The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  She frowned, and then nodded understanding. She used a sturdy branch as wide as her finger to wind the bandage tighter. When it was as tight as she could get it, she tied it off.

  “I need...breathe,” he said, drawing breath. She could see he was laughing, though the effort cost him.

  “Try and breathe,” she said earnestly. “It must be tight.”

  “Tight enough,” he said.

  She closed her eyes a moment, fervently hoping he was right. As it happened, she could see no fresh blood leaking from the wound, though the knot of the bandage was dark red already. She looked around, desperate.

  “I need to get you to a physician,” she said.

  He was already half-asleep, his eyes wandering. She knew he was about to pass out. She had to get him on horseback.

  “Here. Take this.”

  She held out her hand and, grunting, leaned back so that her weight brought him, gasping, to his feet. He swayed and she caught him and he held himself upright, half-leaning on her. “Here!” she called to her horse “Come here..?”

  The horse was a hired horse. She didn't know his name, or if he would come to her if she called. She stared at her, desperate, and it seemed almost as if he heard her plea, for she took a step forward, then another.

  “Come on,” she called. “Come on here...”

  The horse came forward and stopped in front of her. Claudine shifted so Brogan leaned against the horse, and stepped around to her bridle, holding her.

  “You can get on?” she asked Brogan.

  He nodded. “Trying...”

  She watched. It was painfully slow, but he got one leg into the stirrup and then, grunting and clearly in pain, managed to swing himself over the saddle. He slumped against her horse's neck. She was grateful that she was using a regular saddle.

  “Where's your horse?” she asked aloud, not really meaning him to hear.

  “Mistfell,” he whispered. “That's...name...”

  “Mistfell!” Claudine yelled. “Mistfell...here, boy.” The horse was a stallion; she had noticed that during the ride.

  She thought nothing was going to happen, that she would have to lead Brogan on her horse on foot, but then she heard a step in the brush and saw ears appearing. Soon, Mistfell was in the clearing.

  “Good boy.”

  He was nervous, and it took her some time to persuade him to let her mount. However, he did, and soon she was in the saddle. She reached for the bridle of her mount.

  “Come on, lass.”

  Brogan was leaning on her horse's neck. He was limp and she could see he had no strength left. Her heart wept for him. She led her horse on, making encouraging noises.

  “We need to find a village.”

  She talked to herself to keep her spirits up, and, when she thought she might go mad, she talked to the horses.

  “Soon, we'll be there,” she told them. “We'll find a place to stay and a stable and there'll be lots of hay. Lots of good things to eat. Somewhere dry, and warm...”

  Her horse neighed. She nodded. She was tired. So tired.

  Her horse neighed again, and she turned, frowning. Then she realized why. Another horse answered her call.

  “Whist, stop that racket,” a human voice said. “Brodgar! What's bothering ye...?”

  Claudine could have wept. “Here!” she called. “I'm a traveler. I'm lost. Help. Please? Help me?”

  She heard the voice stop, and then someone walking close by, their feet crunching on dried leaves. She held her breath. “Please?” she whispered.

  She rode further, and heard the sound of feet again. She still couldn't see any buildings. They were still in the woodlands.

  “Miss?” someone said, stepping out from around a low thicket. “Hey, miss. What's the matter? You lost, ye say?”

  “Yes,” she said. She looked at the man. He was dressed in plain clothes, poor but serviceable. She guessed him to be a laborer. Her heart soared. Here was help at last!

  “You went wrong back there at the stile?” he asked. Then he saw Brogan. His face changed. “Whist, lass. He looks a mess.”

  “He's injured. Badly...” she said, afraid that if she said anymore she wouldn't be able to stop crying.

  “Aye, lass,” the man nodded. “Well, bring him in. My Bonnie's a fine healer. Let's get him by the fire...”

  Claudine could have wept. She could not have been more fortunate – not only were they kind people, but they spoke Lowland Scots. She could at least communicate. They were in the Lowlands now, she reminded herself. They had a few days before she would reach her cousins.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Please. Thank you...”

