Page 4 of The Guardian's Bride
“As you wish.”
“Also, Lady Isabella can hardly return to her husband after this deed. The Comyns hate my very existence and King Edwardwill judge her actions as treasonous. My wife wants Isabella to stay with her and my daughter and sisters. Soon I will send them to Norway until it is safe to bring them home.”
“I will tell her, Sire.”
“Aye. When we meet again, I will have other tasks for you if you are willing.”
“Always willing, Sire.” He bowed his head.
Days later, inFife, he hid the regalia away in a cave by the sea and told no one. He gave orders to his men to guard Castle Black, leaving it in the keeping of Sir Michael Balfour, his cousin and seneschal. Then, he kissed his sister and aunt farewell and held his little son tight. Draping his plaid and sheathing his sword, he walked down to the beach beyond the castle, past the caves where doves cooed, to wait for a boat sent for him by a renegade king.
He felt alone, even with companions in the cause. Solitude was his fate now, so it seemed. Once peace returned to Scotland, he would revive the dreams he had set aside. Until then, he would favor secrecy and stealth with a smile, for life had taught him that a smile could hide more secrets than a scowl.
Chapter Two
Holyoak Abbey, Scotland
February, 1307
She was notcertain he would live. Rowena Keith leaned forward to set another cool wet cloth on the man’s fevered brow and touched his bare shoulder and chest. The skin felt hot and dry. Soon she must change the poultices on his wounds, although Holyoak’s abbot was adamant that a monk be present due to the location of the gash on the man’s thigh. Such caution seemed unnecessary; she was familiar with the male physique, having tended to many wounded men over several years of war and strife. Besides, she was a widow, even if her marriage had been very brief.
But this patient was restless and brawny, and she might need help given his strength and size. In candlelight, she examined the lesser gashes on his face and forearm, and then heard voices murmuring outside. Brother Gideon and his twin, Sir Gilchrist Seton, must have come out of midnight prayers. If they came by the infirmary to inquire about the man who had collapsed at the abbey gates days ago, she would enlist their help to hold him down while she applied fresh poultices.
She sighed, patting the man’s broad shoulder. He was asleep at last and she did not want to disturb his rest. Yesterday he had thrashed and muttered about swords and gold and kings in Gaelic and English, and had fought efforts to treat him. Onlywhen Brother Gideon arrived to subdue him—all but sitting on him—could she treat his wounds.
Tilting her head, she studied him. Under the swelling and bruises distorting his face, he was handsome, despite the hedge of his brown beard and the long, unruly chestnut curls she had rinsed in lavender water that morning. She saw strength and elegance in the high cheekbones, squared jaw, and long arched nose where a bump indicated a previous break. His lips were cracked but full beneath the overgrown mustache; his closed eyes were long-lidded and thickly lashed under straight dark brows.
She wondered what color his eyes were, what he was called, if he had family. And she hoped she could do enough to save his life. An almost desperate feeling went through her with that desire; she reminded herself to be a more neutral caretaker.
Drawing back the woolen blanket, she took a quick breath at the sight of his robust nearly nude body. He was solidly beautiful in shadows and candlelight, chest rising and falling, gleaming muscle dusted with bronze and golden hair. His left arm, closest to her, was taut with strength, bent and bandaged across his torso. His long fingers were nimble, almost graceful, slightly calloused. No doubt, he was a warrior, judging by his fitness and the pattern of his wounds. A big warrior, too—the narrow bed barely held him, wide shoulders touching the sides, feet dangling off the end of the cot, toes covered in the clean knitted socks the monks had provided.
Carefully she peeled away the wrapping on his forearm to look at the long cut that angled from elbow nearly to wrist. Days ago when she had arrived, his condition had alarmed her. She did all she could to treat the cuts and gashes, some minor and some serious. Cleansing and dressing the wounds in wine and honey, she had applied poultices and ointments in blends of garlic, nettle, yarrow, onion, honey, and more, and hadreopened his half-healed wounds to clean and stitch them neatly with silk thread.
The monks said the man had been in a battle on a sea loch between Bruce’s forces and English, a rousing defeat for the Scots. The big warrior had a wild look; Rowena could imagine him roaring, brandishing a sword, giving no quarter. Though she had only heard him mumble, even so his voice had power.
The wound on his forearm looked less angry than before. Pleased, she replaced the bandaging and drew up the covers. Brushing back messy tendrils of hair from his brow, she studied the stitched cut along his left cheek that glistened with ointment. His facial cuts would not scar badly. But the most serious wound on his leg already had stirred a fever that could be beyond curatives.
She glanced down the length of the infirmary room, a plain wooden building dim in the light of candles and braziers. Several patients lay in two long rows, but the man she tended had a bed apart from the rest, earning privacy as the most serious case. In the few days she had been here, she had spent time with each patient—a fever, old age, a broken leg, apoplexy, two men with wounds gained in a skirmish. The infirmarian and his assistants did good work and did not need her help there.
But the infirmarian had despaired of the brawny warrior’s fevered condition and sent word to Kincraig for Rowena to come quickly. She often helped at Holyoak’s small hospital and was skilled in treating wounds after years of seeing men hurt in battle or skirmishes. After Aunt Una’s death three years ago, Rowena had continued her legacy as a capable healer, so she set out immediately when Brother Gideon and his twin, Sir Gilchrist Seton, arrived as her escort. Her young husband, Sir John Sinclair, had died in an English attack, and she’d had no chance to help him; now she did what she could to help other Scots soldiers.
The door to the ward opened and Gideon and Gilchrist came toward her. Seeing the twins together, she smiled. Both were tall, blond, and identically handsome, though one was a tonsured monk and the other a knight in chainmail and English surcoat, though he was a Scot who balanced duties to two kings, preferring Bruce over the other. “My lady,” Brother Gideon murmured. “How is he?”
“Resting, but the fever has not abated. I hope what I have done will be enough.”
“Will the leg need amputating?” Gilchrist asked.
“I pray not. The abbot would need to send for a physician or a blacksmith-surgeon, as I could not do that without help. The next few days will tell.”
“The abbot, our reverend uncle, says you may stay in the guest house as long as you like,” Gideon said.
“Thank you. You mentioned this man’s name earlier,” she said. “I was so busy at the time that I did not hear what was said.” His needs mattered more to her than his name, but she was curious.
“MacDuff. Apparently, he was wounded in the fray at Loch Ryan. One of the monks recognized him as Sir Aedan MacDuff, a knight of Fife,” Gilchrist said.
“Clan MacDuff is significant,” she said. “Close to the Crown of Scotland since ancient times, I believe.” She touched MacDuff’s cheek and his bare shoulder. Hot and dry. That worried her. His name tapped a childhood memory, some link with her father. She could not place it.
“Aye, by ancient tradition, the MacDuffs have the sole right to crown Scottish kings,” Gideon replied. “If he is one of that kinship, he could be a significant man.”
