Pride of the Clan (21 page)

“Aye,” she replied, gathering her dusty cloak around her hunched shoulders. “Well, we both ken that’s not true, but I had to come when Logan brought word. Ye didna think to send let me know my husband lay grievously wounded? How goes his recovery?”

Rheade rubbed his beard, feeling guilty he’d spent more time wandering the hall outside Margaret’s chamber than in the Infirmary. And Glenna was right. He hadn’t given her a thought. “Not well.”

“Take me to him,” she said.

He had to comply but the question burned in his brain. “Where’s the sword?” he asked Logan as his brother handed the reins of his lathered horse to an ostler.

“And greetings to you too, Rheade,” Logan replied, holding his arms wide.

Rheade shook his head and went into his brother’s embrace. “Forgive me,” he rasped. “’Tis only—”

Logan slapped him heartily on the back. “I know.”

Rheade returned the gesture, choking on the dust from Logan’s plaid. “Ye stink o’ the road,” he coughed.

“’Twas a long journey,” Logan replied.

He strode over to clasp the hands of his brother’s friends. “Alasdair, Keegan, Fergus, ’tis grateful I am ye’ve come. I’m pleased to see ye all hale and hearty.”

“’Tis our duty to be here,” Alasdair replied.
 

Glenna tapped her foot impatiently, arms folded across her breasts.

Logan clenched his jaw. “I swear to ye we searched the hayloft from top to bottom. There was no sword.”

Rheade’s gut clenched. “And Joss?”

Logan shook his head. “Gone.”

Rheade pinched the bridge of his nose as they escorted Glenna to the Infirmary. “The sword wouldna be necessary if Tannoch would swallow his pride and tell the Queen he didna capture the Stewarts,” he whispered.

Logan shrugged. “Our chieftain doesna admit mistakes.”

“He’ll not be held in high regard when people learn he lied,” Rheade muttered as they neared Tannoch’s pallet.

Glenna paused for a moment, eyeing Logan. Had she overheard?

Their brother’s pallor alarmed them. “
Jesu
! He looks worse than the last time I saw him,” Rheade said.

Glenna stroked Tannoch’s forehead. It was the first loving touch Rheade had seen pass between them in many a year. She cooed words of love and kissed his swollen lips. It awed him that this battered woman who had reason aplenty to despise Tannoch seemed to see only a sick man whom she loved. “What have ye done to yer hair?” she whispered, her face wet with tears.

Logan wrinkled his nose. “Stinks of putrefaction,” he rasped, laying the back of his hand against Tannoch’s cheek. “He’s on fire.”

A bustle of activity near the door to the Infirmirian’s office caught their attention. The monk hurried towards them, a surgeon’s saw in hand. A memory of the execution flashed behind Rheade’s eyes. “What the
fyke
do ye plan to do with that?” he asked belligerently, blocking the monk’s path.

Two more clerics seem to appear from nowhere and stood one on each side of Tannoch’s pallet. The Infirmirian looked down his nose. “If we dinna remove his arm, he’ll die for certain.”

“His arm?” Rheade shouted. “He has a belly wound.”

“Aye,” the monk replied, rolling up his copious sleeves. “The belly wound is healing, but the slash on his arm has festered.”

Rheade vaguely recalled splashing water from Loch Bhac on the wound on Tannoch’s forearm. “But ’twas only a scratch,” he protested.

The monks peeled down the linens. Tannoch moaned. Rheade stared in disbelief at the black, oozing mess that had been his brother’s arm. Logan ran out, his hand clamped over his mouth.

Glenna swooned and collapsed to the stone floor.

A profound sadness overwhelmed Rheade. If Tannoch survived, he’d be without his sword arm.

The stricken man stirred and peeled open one eye, frowning when he caught sight of the monk with the saw. He licked his lips. “Nay, Rheade, let me die.”

Rheade gripped his brother’s good hand. “Yer my brother and I love ye. For our Da’s sake, I’ll not let ye die. Besides, yer our chieftain. I’ll nay explain to the clan why I didna do everything in my power to save yer life.”

The Infirmirian helped Tannoch raise his head and poured a few drops of foul-smelling liquid between his lips. “
Dwale
,” the monk whispered. “Drink. ’Twill help with the pain.”

Tannoch tried to resist, but it was evident he was too weak. “I’m no afraid o’ pain,” he insisted, his jaw clenched, but his eyes betrayed the truth. His brother accepted the next offer of
dwale
and downed several gulps, grimacing at the taste.

