A stout woman with her entire head wrapped in a pale blue kerchief brushed by the men circling Tavish. The woman’s crinkled brown eyes flicked at Tavish, and she clicked her tongue as she lifted his tunic, then turned her gaze to Tosia.
“Ye are his woman?”
Tosia smiled weakly. “His sister.”
The stout woman nodded approvingly. “Well, ye can stay. Can someone get the rest of the mongrels from here?”
James and Robert immediately jumped to work, corralling the rest of the men out of the main hall.
“I’m called Morna. I’m a healer and midwife. From the looks of this wound, ye dinna need to fret overmuch. Stitching will be the worst, and then ye will have a fine scar to show off to the lassies.” Morna chuckled to herself as she patted Tavish’s shoulder.
Tavish shot a worried glance to Tosia, mirroring her own clenching worries, then looked back at the midwife.
“Aye? I’ll recover?”
Morna dug in her satchel with one hand and flapped at Tavish with the other. “Ye did no’ think that this was a fatal wound, did ye? Och, laddie, ye have much to learn about swordplay. I think yon king and his mannie will make sure ye learn all ye must, aye?”
She lifted a slender brown eyebrow but kept her gaze on the injured soul in front of her. James and Robert nodded and grunted in agreement.
“Fine. Here, bite down on this. ‘Twill be sore for a bit, but in a fortnight or so, ye will be back serving your master, sword in hand.”
Before Tavish could respond, Morna shoved a well-gnawed stick between his teeth. Then she cast a quick look over her shoulder.
“If ye would?” she asked, gesturing to Tavish. Robert and James scuttled to Tavish’s side to hold him immobile as she worked. “If ye feel faint, lass, please take your leave. One injury is enough for me today.”
Tosia bit her lip and nodded, vowing to herself to keep her wits about her. She barely had time to marvel at how easily this short woman commanded the King of Scotland as if he were nothing more than a lowly crofter, before her needle was threading through Tavish’s skin, pulling it as the thread dragged through his ravaged skin.
He hissed and tried to arch his back, but the King and James were true to their word, holding Tavish down so Morna’s fingers could work as quickly as possible. Soon, the sheared skin was rejoined in a jagged line of stitching, and only a few thin trickles of blood remained where once a bloody ragged gash had been.
Morna wiped the rest of the blood away with a rag, then wiped her own hands before wrapping a strip of cloth around Tavish’s waist. “There. Keep it clean. Lass, ye can clip the threads out for the lad in two or three weeks. Watch for pus, and if it forms, call for me right away.”
She patted Tavish’s tunic again as she stood.
The air in the hall suddenly seemed thinner, cooler, and Tosia took a deep breath, trying to clear the clenching in her chest and the pounding in her head. Robert and James each stepped back from Tavish and inhaled deeply as well, searching for their own cooler breaths.
The king walked the healer to the main doors, slipping a coin into her skillful hands. James went to Tavish and ducked under his arm to help him rise from the stained bench. Tosia still clutched her brother’s hand, and supported his other side as best she might.
“Ye get a cot in the chambers off the kitchens, oft reserved for servants of guests,” James explained as they hobbled toward the archway. “That way the maids can see to ye as ye need. Ye will remain there until the stitching comes out, then ye are back with the other squires. However, this has shown me that I’ve been lax in your training. I should no’ have brought ye with us until I was certain of your ability. Prepare yourself. Once those stitches are gone, your body will wish they were back. I shall work ye until ye drop. Your next scar will be one of no consequence, this I vow.”
But he wasn’t looking at Tavish as he spoke. James’s gaze peered around Tavish’s heaving chest at Tosia.
He was making the vow to her.
Once Tavish was settled in his cot, the kitchen maids were tasked with bringing him spiced mead and dried venison to help him regain some of the blood he lost. Tosia patted his hand and kissed his forehead before leaving. His brow was cool, and color was returning to his cheeks. The deathly pallor of his face was gone.
James placed his arm around Tosia’s waist as they exited through the kitchens toward the stairwell.
“A moment, if ye please,” James asked before they mounted the steps.
Tosia turned to him, a flicker of apprehension surging through her. James grasped both of her hands in his, and his glittering eyes searched her face.
“The blame for today resides in me. I asked him to accompany us as I would have any other squire, not bothering to see if the lad was ready to fight if called upon. I apologize if his injury caused ye any pain.”
Not for the first time, strange emotions battled inside her. Here stood the mighty beast, the Black Douglas himself, renown for causing pain and destruction, and he was apologizing for causing her any pain. Would she ever resolve those two contrary aspects to the man?
Tosia released one of his hands and placed her palm on his scruffy jaw. His black beard and the sides of his hair that he had shaved to cleanly had started to grow back, returning his rough appearance to him. The hairs prickled against her skin as she rubbed them, and his face tipped to her hand, nuzzling it.
“’Tis our lot, James, to fight against the English. Tavish knew this once the king sent his missive, and he was the one convincing me that this was our new path in life. I canna fault ye for the actions of the English. I’d rather have ye at his side, at his back than any other. Ye of all people would bring hell upon earth before seeing him, or any of your men, harmed.”
