Desperate Measures
Isabel introduced Fanny, but made no mention of her skills as a healer. Ghalla paid scant attention. Darroch admired the way Isabel and her cousin walked slowly but purposefully towards the keep as they talked, obliging Ghalla to walk with them. The round-shouldered runt trudged in their wake, though he kept well away from Blue.
Taking his cue from Isabel’s wise decision not to openly display their feelings for each other, Darroch lingered with Boyd, keeping a tight grip on Kyla’s hand when she tried to follow the dog.
He worried there’d be a confrontation when the two women tried to enter the sickroom.
“We’ll trail along in a minute or two,” Isabel’s uncle suggested. “Ghalla will balk immediately if I insist on seeing Rory.”
“How can she deny ye that right?” Darroch asked, though having met the woman he had to admit even he felt strangely intimidated by her.
“She’s evil,” Boyd whispered behind his hand so Kyla wouldn’t overhear.
They entered the keep and Boyd led the way to the chief’s chamber, situated at the top of an impressive winding flight of stone steps. A few servants bowed in acknowledgement, but it struck Darroch the castle was eerily empty and quiet—until they reached their destination. The door stood open. Raised voices and loud barking indicated a battle royal was going on within.
Kyla clung to his leg, obviously hesitant to enter.
Darroch was torn. He didn’t want his little lass exposed to the squabble, but his place was at Isabel’s side.
The decision was made for him when Blue trotted out of the chamber and nuzzled Kyla. She put her arms around his neck and they slumped down together by the door.
Satisfied he couldn’t ask for a better protector, he strode into the chamber.
*
“I absolutely forbid it,” the chief’s wife blustered, her face redder than a winter beetroot.
“Then Rory will die,” Fanny retorted quietly, not even looking at Ghalla.
“He will not,” came the retort. “He is responding to my salves.”
Fanny snorted. “Yer salves have made things worse. Can ye nay see and smell the putrefaction?”
“Yer presence is making him ill,” Ghalla hissed. “That’s why I’ve forbidden visitors, and allowing a dog…”
“Aye,” Tremaine echoed.
Isabel’s patience snapped. “Oh, shut up, Tremaine. Ye ken naught about healing. Get out of my sight.”
He gritted his teeth and glanced furtively at his mother before slinking out of the chamber. It was just as well. The urge to kill someone had seized Isabel the moment she’d set eyes on her father. She barely recognized the skeletal man in the soiled nightshirt staring blindly into nothingness. Only the sweat beading his brow gave any indication he still lived. The reason for the fever was apparent before she even saw the wound on his forearm daubed with some ineffective ointment. The stench was enough. She’d kissed his forehead, but he didn’t seem to know she was there.
She filled her lungs and clenched her fists, desperately trying to calm the anger seething in her belly. “We will do what Fanny deems necessary.”
“Ye canna cut off his arm,” Ghalla wailed. “What good is a chief with only one arm?”
The false sorrow in her stepmother’s voice only spurred her on. “Then he will die in agony, and ye ken it.”
Determined not to cry in front of the hateful woman, she was grateful when Darroch slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned into his solid support.
Jaw clenched, Boyd pressed both fists into the end of Rory’s bed and leaned forward. “Ye’d best pray he lives,” he spat at Ghalla. “Or ye’ll pay dearly for this travesty.”
She sneered, glared at Isabel, then left.
“Doesna smell as bad in here now,” Darroch remarked.
Isabel appreciated his attempt to lighten the gloom, but her tears finally flowed as she buried her face against his chest. “He might die even if they do amputate his arm.”
He stroked her hair. “Have faith. We ken Fanny can work miracles.”
Fanny stared at Rory’s putrid arm. “This is a tad more serious than a dislocated elbow, laddie. We might need more than a miracle—and I’ve ne’er taken off a limb.”
Boyd headed for the door. “I’ll fetch the fellow who tends the men when we go raiding.”
Isabel’s hopes rose. “Is he a surgeon?”
Boyd hesitated before replying. “Something o’ the sort.”
*
Darroch held fast to his wife as she sobbed, wishing he could take away her sorrow. But the reality had to be faced. He’d ridden out on many a raid and had an inkling of the kind of man Boyd had gone to seek—a barber, perhaps, or a blacksmith. In his opinion, the latter would be preferable. He deemed it wise not to mention his suspicions, but sensed from the look on her face that Fanny had an idea of what lay ahead.
He’d only witnessed one amputation—a leg mangled by a lynx. The unfortunate patient had died a slow and obscene death before the deed was done. The memory evoked a sour taste.
He looked down at Rory MacRain, chief of his clan’s sworn enemy, a man he’d been brought up to hate. Yet he was just a man. The years of warfare and slaughter seemed futile and nigh on sinful in the face of Isabel’s grief.