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“Your name, sir?”
“Caelan. Caelan McLagen, Laird of Loch Mahrais,” he said. “I am a doctor also.”
“I am Sir Robert Duglas,” the knight said. “I am the second in command of the contingent Bernard Watson, the Earl of Daffield, sent in aid of His Majesty the King’s conquest. I have some sensitive matters to discuss with you.”
Sensing something pivotal was coming his way, Caelan nodded. “I’ll listen.”
“The Earl’s son, the Viscount of Watson was injured in the battle and the Earl, before hurrying back to England, ordered a doctor to take care of him,” Robert said. “I was not made aware of his injury until a few hours ago. I know that being a prisoner of war might not make you lenient toward the plight of your captor, but I need you to save his life. Will you put away your grievances and just attend to him, man to man and not captor to captive?”
“No soul should be lost when there is a chance to save it,” Caelan said. “He could be me worst enemy but I’ll save him if I can.”
Relief flooded the man’s face, “You’re a good man, McLagen. Please follow me.”
They took the stone stairwell that curved gently upwards and came to a top floor where a man laid on a cot with a deep grimace on his face. His lower stomach was wrapped in a swathe of blood-stained bandages. The man looked young, very young.
Why is an Earl’s son out fightin’ a war? Shouldnae a place behind a desk be better for him? And why did it take almost two days to discover he was injured?
Sinking to the man’s side, Caelan studied him. “Forgive me for being intrusive as I ken its nae proper, but what is his name?”
“Peter Watson,” Robert said. “He’s a good man, McLagen; he is loving and kind. He does not deserve to die this way.”
“He doesnae deserve to die at all,” Caelan added. “Especially not this way.”
Lightly grasping the end of the bandage, Caelan unwound it to see the stab wound in the man’s side. The wound was scabbing with bulbs of festering pus resting under the skin. It reeked of infection. Caelan squeezed some of the weeping, bloody pus out into his hand. It smelled like poison. This man had been stabbed with a poisoned knife. And after two days of infection, who knew how deeply the poison had gotten inside the poor man? He had to act fast.
“What do you need, McLagen?”
Caelan grimaced. “It’s nea going to be pretty, Duglas, I need to drain this infection and remove the rotting flesh. I need herbs to numb the pain and herbs to heal the wound inside and out. This man has been stabbed and poisoned, a sure way to have him dead.”
“What herbs exactly?”
After rattling off a list of herbs and substitutes if the primary herbs could not be found, Caelan then requested tubs of hot water, and a clean knife.
The man hurried off while Caelan sat with the injured man. He scanned for other injuries but found none. Something was curious though, on the third finger of the man’s right hand, there was evidence that he wore a ring as there was a band of skin that was paler than the rest of his hand.
Is he married?
The thought was quickly replaced by Caelan wondering why it took two days for this man to be reported.
Could it be by design? Delaying this would mean someone wanted him dead.
When Duglas hurried back with the two men carrying water buckets while he was carrying the knife and a bottle. “I’ve sent out men for the herbs, they should be back before night. One of our soldiers had a bottle of spirits, it should help in disinfecting the wound.”
Taking it, Caelan nodded. “It should. Hold him, please, this is going to sting like the devil.”
He popped the top off, grit his jaw and upended a third of the bottle in the man’s wound. The piercing scream Peter let out had the men flinching but Caelan was prepared for it. As Peter settled back down, shuddering with the after effects, the Laird saw his eyes, light brown, almost amber, and they were wide with pain.
Patting the wound dry, Caelan began to remove the dead flesh that was poisoning the rest around it. It was bloody, pus-covered work and it would turn anyone’s stomach, but he had overcome those reactions years ago. He managed to remove the scabbing, infected flesh and cleared the pus away.
Peter was unconscious as the pain had knocked him out. It was both good and bad for him to sleep, but if too much time passed and he did not come back, Caelan would have another problem on his hands. When the men came back with the herbs, he had some of them boiled and the others ground into pulp to make a healing paste.
Duglas had somehow found a needle and thread, so Caelan had been able to sew the wound together before slathering more of the healing paste over the sutures. The knight had stayed with him through it all and when night came, he ordered a cot to be placed beside Peter.
The young soldier looked peaceful in his sleep but Caelan did not dare let himself succumb to sleep until Peter woke up and could take the medicinal brew. He was weary from the battle but he had to take care of the man. Despite his dedication to taking care of Peter, his own exhaustion dragged him down into slumber.
It was a haunting hoot of an owl that had him opening his eyes and looking over his charge in fright. It was dim in the room but he saw Peter’s chest rising and falling and he sagged back on the cot with relief. Peter was not dead.
For now, I cannot tell how far that poison has gone inside him. God forbid it gets to his heart.
