Prologue #2
“I’ll not take anything from ye,” she said. “But ye’re injured badly.”
“I know.”
“Willna ye tell me what happened?”
He grunted, shifting slightly, and she caught a glimpse of his face. Straight nose, square jaw, and well-shaped features. Handsome features, in fact.
Very handsome.
“I took a pike to the back,” he muttered. “And a short blade to the back of my left knee. Is there anything else you wish to know?”
She regarded him a moment. “Ye’re a knight.”
“Brilliant observation.”
It was a derisive comment, one that left her feeling the least bit offended. But she’d been around men and women in pain and she knew that, sometimes, great pain made people behave in ways they wouldn’t normally behave.
She could hear the anguish in his voice.
Anguish she had caused.
Feeling the least bit guilty that this man, this knight, had been forced to fight against her angry kin for something she had inadvertently caused gave her more patience than she would usually have.
She had no great love for the English even though her father’s cousin was married to the greatest English warlord in all the north.
She had many English cousins as a result.
She hoped that if one of her English kin had been badly wounded on the borders, that a Scotswoman might give him a bit of kindness.
Truly, it was all she could do.
Her mother had sent her to tend the wounded, after all.
“Let me see what they’ve done tae ye,” she said, throwing caution to the wind and moving forward. “Mayhap I can help.”
He held up a hand that was as big in circumference as her head. “Stop,” he commanded quietly. “Come no closer.”
She came to a halt. “Why not?”
“I do not need or want your help.”
She sighed sharply. “So ye would rather bleed tae death?” she said. “I mean ye no harm, Sassenach, I swear it. Will ye not let me help ye?”
“Nay.”
She cocked her head, frustration on her face. “I swore tae ye that I willna hurt ye,” she said. “Not every Scot is out tae kill ye, ye know. Certainly not me.”
He seemed to be growing weaker. He’d been propping himself up with his right arm but she could see that he was trembling. He simply shook his head, but the effort was too much. He lost his balance and his right arm gave way. With a grunt, he fell to the earth, his head resting on the dirt.
“Just… go,” he muttered. “Leave me in peace.”
Annaleigh was more determined to stay than ever. She had no idea why she was set on helping this stubborn knight, but she was. Perhaps it was her way of doing penitence for the battle she’d caused. Whatever the reason, she felt the need to do something.
Anything.
Or he would die.
“What will yer wife think when ye dunna return from battle?” she said, trying to reason with him. “What will yer mother and father think? Do ye truly feel that ’tis glorious tae die in a foolish border skirmish? ’Tis an ignoble way tae leave this life, Sassenach.”
She was trying to provoke him a little, to force him to think. English knights were always so arrogant. So perhaps if she reminded him that he was about to die in a worthless battle, it might provoke him into letting her help.
But he simply lay there, an enormous lump of flesh and bone and armor on the ground.
“I have no wife,” he mumbled. “No one who will mourn me other than my father and friends and king. I’d always thought… well, it does not matter now.”
Annaleigh threw caution to the wind. She went to him, setting her basket down beside him and peeling away his tunic. When he felt her, he put a big hand back to swat her, but he only succeeded in shoving her a little. She pushed his arm away and continued working.
“Stop yer foolishness,” she commanded softly. “Let me see if I can help ye. It may be too late, but let me see.”
He couldn’t fight back. He mumbled something, probably an insult, but she didn’t hear him.
He wasn’t making any sense, anyway. Carefully, she peeled back layers of tunic and pushed aside mail, finally seeing the puncture wound in his lower back.
The pike must have penetrated something vital because it was still bleeding, oozing out dark, red blood that was trying to clot.
It was difficult to get to the wound because of the layers of protection he was wearing, but the dirk she’d brought with her served a purpose. She cut through the wool and linen and leather, pushing the mail aside enough that she was able to finally get to the puncture wound on his lower back.
In the basket she’d brought with her, the one that held items she was to use to help her own wounded, she found her bone needle and silk thread.
She also found a long pair of tweezers used to clean out wounds.
She could see debris in the wound, so she used the tweezers to pick out what she could.
It was slow going, and surely must have been excruciating, but the knight never made a sound.
She wasn’t even sure if he was conscious.
Hurriedly, she removed anything she could see, doused the injury with the wine she carried in the basket used to clean wounds, and stitched it up as quickly and as tightly as she could.
When she was finished with that, she found the wound on the back of his left knee, which was very difficult because of the mail trousers he wore, and managed to clean that up and bandage it tightly.
She couldn’t get to it because of the mail, so she hoped the bandage was enough.
She wasn’t sure if she’d done any good at all, but at least her conscience was clear.
When she was finished, she put her things back in her basket, leaning over the knight to see if he was even conscious. His eyes were closed and he was deathly pale, so she assumed he was either dead or asleep. It was difficult to tell. As she stood up, she heard his low, rumbling voice.
Like thunder rolling.
“What is your name, lass?” he asked.
She paused. “Annaleigh.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I told you not to help me, Annaleigh,” he muttered. “But you were gracious to do so. I cannot repay you for this.”
Annaleigh was surprised that he thanked her. She was certain he would tell her how angry he was that she’d ignored his wishes. “Ye can the next time ye see battle against the Scots,” she said. “Mayhap ye’ll remember a Scotswoman who showed ye mercy. Mayhap ye’ll show some of the same.”
