Page 78 of Highland Fire

“Look around you, James,” she answered, easily slipping free of his reluctant hold. “The battle is as good as done.”

Moira joined him in looking at the scattered groups of villagers. They stood talking and keeping an eye on the castle of Drumdearg, but they were relaxed, even hesitantly happy. None of them acted as if their fates were still hanging in the balance. There were even men ambling back into the village from the keep, their swords still sheathed. What had caught and held her attention, however, was the wounded. There were not many—although she suspected she would find more within the castle walls—but they were in pain, their friends and families doing a clearly inadequate if earnest job of tending to their wounds. The art of healing had evidently not been well learned by anyone at Drumdearg.

“The battle doesnae sound as if ’tis over,” grumbled James. “If ye go too close, ye could be in danger.”

“I dinnae intend to march into the midst of fighting men.”

“Then ye dinnae need to leave this place. Wait here for Sir Tavig.”

“Nay, I am needed, James. Look about you. There are wounded men who have need of my skills.”

“Their families will care for them.”

“Not weel, and I mean no disrespect when I say that. If there was a healer here, he or she has gone and left no learned apprentice behind. I have the skill these people need and I dinnae refer to my touch, either.”

“Sir Tavig will skin me alive if aught happens to ye.”

“If it will put ye at ease, stay at my side. Robbie can stay with Malcolm and the horses.” She glanced at Una. “Ye can stay behind, too, if ye wish.”

“Nay, I will help you.”

Moira bit back a smile as she started to walk again and heard a cursing James fall into step behind her. Una kept pace at her side as Moira walked over to a tiny thatched cottage where the wounded men were gathered. There were only five, and none of their wounds would be fatal, if they were tended to properly. She gently but firmly ordered the women to fetch her the things she needed.

As she worked to clean and stitch the men’s wounds, Moira tried hard not to listen to the lingering sounds of battle. She could easily imagine Tavig suffering as the men she tended to were suffering. It was also too easy for her to imagine that Tavig would be killed, struck a fatal wound that no amount of skill could mend. Although she had not wanted to say so to Una and the youths, Moira knew she needed to help the injured in order to keep her mind from plaguing her with thoughts of what might be happening to her husband.

Once the men’s wounds were cleaned and stitched, Moira did what she could to ease their pain. She saw no scorn or fear upon the faces of Tavig’s people as she revealed her gift, only wonder and then the same sort of prideful glee James had revealed. Tavig had been right all along. At Drumdearg she did not need to fear superstition.

Collapsing after tending to the five men, Moira weakly smiled her thanks to the women who gently bathed her sweaty face, made her more comfortable, and helped her drink some hearty mead. Inside she was torn. There was acceptance here just as Tavig had promised there would be, but she did not believe it changed anything. Tavig was a knight. He could not spend all his days cloistered within the walls of Drumdearg, and it was impractical to think he could keep her secured there. Tavig would be expected to go to court, to go to other keeps to treat with other clans, and he would be expected to bring his lady wife, at least some of the time.

And then the trouble would begin, she thought morosely. She could not let the security and welcome of Drumdearg lull her into believing her problems were over. What she did see, however, was that she would never be able to make Tavig believe in her fears. She certainly could not tell him that his love was what she needed to make her stay. If he could not offer it freely, it was no good. Yet it was the bond she needed to feel that they could face the future. There would still be strife, she could not believe that people with their special gifts would live a trouble-free life, but with a shared love they would have the strength to overcome those troubles.

Cautiously Moira stood up, breathing a sigh of relief when she suffered no dizziness. Her strength had returned. She still had to leave Tavig, but she needed to know how he had fared in his battle with Iver. Until she knew the final outcome she would linger and help where she could. Straightening her shoulders, she took Una by the hand and started toward the castle gates.

The moment she stepped inside the gates she met a begrimed but smiling Nicol. “The battle is won,” she said happily.

“Not completely,” he answered, pushing a lock of sweat-dampened hair from his face. “’Tis but Tavig and Iver who need to settle what stands between them. They battle it out in the great hall.” He caught her firmly by the arm when she started toward the keep. “Nay, lass. He doesnae need ye distracting him.”

“I am to stand around while he fights for his life?”

“Aye. If ye do anything else ye could cause trouble. Aye, and in this instance, any trouble could prove fatal to Tavig. So, Cousin, busy yourself elsewhere. If it helps ease your fears, not a mon here doubts that Tavig will win.”

“Mayhap it should help, but it doesnae.” She sighed and ceased trying to pull away from him. “I came to help the wounded.”

Nicol frowned. “Ye have decided to reveal your secret?”

“I was given little choice. Ye ken weel that I cannae abide seeing anyone in pain when I ken I can ease it. Where are the wounded men?” As Nicol started to lead her and Una away, she asked, “Did many die?”

“Only a few of Mungan’s and Tavig’s men. Verra few of Iver’s hirelings survive. Many fled when the battle turned against them.”

“Aye,” muttered James, still keeping close to Moira and Una. “We met three of the dogs.” When Nicol looked at him, he related the tale, smiling crookedly when Nicol laughed. “’Twas a bit upsetting to be saved by wee lasses.”

“Nay, laddie.” Nicol clapped the boy on the back. “Look about ye. Even these battle-scarred men didnae face Iver’s dogs without suffering a scratch. Aye, and even the greatest warrior likes to have someone at his back. Ye cannae help the fact that we left ye with only lasses to aid ye. Be glad they had the wit to ken how to help.” He stopped before the armorer’s shed, pointing to the men scattered around it. “Here are our wounded, Moira. There are one or two of Iver’s hirelings here. Ye need not be so gentle with them, but it may prove useful to keep them alive.”

“Aye,” agreed Moira. “Tavig may have need of them to help prove that Iver’s accusations were false.”

When she cast a longing glance toward the keep, the need to see how Tavig fared so strong she could taste it, Nicol firmly turned her back to the wounded. Moira sighed and started to work. Nicol was right. Tavig did not need her there. Neither could she help him. He was fighting for his life and only he could wage that battle.

Tavig watched the last of Iver’s guard fall to his sword, then looked at his cousin. Mungan’s men encircled a wounded Andrew MacBain, insuring that the man stayed alive long enough to prove Tavig’s innocence. Mungan stood with his arms crossed, clearly stepping back and allowing Tavig to finish the battle.