasped his son hard.
“Hold steady, Liam,” he murmured against his ear. “Live, my lad, live.”
Lucas covered the cauterized wounds in an onion and salt salve.
The other two, the more dangerous, had not hit muscle or bone and had sunk in so deep Lucas had to use his knife. He sterilized it with flames to cut them out. Liam cried out, then stopped moving altogether, his breathing ceased more than once and long enough to cause Magnus to panic.
“Dinna die on me, son,” Magnus said. “We need ye here with us.”
“The Highlands, Scotland, canna live without ye,” Tad said. “The mightiest warrior in all the land canna be taken down by a few arrows.”
With the arrows removed, Lucas worked to sew the deeper wounds, having to seemingly put Liam back together from the inside out. When he was done, he covered the stitching in herbs and then wrapped Liam’s torso in linens, with Tad and Magnus lifting him from the table.
“We’ll need to monitor him for fevers and infections,” Lucas said, his face pale as he collapsed onto a bench beside the table. The man had worked tirelessly for hours.
&nb
sp; “He’s still alive,” Magnus said, grateful to be uttering those words.
Lucas gave a curt nod. “But not out of the woods.”
“Aye.” Too many times a man died from infection from his wounds, rather than the wounds themselves. “But at least now he has a chance.”
“Aye.”
Tad lifted the jug of whisky and handed it to Lucas. “Drink. Ye deserve it.”
Lucas took a long swallow and passed the jug to Magnus. “As do ye, my friends.”
Magnus took his turn with the jug, swallowing as much whisky as a man dying of thirst might swallow water, then he handed it to Tad. They sat in silence, watching Liam, staring hard at his back and willing it to rise and fall. Lucas and Tad fell asleep in their chairs, but Magnus did not. His men came and went, taking direction, as did Liam’s. They were all worried about the state of the Liam’s injuries, and what to do about the castle, prisoners and servants.
Magnus muttered replies, uncertain of what he told them, conscious only of his son lying face down on a table fighting for his life.
When the sun rose, Lucas checked on Liam’s wounds, cleaned them and forced whisky down Liam’s throat. He was still alive, but sweat beaded his skin, and his body was wracked with shivers.
Fever.
“He feels afire, my laird.”
Magnus bellowed orders for cold well water to be brought in, and they wiped down Liam’s body and forced him to sip a tisane that would help his body fight the fever. Lucas checked the wounds, and one of them looked angrier than the others—infection. He drained the pus forming, cleaned it and covered it with herbs, checking every hour to stave the infection from growing.
They spent days like this. Barely eating, not moving. They lined the table with blankets and furs to make Liam more comfortable. Every few hours, they wiped his body down with cool water, cleaned and repacked his wounds, forced whisky and herbs into his mouth. But still he burned with fever.
Magnus wasn’t certain how many days passed. The bodies of the dead had been buried, the wounded tended, and the castle was running smoothly with the help of an agreeable steward who had hated his laird and was more than eager to serve the Sutherlands.
Perhaps a sennight or a fortnight later—Magnus was unsure—Liam finally opened his eyes. They were glassy and still filled with fever, but he met his father’s gaze and opened his mouth to speak, though the only sound that came out was a long moan.
“Ye were victorious,” Magnus said, standing to come to his son’s side. “Still the best warrior in all of Scotland.”
Liam’s eyes dipped closed. But they opened again an hour later. After two days passed with him opening and closing his eyes, his fever finally, gratefully, broke.
“Da,” Liam said, the first words he’d spoken in the weeks since he’d been taken down. “That bloody wee bastard shot me.”
Magnus let out a roar of a laughter, at both his son’s comment and pure joy that he was alive. It was indeed a miracle. He glanced up toward the rafters and said a prayer of thanks.
“Aye, but he lacked the skill to take down a Sutherland,” Magnus said, gripping his son’s hand.
“Did he live to tell his tale?” Liam asked.
“Aye.” His father frowned. “He was a wee lad. We thought we’d save him for ye to deal with.”
Liam nodded. If it were a man, they’d saved for him to exact a punishment on, he would swiftly see him to his maker. But a lad? Nay, he could never take the life of one so young. “Better to lead him in the right direction than cut short his life. I’ll teach the whelp to aim for the heart, and to be loyal to his king.”
Magnus’s chest swelled with pride. Rather than taking down the lad who’d thought to take his life, Liam was going to teach him. What an honorable man he’d raised.
“I’d expect nothing less.” Magnus’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat to gain the attention of the men in the room. “Declare it,” Magnus announced for all to hear. “Declare it to one and all that Castle Ross belongs to my son. That he lives.”
“Aye, my laird.” Tad rushed from the great hall, bellowing the words.
Chapter 16
“Mother, I don’t know about this.”
