Chapter Ten
We collected wood, albeit slowly. Iskair challenged himself by carrying far too heavy a load, but there was no arguing with him. He dropped them on the stairs and conceded that I could run up and down the stairs with them.
Using a flint and one of the smaller stones lying about the ruins, Iskair started a fire in a corner of the chamber, far from the open doorway.
I peered down into the well, seeing water glistening within.
“What would we boil it with? How do we get it out? Any ideas?” I asked over my shoulder.
Iskair made as if to rise, albeit painfully.
“Don’t get up. Just tell me what to do.”
“I dinna normally boil water, but I ken ye believe ye must.” He seemed to think for a minute before speaking again. “Find a stone that is hollowed out enough to hold a wee bit of water, and bring it to the fire.”
“Good idea!” I looked around. Most of the stones on the castle walls were still largely mortared in. “Should I run down to the beach to see if I can find one there?” A peek out the door showed that night had fallen in earnest. I didn’t relish traipsing around in the dark.
Iskair shook his head.
“Nay. A wet rock when set fire to will explode.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Perhaps someone left something behind upstairs. Let me go search.”
“No, I can do it!” I looked toward the dark staircase. “Except I have no light.”
“Nay, ye dinna have a torch. I will go.”
Iskair pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to the staircase. I followed.
“Stay here by the light of the fire, lass. Ye dinna need to trouble yerself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye.”
I watched from the bottom of the staircase as Iskair dragged himself up the stairs. Unwilling to leave my post to lounge by the fire, I waited, listening to the sounds as Iskair moved. They faded, and I hugged myself and glanced at the doorway, the darkness outside.
About five minutes passed. “Iskair? Are you all right?” I called out.
I heard no response. My heart, never really back to its pre-sixteenth-century regular rhythm, jumped as I imagined that Iskair had fainted. I grabbed up the front hem of my skirts and climbed the stairs, the light from the fire fading as the staircase wound around. I emerged into the now darkened great hall.
“Iskair?” I called out. “Are you all right?”
“Aye,” he said from somewhere nearby. “It was no easy task in the dark, but I found a cup that someone left behind...and some oatcakes. We shall feast this night!”
I felt his presence beside me, and he took my hand in his. The skin of his palm felt a bit warm, too warm, and I wondered if he was coming down with a fever. If so, that likely meant an infection. My heart sank.
“You feel hot,” I said as we turned to descend the stairs. This time, Iskair led the way.
“Aye, I feel warm.”
“What if your wound is infected? I don’t know what to do, Iskair.”
“Infected?”
“Festering, whatever you call it.”
“Auch, I ken yer meaning now. I truly hope not. I have no time for such nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. We need to do something!”
We reached the ground floor, and Iskair hobbled over to the wall near the fire. Upon reaching the fire, he withdrew the pistol from his belt, settling that and his sword down on the floor. He lowered himself to a sitting position and withdrew a small flask from the folds of his sash along with the oatcakes wrapped in cloth.
“I found the whisky upstairs. I dinna like spirits but thought ye might care for a bit of whisky.”
“That’s it! That’s what we’ll do! We’ll pour that on your wound.”
“Auch, nay, lass. I ken that will smart!”
“I think it will,” I said, taking the flask from him. “Lift your kilt and let me look at your wound.”
Iskair eyed me for a moment before complying. I noted he was careful to show me only his wound. I pried the bandage away, worried that I might disrupt whatever clotting had occurred, but no new blood flowed. The area surrounding the hole was indeed red and hot.
“Okay, I’m going to pour some of the whisky over it. Are you ready?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “If ye think it necessary.”
“I do,” I said, wincing as I poured some liquid over the wound.
Iskair drew in a sharp breath and hissed, but he said nothing. I readjusted the bandage and sat back to look at him.
“Are you all right?”
“Aye. I will live.” Lines creased his forehead.
“You are so tough,” I said in awe.
He shook his head. “Get yer water.”
