Chapter 19

19

H e entered the yard without being noticed and made his way to the place where the swords were kept. He shushed the boy handling them and drew his own dagger from the sheath inside his boot. The sun peeked from behind thick clouds casting his shadow for many feet on the ground in front of him. He stopped and waited for the clouds to move again, to cover his movements forward. Now, creeping closer, he positioned himself twenty yards from the warrior and waited. Aindreas was engaged in a mock battle with Craig and didn’t see him approach from the side.

Craig did and his face would have given Douglas away if Douglas hadn’t decided at that moment to begin his battle cry. Aindreas never paused and turned from Craig’s attack in the front to answer Douglas’s blows from the side.

The fight went on for a long time; Douglas lost track of how long as he was met blow for blow by his equal in skill. Aindreas had been able to best him in their past contests because Douglas had not been trying to win. This morning, he was and it showed. Soon the yard was circled by other soldiers and villagers drawn to the sounds of the battle. Craig, not the equal of either man in battle skills, simply lowered his weapons and watched.

Each fighter began to have supporters and the crowd’s noises grew and grew until anyone in hearing distance came to see what was happening. Douglas focused his attention on his opponent, who was not giving him an inch to maneuver if he didn’t force it from him. Strength surged through him even as the sweat poured down his body. He was enjoying this more than he had any other mock battle, and he was trying to win.

Actually, he was winning. Then Aindreas’ foot slipped into a small hole and he ended up on his back, looking up at his adversary. Douglas took advantage of it just as Aindreas would have if it had happened to him. They were panting and blowing so hard from their exertions that he couldn’t fashion the words demanding surrender. Instead, he, too, collapsed on the ground.

After a few moments, a bucket of icy water thrown on them forced them to sit up. Laughing, Aindreas motioned for more and someone obliged by throwing yet another bucketful on them. Douglas used both hands to clear his hair from his face and sluice the extra water out of it.

“If that was how ye greeted those MacArthurs in the forest that night, I can see how they couldna stand against ye,” Aindreas offered. “And that was how I imagined ye could fight if ye ever felt the need or want to.” The older man pushed himself to his feet and then reached a hand down to him.

A noise from nearby distracted Douglas from answering. He looked into Craig’s very pale face. There was more to his part in the forest that night and Douglas knew he’d find out eventually. He already knew it was Craig’s blow that laid him low—what else could there be? Aindreas’ hearty blow on his back got his attention and when he looked back, Craig was hurrying out of the practice yards.

“I want ye to show me that last move ye used, the one when yer dagger went under in this direction...” Aindreas demonstrated the move he was interested in.

The next hour was spent in holds and maneuvers and steps and blows and parries. Finally, Aindreas let him go with his promise to return the next day and challenge him again. As he walked from the yard, many of the onlookers added their own handshakes and pats on the back as he walked by them. Scots liked nothing as much as they liked a good fight and his with Aindreas had given some entertainment to all.

Now, he needed to get to Caitlin’s, but his first stop was at the smithy’s.

“Now....”

“I ken, Douglas, cut the skin afore it tears. ’Tis much easier to repair the cut than the tear.”

He smiled as she did what he’d shown her how to do— with the fine scalpel Pol had made, Caitlin made an incision and opened the wound a bit wider for easier access to the bone inside. She amazed him with her ability to learn these surgical techniques so quickly. He knew second-and third-year med students who didn’t have the skills that this uneducated young woman did.

Of course, his own license to practice medicine would be lifted if the medical authorities found out he was teaching unqualified personnel how to make incisions and place sutures. And assist in the surgical reduction of a compound fracture. Yet since the authorities he was responsible to wouldn’t be around for several hundred years, he thought he wouldn’t stop now. He must have let out a chuckle, for Caitlin looked up at him with a questioning frown.

“Hiv I done something wrong, Douglas?”

“No, Caitlin, you are doing just fine. Are all the fragments cleaned away?” He leaned closer to her work area and checked the wound. The fractured ulna bone would need to be set now that it had been cleaned. Once awake and other than a few weeks of recuperation, young Gavin would be no worse for the wear and might even avoid jumping off those rocks in the future.

“Aye,” she said, moving aside for him to see. At his nod, she moved the muscle tissue back in place over the bone. With an expert’s touch, she laid the layer of skin back in place and reached for the thread to suture the wound closed. Her stitches were small and even and would leave very faint scars after the healing.

She paused before wrapping Gavin’s arm to wash the area again. Caitlin looked to Douglas and he smiled. She’d learned so much in this last week. One of the first lessons he’d taught both Caitlin and her mother had been about infection control. They both had a basic understanding of it that came from years of trial and error. Now their knowledge would aid in their patients’ regaining their health.

He reached over to their supplies, spread out on the table and picked up the small bowl of ointment. Douglas held it out where she could reach it and found himself the recipient of a frown.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Aye, Douglas, what is it?” she asked right back.

So, that was it, now it was his turn to be quizzed. And his parchment was not handy.

Holding it close to his nose, he sniffed. Some of the herbs were becoming more familiar to him by their scent, some by their color. He tried to remember what they’d mixed into this concoction.

“Comfrey?”

“Are ye asking or telling?” Caitlin smiled at his discomfort. He was nowhere near as fast a learner as she was.

“Telling. Comfrey and a bit of marshmallow to soothe the incision and torn skin.”

“Verra good, Douglas. Then what will we use?” She dipped into the bowl he held and applied the creamy ointment over the boy’s injury. When he hesitated, she looked up at him.

“A poultice of crushed comfrey roots and wrap it tightly until the skin heals. Then we’ll try out my new plaster.” Their new treatment would replace the old one of wrapping the broken bone tightly with a plank of wood for support. Caitlin had laughed when he’d explained about using plaster like the house builders used to harden around the bone until it healed.

