Page 59 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
“Aye,” Edward said. “Tis I. Afore ye start rabbitin’ anymore, lads, do me a favor and fetch the healer, will ye?”
And with his customary lack of fuss, which Charlotte was becoming more and more used to as their time together went on, Edward slid slowly sideways and toppled from the saddle.
20
Edward came to, lying on a pile of straw within the lower bailey of MacQuarrie Castle, surrounded by a crowd of chattering guardsmen.
“Charlotte?” he grunted, before he was quite cognizant of his surrounds. “Charlotte?” He tried to sit up, but a firm hand pushed him back down into the fragrant straw.
“Easy now, lad,” the man leaning over him said, his breath a potent gust of whisky fumes. “Ye’ve lost more than a wee bit o’ yer blood by the looks of it.”
Edward squinted up and blinked hard a couple of times to clear his misty vision. The familiar, lined face of old Dunnet, the castle physician, swam into soft focus. Edward would have recognized that bristling gray mustache anywhere––the wizened old boy was almost more mustache than man.
“Good grief, I thought I might’ve died and gone to Heaven, ‘til I caught sight o’ you,” Edward said. “There’s nay chance that St. Peter would be lettin’ the like o’ ye in, ye old reprobate.”
Dunnet grinned a gap-toothed grin down at Edward and chuckled, enveloping him once more in a fog of whisky vapors.
“Did they drag ye straight from the whisky still to tend to me?” Edward asked, a little woozily.
The old healer laughed. “Funny ye should mention whisky, lad,” he wheezed. He pulled a battered leathern flask from a small basket by his side and pulled out the stopper. “A dram fer me,” he said, taking a generous slug out of the flask, “and a dram fer ye.” He sloshed an even more generous measure over the stab wound in Edward’s arm.
Edward let loose a string of garbled, growling curses through his gritted teeth that set the soldiers standing about him to chuckling appreciatively.
“Come now, lad,” Dunnet rebuked him mockingly, “watch that tongue o’ yers. There’s a lady present.”
With the hair-raising stinging in his arm fading to a dull burning, Edward looked to where the old physician had indicated and saw Charlotte standing meekly by Cogar.
“In case I nod off again, Dunnet,” he said, quietly so that none of the men around them could hear, fixing the mustachioed healer with a stern eye, “ye look after her, ye hear? The fate o’ the clan might depend on it.”
The old man shot him a quizzical look, but only nodded. He knew well enough when a request was an order. It was why Edward and his father held the old man in such high regard.
A sharp stabbing pain in Edward’s bicep did the work of a dunk in an icy stream and woke him the rest of the way up.
“Ach! What are ye usin’ to sow me up wi’, old man, a bloody plough blade?” Edward snarled.
“Ach, yerself!” said old Dunnet. “Do not be such a wee jessie, have another dram and quit yer hollerin.”
It was not long before the experienced physician had stitched the wound in Edward’s arm. Edward kept his eyes shut the whole time.
“That’s it, lass, hold yer finger there, and then tie a reef knot––tighter, that’s it––to hold the bandage,” came Dunnet’s voice.
There was a tightening of pressure around Edward’s arm and he let out a little exhalation of discomfort through his nose. He opened his eyes and saw that Charlotte was bending over him, examining the bandage that she had just tied critically.
Dunnet peered closely at the bandages. He raised a bristly eyebrow at Edward. “She’s a dab hand wi’ the dressin’s. Have ye finally brought me an apprentice, Edward?”
Before Edward could retort in anyway, a murmur ran through the crowd of soldiers watching. In a moment, they scattered like water droplets on a hot pan, dispersing in all directions. He, Charlotte, and old Dunnet were left on their own, but only briefly.
“Is that me lad? Is that Edward?” boomed a deep voice. It was a voice that was used to handing out orders and having those orders being obeyed––but it was also colored with worry.
Laird Tormod MacAlpein strode up, accompanied by two men of his household guard who walked a little behind him. He was a fine figure of a man, forty-six years old but still hale and healthy-looking. He was not as tall as his son, but as broad. His hair was the same blonde as Edward’s too, and he had a thick shovel beard. Both were liberally streaked with grey. There were lines of sorrow in the corners of his eyes.
“How goes it, Faither?” Edward said, endeavoring to sit up a little straighter on his temporary bed of straw.
“How goes it wi’ me?” the Laird exclaimed. “It seems thatyeare the one that is convalescing in the hay, lad. How goes things with ye?”
“Well, I’ve a tale to tell ye, Faither,” Edward said, “though I fear it must wait a wee while until I’ve had a bit of a rest.”
The Laird nodded understandingly. He looked at the neat dressing on his son’s arm. “Ye were wounded,” he said matter-of-factly. “I assume it’s somethin’ to do with the mission ye were sent on?”
