Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (23 page)

“Who did this?”

“How do you know?”

“Do something,
lass!”

“Silence!” Garrick
bellowed over the desperate shouts of the others. “Lay him on the table.”

Instantly, several
hands were helping to clear the table and spread the King’s limp body on it. Garrick
turned to Jossalyn, whose breath was coming fast as she stared at the Bruce’s
form in concentration. He spoke quietly to her, like he would a scared animal. “Jossalyn,
what do you recommend we do?”

“Horehound,” she muttered
to herself. Then she raised her eyes to Garrick. “My satchel. It is in the
tent.”

Before she had
finished speaking, Colin had darted out of sight toward their tent.

“I need a feather.
Like a quill, with a long hollow shaft.”

Angus didn’t
bother to find the door-flap to the Bruce’s tent, which was right next to the
dining table. Instead, he lifted the bottom of the canvas wall straight up,
tearing some of the material and toppling two of the corner poles. He returned
with a quill in his hand just as Colin sprinted back to the table with
Jossalyn’s satchel.

“Cut the feather’s
shaft so that it is a few inches long, and make sure the hollow interior is
clear,” she said to Angus.

Then she turned to
Colin. “Find some boiling water, and put all of this—” she grabbed the satchel
from his hand, rummaged through it, and pulled out a grayish plant that looked
like mint, but with smaller leaves “—into it. Boil off as much of the water as
you can to distill it, but we won’t have much time.” Colin nodded and bolted
off in the direction of one of the camp’s fires.

Then she turned to
gaze at the Bruce, who lay motionless and blue-lipped, for a fleeting second. “Heaven
help me,” she murmured, then reached toward her ankle. When she stood upright,
she had Garrick’s fletching dagger in her hand and was moving it toward the
Bruce’s throat.

Instantly, Finn
shot to her side. He clamped a hand over her wrist and jerked the blade away
from the Bruce’s throat.

“What the bloody
hell are you doing, you English witch?” Finn shouted as he twisted her wrist
farther back. She yelped in pain as her wrist torqued. Suddenly all the
remaining men had their swords drawn, but none seemed to know at whom to point
them.

Garrick darted to
the two of them, but held up his hands so as not to startle Finn. “Let her go,
Finn. She is with us, remember? She is trying to save the King,” he said in a
low voice.

“Like hell she is.
She put a knife to his throat!” Despite his vehement words, Finn repositioned
her arm so that he was no longer twisting it painfully, but he still held
firmly to her wrist, not letting the dagger move an inch.

“Garrick, do you
trust me?” Jossalyn said, completely ignoring Finn and locking her gaze on him.
Her wide greed eyes pinned him with a searching look.

“Aye, with my life,
and with the life of the King,” he said without wavering.

“I need to make a
small cut in his throat to let air in. It is dangerous, but he’ll die in a
matter of minutes if I don’t act now,” she said with calm certainty.

“Finn, unhand her
now or the King’s death will be on your head just as much as it is on the
poisoner’s,” Garrick said, shifting his gaze to Finn.

Finn met his
stare, a battle waging silently between the two of them. Finally, he released
Jossalyn’s wrist, but said darkly, “And if the Englishwoman slits our King’s
throat, you will be responsible, Garrick.”

The moment that
Jossalyn’s wrist was free, she blocked out everything around her and let
herself be completely consumed by the task at hand. She had never done this
operation herself before, but had seen her old teacher Meg perform it
successfully on a man who had suffered a stroke.

She stepped to the
Bruce’s side and raised the dagger to his throat, just below his Adam’s apple. She
made a small vertical incision in the soft flesh of the King’s throat, then
another horizontal one inside the first cut. She left the tip of the blade
inside the flesh, and without taking her eyes off of the incision, she extended
her free hand toward where Angus had been standing. “The feather.”

He placed the
trimmed and hollow quill in her hand. She brought it in front of her and gave
it a cursory glance. It was the right shape and size for the task. She slid the
shaft of the quill along the dagger’s blade, pulling open the incision slightly
with the tip of the knife. Then she inserted the quill into the incision and
removed the blade, positioning the quill so that it was inside the cut but
stuck out several inches from the Bruce’s neck.

