Chapter Eleven #2
“It is in God’s hands now,” Sister Evangaline said. “We will do all we can for him, but whether he lives or dies is for the Lord to decide.” She squeezed his arm and moved off to tend one of her patients.
Arran sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Lord above, he was tired. Every one of his muscles felt like it was made of iron and it took all of his willpower to walk to the door, pull it open, and step outside. He leaned against the wall, pulling in a deep breath of the evening air.
The sun was setting, and the air was still and redolent with the scent of spring flowers.
The herb garden where the healers grew medicinal plants to use in their cures was filled with the heavy drone of bumblebees as they went from flower to flower collecting nectar.
It was a peaceful scene, ruined only by the sudden scream of pain from one of his men inside.
His eyes slid closed. Gods, he needed sleep.
“Arran!”
His eyes snapped open, and he saw Jenna hurrying down the path towards him. At the sight of her, some of his exhaustion fell away and he walked to meet her, hoping to shield her from the sights inside the infirmary.
“Jenna. What are ye doing here?”
“Looking for you. Mal said you’d returned.” She looked him up and down and her bright green eyes, he noticed, held an odd shimmering cast like sunlight through new leaves. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
A strange tingle went along his skin as she studied him, and that odd shimmer in her eyes intensified. “You are not all right,” she said. “You have a cracked rib and lots of bruising.”
Arran started as he realized she’d been using her magic on him. He shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.
“Come, lass,” he said. “Let’s get back to the keep.”
“Mal said your injured were being brought here.”
“That’s right. This is the infirmary. The healers are working on the wounded as we speak.”
“Good. Take me to them.”
“What?”
She frowned. “I didn’t detect anything wrong with your hearing when I scanned you just now. Take me to the injured men. I’ll do what I can for them.”
Her words seemed to take an age to work their way through his muddy thoughts. “Ye are a healer?”
She rolled her eyes, then barged past him towards the infirmary door. “I’m a MacFinnan spellweaver, in case you’ve forgotten!”
Before he could stop her, she pushed the heavy door open and entered. He caught up with her just as she juddered to a halt a few steps beyond the threshold and stared around her. Her eyes widened, the blood draining from her face. Arran could hardly blame her. The place stank of blood and misery.
Squaring her shoulders, she asked, “Who is the most seriously injured?”
“That would be Rhodry,” said Sister Evangaline, wiping bloodied hands on a cloth as she walked towards them.
The nun looked Jenna up and down, her lips pursed slightly in disapproval. She was a Christian and as such, many of the old ways that the islanders adhered to were difficult for her to accept. Yet she was an islander herself and so had a foot a little in both camps.
“Ye must be the spellweaver I’ve heard so much about.”
“I am,” Jenna said, lifting her chin. “I’m here to help.”
Sister Evangaline sighed, her shoulders sagging. “And we would be grateful for any help ye could give, my dear. Come.”
Arran followed as the sister led Jenna over to Rhodry’s bed.
The big man was no longer swearing. In fact, he was no longer doing much of anything.
Barely conscious, his eyelids flickered as though he was dreaming and a thick sheen of sweat stood out on his brow.
A fresh bandage had been wound around his middle, but Arran could see ruby stains beginning to seep through it.
Jenna pulled over a wooden stool and sat by Rhodry’s side. “Shit,” she said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and I always had my mother and aunts to help. I hope I can remember what to do.”
She reached out to hover her hand over Rhodry’s bandage and closed her eyes.
Her lips began moving although Arran could hear no words.
A faint tingle walked across his skin, which he now recognized as the touch of Jenna’s magic.
He shared a look with Sister Evangaline, but neither spoke as Jenna worked.
Her brow furrowed and something like pain flashed across her features.
Beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead, which she dashed away irritably with her free hand.
Rhodry suddenly began tossing and turning, limbs flailing to and fro, although he didn’t wake.
“Hold him down!” Jenna hissed through clenched teeth. “I don’t much fancy a whack in the mouth!”
Arran hurried to grab Rhodry’s arms while Sister Evangaline leaned her weight on his ankles, pinning them to the bed. Rhodry was a strong bastard, and it took all of Arran’s strength to hold him still while Jenna worked.
“Ye better hurry, lass,” he murmured as the unconscious Rhodry fought his grip. “Or I think the lot of us are going to get a whack in the mouth.”
A long sigh escaped Jenna’s lips, and she suddenly slumped forward, her hand dropping to her side.
At the same time, Rhodry went as limp as a boned fish and his breathing turned deep and steady.
His eyelids no longer flickered and to Arran’s untrained eye there seemed to be more color in his cheeks.
He released his grip on Rhodry and knelt by Jenna’s side.
“Are ye all right, lass?”
She pushed back her hair and gave a weak nod. “He had a laceration to his spleen. I’ve repaired it, but he’ll have to do the rest himself. As long as he doesn’t get an infection, he should be fine now. Use honey to keep his wound clean.”
Arran stared at her, lost for words. All the stories he’d heard of the MacFinnan spellweavers suddenly paled in comparison to the woman seated in front of him.
She was sweaty, pale, and looked utterly exhausted, not at all like the all-powerful images the stories had painted of the spellweavers.
Yet she was so much more than any of those figures in the stories.
Jenna looked up at Sister Evangaline. “Who’s next?”