  She was lost for words, relief making her distracted. She watched as the man reached up and gripped Brogan firmly, hauling him off the saddle. She held her breath, terrified lest he harm or drop him, but his grip stayed firm.

  “Easy, lass,” he said, stepping into the overhanging trees. “You come and get by the fire. This cold is liable to freeze a body.”

  “Yes,” she trailed off. “The horses...”

  “We'll get them in the paddock with the rest, lass. Never ye fear. Our lot'll keep them company. There's a lean-to...” he said, gasping with effort as he shifted Brogan higher.

  “I can help...” she suggested.

  “I can manage,” he said. He took two more steps and then stopped. Claudine found herself looking at a cottage wall. She wouldn't have noticed it – built from logs, it blended in with the forest environment.

  “You...live here?” she asked, as the man knocked at the door.

  “Aye,” he said. “Woodsman. Have been for years. This is McGovan land.”

  “Oh?” she frowned.

  “Aye, I be the laird's woodsman,” he said. “And Bonnie's a cloth maker. Bonnie?”

  “Aye, Albert?”

  “Lass lost in the woods. Man's hurt. They're staying.”

  “I should say so!” a woman said.

  Claudine saw a woman with a bonnet appear, then stare at Brogan.

  “Get the fellow by the fire,” she commanded. “And bring water.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Don't you get funny, Albert Joinsman,” she said. The man laughed.

  Claudine leaned against the wall, feeling weak with weariness. Now that Brogan was being cared for, she didn't mind what happened.

  “Och, get the lass something to sit on,” the woman said, looking up from where she bent over Brogan's wounds. “And get some salve...”

  Albert hurried off. He passed near Claudine, taking her hand.

  “Go and sit, lass,” he said, indicating a stool by what looked like the cooking-fire. “You're wearied too.”

  “I am,” Claudine whispered.

  She sank down on the stool, eyelids drooping. She wondered whether she would ever stand again. Her legs were so weak she doubted they could hold her.

  She watched Bonnie, her face lined with concern, as she looked down at the wound. Her fingers probed it gently.

  “Get me needle and thread,” she said to Albert. “The cut needs stitches.”

  Claudine felt her stomach heave at the thought of anyone sewing Brogan's flesh. Nevertheless, she was too tired for anything except to sit where she was and watch, idly, as the woman cut his shirt away from him and reached in to start stitching the wound. Then, as she began, Claudine’s head swam and her vision blurred, and she fell forward.

  Her last thought before passing out, ridiculously, was that she had left Brogan's cloak in the clearing and she wondered where it was.

  BACK FROM BEYOND

  Claudine sat by Brogan's bed. She had no idea what to do – she didn't want to move from where she was. The fire behind her burned low. She could hear Albert and his wife, Bonnie, talking. She didn't move or look round: they spoke too rapidly in a thick dialect she could barely understand. Her mind was weary and she couldn't concentrate.

  “Brogan.”

  She reached for his hand and held it. She had watched while B
onnie sewed the wound closed, though she hadn't wished to. She had no more wished to see it than she had wished to leave his side, with the result that she sat where she was, mutely, while the healer worked.

  “I need tae give him summat as will keep him sleeping,” Bonnie explained, reaching into her bag to draw out a phial of something. Claudine tensed, but she recalled Albert's words that his wife was a healer in these parts. She nodded and let the older woman do as she must.

  Now, Brogan was sleeping still. His breathing was ragged and his forehead was damp. Claudine reached automatically for a wet rag and dabbed at it, recalling her own nurse doing something similar when she was a girl, to lower her fever.

  Brogan murmured, a sound that brought Bonnie quickly. She looked down.

  “Aye, that's grand. He's sweatin'. Still got strength in him yet. Fine feller he is,” she added to Claudine, with a grin that was conspiratorial.

  Claudine felt her cheeks warm. “He is,” she agreed softly.

