by Amy Jarecki
She pulled the moth-eaten cloak taut around Duncan’s body and looked to the sky. His teeth chattered. It was even colder here than it had been in Glasgow. “Fetch some blankets before we set out. Sir Duncan is fevered. I’ll not have him catch his death on this journey.”
“Very well, m’lady,” the man-at-arms said, motioning for a soldier to ride back to the castle. He turned to the cart driver. “Lead on. The guard will catch up in no time.”
The sentry had been right. The guard caught up with the plaids before they’d traversed a mile. Gratefully, Meg took them and spread the woolens over Duncan, tucking the edges in at his sides.
“One of those plaids is for you, m’lady,” the guard said. “Your cloak would hardly withstand a summer’s breeze, let alone a February gale.”
“I thank you, but I daresay Sir Duncan needs them more than I.” Once content she’d made him as comfortable as possible, she again moved to his head and cradled it in her lap. The jerking motion of the cart was nearly enough to rattle Meg’s brain. She hated to think what it was doing to Duncan, and she held his head as if he were a wee bairn.
True to his word, the man-at-arms led the procession at a trot, with four horses hitched to the cart. The only bad thing was, with no hay lining its bed, the old cart was nothing but a flatbed of planks. Duncan couldn’t be comfortable. Meg most certainly was not.
The sky had taken on a violet hue by the time the guard hollered, “Kilchurn straight ahead.”
A long sigh slipped past Meg’s lips. She cast her gaze eastward. The sun reflected brilliantly against the battlement walls, further illuminating the great stone keep rising above. A deep blue loch surrounded three sides. Indeed, everything about Kilchurn was as Duncan described. With verdant mountains surrounding the castle, Meg imagined no force would ever be powerful enough to breach its walls.
“Open the gate!” bellowed the guard.
The driver slowed the horses while the portcullis chains groaned.
At a walk, they passed through the guardhouse and into the busy outer bailey. Not unlike Tantallon, the smithy’s shack rang with the sound of pounding iron, accompanied by the hammer of a farrier shoeing a horse, and chickens squawking.
The men stopped the procession just outside the inner bailey gate—more like an enormous door with square blackened nails in vertical lines.
The door creaked open. “What the devil?” Duncan’s voice boomed from the blackness.
Still cradling his head in her lap, Meg snapped her head around. A much older, grey-haired form of Duncan glared at her, eyebrows knitted.
“Lord Campbell?” she asked.
The man scowled. “Aye.” He wore a dark green doublet, leather breeks on his legs and a feathered bonnet. “And what have you done to my son?”
The power of his menacing stare could have made Meg shrivel into a prune, but she squeezed her bottom cheeks and sat tall. “Sir Duncan was injured coming to my rescue. He managed to spirit me to Dunstaffnage, but as soon as we arrived, he succumbed to fever.”
Lord Campbell appraised her quickly, stepping in as if his eyesight were failing. “You’re Lady Douglas?”
Meg followed his much-too-close gaze to her moth-eaten cloak. “Aye.”
Lord Glenorchy motioned to his sentries. “We must take him inside at once.”
“Sooner, if possible.” Meg steadied Duncan’s head while four men each grasped an arm or leg.
“Where is he wounded?” Lord Glenorchy asked.
Meg bit her lip. “’Tis best I tell you behind closed doors.”
By his frown, he didn’t care for her response, but he gestured toward the keep. “Send the healer up to my son’s chamber at once.”
As Meg neared the entrance, the mouth-watering smell of baking bread made her knees weak. The miserly captain had given her a piece of bully beef on the ship. That and a bit of bread was all she’d had to eat since last evening’s meal. They walked past the kitchens, with a typical flurry of activity outside the door. But Meg kept her gaze ahead and stayed close behind the entourage. In no way would she be separated from Duncan.
Once inside, Lord Campbell grasped her arm. “I believe you owe me an explanation.”
She tugged against him and watched the men turn into a stairwell. “I must follow Sir Duncan, m’lord.”
“Come.” He pulled her into a solar and closed the door. “You must tell me what happened first.”
Clenching her teeth, she pulled her arm away and started for the door. “I cannot leave Sir Duncan’s side—not until he wakes.”
