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Chapter Twenty
When Chrisdean awoke, it was morning, and Nimue was nowhere to be seen. The light that shone through the windows blinded him, and he winced as he tried to turn to the side to avoid the harsh sun, his wounds protesting at the movement.
The sharp pain reminded him of the fight. Chrisdean still had no idea what had happened to his men, if Aidan and Fergus were alright or if they, too, were going through the same agony that he was.
He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that perhaps they were dead and that Brock had only told him that they weren’t badly injured just to spare him grief and pain while he recovered. It would be too much, knowing that he had led his men straight to their slaughter.
How did they ken that we were comin’?
It was that question that had puzzled Chrisdean in his every waking moment when the pain subsided enough to allow him to think. He refused to consider the possibility that someone from the clan had warned them. The mere thought was ridiculous. He knew every single man and woman in his clan, and he trusted them all. Besides, it was not the time to begin doubting his people’s loyalty to him. He didn’t want to create a divide in his clan at a time of war.
Perhaps they had just been lucky, Chrisdean thought, and the ambush had not been planned as well as he thought it had been. Or perhaps word had spread around the villages that he was touring the land, which led to the English finding out.
He knew that thinking about it would drive him crazy since he had no answers, and he doubted he would soon get any. He would consult Brock once he saw him, but he let his mind drift from the attack to Nimue.
Now that he had a clearer head, the pain still sharp but not enough to affect his thinking, he couldn’t help but be flooded with feelings of guilt and inadequacy. He cursed himself under his breath, hands clenching into fists as he remembered the worry and agony etched on her features when she was at his bedside.
He wanted nothing more than to reassure her, to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be fine. He had survived, after all, and with the healer’s help and God’s will, he would live to see many more days. He wanted to tell her that, to tell her anything that could take away that pain.
Chrisdean would do anything to take Nimue’s pain away. He would even bear it as his own.
The knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts, and when he glanced at it, he saw Mairi standing there, her face pale, her lips drawn into a thin, concerned line. She looked as though she had aged years overnight, the dark circles under her eyes weighing her gaze, her hands looking small and frail where they were gripping the door.
Another wave of guilt rushed over Chrisdean. He hadn’t given much thought to what Mairi could be feeling, and seeing her there was enough to rip his beating heart right out of his chest.
“Ye’re awake,” Mairi said, rushing to him and sitting by his side. Her hands were gentle as she wrapped them around Chrisdean’s own, warm and comforting, like a mother’s. “Ach, laddie, how are ye feelin’? Are ye in pain? Do ye wish for me to call the healer?”
“I’m fine, Mairi,” Chrisdean said, even though the reprieve from the pain that he had gotten in his sleep did not seem to last. He would soon need the healer, he knew, but before he called him, he wanted to spend some time with Mairi, just the two of them. He could hardly remember the last time he had taken some minutes out of his busy schedule to talk to Mairi, to truly talk to her, like he used to when he was younger. It had never been something that he thought about, up until he came face to face with death. He hated the notion that he could have died before telling Mairi just how much she and Brock meant to him.
“Ye scared us all,” Mairi said, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I thought . . . I thought we’d lost ye.”
“Na . . . ye canna rid yerselves of me so easily,” Chrisdean said, and that drew a laugh out of Mairi. He took it as a good sign, his own spirits rising. “Mairi, I’m . . . I’m verra sorry.”
The frown that Mairi gave him was one of utter, unmasked confusion. “Whatever are ye sorry for? Ye didna do anythin’ wrong.”
“I should have been more careful,” Chrisdean said. “I should have been more careful with me life and the lives of me men. What if somethin’ had happened to Brock? What about Aidan and Fergus?”
“They’re both fine,” Mairi said, much to Chrisdean’s relief. He let go of a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding, the air rushing out of his pursed lips in a puff. “They were na hurt bad, they’re both on their feet, runnin’ around like nothin’ happened. Brock keeps tellin’ them to rest, but they are stubborn lads. They want to go with him to find the rest of the Sassenachs.”
Chrisdean frowned at that, pushing himself up on his elbows as he tried to sit up. His entire body protested, flashes of pain shooting through him, but with Mairi’s help, he was soon leaning against the headboard.
“I didna tell Brock he could do that,” he said. “I wasna consulted.”
“Weel, ye were hardly awake to be consulted,” Mairi reminded him. “And ye need yer rest. Brock can take the men and win this fight for ye.”
“I willna let him go alone,” Chrisdean said, shaking his head. “It’s na a wise thing, Mairi. We dinna ken how many Sassenachs there are; we dinna ken where they are. There might be an entire army of them, and what will Brock do then?” Mairi gave Chrisdean a weary look, and she didn’t need to say anything for him to know that she didn’t approve of his choices. The choice had already been made, though, and Chrisdean refused to change his mind.
What kind of leader would I be if I let them fight the Sassenachs alone? What kind of leader would I be if I dinna fight by their side?
And if they all died, if the English defeated them and none of them managed to survive, then what kind of leader would he be, he wondered, if he didn’t die with them?
Mairi didn’t try to argue with him, thankfully, perhaps because she knew that he was stubborn and it was impossible to change his mind, he thought. But he couldn’t bear to look at her, not when she seemed so pained and saddened by his decision.
“Always, ever since ye were a bairn, ye wouldna stop getting’ yerself in trouble,” Mairi reminded him. “Do ye remember when ye tried to save that fox that was stuck on the edge of a cliff? Ye must have been six or seven years old, and ye found it when ye were playin’ with the other laddies.”
Chrisdean laughed at the memory. He remembered it well, how he had been so scared for the fox, how he had begged the other boys to help him, but they were all too afraid to approach it. He remembered the relief he felt when he finally managed to save it.
“Aye, I remember.”
