Chapter 7
Blood and Thread
The feast hall was crowded, far busier than the convent’s halls had ever been, even when they were at their busiest. Una had been seated at Kai and Astrid’s table, but she was set about halfway down the table and couldn’t catch a glimpse of the two of them, let alone speak to them.
She was crushed in between two burly men, both digging into their bread, meat, and gravy with gusto, draining whole jugs of ale before Una could slosh even a little into her tankard. She could barely move her elbows.
Gritting her teeth, Una leaned first against one man, then the other, digging in her elbows until they grunted with surprise and leaned away a little, glancing down at her as if surprised to see her there.
“This is the warrior’s table, lass,” one man said at last. “The women sit over there. Except for Lady Kenneth, of course.”
“Ye think I don’t belong here?” Una snapped. “Well, let’s draw swords and see, eh?”
The man blinked, jaw hanging slack almost comically. He closed it with a snap, grunted, and turned away, not bothering to even answer her.
Somehow, that infuriated Una more than if he’d sneered at her and thrown more jibes her way.
Answer me! she wanted to scream. Don’t overlook me as though I mean nothing!
There was no point in shouting and screaming, of course.
Instead, she ground her teeth and glanced down at her plate again.
The half-cooled meat made her feel sick, but she hadn’t eaten much that day, so she knew she had to eat something.
Dropping her hand to her belt, she fumbled for her knife, the hand-sized one she sometimes used to eat with.
It was gone.
Cold fear surged through her innards. She couldn’t have dropped it, it was tied on well and stuck tightly in its sheath. It could only have been stolen.
And I know who stole it.
Squeezing herself out of the tight space between the two men and ignoring their mutters of complaints, Una hopped to her feet and hurried off down the crowded hall, heart thumping. She didn’t dare break into a run until she got into the hallway, and then she began to sprint.
There were plenty of soldiers clustered in the hallways nearby, and they watched Una with narrow eyes.
They let her go by without question, however.
By now, everybody in the Keep seemed to know that she was Kai’s sister, and they let her go where she wanted.
They didn’t even stop her when she snatched the keys to Struan’s prison from where they hung on the wall, although they all stared at her curiously.
Una hurried along the dark hallway, heart thumping.
What am I doing? What do I expect to find behind this door?
She’d half expected to see the door broken open, perhaps with a murdered Kenneth guard lying inside. Instead, the door was closed and locked. The key squeaked in the lock, setting her teeth on edge.
The first thing that Una noticed was that a few boards had been pried off the window, letting in a bluish silver ray of moonlight. A single tallow candle, guttering in a rusted candlestick holder, gave out a weak light.
Struan sat hunched over on his miserable pile of straw.
Somebody had given him a blanket, at least, and there was a cracked jug of water set beside the candle.
He glanced up as she entered, the candlelight flickering over his face.
Grinning, he lifted his hand high enough for the blade to glint in the light of the moon.
“Forgot this, did ye?” he said, amusement heavy in his voice. “It’s a poor warrior who leaves their weapons behind.”
“Ye stole it,” she spat, teeth clenched. “Ye stole my knife.”
He sniffed, inspecting the blade. “It’s a good knife. Sharp. Well-cared for. Clean. Ye should come get it back.”
He held it out, balanced across his palm.
Una snorted. “Ye think I’m just going to walk in there and take it out of yer hand? I think not. And before ye think of trying to use it, I’d warn ye that there are several dozen Kenneths within shouting distance, all of whom would love a chance to murder ye.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “If I were going to use it, would I not have done it by now? A flick of my wrist…” He lifted his arm again, aiming the point of the knife towards her. “And ye would be gone from this world and into the next, just like that.”
Una knew that the sensible thing to do would be to fling herself out of the way, out of the doorway, and rush to get help. The man was unpredictable.
Instead, she stood there, holding his gaze.
“Go on, then,” she whispered. “Do it. Throw the knife.”
He met her eye, holding it for what seemed like an eternity.
It could only have been a few seconds, however.
Abruptly, before she could react at all, he tossed the knife up into the air.
It spun, point over hilt, and came down with a vibrating thud, landing with its point jammed between two flagstones a few feet in front of Una’s toes.
She snatched it up before the handle had even stopped vibrating.
“I would not kill ye, even if I had the chance,” Struan said bluntly, and Una felt as though she were frozen to the stop.