Just as she had
prayed, she heard a gust of air through the quill, and the Bruce’s chest rose
slightly. Almost as if in echo of the Bruce’s inhalation, a gasp swept through
the men surrounding her. She felt all her breath leave her as relief swept
through her.

“Christ, lass,”
Garrick whispered. “You did it. You saved the King.”

His words brought
her back to reality. “That was only the first step,” she said grimly. “The
poison caused his tongue to swell and blocked his airway, even to his nose. Now
he has an airway, but the poison is still inside him. Someone fetch Colin.”

Within moments,
Colin was at her side, holding a pot of steaming water and boiled plant matter.

“Help me get the
King upright,” Jossalyn said. Several men lifted the Bruce’s still-limp torso
so that he was reclined but more vertical. Jossalyn grabbed one of the stray
spoons left on the table, and scooped up some of the liquid brew. She forced
the Bruce’s jaw open and poured the tea inside. Most of it dribbled out, since
his tongue was still so swollen, but she thought some of it managed to slide
down his throat.

“Er, lass, forgive
me, but won’t that liquidy stuff just come out of the hole you made in his
throat?” Angus said softly. He was one of the men propping the King up, and he
looked worriedly between the spoon in her hand and the quill sticking out of the
Bruce’s neck.

She kept her eyes
on her task, but said, “Different tubes,” as a simple reply. She continued to
slowly spoon the brew into the Bruce’s mouth. Even if he didn’t swallow much,
just coming in contact with the brewed horehound should take the swelling down
in his mouth and tongue, she reminded herself for reassurance.

Somewhere in the
back of her mind she registered the sound of the serving wench sobbing.

“I did not know,
you must believe me!” she wailed to someone.

“I believe you,
lass, but think. Did you see anything unusual?” Finn asked urgently.

“I didn’t think it
strange at the time, but the cook insisted on making something special for the
King,” she said through her sobs. “I thought it was an attempt to get into the
King’s good graces, since the cook was new. He only just came up from the Lowlands
a few days ago.”

“How did he know
where to find the camp? Who admitted him?” Finn’s voice was tight with
frustration.

“I don’t know, I
don’t know!” the woman moaned.

Garrick, who was
also holding up the Bruce, shot a look behind him to where the server and Finn
were talking. He motioned for another man to take his place at the King’s
shoulder, then joined the two out of her line of sight. She could still hear
them as she continued to spoon the horehound brew into the Bruce’s slack jaw,
though.

“Where is the cook
now?” Garrick said.

“I haven’t seen
him since I took the King’s tray from him,” the server said frantically.

“I’m going after
him.” Though she couldn’t see his face, Garrick’s voice was steely and hard,
just as his eyes would be now.

He strode to her
side and she paused in her ministrations.

“How does he
fare?”

“I think the
swelling is going down slightly, which means I may be able to get more of the
horehound into his system. It’s an antidote to some poisons, and it is also
used to reduce swelling and help with breathing, but since I don’t know what
the King was poisoned with, I can’t be sure that it will work.”

“I’m going after
the cook,” he said heavily.

“I’m going with
you,” Finn said as he approached the two of them.

“And so am I,”
Colin interjected.

“You two will only
slow me down,” Garrick said tightly through clenched teeth. “I work better on
my own.”

“There is no way I
am letting you leave without me,” Finn responded flatly. “You need someone to
watch your back.”

“And I can track
better than both of you,” Colin said.

Garrick ran a hand
through his hair in frustration. “I don’t have time to argue with the two of
you. I am leaving as soon as I can get Fletch saddled. Either you are with me
when I ride out of here or you’re not, but the man already has a lead on us,
and I don’t plan on letting him live through the night.”

The other two men
simply nodded and disappeared into the falling twilight of evening. Garrick
turned back to Jossalyn, his eyes tight with worry.

Before he could
say anything, though, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Go. Find him. We
will be here when you get back.”

A flood of relief
washed over his features for a moment before they settled back into their hard,
determined lines. Without further ado, he turned and headed to their tent for
his bow and quiver, and then toward the stables.

