Page 50 of The Heather Wife
“Bring him through! Quick now!”
The air beyond the gate reeked of blood and smoke.
Sorcha came beside the men bearing Calum, her hair loose, her face streaked with dirt and crimson.
Her hands—red to the wrists—pressed hard against his chest.
She was shouting even as they moved.
“Mind his chest! Keep pressure! Boil the water—spirits and clean linen, ready before we reach the healer’s chamber!”
The healer and her apprentice ran ahead.
Domnhall and MacFarlane fell in step behind.
“Sorcha!” Domnhall called. “Lass—what’s happened?”
She turned to him, breath visible in the cold.
“It’s my doing,” she said hoarsely. “All of it.”
He frowned. “Speak plain.”
“I thought I’d cut the head from the snake when I struck down Elspeth,” she said, voice fraying at the edges. “I thought the rot ended there.
Then John turned on me, and I believed it finished. I believed I’d done what justice required.
But I was wrong. The poison ran deeper still.”
Her gaze fell to Calum, blood blooming dark across his tunic.
“Liam. His mother. They led raiders to our gates. They were waiting. Watching. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve ended it when I had the chance.”
Domnhall set his hand—his one hand—on her shoulder.
“You did what you thought right, lass. That’s all any can do.”
“It cost him,” she whispered. “My mistake, my belief in fair judgment—it’s his blood that pays for it.”
The men bore Calum toward the healer’s room, Sorcha never leaving his side.
Domnhall followed, the firelight painting the ground in flickers of gold and red.
“He’s strong,” he said quietly. “And stubborn. He’ll fight to come back to ye.”
But Sorcha gave no answer. Her face was pale as ash, her eyes fixed on Calum’s still form.
Inside the healer’s infirmary, the air filled with the rush of water and the clatter of basins.
Voices rose—urgent, fearful, praying.
Domnhall lingered near the doorway, cane planted firm in the earth.
Through the open shutters, he could see the women still guarding the walls, their silhouettes lined against the torchlight—steady, silent, unflinching.
And the old man thought, pride and dread twined tight in his chest:
His son would live.