  When Bonnie went back to the fireside, she found herself wondering what she had deemed their connection to be. She flushed at the thought that the cottagers assumed them a couple. Then again, she thought, feeling her heart thump at the thought, why should they not assume that?

  The sound Brogan made as he shifted over drew her attention back to him at once.

  “Brogan?”

  She reached for his wrist. His pulse fluttered and jumped, telling her information she felt unable to read. She looked around for Bonnie, but the woman was intent in conversation with Albert, sewing or mending while they talked. She could expect no help from that quarter right now.

  “Brogan, my dearest...” she murmured, sponging his forehead. It was hot, and her heart thumped harder. He shifted again, but seemed to relax, and she continued to bathe his forehead, watching him with care.

  She sat with him for hours. Bonnie brought her some gruel and she ate, but didn't move from her seat.

  When she looked around some time later, she noticed Bonnie and Albert had both fallen asleep in their chairs where they sat before the fire. It was dark outside, the wind howling. She leaned back with a sigh.

  “I never told you so many things I should have,” she said to the sleeping Brogan. “You know, it's strange. When you nursed me, when I was sick, I never thought to ask how you knew what to do. I wonder at it now. I don't think I'm nearly as good as you were. I never thought about it then, just like I never thought to ask so many questions.” She sighed.

  Reaching for his hand, she checked his pulse. It seemed slower now, though she had no idea if that was good or bad. She moved her fingers from the wrist, but did not let go.

  “I liked you the moment I saw you,” she added, grinning. The thought was poignant, and she sniffed, blinking quickly. “I didn't want to though. You were so different. With that long hair and that kilt.” She chuckled. “I found it all a bit foreign. A bit repelling, to be honest. But now I like it. It's so much part of who you are.”

  She sniffed and looked down at him where he slept, so still. His profile was lit with firelight and she looked at it wonderingly. The light showed how straight and well-formed his nose was, shadowing his thin but fine lips, a tiny scar on the upper one that she'd barely noticed before standing out proud on the pale skin.

  “I should have shown you how much I admire you,” she whispered. “But I was always too shy. I scorned you at first, and yes, I enjoyed besting you in arguments, fighting with you a little. But now...” She looked down, lest emotion overwhelm her. “Now I wish I had said different things. I would give so much to be able to grin at you again, and say I love you.”

  She couldn't help crying then. Her tears flowed down her face. She sniffed and tried not to make too much noise. The owners of the cottage were sleeping, after all, behind her. She covered her mouth and cried into her hands.

  When she looked up again, she checked Brogan's pulse. It was even and rhythmic. When she felt his forehead again it seemed cooler. She frowned. Her inclination was to wake Bonnie, but she didn't want to disturb her, so she held his cool hand in hers and chafed it slightly.

  “Brogan?” she said. “Brogan? Wake up?”

  He grunted, which she thought was a good sign, and shifted in the bed. Her heart soared. At least he was still conscious to some degree! She wondered what the time was. There were no clocks to speak of in the laborer's cottage. She looked around it.

  The couple seemed to live in two rooms: the kitchen, sitting area and table for dining were all in this room, a second door suggesting that there was a sleeping-quarters somewhere built on. The fire made the room snug and warm, and she could see the logic in spending most of the winter here, in this one room. The furnishings were simple and homemade, the tables and chairs wrought out of local wood, probably by Albert, the covers and cushions sewn by Bonnie.

  It seems a simple life, yet they seem content.

  Her sleepy mind wandered from their state to her own situation and back. She considered what to do next. She had no idea at all where she was, only that Brogan was the laird of Clan McRae, and that they were trying to return to his home. Mayhap these people could help her with directions?

  “I need to wait here for Brogan to regain his strength.”

  That was the most important thing. After that, they could head north. Any thought of not returning to his homeland with him had vanished from her mind. She knew who she loved now, and what she valued.

  My father's wishes should never have mattered more to me than my own happiness.

  As it was, she reflected, her father would likely also benefit from her allegiance with McRae. He was, after all, a Jacobite supporter, where South had but made glancing reference to the cause.

