Page 5 of Fallen
Coira was grateful he wasn’t awake. The last thing she wanted was those iron-grey eyes to open and stare up at her.
And yet, as the initial shock faded, Coira realized that maybe she was mistaken.
This wasn’t the man who’d caused her to wake up in a cold sweat at night for the first couple of years after she left Dunan. This wasn’t the beast who’d hurt her, humiliated her.
Aye, the lines of this man’s face were similar to those of Duncan MacKinnon’s. Yet his hair was shaggier, wilder than the clan-chief’s, and his physique more heavily muscled.
She’d also last seen MacKinnon only a moon earlier, when he’d arrived at the abbey looking for Lady Leanna—the novice he’d abducted and then lost. She didn’t remember the clan-chief sporting a long, thin scar that slashed vertically from his temple to cheek, just missing his left eye. It was an old scar, silvered with age.
Coira exhaled slowly. This wasn’t Duncan MacKinnon—although the resemblance was uncanny.
“Did he give his name?” she asked finally, surprised at the slight tremor in her voice. Even after all these years, MacKinnon could still rattle her.
“None that I heard,” Sister Mina replied. “We found him alone … sprawled on the ground before the gates. He was muttering, but most of it was incoherent. I think Mother Shona managed to get some sense out of the man, before we carried him in here, but I didn’t hear what passed between them.”
Coira nodded, only then daring to move closer to her patient. Setting down her basket, she lowered herself onto a stool beside the pallet.
That’s how they’d found her too—over a decade ago. Her flight from Dunan hadn’t gone well. A few hours after fleeing the stronghold, a winter storm had blown in, bringing with it sleet and a freezing wind that had chilled her to the marrow. She’d plowed on though, leaving the road and scrambling cross-country to avoid anyone who might be searching for her. Night had fallen swiftly, and she’d been forced to find shelter, crouching shivering under the lee of a boulder while the wind screamed across the exposed landscape. The next morning she’d awoken with an aching body and a fever—and by the time she reached the abbey, she’d been staggering. It was the abbess herself who’d found her crumpled before the gates.
“Ye said he was injured?” she murmured, running her practiced gaze down the length of his strong body. He was clad in a leather vest and plaid braies wet with sweat.
“Aye … there’s a festering wound to his left flank. I checked under his vest, but it’s all bandaged up.”
Coira nodded before reaching down and deftly unlacing the vest. As the novice had said, a bandage had been wrapped around his chest. It was filthy, and Coira could see a dark stain on the left-hand side. Drawing a knife from her belt, she carefully cut away the bandage.
A putrid stench immediately filled the infirmary.
Mother Mary preserve him … this doesn’t look good.
Behind her, Sister Mina made a gagging sound, before she muttered something incoherent under her breath.
Stifling the urge to clap a hand over her mouth, Coira straightened up. “Open the windows,” she ordered, “and fetch me some vinegar, a clean cloth, and a bowl of hot water … quick as ye can.”
Grateful to have an excuse to flee the stench of rotting flesh, Sister Mina did as bid, leaving Coira alone with her patient.
Staring down at the wound upon the man’s left flank, Coira’s mouth pursed. It looked to her as if the man had sustained a battle wound—an arrow most likely. The offending item had been removed, but looking at the red, swollen sore, and the pus leaking out of it, she knew the wound had soured. Angry red lines now stretched out from the injury, a bad sign indeed, as was the fever that had brought the man to his unconscious state.
She’d have to work hard, if he was to be saved.
2
Taking Risks
COIRA ROSE TO her feet and stretched her aching back. She’d lost track of time, of how long she’d been bent over the injured man, cleaning and then dressing his wound. She’d missed the noon meal, and Sister Mina had come and gone with steaming bowls of water, clean cloths, and bandages as the afternoon slipped by. But now she was done.
Heaving a sigh, Coira glanced down at the man’s sleeping face. He was still fevered, and had started to twitch and thrash about. However, his wound was now clean. She’d do her best to dress it regularly, but the rest was up to him.
She wondered if her care had come too late.
Covering her patient up with a light blanket, Coira left the infirmary. Outside, a misty rain continued to fall and a low mantle of cloud had settled over the abbey, closing them in. Sister Mina approached, a slight figure through the gloom, carrying a pile of clean linen.
“Is it done?” the novice asked, her gaze flicking over Coira’s shoulder to the closed door of the infirmary. “Will he live?”
“It’s too early to tell,” Coira replied, her voice heavy with fatigue. “The next day will be crucial. If his fever rages, then he may lose the fight.” She massaged a tense muscle in her shoulder then. “I’m starving … is it time for supper yet?”
“Not for a while, although I’m sure ye can get some bread and cheese in the kitchens,” Sister Mina replied. “But before ye do, ye had better go and see Mother Shona. She’s asked that ye pay her a visit once the patient is tended to.”
Coira nodded. However, she wished she could have gotten herself something to eat first. She felt light-headed from hunger. “Very well, I’ll go to her now,” she replied. “Please stay with him for a while … fetch me if his state worsens.”