“Doubtful,” he mumbled. “But I thank you, anyway.”
“Will ye tell me yer name?”
“War.”
“Yer name is War?”
He drew in a long, slow breath. “Ironic, is it not?” he muttered. “But that is my given name.”
“Heavens,” she said, more to herself. “Did yer parents hate ye, then?”
She said it before she even thought about what she was saying, which was a bad habit with her. But to her surprise, the knight snorted softly. “You will be astonished to know that they loved me very much,” he said. “My full name is Warwick. But I have gone by War my entire life.”
“’Twas a prophesy, yer name.”
“Are you a mystic, then?”
“Nay,” she said softly. “I canna divine the future. Sometimes I wish I could.”
“As do I, Annaleigh. As do I.”
There was something wistful in his tone. Perhaps even regretful. There were volumes of unspoken words in that short comment, perhaps referring to a life that had been hard earned and hard fought, a man with impeccable skills and breeding, now possibly to be cut short.
All because of her.
The guilt returned. Annaleigh came around the front of him, looking at him as he lay on the cold, damp earth.
The way he was laying certainly couldn’t have been comfortable.
His head in particular was on wet earth, mud in his hair and on the side of his face.
Setting her basket down, she went around the back of him again and knelt by his head.
Pulling off the shawl that was tied around her shoulders, a piece of soft lamb’s wool that she’d embroidered herself, she balled it up and gently lifted his head, slipping it underneath so he had something comfortable to rest his head on.
“There,” she murmured. “I canna do any more for ye, War, but mayhap that will help a little.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the softness and warmth against his cold and dirty cheek. “Once again, I am grateful for your kindness,” he muttered. “You did not have to.”
“I know. And that is why I did it.”
“I shall not forget it.”
Annaleigh was prevented from answering because she could hear men’s voices in the distance.
Scot voices. They were coming closer. She knew enough about warfare to know that if they came into the thicket and found the English knight, they would kill him and, somehow, she didn’t want that to happen.
Perhaps because she’d tried to help him, perhaps because she had caused all of this, she wasn’t certain her reasons.
All she knew was that she had to make sure they didn’t find him.
Grasping her basket, she trudged up the banks of the thicket, out into the meadow that was warming under the new morning sun. Immediately, she could see a group of Scotsmen, mostly looking at the dead around them, but when they saw her coming out of the trees, they shouted.
“Annie!” It was her brother, Robbie. “Where’d ye come from?”
Annaleigh gestured to the trees behind her. “Back there,” she said. “Ma told me tae look for wounded.”
She held up her basket, showing them that she was carrying bandages and such to tend to the Scots injured, and the men started heading in her direction.
“Did ye find any in there?” Robbie asked.
Annaleigh shook her head. “Nay,” she lied. “No one. We saw fighting near the river, but no bodies. Did the English carry their dead away, then?”
Robert Scott came to a halt, eyeing his petite younger sister.
She was a stunning creature with big, green eyes and curly, red hair that tumbled to her knees in an unruly and glistening mass.
She was also well-loved, which was why they’d summoned an army to punish those who had accosted her.
It had been costly, but no one would complain.
If that’s what they had to do to avenge their womenfolk against the English, they’d do it happily.
“The English dunna want their wounded tae fall victim tae the scavengers.” He lifted a hand up to shield the bright morning sun from his eyes. “I suppose ye can tend the wounded out here. There are enough tae go around.”
The men with Robbie started to wander away, picking through the dead, trying to figure out where to start with collecting the bodies, but Annaleigh reached out and grasped her brother’s arm before he could get away.
“Come with me,” she said. “Ye can help me. Are men coming with litters tae carry off the wounded?”
Robbie nodded, glancing to the north where the remains of their army was gathered. “They’ll come,” he said. Then, he sighed heavily as he looked around. “The lads fought valiantly. I was proud tae be at their side.”
Annaleigh looked around, too. All she saw was carnage that she had caused. “So many… lads dead or dying,” she murmured, blinking away the tears. “Oh, Robbie, why did ye have tae do it? I dinna want this, all of these lads dying because of what happened. Their deaths are on me.”
Robbie’s jaw ticked faintly, trying to remain stoic while his sister wept. “Their deaths are on the English, not ye,” he said steadily. “We canna allow what they did tae go unpunished.”
“And all of these dead men are worth the price?”
“I’d kill a thousand Sassenach myself tae keep ye safe,” he said with deadly conviction.
But he looked at his sister and saw that the entire situation had upset her sensitive soul deeply.
She was such a caring creature. He grasped her wrist and gave her a tug.
“Come on, cearc. Let’s find those proud lads in need. ”
Cearc. It meant “chicken” in Gaelic, something he’d called her since they were children.
Robbie was a good older brother, a little reckless at times, but loyal to the bone.
He also hated the English with a passion so it was a good thing they were heading away from the thicket.
If he discovered his sweet little sister had lied to him, things would not go well for her.
Annaleigh knew that very well.
As the morning deepened, she followed her brother into the fields of the dead and dying Scots, leaving a dying English knight somewhere back in the trees.
Even though Annaleigh was focused on helping her own people, still, her mind was lingering back with the big, bloodied Sassenach.
There was nothing more she could do for him other than make sure her kin didn’t find him still alive.
At least let the man die in peace.
Truly, she hoped it would be enough.