His throat closed on him, choking him.
It was bad. There was no other way about it, no way to minimize what he was looking at. The expanse from his lower ribs to his hip was a mess of scabs and blood and jagged, blistered tissue. Seared skin. It had the look of an injury that would never recover, but Sawny had obtained his fair share of wounds, and the human body would recover.
The monstrous scars would remain, however.
It was as his father always said.Scars dinna show weakness, they show that ye were stronger than whatever tried to kill ye.
But Sawny was not out of the woods yet. He did not know if Kelso planned on keeping him for any length of time, planned on killing him, or what his intentions were. But Sawny had a strong feeling that letting him go was not on Kelso's list.
He dropped his tattered tunic and pressed the back of his head against the stones. The chill helped calm his fevered head. He was going to have to come up with some sort of plot. Now that he had an idea of what Kelso wanted, even if he only said part of it aloud, Sawny knew that escape had to be at the top of his strategy.
The door rumbled open and like before, Sawny started in surprise, his entire body screaming when he did so. The hollow-eyed lad entered again, carrying a tray.
Addison. Sawny’s bleary mind landed on the lad’s name.His name’sAddison Cameron.
Another bowl and another cup, but this time paired with several strips of fabric and a folded piece of cloth. Addison set the tray down on the stone floor and removed the cloth to expose hidden food. He then placed the fabric on another tray in the corner that Sawny had not noticed. The lad must have brought the platter while he was passed out.
Addison tried to keep his gaze fixed on what was he was doing. Sawny kept his eyes riveted on the lad and noticed how he kept glancing at Sawny from the corner of his eye.
Sawny was in an ill-spirited mood and lacked the energy to speak to the lad. Yet something about Addison struck a chord in Sawny, that his fostering was not exactly to his liking, and that if Sawny needed an ally, perchance this boy would be it.
And as sick and injured and miserable as Sawny was, he was not a fool. He would not presume Addison would aid his escape by any stretch of the imagination. But Sawny would do his best to buy this time and take measure of the lad.
Once the dishes were gathered, the lad shuffled to the door which slammed shut with a groan, followed by the dreadful sound of the bar locking him in.
Remaining crouched, Sawny shifted with delicate movements to approach his meal. More bland parritch, another cup of ale (this time almost full), and next to that, linen strips atop the folded piece of cloth, presumably for his injury. They appeared freshly laundered, and Sawny would use them. Anything was better than having a filthy shirt brush against his raw skin.
Setting the strips aside, he picked up the folded cloth. Initially, he had presumed it to be a sheet or a light blanket to cover him. Instead, he found a fresh tunic. Not new exactly — obviously worn, even worse for wear actually, but in a far better state than his present torn and stained tunic, and all in one piece. Moving his arms gingerly so as not to aggravate his already ruined wound, he removed the remains of his tattered tunic and set it to the side. Mayhap it could serve as a pillow or a poor blanket. Then he grabbed the bandages and wrapped them lightly around his suppurating skin. His skin and midsection jumped and quivered under his ministrations, no matter how gentle his fingers were.
He knew from his mother that binding certain wounds too tightly prevented the skin from healing. If he was still bleeding, the bandages would need to be tight, but if there was no blood then to wrap it lightly, more as a protection than binding. His mother’s instructions on how to keep the fabric flat and smooth ran through his head, and for the first time since he entered this hell-scape, tears burned in his eyes.
Margaret. His poor mother. She must be frantic.
He wiped away the tears on the back of his hand and blinked to stop any new ones. Tears would be a distraction. Tears would not get him out of the situation and would waste what precious little energy he did have.
He would cry when he had his family and Adaira back in his arms.
Once the linen strips were in place, he took the fresh tunic and dropped it over his head. The tunic must have belonged to a much more rotund man, as it was almost as long as a kirtle when he wore it. Fortunately, the tunic’s larger size gave him some measure of security, as if being covered would help protect him. If nothing else, the over-sized tunic might keep him a wee bit warmer than his own tattered tunic had.
Bandaged and fully dressed, Sawny grabbed the bowl of oats and started eating.
And his mind worked weakly as he considered his options.
Chapter Twelve
Thefeversetinby the time the sunlight disappeared from the window slit the next day.
At first, Sawny thought it was merely his mind working to solve his predicament, hot with thoughts and considerations. Then his skin, which should be cool from sitting against the chilled stones, was warm to the touch. Too warm.
Feck.
He lifted his tunic and unwound the linen from his wound. Bright red and inflamed. Worse, if he had to admit it, but that could have been from the branding itself. With such a wound, it was difficult to discern where the injury ended and damage from the cauterization began. Sawny poked his finger against the edge of the seared cautery, and a thin line of yellowish pus escaped.
He released his tunic and dropped his head back against the wall.
Kelso MacIntosh was not going to kill him.
This inflammation was going to take his life far more quickly than that vile man could.
