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Brock killed the Englishman that had wounded Chrisdean before the man could harm him again, but Chrisdean was already in bad shape. His hand went to his side, pressing hard down on his flesh to stop the bleeding, and the sharp pain brought him to his knees. He struggled to keep a moan inside, not wanting his men to hear that he was in pain, and tried to remain stoic, hoping that they could get back to the castle in time.
He wasn’t worried about himself. Death would one day come for him, after all, and he knew that well. He was worried about his people, about his clan that would soon be facing a brutal war. He was worried about Nimue, who had spent only a few days as his wife and would perhaps be a widow by the end of the day, the week, the month. He was worried about all the people that depended on him; he didn’t want to let them down.
“Chrisdean.” Brock’s voice came from above him, and Chrisdean opened his eyes to see that he had somehow fallen onto the ground without realizing it. The pain was shooting through his body in bursts, pushing all the air out of his lungs each time and making it difficult to draw any in.
“Brock . . . is anyone else hurt?” he asked. “Is anyone dead?”
“Na, all the lads are alive,” Brock said, and Chrisdean let out a sigh of relief. “Aidan and Fergus are hurt. We need to get all three of ye back.”
“Aye,” Chrisdean said. “How bad are they?”
Chrisdean saw Brock glance over his shoulder, and it was then that he heard the pained cries of his men. He knew that they weren’t the kind of men to make a fuss about a wound that wasn’t serious, and that scared him. They must have been hurt badly, he thought, perhaps even worse than him.
“They’ll be alright,” Brock said. Chrisdean could hear the lie in his tone, but he didn’t point it out. Instead, he grabbed onto Brock’s arm, lifting himself up, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He felt as though his side was being ripped apart, and perhaps it was, his effort making the wound worse.
“Ach, what are ye doin’, lad?” Brock asked. “Ye canna walk. Ye can hardly stand.”
“I can walk,” Chrisdean insisted. “Help me onto me horse.”
Brock knew better than to argue. Arguing would take too long, and Chrisdean knew that Brock wanted to get him back to the castle as soon as he could, so he helped him wobble over to his horse and get into the saddle.
It was the worst pain that Chrisdean had ever experienced, and it took all his willpower to keep himself focused and to stop himself from fainting. Falling off the horse would only make things worse for him, and so he gripped tightly onto the saddle the entire time, trying to keep his mind solely on Nimue.
He thought about her hair, how it fell down her shoulders in waves and how it shone under the light. He thought about the way her eyes caught the sun, how they were still so dark even in the sunlight, how they always looked kind and compassionate, even when she was angry—though her anger always gave them that glint that he loved to see in them. He thought about her smile, the one she wore every time she thought that no one was looking.
She was the only thing that could keep his mind away from the pain that he felt. Disoriented as he was, he didn’t realize just how much time had passed, but suddenly he found himself at the castle gates, with the sun dipping towards the horizon.
“We’re here,” he heard Brock say, and the moment that they made their way inside, there was a flurry of activity around him. Four strong hands grabbed Chrisdean, pulling him off the horse, and they carried him inside the castle, all the way to his chambers. The pain came back with a vengeance then, making him writhe on the sheets, a cry escaping his lips and echoing off the walls of the room.
“Ye’ll be alright,” Brock said, and it was only then that Chrisdean found out that he had followed them into the room. He sounded terrified, Chrisdean noticed, and when he turned to look at him, he saw Mairi by his side, her eyes filled with tears.
“Na . . . na, Mairi, dinna cry,” Chrisdean said, his voice sounding weak to his ears. He reached out with his hand, but it fell back onto the mattress, limp, and he frowned at it, hurt by his own body’s betrayal.
Mairi took his hand in her own, holding it tightly. “Mo laochain . . . be strong for me, will ye?”
Chrisdean smiled at her. She hadn’t called him that in years. “Mairi . . . where is Nimue?”
As if summoned, Nimue appeared at the door. Gasping, she put her hand over her mouth, eyes instantly brimming with tears when she saw Chrisdean. She rushed to him, kneeling down next to the bed as Mairi stepped aside to make room for her, her hands hovering over his body, seemingly not knowing where to rest.
“Who did this?” Nimue asked. “Who hurt him like this?”
“Sassenachs,” Brock said, his voice dripping with venom. “They were waitin’ for us. I dinna ken how they could ken that we would be comin’. I dinna want to believe that any of our lads would betray us.”
“Was it an ambush?” Nimue asked.
“It seems so,” Brock said. “I dinna see why else they would be there.”
A heavy silence fell over the room, the only sounds coming from the healer, who was grinding herbs into a paste and cleaning Chrisdean’s wound. But Chrisdean only had eyes for Nimue, looking at her as the healer worked on him. She was a beautiful distraction, and Chrisdean wanted all the distraction he could get at that moment.
It took the healer a long time to finish, but by the time he did, Chrisdean was exhausted. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he told them so, which prompted everyone to leave the room.
“Na ye,” he said, as he grabbed Nimue’s hand, stopping her from leaving. “I want ye to stay.”
Nimue gave him a silent nod, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. When everyone else was gone, he pulled her closer for a kiss, which ended too soon as she pulled away once more.
“Chrisdean . . . I dinna want ye to die,” she said. “I dinna ken what I’ll do if ye die. I . . . I canna imagine me life if—”
Chrisdean hated seeing Nimue like that and knowing that he was the source of her pain. His own physical pain was manageable, but he could see just how much it affected Nimue; he could see it in her eyes, which were brimming with tears, and he could hear it in her trembling voice. A wave of guilt washed over him, and he quietly cursed himself for not being more careful. He could have spared them both the pain if only he had fought better, he thought.