“Fetch the other young man,” the monk mumbled, stoppering the flagon. “He’ll hafta hold on to any remaining contents of his belly. We’ll need him.”

Rheade was halfway to the door when an ashen-faced Logan re-entered, with his comrades. “Help me hold him down,” he whispered sadly.

“Aye,” Logan murmured.

As Tannoch drifted into oblivion, they each placed their hands on his body. The monk brandished the saw and looked at Rheade. “Ready?”

“Aye,” he growled, grateful Tannoch was unaware of Glenna lying in a stupor at his feet. He felt like his brother’s executioner.

~~~

Hannah burst into the chamber like a whirlwind. “They’ve cut off his arm,” she shouted breathlessly, her eyes wide.

Margaret sat bolt upright in the bed. She had only been awake for a few minutes after a restless night, her thoughts alternately filled with images of her beloved and nightmarish scenes of torture. “Rheade?” she croaked.

“Nay,” Hannah said. “His brother.”

She gaped like an imbecile. “But he has a belly wound.”

Hannah put the food tray down on the wee table. “Seems he had a cut on his arm and it festered. It went deeper than anyone thought. Come and eat.”

As she climbed down from the bed, Margaret had to smile at her maid’s indomitable spirit, but her heart went out to Tannoch Robertson. A one armed highlander? And what would this mean for Rheade? For her?

She chafed inwardly for the selfish worry but Tannoch had seemingly been determined to get rid of her. Was he jealous of Rheade? Given what she had learned of his doubtful parentage and Glenna’s barren womb, perhaps Tannoch feared Rheade’s son might become chieftain. But wherein lay the harm in that if he was childless? What was the alternative?

Sometimes people were difficult to fathom.

The truth suddenly struck like a blow to the belly, robbing her of breath. Tannoch wanted Logan’s son to be chieftain.

Hannah was at her side instantly. “What ails ye, mistress?”

She had staggered under the weight of the truth. “Naught,” she said hoarsely, gripping her maid’s arm. “Only a wee bit tired.”

“Come, sitheedoon. Eat. Ye’ll need yer strength when I pass on a message from yer husband. I dinna ken what it means but it doesna sound good. He said to tell ye they didna find the sword and—” She tapped her fingers on her chin, gazing up into the cobwebbed rafters, her brow wrinkled. “—Jo has gone missing.”

The same fear that gripped Margaret’s vitals when she learned her brothers might have drowned seized her now. She gulped air, repeating over and over that all was not lost. They had Graham’s signed testimony. But Joss had endured much for her sake. Where was the poor soul?

“Oh, and Logan’s comrades have returned with him,” Hannah added.

Margaret recalled the intense relief that had swept over her at the sight of five brave highlanders charging out of the Hall of Blair Castle in pursuit of the Earl.

“Perhaps there is still hope,” she murmured.

“I forgot,” Hannah giggled. “Tannoch’s wife has come.”

Bollocks!

SPIKENARD

Two days passed in a blur.

Tannoch lay in a fevered stupor. He occasionally blinked open rheumy eyes, but Rheade doubted he actually knew what was happening around him. Fear his brother might succumb to his severe injuries gripped him like an icy hand. “I canna understand it,” he whispered to Logan on the morning of the third day as they made their way to the Infirmary. “We never got along, yet his death will break my heart.”

“Aye,” Logan agreed. “He’s exasperated me sometimes to the point where I’ve wished him dead, but now—”

“Mayhap he is our Da’s son after all,” Rheade murmured.

Logan shrugged. “Or maybe it’s because we’re sons of the same mother. That’s our bond. No use worrying over it. We’ll never truly know.”

Rheade wished he could share his fears and feelings with Margaret. His longing for her was soul deep. She must be frantic over Joss, of whom no trace had been found.

They entered the hospital. For Rheade the place would forever hold the smell of blood and scorched flesh and the anguished screams of pain. He couldn’t wait to get out of Stirling and return to Dunalastair.

Glenna had never left Tannoch’s side, insisting on helping the monks cool his fevered body with damp linens, dressing his belly wound, which to the amazement of the monks was healing, and binding what remained of his arm. The stump had been cauterized, but it still oozed and had to be tightly re-bandaged frequently.

The changes in his sister-by-marriage were startling. “It’s as if she’s wasting away before our eyes,” he murmured to Logan.

“And there wasn’t much of her beauty left to squander,” Logan said sarcastically.

Rheade scratched his head. “Yet she’s acquired an aura, like an angel of mercy tending to Tannoch’s needs, as if he’s the most treasured husband in the kingdom.”

The notion of Margaret lavishing such love on him swelled his heart.

“Peculiar,” Logan said. “Especially since our dear brother has no inkling she’s here. Let’s try to convince her to get some sleep. She hasna had a proper meal since she arrived.”

Glenna sat in a wooden chair, her head bowed. Rheade lay a hand on her shoulder. Her head jerked up, and he regretted startling her. He touched her elbow. “I insist ye get some rest, sister. What use will ye be to Tannoch if ye die of exhaustion or starvation?”

She shook her head. “Nay. There’s no one else to care for him.”

“Ye ken that’s not true,” Logan replied. “The monks are close by, and Rheade and I are here.”

“And me.”

Every head turned to the doorway. Rheade’s heart leapt into his throat. Margaret was walking towards him, Erskine in her wake. He hurried to her and gathered her into his embrace. Her perfume invaded his senses, loosening the knot in his gut. “Margaret,” he breathed into her ear, scarcely able to believe she was there. She melted into him, her breath warm on his neck.

“Her Majesty has granted Lady Margaret’s request to help tend your chieftain,” Erskine explained, “since he’s her laird now she’s yer wife. But she’s to go nowhere else except back to her chamber, and on the morrow Queen Joan wishes to see the lot of ye.”

He turned and left abruptly before Rheade could decide if he’d detected a hint of a smile on the dour earl’s face.

Glenna struggled to her feet. “Yer wife?” she shouted.

Tannoch stirred, but didn’t open his eyes.

“I’ll nay let this hussy touch my husband,” Glenna shrieked.

“Twas remiss of me not to tell ye of our marriage,” Rheade admitted, determined to keep his arm around Margaret’s waist in case she was an apparition. “But ye had a lot on yer plate.”

Glenna snorted. Rheade half expected fire to shoot forth from her flared nostrils.

Margaret removed his arm from her waist and walked towards her sister-by-marriage. “I ken ye dinna like me, Lady Glenna,” she said softly. “But I have pledged myself in bonds of holy matrimony to Rheade Robertson, and thus to his clan.”

Glenna’s eyes widened. A slight frown wrinkled her brow.

“Ye are wife to the laird of my clan, and my chieftain lies at death’s door. Would you deny me the right to help tend him?”

Glenna fidgeted with the frayed sash of her
léine
, glancing briefly at Tannoch. “He might die,” she whimpered.

Rheade marveled once again at Margaret’s ability to say the right words in a dire situation. She was a canny Scot familiar with the ways of the Highlands. He was sorry he’d never met her brothers.

His bride moved to lay a hand on Glenna’s arm. “He’ll no die if I have aught to say about it,” she said firmly. “Now get some rest. Tannoch will need a strong woman at his side when he recovers.”

Glenna swayed on her feet, and for a moment Rheade feared she might swoon again; but she allowed Logan to escort her from the Infirmary after pecking a kiss on Tannoch’s forehead.

“Ye are a marvel,” Rheade told his wife.

“I’m happy to see ye too,” she said with a naughty smile, producing a jar from beneath her plaid. “And guess what I brought.”

