Chapter 21 #3
“Who would do this?” Isobel said under her breath.
What enemies did Stephen have? Isobel thought of all Philip’s warnings about how Highlanders were hated.
Could that be what happened? But Stephen wasn’t even a Highlander.
As Isobel cleaned the wound, Gillian knelt near Stephen’s head and washed his face and neck with a cool cloth, then tied his hair back.
Isobel had just rewrapped his wound with clean dry linens when Stephen groaned and tried to turn his head.
“Get water,” Isobel said.
Gillian leapt to her feet, returning with a tin cup full of water.
He was a big man, and moving him was out of the question, but between the two of them, they got his head turned. Gillian held the cup to his lips and tilted it, but it just ran down his face.
“Dammit, Stephen, drink!” Isobel said, frightened and upset by his condition.
To her surprise he did. A blue eye cracked open. He blinked a few times, as if clearing his head. “I’m dreamin’ again,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.
Isobel grabbed Stephen’s chin. “No you’re not. It’s Isobel and Gillian, and we’re really here.”
His eyes opened again, and he squinted at them. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” He tried to move his arm, but it was pinned awkwardly against his side, as if he’d been shivering and brought his arms up to warm himself.
He gritted his teeth and managed to get his arms under his head. He was breathing hard when he finally lay still, but he gave them a weak smile. “Everything hurts.” He frowned at them a moment, then asked, “Why are ye here? I thought you were wedding the earl of Kincreag?”
“I had a vision.”
Stephen closed his eyes, sighing deeply. “Oh, aye?”
“Of Philip, in Hawkirk.”
Stephen’s eyes snapped open. “In Hawkirk, ye say?”
Isobel nodded. “They…they’d strangled him and were burning him.”
Stephen cursed rather obscenely and pushed himself up.
“Stephen, no!” Isobel cried, trying to hold him down. “Your back—you shouldn’t even move.”
It didn’t seem as if he really could move…at least from the waist down. The muscles of his arms and back trembled and strained as he tried to push himself to sitting. Finally, he collapsed back onto the bed.
Gillian knelt beside him again, wiping his brow with a cool cloth. “Can you feel your legs?” she asked softly.
“Aye, I can—it feels like they’ve been stabbed by bolts of fire, right down from my back.”
“Try to move them.”
Jaw rigid, he did as she bid, grunting horribly with pain and sure enough, his legs moved.
Gillian touched his shoulder as he lay exhausted on his folded arms. “I think you’ll walk again.”
“If I live through the infection,” he murmured. “That’s how my da died, ye ken?”
Gillian and Isobel exchanged a grim look. The infection had already clearly set in. All they could do was wait it out.
After a moment Stephen lifted his head again. “You’ve got to get help…that’s where they’re taking him—to Hawkirk.”
“Who, Stephen? Who did this to you?”
“Colin. Aidan. Niall.” His head rolled against his arms as he shook it.
“Don’t know how they knew we’d be here, but they were waiting for us.
Didna want me. Shot me afore I even knew what happened—right in the back, the bastards.
All three of them beat Philip unconscious and dragged him off.
I couldn’t move after they shot me—thought I was dead at first—kicked me in the head, too, the damn cowardly bastards.
They were taunting him, saying that there’s a witch pricker looking for him in Hawkirk and that he was going to burn.
” Stephen’s eyes squeezed shut, and a tear tracked down his stubbled cheek.
“God bloody damn it! I just lay there, and now he’s going to die and I still canna do aught but lie here. ”
Gillian patted his head, her brow lined with worry. “You were shot in the back. You can’t even walk. What were you supposed to do? At least you’re alive.”
Stephen just shook his head, becoming increasingly distressed. “Fergus should be here. Where the hell is he?” He seized as pain from his back gripped him, then went limp.
Isobel touched his shoulder, hot and damp with sweat. “Stephen?” There was no response. Isobel sat back on her heels. “Well, we know what happened.”
She stood and went to Stephen’s and Philip’s sacks, which were tossed carelessly on the floor. She came up with a primed dag, bullets, gunpowder, and a wicked-looking dirk. She transferred them to her own satchel.
“Where are you going?” Gillian asked, when Isobel swung her mantel on and secured it at the throat.
“To Hawkirk.”
“What? You can’t go alone!”
“There’s no one else. No one is coming to help us.”
“We’re sending for Uncle Roderick, remember? And Stephen’s family will surely seek retribution—and what of Philip’s clan? We should send for them, as well.”
Isobel shook her head. “There’s no time for that. I feel it.”
“But what about Fergus?”
“I don’t know where he is. You have to stay here with Stephen. If Fergus arrives, send him to Hawkirk.”
Gillian clamped both hands over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Then she threw her arms around Isobel’s neck and held her tight. “Please, please, have a care, sister. I’m so frightened for you.”
Isobel hugged her sister back. “I am, too,” she whispered.
And it was more than fear for Philip and fear of doing this on her own.
It was also fear of her vision. Though she’d never had a vision of her own future, she couldn’t help wondering if this was the source of the foreboding she’d been feeling for so long—that the charred body bound to the stake, stinking of burned hair and flesh, was Isobel MacDonell.