He handed me the cup, and I rose to head for the well. The level of the water was about three feet below the surface, forcing me to lie on my stomach and lean in to scoop out a cup. I was not unaware that I would have to refill the small cup repeatedly, but I supposed we were lucky that some poor soul had thought to bring the cup along.
I returned to the fire and set it down on a flat rock that Iskair had positioned on the edge of the fire.
“Tea would be nice about now,” I said randomly as I waited for the water to boil.
“Aye!” He lifted the flask to his lips and took a sip.
“I thought you didn’t like spirits,” I said.
“I dinna, but the wee cup disna hold much water.”
“You know, it’s probably just as well that you drink some of the whisky to ease your pain. Just leave me some to reapply to your wound.”
“Again?” Iskair took another sip.
“Maybe in about twelve hours. We’ll see.”
He rolled his eyes, and I almost laughed.
“Here. Eat.”
I took the oatcake he offered me and bit into it. A howling sound from outside startled me, and I jerked my head around to look at the doorway.
“Dinna fash, lass. It is only the wind.” Iskair’s deep voice reassured me, and I turned back to the fire.
The water bubbled, and I removed the cup from the rock to allow it to cool.
“Here,” I said, handing him the cup. “Drink. You lost a lot of blood today.”
“Nay, I will drink after ye.”
I sighed and drank half of the hot liquid before handing the cup to Iskair.
“Now I insist that you drink. I can’t take of myself out here, and I need you, so you have to take care of yourself.”
Iskair took the cup and drank the rest of the liquid. For the next hour, I moved back and forth between the well and the fire while we worked on water. Iskair didn’t mind drinking straight from the well, but I discouraged him from doing so.
At some point, I noticed that Iskair’s eyes were drooping.
“Why don’t you lie down and sleep?”
“Aye, I ken I will fall over soon.” He unhooked the brooch on his sash and spread his cloak out. Leaning down on one elbow, he patted the ground beside him.
“The fire will die soon, lass, and ye will grow cold. Come—lie beside me.”
“Oh!” I whispered.
“To keep warm, that is all. I have no designs upon yer virtue.”
His broad white-toothed smile charmed me.
I rose on shaking legs and moved around to the opposite side of the fire. I knelt down beside Iskair but stiffened when his hands went to the material still tucked into my waistband.
“Ye have need of yer skirts for warmth. Pull yer arisaid around yer shoulders.”
I huddled deeper into the cloth around my shoulders as my skirts billowed around my bent knees. Turning my back to Iskair, I rolled myself into a ball and lay down beside him.
I stiffened when he draped an arm over my waist and pulled me to him. As I lay there frozen, his breath blew on my cheek, soon turning into a purr when he fell asleep.
My own eyes drooped in my warm cocoon, and I drowsed.
Sometime later, a painful urge in my nether regions awakened me, and although I tried to ignore it, the pain wouldn’t go away. I opened my eyes in the darkness. The fire had died out. No embers remained. I eased out of Iskair’s embrace and rose to my knees. A faint light from the moon through the apertures showed his indistinct form.
I rose to my feet and worked my way toward the door with my arms extended in front of me as one does in darkness. I bumped into the door and pushed it open. Thankfully, the moon provided enough light for me to make my way down the stairs. I reached the bottom and moved off to the left a few yards to hitch up my skirts and relieve myself.
Thankfully, the pain passed. I promised myself to pay more attention to the needs of nature. I hardly needed any sort of bladder or kidney infections during my time in the sixteenth century. I rose, moved away and let my skirts fall.
Something came over my mouth, and I screamed mutedly when my arms were pinned to my sides.
A voice muttered something indistinguishable in my ear, and I struggled in my captor’s arms. I knew from his voice he was a man. I knew he was tall and burly, but I couldn’t twist around to see his face.
Suddenly, a sharp cry emanated from the castle, then a shout, and I heard the sound of steel on steel. It lasted only a few moments, and my captor cursed. He dropped me and ran in the direction of the stairs leading to the castle.
“Iskair!” I screamed and ran after the man. Slipping on the first step, I fell to my knees, scraping them.