Lord Campbell placed his rather large palm on the oaken door. “This shan’t take long, but I am the lord of this castle, and Duncan is my son. I believe that entitles me to an explanation.”
With a nod, Meg cast one last gaze at the door and launched into a hurried account of how Duncan fell from his horse and injured his backside. “Please. I have tended him all this while. I will not rest until he is set to rights.”
“I’ve called for the healer. He will be in good hands now.” Lord Campbell gestured for her to sit. “If you please, Lady Douglas.”
A healer? Another cannot assume Duncan’s care. After she sat, Meg tapped the pincers of the claw and shook her foot. “Please, call me Lady Meg. Now—”
He drew his eyebrows together, looking so much like Duncan, though his face was etched and weathered with deep lines. “Why the blazes did he bring you here?”
Must she relay the whole adventure? As swiftly as she could, Meg told him everything she thought pertinent about their journey, leaving out certain details, like kissing Duncan and pretending to be his wife. Divulging that wee tidbit of information could find her in a world of trouble, if not completely ruined.
“It seems you’ve had quite a harrowing adventure.” His harsh features softened. “You are welcome at Kilchurn, m’lady. I shall have my wife appoint you with a suitable chamber straight away.”
“Oh, no.” Meg stood. “I need to see to Sir Duncan’s healing.”
“Are you an herbalist, a healer?” he asked.
She hated to lie. “Aye, of sorts.” She’d applied Duncan’s ointment and helped him with the leeches. That had to count for something.
He scratched his grey beard. “’Tis a bit untoward…”
“Please. He saved my life. And I…I’m in training to be a nun.” She stood and clasped her palms together. “We’ve been traveling together for days. He is unconscious. What harm could befall me?”
Lord Campbell had immediately stood when Meg rose, as was courteous, but worry now etched his weathered face. “How long has he had the sweat?”
“A day.”
“And you’ve been applying a Gypsy salve?”
“One purchased by Duncan himself.” Her mind rifled through the list of herbs Hubert, the healer at Tantallon, kept on hand. “He needs an astringent for certain. Ah…” She held up her finger. “St. John’s wort.” She sounded like a sheep-brained simpleton, but Lord Campbell couldn’t keep her from Duncan’s side.
“We must do everything possible to see my son survives this.”
Meg crossed herself. “I’ve been praying to the Holy Mother ceaselessly.”
He gave her a grim nod. “If you desire to assist the healer, I see no harm in it.”
She could have thrown her arms around Lord Glenorchy’s neck and hugged him. “Thank—”
He held up a finger. “But as soon as he rouses, I shall have a retinue to accompany you home. Duncan sent your brother a missive?”
“Aye.”
“Thank heavens for that. I wouldn’t want the Earl of Angus in a rage because he thinks the Campbells have absconded with his sister.” Lord Glenorchy shook his head. “We’ve enough troubles without creating them for naught.”
A heavyset woman opened the door and bustled into the solar. She carried a basket, and panted heavily as if she’d just run a distance. “M’lord. I came…as soon…as I received word.”
Lord Campbell gestured with an outs
tretched palm. “Mistress Alana. This is Lady Meg. She has been tending Duncan’s wounds whilst they traveled from Northumberland. Between the pair of you, I trust you can set my heir to rights.”
The matron frowned in Meg’s direction, but bowed her head respectfully. “Very well, m’lady. We’ve no time to waste.”
Meg stepped beside her. “Agreed.”
Following the healer up the winding tower stairs, Alana glanced at Meg over her shoulder. “What happened to the lad?”
Meg hardly regarded Duncan as a lad, but relayed the same story she’d given to his father.
“Gypsy salve?” the healer asked. “’Tis a wonder he survived.”
“Sir Duncan said Gypsies put all sorts of mysterious essences in their healing ointments.”
Mistress Alana grimaced. “Aye, like sheep’s piss.”
Meg covered her mouth to hide her gasp. “I pray not.”
“Well, we shall have a look. We cannot have Sir Duncan succumbing to the sweat.” She exited at the third landing and pushed through a chamber door.