~~~

As Margaret hoped, the spikenard in the precious ointment worked its magic on Tannoch. With Rheade’s permission she smeared dabs of it on the healing belly wound, and on his neck and forehead.

After a short time, his breathing slowed and he fell into a deep sleep.

“I’ve wed a miracle worker,” Rheade boasted to the Infirmarian when he came to inspect his patient. “A wee dab or two of salve and he’s sleeping like a babe.”

The cleric inhaled. “Spikenard? Where did you get such a costly ointment? ’Tis wasted on a dead man.” He huffed away shaking his head without waiting for an answer.

“Sounds like the same thing they said to Mary of Magdala when she lavished the spikenard on our Lord and Savior,” Margaret said with a shrug.

Rheade remembered the soothing yet arousing effects of the salve on his own body. “Dunalastair’s Still Room should have some of this miracle potion on hand in future,” he quipped with a wink.

She giggled, but put a forefinger to her lips. “Hush. We dinna want to wake yer brother.”

“He’s sound asleep,” he replied, holding her gaze. “First time he’s slept peacefully since we arrived. I could ravish ye right here and he’d be none the wiser.”

Desire tingled in private places. “I’ve a yearning for ye.”

They stood at the foot of Tannoch’s pallet, hand in hand.

“I feel safe now I’m with ye,” she whispered.

He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. “I’m hopeful all shall be resolved after we see the Queen on the morrow. I only wish we had Joss.”