Page 57 of Highlander Redeemed
Nicholas nodded and Malcolm gave a grunt of agreement, then pushed the women to a run as they fled the Story Stone meadow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AS SOON ASthe Guardians were clear of the Story Stone meadow the small group slowed and made their way with great care away from the open area. Scotia wanted to take the rear of the group, watching for anyone who might follow them but also minding any tracks the others left that were too easy to find, but Malcolm had insisted she walk ahead of him.
“You are a Guardian, Scotia,” he said. “’Tis my place as Protector of the Guardians to keep you safe.”
“More like you mean to keep me from returning to find Duncan. I give you all my word I will not do that.” Though that was exactly what she wanted most to do. “I understand the Guardians must be protected, but you ken I can protect myself, aye?” she said.
“That remains to be seen, but it is seeming more and more likely,” Malcolm answered.
She sighed. She might be a Guardian now, but that did not mean she would be trusted. If she was lucky, she might win the trust of her clan in time.
“’Tis my right as a Guardian to be concerned with protecting all of us, aye? We are too easy to track traveling this way. We need to split up,” she whispered.
“We are not splitting up,” Nicholas said quietly over his shoulder, and she was impressed once again with the man’s talents. Hearing like that would serve a spy well. “We will be at the rendezvous camp soon. For now, we need to be quiet, and step aslightly as we can. The Guardians—all three of you—must be kept safe so you can create the Highland Targe, if you can. That is what is most important right now.”
Scotia did not respond, but she agreed with him. She only hoped that between the three of them they could figure out how to raise a shield that would protect this route into the Highlands from England’s greedy king.
It was not long before they came to a place where Nicholas gave the owl call, and it was answered. They moved silently onward into a dense part of the forest where the trees grew close together, their crowns blocking out all evidence that the sky still existed over them. The air was damp, cool, and carried the sharp scents of pine and balsam. Green, furry moss grew on the north side of most of the larger trees, and the ground beneath was spongy with a thick carpet of last year’s leaves and pine needles.
As they moved deeper into the narrow fold of the mountain, it grew darker and colder beneath the trees until at last they reached the far end, where the rudiments of a camp had been left for just this moment.
“No fires,” Nicholas said as they gathered around the cache. “We will wait here for the others, but we cannot linger here even so long as the night. Love,” he said to Rowan, “can the three of you raise the Targe?”
Rowan looked at Jeanette, then Scotia, but neither of them knew the answer any better than she did.
“I dinna ken, but—”
The same tawny owl call interrupted her. Nicholas signaled for the women to take cover as he and Malcolm drew their swords and stood behind two large trees. Scotia drew her sword as well, and only then realized she had left her shield at the standing stone. She motioned for her sister and cousin to move further up the side of the tiny glen where there was a little undergrowth to hide in, but she remained behind a tree, close enough to Malcolm and Nicholas to fight with them if necessary.
The first people she saw were Uilliam and Jock. Uilliam had Duncan over his shoulder, and it took Scotia every ounce of her stubborn will to stay where she was until her chief and his champion, her Protectors, called for the Guardians.
“What are you waiting for?” Jeanette strode past Scotia, heading for Uilliam and Duncan. Scotia lost no time following her.
“More of the lads are behind us,” Uilliam said with a grunt as Jock helped him lay Duncan on the ground. Scotia dropped to her knees and took Duncan’s cold hand in her own. Blood stained his left shoulder, wet and red, even in the dim light of the forest. Dread made her shiver.
“Does he yet live?” she asked Jeanette as her sister ripped Duncan’s sleeve away, revealing the wound.
“Aye,” Jeanette said. She glanced up at Uilliam. “What happened to the arrow?”
“I took it out of his shoulder so I could carry him without causing further damage,” he said to Jeanette, “but I had not time, nor anything to bind it with. How did you ken ’twas an arrow?”
“I saw it,” she said without emotion as she rifled through her healer’s sack and laid out a needle, thread, a smaller bag of moss, and a rolled-up strip of linen on a stone near her knee.
Scotia smoothed Duncan’s hair away from his face, noting how soft it was, softer than her own, but he did not stir. “Why does he not wake?”
“He must have hit his head as he fell,” Jeanette said. “He has a gash just here.” She turned his head to reveal a small cut and a large lump not far behind his left ear. “Come sit here, sister.” She indicated for Scotia to sit where she could cradle his head in her lap, then handed her a pad of moss. “Hold this to the cut to help it stop bleeding.”
Scotia did just as she was told without a moment’s thought or hesitation, letting the weight of Duncan’s head rest in her lap as she pressed the moss to his injury with one hand, and continued to smooth his hair away in long slow strokes with the other.
“Will he die?” Her voice trembled just a little. Jeanette reached out and cupped her sister’s cheek with one hand.
“The wounds do not look terrible, but there is always a risk of fever and festering.” As if that reminded her of something, Jeanette pulled her healer bag back to her and rummaged through it again, finally pulling out a small glass jar with a piece of waxed leather covering the mouth and tied in place with a piece of deer sinew. “When this is all over I must travel to visit Morven. She never taught me how to make this salve, and it does seem to prevent festering.” She slathered the pungent ointment into and around Duncan’s shoulder wound, then had Scotia lift his head enough for her to slather some on that wound as well.
“Aye,” Rowan said, scratching at what Scotia knew was a scar on her ribs from when Jeanette had used this same salve on her after the curtain wall fell. “But it smells terrible and stained my kirtles.”
“But you had not the slightest hint of fever or fester,” Jeanette said, a little smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she recovered the jar. “You should be grateful for the stinky stuff.”
