The Warrior Page 16

  As Duncan gathered more materials and stoked the fire inside the curve of the great stone altar, he prayed it wouldn’t take long for someone to come in search of them. He had no idea how far the storm had blown them off course. Tait had bragged he knew this corner of the sea as well as he knew the back of his hand. Once word reached him of the foundered ship, surely he would search for them. But how long would it take for the news to reach him?

  Duncan stacked the stores he’d found in another corner of the room, then retrieved one of the biscuit tins, and returned to Tilda. The fire crackled and popped in front of her, doing little to beat back the perpetual cold of the tomblike shelter. He settled down beside her, leaning forward to peer into her face. “Tilda?”

  She didn’t answer, just shivered and shook beneath the layers of cloth he had piled across her. He touched her forehead. Just as he had feared. He had managed to save her from the sea, but now a damned fever threatened to steal her away from him.

  He stoked the fire into a roaring blaze. The yellow glow of the dancing flames lit up Tilda’s face. He paced back and forth at a complete loss for what to do. He snatched up the well bucket and fetched more water. Tearing free a strip of cloth, he wet it, then sponged it across her forehead. “Dinna leave me, Tilda.” His voice cracked as he pressed the cool dampness across her pale cheeks. “Dinna leave me, m’love.” Aye. She was his one true love. A precious part of his soul. The realization hit him hard. He loved this rare woman with such a fierceness it frightened him.

  Eyes closed, he bowed his head and prayed. “Please Lord, dinna take this woman from me. I beg ye, Almighty God. Please, have mercy and spare her.” He wouldn’t say amen because he knew well enough, he’d be saying these words over and over until Tilda returned to him. He crossed himself, hoping the Lord knew just how much he meant what he had said. He knew he’d not been the best of men and not appreciated Tilda as a wife at first. He’d merely been trying to protect her. Shelter her from just such a situation as this. But now he couldn’t imagine a life without her. It would be like cutting away the heart of his soul and tossing it straight into the fires of hell.

  He wet the cloth again and laid it across her forehead. Tucking the linens closer about her, he rose and went outside. He had wanted adventure. By damned, he had gotten his wish, and now he was more than sorry for ever wanting it. Clenching his hands, he pushed forward. This was no time to dwell on such. He needed wood from the longer crates. Both as fuel for the fire and a splint for Tilda’s leg. At least while the fever had rendered her unconscious, he could do his best to reset the bones of her leg and clean the wounds on her foot.

  A cascade of rocks bounced down the hillside on the far border of the building. Something shuffled and skittered along on the opposite face of the wall. Footsteps? Duncan drew his dirk from his boot and backed against the stones, easing toward the sound. He had thought the place deserted, but perhaps some of the animals they had once tended had managed to thrive. It sounded like a larger animal, mayhap a sheep. They would have fresh meat for a while and a fine warm wool pelt for Tilda.

  More rocks shifted. Something moved alongside the stones, sounding like the softness of a furry hide brushing against them. The thrill of the hunt surged through him. Duncan crept closer, rolling the haft of the small dagger in his hand. His blade might not be much, but he would make do. He had the element of surprise on his side. Whatever animal it was would nary expect a desperate man with a knife. He was a Highlander. He would do anything to provide for his woman. Sgian dhu raised and ready, he sprang around the wall.

  “Holy Mary Mother of God!” The wizened slip of a man, dressed in the modest brown robes of a monk, held up his bony hands to fend off the attack.

  “Shite!” Duncan shifted and rolled sideways to belay the strike, lost his footing in the loose rocks, and landed hard on his arse. He glared up at the man. “I thought ye were a damn sheep!”

  The holy man clutched his hands in front of the large wooden cross hanging from his neck and returned Duncan’s stern glare. “Ye scared ten years off me, boy. Dinna ye think it wiser to know yer prey afore ye dive in for the kill?”

  Duncan was in no mood for a scolding from a man of the cloth. He and priests didn’t get along, but mayhap this one could help Tilda. For that reason alone, he’d do his best to be civil. Duncan pushed himself to his feet, shoved his dagger back in his boot, and brushed off his arse. “My apologies, Father.”