Duncan rested on the bed, lying on his side. He didn’t appear to be awake.
Meg hid the claw behind her back. She recognized Duncan’s brother standing with five other women. “Sir John? You’ve returned.”
“I arrived but moments behind you.” Striding forward, John clasped her hand. “I feared this would happen, given his fall.”
She glanced past him to five women, all staring at her with exasperated expressions, as if she were personally responsible for Duncan’s state of health. “Sir Duncan held on right until the last. As soon as we docked at the Dunstaffnage pier, the fever got the better of him.”
“Using Gypsy salve, he was,” Alana said, frowning and arching her brow toward Meg.
Everyone in the room gasped.
Meg suddenly wished she’d taken the soldier’s advice and stayed at Dunstaffnage until Duncan’s fever broke.
John regarded the women over his shoulder. “Forgive me. These are my sisters, Helen, Gyllis, Marion and Alice.” He gestured to a lovely older woman wearing a grey wimple. “And my mother, Lady Margaret.”
Meg curtsied. “I wish we could be making our acquaintance under less dire circumstances.”
“Aye,” Alana said. “Everyone out and let me work. You too, Lady Meg.”
No. Meg planted her feet firmly. Lord Glenorchy had given her a direct order to work beside the healer. “I will not leave Duncan’s side.”
“I, too, would like to stay,” Lady Margaret said. “Though he did not come from my womb, Duncan is my son.”
Alana knitted her brows. “Very well. You’ll need a strong stomach. His wound is on his arse.”
Lady Margaret arched a dour eyebrow at Meg. “Well then, ’tis not proper for you to be here.”
Must everyone stand in her way? Did no one understand that she would not leave Duncan’s side? “I have been tending his tender behind for days.” She stood a wee bit taller and clenched her fist. “I intend to take up the veil after I return to Tantallon. Besides, Duncan was injured during my rescue. I am personally responsible for his recovery.”
Alana set her basket on the table and moved to the bed. “If you’re both staying, you can help me remove his chausses.”
Lady Margaret picked up a folded plaid from the footboard. “Drape this across him for modesty’s sake.”
Meg chewed her bottom lip. She should have thought to do that at the inn. She wouldn’t have seen quite so much of him if she had.
Once Duncan’s sleeping form was covered, Lady Margaret turned to Meg. “You hold the blanket down while we take care of the rest.”
She nodded. At least they had allowed her to stay.
The two women quickly removed his shoes, chausses, and braies. Alana lifted the blanket and hissed. “’Tis angry red and filled with pus.”
Meg peered around the plaid. “As I feared, ’tis worse than this morning.”
Alana leaned near the wound and sniffed. “I need hot water and bandages.”
Lady Margaret hastened to the door. “I shall have them sent up straight away.”
“And some willow bark tea. We’ll spoon it into him.” Fishing in her basket, Alana pulled out a stoppered vial and held it up. “This is my own concoction. ’Twill hurt like the devil, but drastic measures are needed. We cannot have the heir to the Lordship of Glenorchy succumb to a wound on his backside.”
Meg stared at the vial. “What’s in it?”
“Whale oil, houseleek and pure whisky.”
“Whisky?”
“Aye. Potent, too.” Alana picked up a rag and doused it with her brew. “He’ll need this applied at the turn of every hour.”
Meg watched her intently. “I can see to that.”
“Aye?” Alana didn’t look up. “You care for our young knight, do you not?”
Meg’s heart skipped a beat. “He risked his life to save me. I would never be able to live with myself if…” She couldn’t say it.
Servants bearing ewers of hot water arrived, with Lady Margaret carrying a tankard, a worried crease to her brow. “I’ve brought the willow bark tea.”
Alana took the cup. “Go ahead and tend to your duties, m’lady. Lady Meg and I have it in hand.”
Lady Campbell cast a worried glance to the bed. “Very well, but I want to receive word as soon as there is any change, better or worse.”
Alana bowed her head. “Aye, m’lady. You’ll be the first to know, as always.”
Meg reached for the tankard. “I can spoon the tea into his mouth.”
“It will be difficult with him on his side, but I do not want to put him on his back.”
