Page 4 of Fallen
“Even so,” Coira continued when Colin didn’t respond, clearly cowed, “we must take care that yer lungs do not worsen. I will spread this salve upon yer chest, and ye must drink a special tea that will help clear the mucus and lessen the aching in yer limbs.”
Colin nodded, meek now that he’d been assured he was not infected with plague.
Coira worked deftly, administering the salve and then wrapping the old man’s chest. Behind them, his wife fussed over a pot of what smelled like mutton stew over the hearth.
“It’s nearly time for the noon meal, Sister,” the old woman said as Coira started packing her things away in her basket. “Will ye not join us?”
Coira flashed her a grateful smile and picked up her staff, which she’d leaned against the wall. “Thank ye for the offer, Alma, but I can’t stay … a few chores await me at the abbey, before I can sit down to eat.”
It was true. She’d noticed her supply of herbs was getting low. She’d need to gather some more in the abbey’s sprawling gardens before joining the other nuns in the refectory for the noon meal.
Leaving the stone cottage, Coira stepped out into a narrow dirt street. The air was soft, cool, and damp—a balm after the reek of peat smoke indoors. The smoke wasn’t good for old Colin’s lungs either, but like most folk in the village, he lived in a one-room dwelling that gave him no respite from it.
Coira hitched her basket against her hip and made her way through the cluster of dwellings, heading south. Torrin perched near the edge of a cliff-face, with a small kirk presiding over it and arable fields to the back. In the decade she’d lived here, Coira had gotten to know the locals well. They were hard-working and generous with what they had, if a little small-minded and superstitious at times. She’d done her best to tend their ailments, and had grown fond of many of them.
A gentle smile curved Coira’s mouth as she left the village and took the narrow road down the hillside. A shallow wooded vale lay before her, and in its midst sat the high stone walls of Kilbride. From this vantage point, she had a wide view of the surrounding landscape. A rugged coast stretched south, to where a green headland jutted out into the sea; and although she didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, she knew that the charcoal shadow of the Black Cuillins, Skye’s most dominant mountain range, rose to the north. To the east, the bulk of other great mountains thrust up into a veil of low cloud. This was a mountainous isle, and Coira had grown very fond of this corner of it.
Kilbride felt like a world away from the hardship she’d known as a child and young woman. She felt safe here, protected.
A soft summer rain started to fall as she walked, a cool mist that kissed Coira’s skin. She inclined her face up to it, closing her eyes a moment. Over the years, she’d gotten used to having her head covered by a wimple and veil, but her face was still exposed to the elements.
The road led her down the hillside, in amongst copses of birch and hazel, before the high walls of Kilbride loomed in front of her. The peaked roof of the kirk rose above it all.
Despite that Kilbride Abbey was a place of sanctuary, of peace and worship, its austere appearance made it off-putting. The abbess had increased this unwelcoming air by employing men from Torrin to dig deep ditches around the base of the walls, making them even harder to scale should anyone dare. Huge gates, made of iron and oak, barred Coira’s way—although as she approached, she noted that they were ajar and a black robed figure awaited her.
Drawing nearer, Coira recognized the nun as Sister Mina: a novice who was due to take her vows of perpetuity that autumn. She had a sensitive face and wide grey eyes that were huge this morning.
As Coira drew near, Sister Mina rushed forward to meet her. “Sister Coira! Ye must come immediately!” the young woman gasped.
Coira abruptly halted, tension rippling through her. “What is it … what’s happened?”
“There’s a man here … he’s badly injured … and is delirious with fever.”
Coira frowned, snapping into her role as healer. “Where is he?”
“We’ve taken him to the infirmary,” Sister Mina replied, her slender hands clasping before her. “He’s in a bad way.”
Coira gave a sharp nod and moved past the novice. “I shall go to him now.”
Not looking to see if Sister Mina followed her, Coira strode across the wide yard that stretched out inside the gates. Before her rose the steepled kirk, while the various outbuildings—dormitories, the abbess’s hall, the chapter-house, guest lodgings, the refectory, the kitchen, and store houses—flanked it either side. Her long legs ate up the ground, and moments later she heard the patter of Sister Mina’s sandaled feet as she attempted to keep up with her.
The infirmary was a narrow, low-slung building made of stone that sat behind the kirk. There was room inside for six sleeping pallets. One of the older nuns had recently been laid up there for a while after suffering a fall, but she’d just returned to her usual lodgings, leaving the infirmary empty once more.
Only now, Coira had a new patient.
Two tiny windows let in pale light, illuminating the tall figure sprawled upon the pallet in the far corner. Even as she approached him, Coira could see from the sharp rise and fall of the man’s chest that he was suffering.
However, when she drew up before the bed, and her gaze alighted upon his face, Coira forgot all about the reason she was here.
She froze, a cold sensation creeping out from her belly and numbing her limbs.
That face. It was as if a ghost had just risen up before her.
“Sister Coira?” Sister Mina had stopped next to her. “Is something wrong?”
Coira didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her attention didn’t waver from the man who lay before her, eyes closed, his handsome face gleaming with sweat.
“He was conscious when we brought him in,” the novice said after a few moments, perhaps thinking that Coira was merely shocked by his state. “But he’s worsened since then.”