  The scowling man made a curt dip of his chin. “I be Father Wesley. Who are ye, and what are ye doing trespassing at old Duress?”

  “Duncan MacCoinnich.” Disappointment at the loss of fresh meat and a warm wrap for Tilda still rankling him, Duncan motioned for the father to follow. Sometimes, monks were trained healers, wise in the use of herbs and such. He’d gladly give up fresh meat for that. Another thought humbled him and cooled his temper. Mayhap, Father Wesley was the answer to his prayers. “Our ship foundered during a storm. My wife and I washed ashore yesterday late. She’s in here and doing poorly. Do ye know anything about healing?”

  Father Wesley didn’t answer, just pushed past him, scrambling across the tumbled stones and debris of the sanctuary with unexpected spryness. The man looked to be older than the land with his thin, wrinkled features and bowl of shining white hair fluffed down around his ears. But his sandaled feet skimmed around and over the rocks as though he were a lad.

  “Up ahead. Behind the altar. I put her there and built a fire.” Duncan struggled to keep up, his big feet and large frame not nearly so adept at threading through ruins. “A fever’s taken hold of her.”

  The monk tossed more wood on the fire as soon as he stepped into the shelter behind the altar. “This place has always been bitter cold. Even when it was intact.” He knelt down beside Tilda, studying her with a back and forth tilting of his head. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead and snorted, his bushy gray brows knotting over his eyes. “Has she any injuries?” He looked up at Duncan. “Be she with child?”

  Duncan opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He supposed it was possible a bairn had already taken seed, but it was far too early to tell. He gave a half-hearted shrug. “We just married days ago. I dinna ken if she’s with child yet.”

  “Injuries?” Father Wesley repeated as he stood and piled more wood on the fire.

  “I fear her left foot be broken as well as badly cut. See the bloodstains? I was in search of a splint when I found ye.” Duncan pulled a length of cloth from the stones where he’d spread it to dry and draped it across Tilda. “And she nearly drowned. I had to breathe into her for quite the while as we bobbed atop the waves.”

  “Why did ye nay bring her to New Duress rather than here?” Father Wesley looked about the ramshackle space and the supplies Duncan had gathered. “Did ye plan on staying here? Alone?”

  “Where is this place?” Weariness and frazzled nerves pushed Duncan dangerously close to losing his temper. The monk acted as though this godforsaken isle had been their intended destination.

  “Scotland, boy. Strathy Point. D’ye no’ recognize yer own homeland?” Father Wesley pushed around him, pausing at the altar. “I’ll fetch the wagon, and we’ll get ye both to the abbey. She needs Father Gideon.”

  “Scotland,” Duncan repeated. A relieved surge of thankfulness and feeling the fool washed across him. The storm had washed them up on the mainland. Praise God. They were not stranded on a hopeless island.

  “Aye, Scotland.” Father Wesley pointed at Tilda. “Bundle her good and get her ready best ye can. It willna take me long to fetch the wagon.”

  “Thank ye, Father.” Duncan bowed his head. “Ye are a Godsend for certain.” And he meant every word. Even if the man was of the cloth.

  “We shall see, my son.” Father Wesley cast a concerned glance in Tilda’s direction. “I would not abandon prayers for yer wife just yet.”

  The words forced a hard swallow. Duncan moved to Tilda and scooped her up into his arms, piles of covers and all.
“I’ll walk with ye, Father. I will nay have her waiting for the wagon.”

  Father Wesley peered at him as though he’d lost his mind. “’Tis a good stretch of the legs, my son.”

  “I shall carry her as far as it takes to get her healed.” Duncan nodded toward the exit, holding Tilda close. He’d carry her to hell and back, if that’s what it took.

  “Very well then.” Father Wesley waved him forward. “I shall send Brother Bartholomew back for yer supplies.”

  Duncan followed the monk, setting out at a good pace that soon changed to dutiful plodding.

  The gentle sloping hillsides of old Duress took on a steeper incline. Father Wesley climbed the terrain with the agility of a Highland goat. Duncan strode along close behind, wondering how in the world a wagon could have ever traveled across such land.