She sent up a
prayer for his safety, and another for Colin and Finn. They would be traveling
hard through the night, and who knew what awaited them in the dark woods.

She forced her
attention back to her patient. The King of Scotland’s life was in her hands. She
raised the spoon to his mouth yet again, pleading silently for the medicine to
work, one painfully small drop at a time.

Garrick pushed
Fletch into the darkening forest, urging his loyal horse on despite the uneven
footing. They couldn’t play it safe, though. They had to find the man
responsible for poisoning the Bruce.

Colin and Finn
were fanned out several yards away on either side of him, somehow managing to
keep up with his grueling pace. They had departed the stables together without
a word, grim determination on all their faces.

After a quick
query with the guards and scouts on the edge of camp, they discovered that a
slight man on horseback had left about a half an hour before, headed south. No
one recognized him, but a man leaving the camp was far less worrisome than a
man trying to enter, so they had let him go unquestioned.

Another hour
later, they reached the outer circle of scouts. One of the men in the area had
seen a solo rider heading south, and at a reckless pace given the falling
darkness. It would likely be the last piece of information they would get
before they caught up to the assassin posing as a cook.

If
they
caught up to him, Garrick thought darkly. If the man was somehow able to
outpace them, he could potentially make it all the way back to England to
spread word of the death of the pretender King of Scotland, Robert the Bruce.

The thought sent
him spurring Fletch once more, though he knew the animal was giving him
everything he had. The one small saving grace was that a nearly-full moon hung in
the dark sky, giving them at least some light by which to see.

For the thousandth
time, Garrick scanned the stretch of dark forest ahead of him, looking for any
sign of movement or the trace of a trail left by the killer.

A flicker caught
his eye in the distance. He blinked, fearing that his weary and straining eyes
were playing tricks on him. But no, he saw it again. A rustle in the foliage
far off ahead of them, and then—was that a flap of cloak?

“There!” Garrick
shouted to the others, pointing.

Finn and Colin,
already on the alert, jerked their heads in the direction of Garrick’s hand. They
must have seen it too, for at the same moment, all three spurred their horses,
digging for every last drop of energy from the animals. They fell into a single
line so that they could move faster, with Colin in the front followed by
Garrick and Finn.

Like its rider, Colin’s
horse was young and spirited. Colin leaned over the animal’s neck, stretching
out the distance between him and Garrick little by little. Even still, the
three of them were gaining ground on the fleeing rider. Now Garrick could fully
see the solitary cloaked figure atop a horse, riding hard.

The fleeing man
must have heard them crashing through the forest behind him, for he shot a
quick look over one shoulder, then kicked his horse to try to gain distance.

“Halt!” Colin
shouted, but the man didn’t slow or even look back. He kept barreling forward
through the woods. All four of them, the fleeing man and his three pursuers,
were at the mercy of the dark forest. An unseen fallen log or a branch at the
right height, even a rock or slight dip in the ground could potentially kill
one or all of them.

As Garrick
realized this, he whistled to Colin, who was several strides ahead of him but
only marginally closer to the assassin. He reined Fletch in, forcing Finn to
halt behind him as well. Colin turned over his shoulder, and when he saw that
his two companions had halted, he reluctantly slowed his horse.

“What are you
doing?” Colin shouted at Garrick, his voice loud and tight with adrenaline.

“We’ll never catch
up to him like this,” Garrick said, more to himself than in response to Colin’s
angry question.

He swung his bow
off of his shoulder and smoothly nocked an arrow. He took a deep breath, trying
to slow his pounding heart so that his pulse wouldn’t throw off his aim. His
eyes locked on the lone rider, who was still crashing through the forest
several dozen yards ahead of them, the distance growing with each pound of
Garrick’s heart.

Colin said
something, but Garrick didn’t register it. His mind was blank, his vision
narrowed so that the only thing he perceived was the man, whose cloak hood had
fallen back in his flight. Moonbeams flitted across him and his horse as they
moved. He aimed at the soft, exposed neck, but then thought otherwise. He
wanted the man to be able to talk. Shifting slightly, he targeted the man’s
shoulder.