  She made up her mind. She would wait here until Brogan was well enough to be moved, and, while she waited, she would try to send a message to her cousins, or to his kin at Tor McRae.

  “Then we'll go there and...”

  Her mind was too tired to reach further. The only thing she could imagine before she finally fell into the foggy dusk of sleep was Brogan showing her his manor, with a grin.

  Brogan's stomach clenched and tightened. His head ached. He was freezing cold, and bruised all over. He rolled over, feeling nauseous. He retched, but there was nothing in him to bring up.

  “There, dearest. There, there. It's alright...”

  He heard a sweet voice cut through the fog in his head. He shot upright, recognizing it. “Claudine!” he said, astonished.

  Somehow, in the fog-lands of his dreams, he had imagined her a prisoner, taken against her will to some unknown place, unable to escape...

  “I'm here, dearest,” she said gently. “Hush, now. I'm trying to check your wound and I can't do that if you're shifting around.”

  “Claudine! The soldiers! The fighting...”

  “It's alright,” she soothed again. “Dunstan's gone. You scared him off. It's safe now.”

  “Claudine! You're safe.”

  “That's right,” she said gently. He looked up into her eyes. Blue and soft, they held a gentle smile as she reached over and dabbed his forehead. “I'm here. Dunstan's gone. You were wounded, but you're mending now. Bonnie saw to that.”

  “Bonnie?” He frowned in astonishment. Who was that? How did he get here? Another question came into his mind as he looked around him. Where were they? “Where are we?”

  “You're in a cottage in the woods. It's not far from the scene of that fight. The cottagers here looked after us. You lost a lot of blood.”

  Brogan frowned again. “But...how did I get here?” After the fight, and his wounding, he could recall nothing. Only gray space and shadowed dreams.

  She grinned. “I got you onto horseback. Maybe you don't recall that part. You were conscious enough to cooperate, which was nice.” She added this last with a wry grin.

  He smiled. It hurt and he reached a hand up to his face. He could feel the heat and swelling of a bruise. “What happened?”

  Claudine wiped his
hair back from his brow, and then looked into his eyes. “You were almost killed in that fight. When I got you here, you'd lost so much blood I really thought you might not wake again.” She shook her head, looking away hastily. “Bonnie mended your wound – it's a deep cut, along your chest, here...” She pressed a point that made him speechless, suddenly, with pain. “And then you slept.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days.”

  At that point, someone else arrived. He heard another voice, and felt a hand, cool and bony, press his brow.

  “Och, lass, he's mendin' well. Good for you. Got him speaking, eh?”

  He glanced up and saw an angular, lined face, a scrap of dark hair showing under a scarf covering. The woman looked grave, but kind. He guessed her to be perhaps ten years his senior. She looked at Claudine with a smile. He guessed this was Bonnie.

  “Once he's started, he'll no’ shut up, if I know menfolk,” she added with a grin. “Should have made more of his being quiet, eh?”

  To Brogan's surprise, Claudine flushed and grinned. “Mayhap so,” she said.

  “Now I'm not sure what I think about that,” Brogan said, surprise mingling with amusement as the two women looked at each other, laughing. “I don't think I talk that much.”

  “No, no' at all. That's why ye're so silent now, eh? Milord?” Bonnie added with a grin.

  Brogan frowned, looking at Claudine. Had she told them who they were? And was that wise, given that they were not certain of Dunstan South's whereabouts?

  “I didn't say...” she began. The older woman chuckled.

  “No, ye didn't. But never fear. My man was out checking the trails. He found this,” she added, lifting a cloth wrap. Brogan recognized it immediately. It was his plaid. It must have fallen off during the fighting – or he’d discarded it. He could remember so little of that time.

  “It's still got everything with it,” Bonnie continued. She reached up to the fastening, and Brogan saw his clan-brooch shining there. The leaping salmon of McRae. He felt his heart leap. He had not thought it still attached. “Only a laird would have such trappings, eh.”