“Why not?” she asked, even as she told herself that she wouldn’t ask any more questions.
He half turned away, angling his face up at the silvery moonlight. For the first time, she noticed that his sleeve was torn, and there was a nasty gash running down the outside of his shoulder. There was bruising around the cut, too, a sure sign that it had happened when he was being beaten.
“I owe ye my thanks. I never had the chance to say so. For driving off those men earlier.”
Una was sure she must have misheard. Clutching her knife to her chest, she cleared her throat.
“What?”
He didn’t look at her.
“When those Kenneth guards attacked me, they meant to kill me. I knew it, ye knew it, and so on. And in that moment, I…” he hesitated, the words stuttering in his throat. “I didn’t want to die.”
Una flinched, rocking back on her heels. He didn’t want to die? He’d said over and over how much he preferred death to dishonor. She believed him. And now, he was saying something different?
“So,” he continued lightly, his voice seeming very thoughtful and distant, “I owe ye my thanks.”
Now was the time for Una to say something. She found, to her surprise, that no words were coming to mind. Instead, she pointed with the knife towards his bloodied arm.
“That needs washing and bandaging. Ye will get an infection. The healers here won’t be as good as the nuns at the convent.”
He chuckled and leaned backwards to lie stretched out on his bed of straw. Now, he was staring up at the distant, dark ceiling, as if he’d forgotten she was there at all. There was something strange and misty in his eyes, the sort of expression you shouldn’t see in the face of a merciless killer.
“Do ye see any bandages in here, lassie?” he asked, and there was a wry twist of amusement in his voice. “I’ll be fine. It’ll take more than a wee cut to kill me.”
Una scowled. She took a step backwards, gripping the door handle.
“The convent’s graveyard is full of dead men who thought just the same,” she snapped.
He didn’t venture a reply, and she wouldn’t have stayed to hear it even if he had. She slammed the door, locked it, sheathed her knife securely, and set off at a brisk stride down the hallway.
She made it all the way to the crossroads before she stopped. To her left, the hallway led to the feast hall, where laughter and chatter and heat came billowing out, laced with the heavy smell of roasting meat. To her right, it led off to the kitchens and more practical parts of the Keep.
Surely I am not so much of a fool, Una thought, heart thudding in her chest.
A young man came hurrying along, carrying a large jug of wine. Inwardly cursing herself, Una stepped in his way.
He flinched, eyes wide.
“Aye, lady? What is it?”
“I want some supplies, if ye please,” Una said brusquely. “A bowl of warm water, a few clean rags, bandages, a sharp needle, and good thread. Oh, and a poultice of basil, marigold, and garlic leaves for infection, aye?”
The young man blinked in surprise. “As ye wish, lady,” he managed.
Fifteen minutes later, Una had her ingredients.
What am I doing? Why am I so foolish? she wondered, over and over again, as she unlocked the door to Struan’s cell.
She told herself it was because of her promise to Kyla and her promise to the Abbess. Struan was her responsibility. That was why she cared whether or not he lost an arm to infection. That was the reason. The only reason.
Arms full of supplies, she had to kick open the door. It swung open, banging against the wall.
Before it had even opened all the way, Struan was on his feet, back against the opposite wall, one fist clenched and half raised, ready for action. His wounded arm hung more limply at his side, as if it hurt too much to use it.
Una just had time to take in the grim, determined expression on his face before it was swept away by surprise.
“Una,” he managed, and it did feel strange hearing her name from his lips. “What are ye doing?”
She set down the bowl of water—warmer than she’d requested, but it would cool soon enough—along with cloths, bandages, a tub of savory-smelling green paste, and, of course, the needle and thread.
“Let me see yer arm,” she demanded brusquely.
He pursed his lips. “It’s fine.”
Una gave a tight smile. “Actually, it isn’t.
Ye see that reddish tinge around the edges of the cut flesh?
That’s inflammation. Inflammation turns to infection, with stinking pus and pain and necrosis soon enough.
The infection spreads to the blood. Soon, the only cure will be to cut off the arm.
That’ll not be easy, considering how close that cut is to ye shoulder.
The infection might already have spread to yer torso by the time we amputate.
And then, of course, everybody knows it’s lights out. Ever seen a man die of poisoned blood?”