He exhaled and let
the arrow fly. Time seemed to slow as the arrow sliced through the air,
whizzing past the trees toward its target.

It found its mark.
The shaft sunk into the man’s shoulder, slightly more toward the center of his
back than Garrick had intended, but it had the desired effect. The man jerked
at the impact of the shot and lost his balance, first slumping forward, then
falling backward off his horse.

Finn and Colin
surged forward, leaving Garrick behind to take one more steadying breath before
slinging his bow back over his shoulder and following them to where the man had
fallen. When they reached his crumpled form on the forest floor, they
dismounted and moved in on him. He was reaching feebly behind him, trying to
grasp the arrow shaft, but the fall had driven it farther into his back.

“Tell us what you
know and we will make this quick,” Finn said flatly.

The man sneered, a
half-cough, half-laugh escaping him. “Go to hell, you cock-sucking rebels.” He
spoke in a Lowland accent, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allied with the
English. Not all Scots supported the Bruce and his campaign. Many lived in the
pockets of the English and openly opposed the rebellion, and a few even worked
as spies—or assassins.

“Who do you work
for?” Colin demanded.

When the man
didn’t answer, Finn leaned down and grasped the arrow shaft protruding from the
man’s back, giving it a twist. The man bellowed in pain. Garrick longed to turn
away, to have it over with, but he knew this had to be done. Yet still the man
wouldn’t break.

“You can torture
me all you like, you shit-eating savages. There will be plenty more like me to
cut you down soon enough.”

The three men
exchanged a silent look. Garrick shook his head slightly. They wouldn’t get
anything out of him. Without speaking, Finn drew a dagger from his boot. As the
blade flashed in the moonlight, the assassin smiled faintly, likely relieved
that he wouldn’t be tortured or put to a traitor’s death of handing,
disemboweling, drawing, and quartering.

“Long live the
King,” he sneered under his breath.

Before Finn’s
blade could reach the man’s throat, Garrick said, “You’ve failed. The King of
Scotland lives. Our healer has already given him an antidote to your poison.”
He couldn’t be sure if the Bruce still lived, and he prayed that Jossalyn’s
brew was working, but he feared the worst. However, he wasn’t going to give
this bastard the satisfaction in the last moment of his life of thinking that
he had succeeded.

The man’s face
shifted from condescending resignation to surprise, then horror. Finn’s blade
descended on his throat, and likely the last thought he had was of his own
failure.

Garrick turned
away from the scene of the would-be assassin’s lifeblood leeching from him, his
eyes going blank and frosted. He walked back to Fletch’s side and mounted.

“What should we do
with his body?” Colin asked.

“Leave it. The
crows can have his eyes, and the rats his heart,” Garrick said coldly.

The other two
mounted as well, and Colin collected the reins of the dead man’s horse. Though
he was exhausted, Garrick was suddenly determined to get back to camp and be at
his King’s side, even if it was the Bruce’s death bed that awaited him. He
reined Fletch northward and pushed him forward with his heels.

Jossalyn rubbed a
shaky hand over her face, pushing some of her loose hair out of the way. The
sun was just cresting the horizon, and the King still lived, though barely. She
had managed to get all the horehound brew into his system, which took the swelling
in his throat and tongue down enough that she had been able to remove the quill
that was serving as his airway and stitch closed the hole in his neck.

She also had
another batch of the horehound tea brewing. Luckily, she had found one more
stalk of the short, leafy plant in her satchel. Once this batch had been
steeped and spoon-fed to the Bruce, though, she would have to scour the area
for more of the plant. Blessedly, it wasn’t particularly rare or hard to find. At
least the sun would be up to help her search.

The Bruce lay on
his back now, still strewn across his large wooden dining table. Word had
spread through the camp like wildfire that an attempt had been made on the
King’s life with poison, and many had gathered to watch her work or offer to help.
She had more boiling water and brawny men to hold the King upright than she
knew what to do with, but she was touched at how so many had wanted to come to
her aid as she had worked through the night to try to keep the Bruce alive.