“Mayhap if we turn his shoulders just a bit.”
“Good thinking.”
Meg smiled inwardly. She’d been feeling so out of place. Having the gruff older woman take note of anything she said was a small boon.
After turning the hourglass on the bedside table, Alana applied hot compresses while Meg dribbled the tea into Duncan’s mouth. She released a long exhale when his Adam’s apple moved. At least some of the tea was getting into him.
The matron placed a damp, folded cloth on his head. “This needs to be changed hourly as well.”
“I can do that.”
“’Tis late.” Alana pushed a stray lock of hair under her wimple. “You should go down to the hall for your meal.”
Meg tightened her grip on the wooden spoon. “I’m not leaving him.”
Alana stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “You are a headstrong lassie, are you not…ah…m’lady?” Her gaze shifted to the claw pincers that held the tankard.
Not about to allow a common woman to remark about her deformity, Meg rested the tankard on the table and faced her. “I am an earl’s daughter. It is in my breeding to never give up.”
The healer straightened the plaid covering Duncan. “Mm hmm.”
“I may have a deformed hand, but I manage just fine and am not any lesser a person for it.”
Color spread across the older woman’s cheeks. “You have proven yourself thus, m’lady.”
Meg had expected more of a fight. Perhaps being an earl’s daughter helped—or was it because after years of being treated as a cripple by her family, Meg had finally come upon the chance to prove her worth? She picked up the tankard and resumed spooning the willow bark tea.
Carrying her basket, Alana moved in beside her. “There’s nothing we can do now aside from more of the same until he wakes. Since you are unwilling to leave his side, I’ll have the kitchen send up some food, m’lady.”
“I thank you.”
Alana carried a wooden chair from near the hearth and set it by the bed. “You should seek a bed soon.”
“I cannot.” Meg gratefully sat. “I owe him my life.”
“I admire your strength.” The matron nodded thoughtfully then pointed. “My cottage is up the hill. If he should worsen during the night, send a guard to fetch me.”
13
Once Alana took her leave, a barrage of visitors stopped by Duncan’s chamber. Everyone expressed their worry and desire to help. Meg wished she and Duncan were back at the inn where she could be left alone to tend him, but it was fitting for his family to be concerned. After reiterating time and time again that she intended to tend Duncan through the night, Lord Campbell finally departed for his own bed.
Only an army could have removed her from Duncan’s chamber. Thank the stars they hadn’t resorted to that.
Meg crossed to the window and pulled aside the furs. Icy night air cut through her gown, but it refreshed her face and gave her renewed energy. She’d promised Lord Campbell she would sit with Duncan until he woke. He needed her, and she could not fail him.
She didn’t tarry long at the window for fear the draft would chill the chamber. Rubbing her hands across tired eyes, she stoked the fire and returned to Duncan’s side. The sand in the hourglass trickled to nothing. Dutifully, she pulled back the plaid and applied the whisky tincture.
Duncan moaned and jolted slightly to her touch. Leaning over him, she examined his eyes. Still closed. “Duncan?” she whispered.
He made not a move, and she continued applying the cloth, followed by a cool compress. Three more times the hourglass drained its sand and she followed the same ritual, keeping the cloth upon his forehead cool all the while.
Often Duncan moaned, but never roused. The fourth time she turned the hourglass, her eyelids refused to stay open. If I rest for a brief moment, my strength will return. Besides, there’s naught to do but wait until the sand runs its course again.
Meg tiptoed to the far side of the large four-poster bed. There was ample room for them both. She’d not disturb him in the slightest if she were to rest on the far side, and this time there would be no chance he’d sidle across and drape his arm over her waist.
She curled up and faced him. The candlelight flickered amber across his face, highlighting his unblemished skin, darkened by his black beard. In slumber Duncan resembled an angel, and Meg could think of nothing more beautiful than he.
His lips were moist and shimmered with the candlelight. The desire to kiss him became so strong, her entire body ached. If only she could marry a man like Duncan Campbell. He cared not about what others thought of her deformity. A man as virile and important as he would have no deference for the opinion of others. Inching across the bedclothes, Meg managed to work herself so close to him she could feel his breath upon her face.