The nun seemed to be struggling to form words as much as Arran was. “Thomas has arrow wounds to his back. This way.”
Jenna climbed wearily to her feet and followed the sister to the next bed.
Arran rose and looked down at Rhodry. Was it only moments ago that he’d been on the verge of mourning his old friend?
Was it only hours ago that he’d been riding home from the skirmish with a trail of wounded and despair in his heart?
Now he felt a different sensation, one lighter and warmer.
It took a moment for him to recognize what it was.
Hope.
His eyes tracked Jenna as she knelt next to Thomas’s bed.
The young lad, no more than sixteen, was lying on his stomach with several raw puncture wounds in his back.
One of them was leaking a clear fluid and seemed to have punctured his lung.
The lad’s breathing rattled and rasped like that of an old man, but he was aware enough to respond to Jenna’s questions as she quietly spoke to him.
She closed her eyes and went to work just as she had with Rhodry.
After several moments, the clear liquid stopped oozing from the wound and Thomas’s breathing lost its death-rattle.
The lad burst into tears and grasped Jenna’s hand, whispering words of thanks in a sob-choked voice.
Arran’s heart clenched at the sight. Thomas had been so brave in the face of the raiders and his own death, but now, having been given a second chance at living, all that terror and relief came pouring out of him.
Arran squeezed his shoulder. “It’s all right, lad. It’s all right.”
For the next three hours, Arran helped Jenna as she tended to the wounded warriors.
She burned away infections, stopped internal bleeding, dampened pain while the healers set broken bones.
Arran helped where he could, holding people down, passing clean bandages, washing out wounds.
By the time the last casualty had been tended, they had both missed the evening meal and Arran was about ready to drop from exhaustion.
Jenna was even worse. Using her magic clearly took a toll on her and as she rose from the final patient’s bedside, she looked haggard. Her legs shook as she tried to stand and she would have fallen had Arran not supported her.
“Come, lass,” he muttered. “Time for sleep.”
He took her weight as they made their way from the infirmary and back into the main keep.
One of the healers had wrapped his chest in tight bandages, but the pain from his cracked rib was still enough to make him gasp with each step.
Rosaline and Ingrid came to meet them at the doors, enquiring after Jenna’s welfare and the rumors they’d heard of what was happening at the infirmary.
Arran waved away their questions and helped Jenna up the stairs to her chamber.
She sank down onto the bed with a grateful sigh. “I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered,” she said with a wry smile. “I haven’t done that much healing in years. Wasn’t sure I still had it in me to be honest.”
Arran shook his head. “I’ve never seen aught like it. Ye do realize that when word of this gets out, ye will have a line of patients a mile long?”
Jenna groaned. “Don’t joke about it. I’d forgotten how exhausting it is. I think I might sleep for a fortnight.”
“And ye would be within yer rights to do so, lass. I didnae know the MacFinnan magic could heal like that.”
Jenna shrugged. “It’s what I was trained for. I used to help my mother when I was younger. But it’s not infallible. It can’t heal everything.” Her expression clouded, an old pain flashing in her eyes. “I haven’t used it in a long time.”
“Why not?” he asked softly.
Jenna’s gaze met his eyes and that old pain shone clear and bright within hers. “In my time, we have medicine that can heal better than the magic can. And besides, it failed me when I needed it the most.”
She looked down, fiddling with her hands in her lap. Arran wanted to ask her what she meant, but sensed she did not want to talk about it.
“I’ll leave ye to sleep and I’ll ask Ingrid not to wake ye till late tomorrow. I think it safe to say ye’ve earned a bit of rest.”
“Wait!” She caught his wrist. “I need to show you something. That’s why I came to look for you earlier.” She stuck her arm up her sleeve and pulled out a parchment.
He unrolled it and held it close to his face to make out the words in the candlelight. “It’s just a land grant.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but look at the bottom.”
“It’s a map of the island showing the area of land bestowed in the grant. What of it?”
“Look more closely!” Jenna said, her exhaustion seeming to fall away as she broke into an excited grin. “You see those symbols marked around the coast? Those are the anchor stones; I’m sure of it!”
Now that he examined it more closely, he saw that Jenna was right. Each of those symbols was marked by the word clach, which meant stone. Could she be right? Could this have been what they had been searching for? He traced his finger from Dun Tabor to the nearest stone.
“That’s only a few miles south of here,” he said, looking at Jenna.
“I know,” she said, practically bouncing on the edge of the bed. “We need to go there as soon as possible.”
“And we will. Tomorrow. I dinna think I’m the only one who is likely to collapse if he doesnae get some sleep soon. Rest, lass. We’ll go in the morning.”
Jenna nodded, then flopped back onto the bed, limbs spread-eagled and hair spread around her head like a halo. “First thing though, right? I don’t want to waste any time. I guess I’m not gonna get that fortnight of sleep after all. No rest for the wicked, eh?”
“Nay, lass,” he agreed with a smile. “No rest for the wicked. Sleep well, lass. I’ll see ye in the morning.”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Good night, Arran.”
The sight of her like that on the bed, with her tousled hair spread across the pillow, sent an ache of desire through him. Before he could do or say something stupid, he walked to the door and yanked it open.
“Good night, Jenna.”
With that, he hurried down the corridor towards his own rooms, deciding that it would probably be a good idea to dunk his head in cold water before he went to bed.