  “Father.” Duncan resettled Tilda in his arms. She was like carrying a live ember, burning hotter than fire. The more she shook, the more she moaned and curled against him as though seeking warmth.

  “Aye, my son?” Father Wesley paused and looked back.

  “How would a wagon ever reach the ruins?” Duncan propped a boot on a nearby boulder and rested Tilda on his knee. He might pride himself on being a braw, strapping Highlander, but this terrain would test the finest of men.

  “We would take the road, my son.” Father Wesley shrugged and pointed a finger to the west of them. “Much easier traveling.”

  The road? Lord Almighty. What was it with holy men? Were they all hellbent on vexing him? “Why did we nay take the road, Father?” Duncan strained his words between clenched teeth to hold back any possible cursing. After the past few days, he couldn’t guarantee proper behavior with anyone.

  “This way is shorter.” Father Wesley waved him onward. “Come. We be nearly there.”

  Duncan pulled in a deep breath and snorted it out. Focus. All that mattered was getting Tilda help. He shifted her in his arms and hurried to catch up with the priest. After what seemed like much longer than nearly there, they topped the hill overlooking the abbey.

  Father Wesley paused and nodded at the small glen spread out before them. A crystal-clear stream, glistening white, cut through one side of the grassy meadow, trickling down from the rocky rise behind it. Beside the stream rose a fine stone fortress. Squared off and boxy, the structure looked more a remote guard castle than an abbey. Several brown-clad forms dotted the landscape, moving about the lands attending to chores. Meandering among them in every area except for a squared-off section nearest the abbey, most likely the kitchen gardens, were fluffs of white.

  Duncan snorted. Sheep. He had known there had to be sheep nearby.

  “New Duress,” Father Wesley announced. He fluttered a hurried wave. “Come. Let us get yer lady settled.”

  The sight of the abbey gave Duncan renewed strength. He strode forward at a hurried pace, tempted to break into a run. Several of the monks rushed to meet them, striding alongside them as Duncan took Tilda inside.

  Father Wesley herded him across a large room filled with tables and benches and led him to a stone staircase. “Come. Our healing rooms are on the next floor.” He paused and snapped his fingers. “Brother Bartholomew?”

  A young monk, hair black as coal and the look of youth still shining in his pudgy face, rushed forward. “Aye, Father?”

  “Take the wagon to old Duress. Gather Master MacCoinnich’s supplies from within the ruins, then scour the beach for more. Another shipwreck, I’m afraid.” Father Wesley shooed the monk onward. “And be quick about it. None of yer dawdling, aye?”

  Brother Bartholomew cast a repentant glance to the floor. “Aye, Father.” He snagged hold of the sleeve of the monk standing beside him. “Might Brother Amos come along to help?”

  “Aye.” Father Wesley dismissed them both with a wave of one hand, then looked to Duncan. “Follow me.”

  They climbed the stairs, then entered the first room on the left. Duncan lowered Tilda onto the small cot in the corner, then knelt at her side. She was no better. If anything, she was worse.

  “I shall send Father Gideon to her. He is our healer.” Father Wesley rested a hand on Duncan’s bare shoulder, scraped and bruised from all he had endured. “Come. Yer wounds appear to be in no need of immediate tending, but ye need food and clothing. Ye canna traipse about in nothing but yer boots and trews. Father Gideon and his novices will tend to yer lady.”

  Duncan pulled a stool out of the corner, placed it beside the head of the cot, and lowered himself to it. He leaned close and brushed Tilda’s hair from her face. “I shall stay with her until she is better.”

  Father Wesley pursed his thin lips, then clucked his tongue like a fussing hen. “I assumed as much.” He hurried to the door, pausing just as he stepped out into the hall. “We shall bring yer food and clothing here. What is yer lady’s name? We shall add her to our prayers.”

  “Tilda,” Duncan whispered, never taking his gaze from her fever-flushed face.

  “Tilda,” Father Wesley repeated. He gave a curt nod, then closed the door with a soft thump.

  Duncan shook out the blanket and draped it across the multiple layers of cloth already wrapped around her. Her feverish trembling had increased to a more violent shaking that rattled the cot against the wall.

