Chapter 5 #4
Rose left the wall. She knew, from the long day and night she’d spent nursing Strathwick, that he wasn’t as unaffected as he’d appeared.
She raced through the castle. The members of the household slowly returned to their duties, their manner subdued.
Strathwick was nowhere in sight. Rose went to his chambers and knocked on his door.
There was no answer, but he must be in there.
The door was locked, and he was nowhere else.
She had to see him, to help him if he was hurt. She knocked until her knuckles hurt.
“Let me in, my lord! Your shoulder must be tended!”
She heard the scrape of a boot and turned.
“He won’t let you in,” Drake said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and his face grim.
“Then you must get me in. You saw him before. He cannot be left alone.”
“Oh, aye, he can.” When she just stared at him, bewildered, he continued, “The wound was not fatal. Pol would have lived through it—unless it festered. Course, Will’s shoulder hurts like hell, but it will be much improved by tonight. We’ll leave on time, fash not.”
“But…he shouldn’t be alone after that.”
Drake pushed off the wall, his grim gaze on his brother’s door. “Aye, he shouldn’t. But he will.” He gestured for her to move along. “Get some sleep. We’ll be riding all night.”
“Does he have a wife?” she blurted out. When Drake turned back to regard her curiously, she added, “To be with him now, that is.”
He quirked a mocking brow. “I would hope, had he a wife, she would have wished to be with him before as well. When you tended him, that is.”
Rose’s cheeks flushed, and she nodded stupidly. “Of course, I wasn’t thinking. But he has a daughter?…”
“Aye, he was married once. She died.” He looked back at the closed door, then at Rose, his gaze thoughtful. He gave her a reassuring smile and wink. “It will be fine, you’ll see. Get some sleep.”
Rose left reluctantly. It troubled her that Strathwick was alone.
She’d only known him a short time, but she had not witnessed a large circle of friends.
He had his brother and his daughter and servants.
No wife to comfort him. But she was not his wife, she reminded herself, and it was not her place.
But she was a healer, and as a healer she tried to provide comfort.
It didn’t matter either way; he didn’t want her aid or comfort. She was passing through the great hall, feeling disheartened by all that had happened, when she spied a small form huddled with the dogs near the hearth.
As she approached it, surprised recognition sped her pace. “Lucas?” she said, kneeling before Ailis’s brother.
He raised his head from where it was buried in the mastiff’s neck. Blood ran from a split in his swollen lip, and his eye was mottled black and purple.
“Oh, Lucas,” she breathed, touching his chin delicately.
His eyes were vacant.
“Who did this?” Her voice was tight as she tried to control the fury boiling through her. She had no wish to frighten the lad.
His gaze remained downcast, his voice emotionless. “My da.”
“For bringing Lord Strathwick to heal your sister?”
He nodded, finally meeting her gaze. Anger animated his face suddenly, and tears overflowed, spilling down his dirty cheeks. His hands clenched into fists, and he shook beneath her hands. “I’m not going back. I’m staying here. Master Drake said I could.”
Rose stroked a hand over his hair. “Of course you can. Come with me.” She took his hand and raised him to his feet. He followed along after her like a poppet, mute.
In her own chambers, she opened her wooden box.
She cleaned his lip with garlic water and began making a plaster of woundwort.
As she crushed the leaves in the mortar, she watched the boy.
He huddled on her hearth, skinny arms wrapped around his legs, chin on knobby knees, staring starkly into space.
He was in shock, that much was obvious, but when it wore off, what then?
Would every person who supported Strathwick be killed or forced to take shelter in the castle?
“Does everyone in the village hate Lord Strathwick?” she asked.
Lucas shook his head.
“How many?”
Lucas frowned slightly, then said, “Some of the men…mostly Allister. Sometimes people forget…or don’t care as much. But Allister won’t let anyone forget.” A tear escaped to track his cheek. “I hate him. When I’m big enough, I will stone and burn him…. And my father, too.”
Rose set her pestle aside and knelt in front of the boy.
She knew such hate, had felt it once. She took his hands, meaning to say something comforting or supportive, but compassion and empathy swelled in her chest. She pulled the boy close, hugging him tightly.
Nothing could make it better, she knew. Nothing.
Great, shuddering sobs wracked his small body.
She held him until he lay limply against her shoulder, then settled him on a rush mat before her fire.
She applied the plaster to his wounds, wishing woundwort could heal the deep rends in his heart as well as it would the cuts on his face.
She stroked his hair until his face relaxed in slumber, then she drew away quietly.
With a heavy heart, she packed her few things back in her satchel and lay on the bed.
But sleep did not come. Though she tried, she could not erase from her mind the images of the night, of William MacKay standing on the battlements, staring down at the dead, broken body of the child he’d healed at such great cost to himself. All for naught.