He looked up in time to see a guilty expression in her eyes. What could that be about?

“Ye are learning as well,” she said as though she spoke to a five-year-old. Well, he probably deserved it for his attitude, and his comments could still be a bit pompous when he didn’t pay attention. “He still sleeps?”

Douglas moved closer and checked the boy’s breathing. Slow, deep and quiet. Lifting one eyelid, he saw the very-dilated pupil and knew the boy would sleep for a while. Poppy juice, which he still was reluctant to use, was very effective in making their patients sleep. It worked faster and stronger than Moira’s valerian root tea so he used it carefully. And he used it sparingly since Moira didn’t produce it from her own stores or garden.

Caitlin had explained that once or twice a year, Moira and Pol traveled to a monastery on the coast to trade for those herbs her mother couldn’t or didn’t grow herself. Since the abbot and monks were hesitant to deal with a woman, Pol traded his skills as a blacksmith for what they needed. Robert’s written greeting and generous donation to the monastery always smoothed the way. Herbs, tree and plant cuttings for cultivation, and new recipes were Moira’s goals during the trip. From what Caitlin had said, she never came home empty-handed.

“He will sleep for a while more,” he answered, and then smoothed the boy’s hair back from his face.

“Here, Douglas, help me with the bandage.”

Together they coated the boy’s arm with the comfrey paste and then wrapped it tightly with long strips of linen. A few minutes and they were done. Caitlin gathered the used cloths and lifted the bowl of bloodied water and carried them away from the boy. After emptying the used water out the window, she rinsed the cloths and washed her hands.

“I will sit with him, Douglas. He willna awaken for a bit.”

“Are you sure, Caitlin? I could carry him back to his mother?”

“Come now, ye ken he shouldna be moved right now. Do ye begrudge me a few moments of leisure now and again?” She laughed and patted his arm. That undercurrent that came with her touch was there again... always.

“If you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll run some errands and be back in a little while.”

“I will wait here for his father to come for him.”

Douglas covered the bowl and put it on the shelf. He stoppered some flasks and cleaned up their—her—worktable and walked to the door. Caitlin knelt next to the sleeping boy, straightening the plaid over his still form. Douglas took his cloak and threw it over his shoulders, preparing to meet the now-cold November winds.

Pulling the door tightly against its frame, he started down the path to the smithy. He had to get Pol to take a look at the blade on one of the new scalpels and the grasping edge of the new forceps. He gazed down at his empty hands and realized that he’d left the cottage without them. Wait until Caitlin heard this—she’d laugh at his forgetfulness. A few more paces back the way he’d come and he was at the door he’d just closed.

Easing it open quietly not to disturb the boy’s rest, Douglas stepped inside and stopped. Caitlin knelt now on the boy’s right side and faced the door, but she stared across the room at Douglas now with unseeing eyes.

What was this? Douglas wondered. She never reacted at all to his entrance into the room and as he walked closer, she didn’t even appear to be breathing. Her hands lay on Gavin’s injured arm. First she was completely still and then she slid her hands over his arm. He spoke her name quietly, then louder, gaining no response either time.

Douglas approached the two of them and crouched down at her side. Reaching out to her hands, he was shocked at the heat in them. He let his hand hover near hers to test it again. Hot, very hot, and yet Gavin never whimpered at all at her touch even though he had several times during the dressing of his wound.

He waved his hand in front of her face and watched her eyes for a reaction. Nothing. She never even blinked! He moved across from her and continued watching for a few more minutes. Finally she started to stir and he heard some mumbled words.

“’Twill be just fine now, Gavin. All is well.”

Her breathing became more noticeable and less even and her eyes began to blink. As he watched, she began to sway ever so slightly. He quickly moved back to her side and supported her.

“Douglas, what are ye doing here?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I came back for things I’d forgotten and found you over the boy. Are you sick?” He touched her forehead and found her to be a bit clammy. “Here,” he said holding her by the arm, “sit back and try to relax now. And tell me what happened. ”

“Caitlin.” Moira’s voice filled the room, startling him. He never heard the door open either, he was so intent on Caitlin and whatever was wrong with her.

“Aye, Mam,” Caitlin answered, meeting her mother’s gaze.

“Douglas, if ye would help the lass to her feet?” Moira moved in the other direction—to the worktable and the cupboard of stored herbs and concoctions.

Her weight was almost nothing to him and he lifted her from the kneeling position by Gavin and helped her to a nearby chair. Her face was now pale and her eyes were glassy. This all looked familiar but he couldn’t place where he’d seen this before. He pushed the hair back from her face and tried to get her attention. She clasped her right arm tightly to her chest and rocked to and fro as he watched, completely mystified by what he’d seen.

“Can ye walk, lass?” Moira handed a mug to Caitlin and she drank down the contents without ever asking what it was. It was apparent that this was a common occurrence to them. He was the only one in the dark about it.

“Aye, Mam, wi’ some help.”

“Douglas, if ye will support her from that side, we can help her into her pallet.”

He did so, but released his hold when she moaned in pain. “Dinna touch her arm, Douglas, hold her under it.” He slid his hand down to her waist and guided her toward the small bed in the alcove where she slept. Then, watching more like a helpless man than an experienced caregiver, he watched as Moira settled her daughter down to sleep.

He was following Moira back to the main area of the cottage when Caitlin’s whisper reached him.

“I didna think ye would be back so soon, Douglas. I thought I haid more time....”

“For what, Caitlin?” he asked, running his hands through his hair. Puzzled at why she would want him gone, he repeated his question again. “Had more time for what?”

“The healing.” But it was Moira who’d answered his question from across the room.

“But we were done our work on his arm....” Then it hit him.

The healing.