  A brazier stood inside a small hearth, chunks of peat piled beside it. Duncan found the tinderbox on the small mantle above and started a fire with the flint and steel. Once satisfied with the fire, he returned to the stool beside the bed and leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth together as another spasm of shaking took hold of his wife. Lord Almighty, they might be better off than they had been, but things still weren’t good.

  A light pecking at the door bid him open his eyes. “Enter.”

  A monk looking even older than Father Wesley eased open the door. He gave Duncan a smiling nod, then ushered in those waiting behind him. Two monks, men so young they were little more than half-grown lads, scurried into the room around the older monk. One toted a tray with a pitcher, a cup, and a plate of bread and cheese. The other held a bundle under each arm.

  The ancient monk picked up a basket from the floor outside the door, then followed the other two inside. He gave Duncan another peaceful nod. “I be Father Gideon.” He motioned first toward the young man bearing the tray of food, then at the other lad still holding the bundles. “This is Novice Mathias and Novice Lucan. They are my apprentices.”

  Duncan didn’t rise from the stool, just managed a weary nod. “I am Duncan MacCoinnich.” He smoothed his finger’s across Tilda’s burning forehead. “And this is my wife, Tilda.”

  Father Gideon dipped another nod and motioned toward the two young novices as he edged closer to the side of the bed. He pressed the back of his hand to Tilda’s cheek. “Aye. Father Wesley told me of yer poor wife. See to yer food and clothing, my son, whilst I examine her more closely. I understand ye dinna wish to leave her side, but I canna help her if I dinna look at her proper.”

  At least he didn’t have to fight the man about remaining with Tilda. Duncan shifted out of the way, moving to the opposite side of the small table standing in the center of the room. The novice called Lucan handed him the bundles. “Fresh dry robes, sir.”

  Mathias set the tray on the table, filled the cup from the pitcher, and handed it to Duncan. “The best of our brew. Father Wesley said ye looked as though ye needed it, sir.”

  “Aye to that,” Duncan agreed as he downed the cup of rich, stout ale, then handed it back to Mathias. “I thank ye.”

  Mathias refilled the cup, then moved to his mentor’s side. Father Gideon stood at Tilda’s feet with her bloodied stockings in one hand. He gave a slow shake of his head. “I have found the source of the fever.”

  Duncan clutched the simple robe to his body and hurried to Father Gideon’s side. He flinched and swallowed hard against rising bile in his throat at what Father Gideon revealed.

  Tilda’s petite left foot was small and
petite no more. It was swollen three times the size, and the skin flared a fiery red with mottled striations running up past her ankle. Father Gideon gently turned her foot, revealing a wicked gash in the sole. “Severe cut and most definitely crushed bones.” He bent and peered closer. “I see bits of wood inside the wound. There be several splinters around the cut as well as a large one embedded quite deep, mayhap, even to the core of the poor child’s foot.”

  How could he have delayed tending to such an injury? How could he have been such a fool, worrying with the fire and the gathering of supplies? Duncan took a step back and steadied himself against the wall. But what could he have done even if he had tended it? He knew nothing of healing other than washing a wound with whiskey or wine and praying for the best.

  “Ye can heal her? Aye? Ye can help her overcome this terrible injury?” Duncan feared the man’s answer, but he had to hear it.

  Father Gideon faced him. He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out, his troubled gaze lowered to the floor. “I shall do my best to save yer wife.” His demeanor grew even more serious as he lifted his chin and locked eyes with Duncan. “But it will be up to God whether or not yer wife is allowed to remain among us.” His look shifted back down to Tilda, then slid to her foot. “It will also be up to our benevolent Lord if she ever walks again.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tilda fisted her hands in her lap while she glared at the peaceful grounds of the well-kept garden. She could have just as well sat on a ledge above the fiery pits of hell. In her current mood, the view looked the same. She was well and truly damned.

  A choking sense of injustice stoked the burning knot ever-present at her center. Independence and perhaps a husband that accepted such. Those two things were all she had ever wanted since she had been a wee lass big enough to wish upon a star.