Cora paused on the last step, staring at the closed doors of the great hall where they’d been invited to dine this evening by the king. Shadows danced on the walls between the golden glow of the torches, causing her unease to grow. Her mother swore she’d told Cora everything, but there were still a few unanswered questions Cora had—such as who was the mysterious courtier that they would most likely face in the great hall? Her mother had waved that away, saying it had nothing to do with the breaking of the treaties.
But Cora could tell her mother was lying. Worse still, she feared the man might actually be the one her mother had been corresponding with—the one she’d promised Cora’s hand in marriage to.
“What is there to be worried over?” Her mother’s mouth was tight, her eyes darting toward the shadows, as though she were anxious.
Cora gripped her leather-clad hands together in front of her. She no longer wore the bandages, save for at night when she smoothed a healing salve onto her wounds. The wrappings helped her to absorb the salve into her skin.
The leather gloves given to her by the healer were a little too big, but they served their purpose well enough.
“I guess because it feels a little bit like walking into a lion’s den,” Cora murmured, a shiver racing down her spine. She wished Liam was here. At least she still had the knife he’d given her strapped to her calf. With her hands now out of their bandages, she could possibly wield it, though it wouldn’t be perfect, given her grip was not yet what it once had been.
Where are you, Liam?
She’d asked at least a dozen times in the last week if anyone had heard from him. If anyone knew where he might be, no one had told her anything. The king had refused her requests to meet with him unless she had the name of the man her mother had planned to marry her to. Which she didn’t, for her suspicions against the lord she’d met a week or so ago were not yet proven.
Her mother turned to face her and pressed a warm, slightly clammy palm on Cora’s cheek. Lady Segrave seemed nervous, and that was enough to make Cora’s stomach twist. “We’ve gotten all dressed up, and your hair is perfection.” She touched the pile of golden plaits atop Cora’s head. “Let’s go and have a little fun. I hear there will be music, maybe even dancing.”
Cora didn’t feel much like dancing. But she nodded anyway. Perhaps a little music would help brighten her mood, considering how down she’d felt in the weeks since Liam had left. Wasn’t anyone else worried about him? About his men?
Or did they know more than they were willing to let on?
She was in the dark, much like she’d always been at home.
The only consolation of being at the king’s table was that if the courtier in question were to approach her, she would be surrounded by guards. What could he do? Nothing. And perhaps her fears were unfounded. Perhaps he was simply an awkward man who’d had negative dealings with her family, which had made their meeting so uncomfortable. It didn’t necessarily mean he intended to do her harm.
“Mother—” she started and then stopped. This was not the place to inquire, but she couldn’t seem to make her feet move one more step without questioning what needed to be asked. “Why were you so adamant I not stay married Liam?”
“What? Isn’t it obvious?” Her mother shook her head, letting out the little laugh she did whenever she was trying to make someone feel small. “Now is not the time.”
Cora planted her feet firmly on the stone floor, refusing to move another inch. “It may not be the time, but I must know. Why?”
Her mother’s eyes shifted from side to side as if she were waiting for her past to catch up to her. “I will not discuss this here, in the corridor, outside the great hall of the Scottish king. Stop this insolence.”
Cora ignored her mother. “Is that the reason, beca
use Liam is Scottish?”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Lady Segrave scoffed.
“Or was it because you had someone else in mind?” Cora had no problem getting right to the heart of the matter. Before she stepped foot into the great hall, before she saw that man again, she wanted to know exactly who he was to her mother, and most importantly, who he was to her.
“Of course, your father and I had someone else in mind. Marriages are not for love or whims, or girlish flights of fancy. They are for alliances and for taking a higher place in the order of things. Your marriage to Liam Sutherland gives us nothing but Scottish blood soiling your long and noble English lineage.”
Cora bristled. “My marriage to the son of one of the most powerful men in Scotland, besides the King of Scots himself, is not advantageous enough? Who then, Mother? Who would you have had me aligned to?”
Lady Segrave squared her shoulders and fixed Cora with a look she’d often given her in her youth when Cora didn’t want to wear her hair in braids or had refused to go to her Latin lessons. The look that said she was worthless and stupid. Well, Cora had a look of her own, one she gave wholeheartedly.
“I’m not a child, Mother.”
“Well, you could have fooled me.”
Cora fisted her hands at her sides, stretching the skin uncomfortably in her thick gloves. Why was her mother being so…so…pig-headed? Cora was certain that Lady Segrave would not back down, as she was used to getting her way. She’d surrendered somewhat in Cora’s chamber, breaking down and telling Cora just enough to get her to stop asking questions, but before her now was the woman with a mouth like an iron vault.
“Please tell me, Mother. What good is it to keep it a secret now, when the world knows I’ve married Liam?”
“And what good would it do for me to tell you when the world knows that the death of Liam would bring about the opportunity again—if the lord in question is even amenable to Scottish seconds.”
Scottish seconds? While Cora was still a maid, she wasn’t naïve enough to not understand the use of that term. That Liam would have had her first and passed her off to another was as insulting as it was humiliating. And to hear it from her own mother’s lips…