She wouldn’t let
herself worry about what would happen if she failed. Even though the swelling
had gone down, the Bruce was still unconscious, and the poison must be
lingering in his system, for although he breathed shallowly on his own now, his
lips were still faintly tinged blue.

She also wouldn’t
allow her mind to run wild with fears for Garrick. It had been growing dark
when the three men had set out, and they hadn’t returned yet. She had seen the
tight urgency in his body as he left, and she feared for the pace they would
set in rough conditions. She understood his imperative to find the disappeared
cook, but she longed to see him safely returned.

Just as she stood
wearily to set out for more horehound, she heard a shout that had her jerking
her head up. Riding right through the center of the camp toward her was
Garrick, along with Finn and Colin, and an ominously riderless fourth horse. Suddenly
her knees were weak as relief crashed into her. His gaze locked onto hers as he
approached, and his eyes were hard and flat.

“How does he
fare?” he asked without preamble before he had even brought Fletch to a halt.

“He’s breathing on
his own, now. The swelling has gone down, but the poison is still in his
system. He hasn’t woken up yet,” she replied wearily.

Garrick strode to her
side to gaze down at the Bruce, worry and exhaustion tightening he jaw. He
searched over the Bruce’s prone body with his eyes for a moment, watching his
chest rise a fall weakly. Then he turned to her, and without speaking, gathered
her in his arms and pulled her against his chest.

She hadn’t
realized it until that moment, but she was hanging onto her composure by a mere
thread. At Garrick’s wordless act of kindness, she nearly came undone
completely. But she forced the tears that were threatening to choke her back
down, reminding herself that she still had work to do, and that all these men
were counting on her.

The sight of Colin
and Finn dismounting behind Garrick tugged her attention back to her fears for
what they all had been through.

“What happened?”
she said, pulling back a little so that she could look up into his face.

“We caught up to
the man,” Garrick said, his tone clipped. “He fled, so I brought him down.”

“I wouldn’t have
believed the shot if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Colin said, respect
tinging his voice.

“He admitted his
guild, but he wouldn’t speak more.” There was something else that Garrick
wasn’t saying, and Jossalyn felt an internal chill sweep through her.

“And so you…?” She
dreaded the answer, but felt compelled to ask.

“We gave him a
traitor’s burial,” Finn said coldly. Her eyes shifted to him, and she feared
his suspicious stare, but as he met her gaze, his dark eyes were unreadable. He
approached, and she held her breath, a fleeting thought that he might still
think her a traitor as well flitting across her mind. But to her shock, he
knelt before her and grasped one of her hands, lowering his head in contrition.

“Forgive my
suspicion, Lady Jossalyn,” he said, his head bowed. “I doubted you at first,
wrongly assuming that because you are English, and the sister of our enemy,
that you were not to be trusted. But I value loyalty above all else, and you
have proven yourself ten times over with your actions tonight, and in the past
weeks. I only hope that you will accept my apology, and my unwavering fealty
from this moment onward.”

She was frozen in
shock for a moment, and he raised his head with a worried expression on his
face. She came back to herself with a little shake, and pulled him up to his
feet by the hand. “Of course I accept your apology, Finn! I understand your
suspicion, and am grateful for your friendship!”

Satisfied, Finn
gave a little nod and retreated a few steps. The swell of relieve and gratitude
at Finn’s words almost pushed all the worries and fears from the last night
away. But her eyes returned to the Bruce’s limp form, and she remembered the
task at hand.

“I must go search
for more horehound,” she said to Garrick.

“Nay, lass, you
need to rest,” he said gently but firmly. “Is this a fresh batch of the brew?”
He picked up the warm pot of horehound water from the table. She nodded. “Gregor!”
he called. A large warrior stepped forward from the group of men gathered
nearby. “Give Gregor your instructions. Then you’ll rest.”

She began to
protest, but he stopped her. “Only for a few hours. And Gregor will come get
you if anything…changes with the King’s condition.” Gregor nodded in agreement
with Garrick, so she sighed and explained how to spoon the brew down the
Bruce’s throat every few minutes. Gregor listened intently, likely grateful to
have something to do to help his King.