“Debra!” I heard a voice boom from above. I looked up to see Iskair at the top of the stairs, his face faintly highlighted by the moon. His sword glittered in the light as he brought it down at the intersection of the man’s neck and shoulder.
“No!” I screamed at the same time that my former captor screeched. But it was too late. He slumped and fell off the side of the stairs to land in a thud below. I had no doubt that he was dead. The power of Iskair’s slice must surely have killed the man.
I climbed off the step and crept over to the fallen man.
“Lass, are ye injured?” Iskair called out, descending the steps slowly.
“No,” I whispered, peering down at the man. Too frightened to touch him, I spoke again, my voice coming out in a sob.
“Is he dead?”
“I hope so,” Iskair said, coming up behind me.
I jumped at his nearness and turned to look at him. He smelled of blood...maybe his, maybe the dead man’s. His deadly sword hung from his right hand.
“I heard a scream up there?”
“Aye, there were two. Macleods, the pair of them. I dinna ken if Angus sent them back to find someone, perhaps ye? Or whether they returned to await the men.”
“Two?” I squeaked. “Is the other one dead?”
“Aye,” Iskair said, his voice grim.
I took another step away from him. He had killed two men? Gone was the caramel-eyed man with the warm smile. A blood-spattered Scottish warrior stood in his place. Iskair had killed two men who had probably intended to kill him and take me prisoner.
I was afraid of him.
Iskair raised a hand in my direction, and my body, of its own accord, moved another inch—nothing too dramatic, just enough to keep my distance. I did not want to disrespect what Iskair had done for us, but my body had other ideas. It rejected him...to my shame.
He dropped his hand and spoke in a gruff voice. “Come inside. There may be more.”
“I’ll follow you.” I didn’t think I could handle having Iskair at my back, not just then.
I wiped at the tears streaming down my face as Iskair led the way.
“Wait here by the door until I relight the fire,” he said. I hovered by the door as Iskair walked over and restarted the fire.
I gasped as the growing blaze showed another body just on the other side of the door.
“I can’t do this!” I cried out. “I just can’t do this!” I turned and ran out the door, ignoring Iskair’s voice as he called out to me. I half slid, half tumbled down the stairs and ran to the right, toward the woods. Though I kept my arms outstretched, I soon bumped into a trunk, and I stopped.
Leaning against it, I hugged myself and sobbed. Through my tears, I heard Iskair approach, his feet crunching on fallen leaves. I lifted my head.
“I want to go home! I’ve had enough of medieval Scotland. I can’t do this anymore! Studying it was one thing, but living in it? Totally another. I’m not cut out for this! At all! I need the dagger. My head hurts, and I just want to go home.” I ran out of air, and my voice dwindled off into a pitiful note.
I bent double again, crying, my face pressed into my hands. A warm hand touched the top of my head, and I involuntarily jerked. Iskair dropped his hand.
“Are ye frightened of me?”
I nodded. “I am! I’m sorry. I know you saved our lives, but I’ve never seen such violence. I am frightened...of everything!”
“If I could help ye return home, I would, lass, but I didna ken the meaning of all yer words. Ye study medieval Scotland, but ye dinna ‘live it’? Why do ye need a dagger to go home?”
I had hoped that Iskair would ignore most of my ranting, but I had already noted his intelligence. He didn’t miss much.
“I was just ranting,” I murmured.
“Nay, I dinna think so. I presume this is what ye said Ann and Cynthia wished to speak to me about?”
Exhausted, I nodded.
“Tell me now then so that I may help ye return to yer home...if I can.”
“You can’t,” I said.
“No if ye dinna give me a chance!”
My legs gave out, and I slumped to the bottom of the tree, hugging my knees to my chest.
“Are we to sit here then?”
“I am,” I said dully.
“Verra well.” Iskair lowered himself to the ground, albeit gingerly, sitting cross-legged. He left about four feet between us, space that I desperately needed at the moment. He looked uncomfortable.
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
“A bit. Tell me then. Why do ye need a dagger? Ye called it ‘the dagger.’”