The Return of Black Douglas (27 page)

Bradan mounted, rode a few feet, drew rein, and waited for his father to take the lead. Bradan’s lip trembled, and she placed her hand over his, resting against the pommel. She understood his fear and dread and assured him that he had much to learn and gain from this outing.

“Be yourself, and he will see you are a son to be proud of. He will be proud of you one day, but for now, listen well to all he says. He is a good man, and no harm will come to you.”

Alysandir gave her a nod and rode toward the castle gates. Bradan fell in behind him, trailed by two deerhounds, Duff and Bran.

When the gates closed, Isobella went to the curtain wall and watched until they vanished in the mist. The week would be a long one, but if she was right, it would change their lives forever.

Chapter 29

From bad matches good

Children can be born.

—Yiddish proverb

Alysandir had never spent much time around young children, and now he was going to spend an entire week with one. Judging from the way the lad was looking at him, Alysandir wasn’t convinced Bradan would utter one word the entire trip. Alysandir had never considered that he could come to love the lad, especially if forced to acknowledge him as his son. That he was beginning to warm to the idea of having a son surprised him. Although the words were difficult for him to say, he had to admit that he had denied Bradan’s existence so he could deny the woman who bore him.

By taking the lad on this hunting trip, he was officially accepting Bradan as his son. And by accepting him, that meant Bradan would one day be chief of Clan Mackinnon. This would please Drust, who had never wanted to succeed his brother and said quite frankly, “I dinna want to be chief.”

One fear Alysandir had was that the boy was too soft, too timid to be a leader and would prove to be a disappointment as chief of Clan Mackinnon. So now he was here, sitting by the campfire, watching the lad roast a grouse he had killed with a remarkable shot from a bow.

The week had passed quickly, with their first days spent hunting small game and bobbing for burn trout with a line and hook. Alysandir saw immediately that Bradan knew all about bobbing for trout and was expert at catching them. He could also clean them faster than Alysandir.

He picked up one of Bradan’s arrows and twirled it around in his hand. “How did ye come by these arrows? Have ye made friends with the castle fletchers and persuaded them to give these to ye?”

Bradan shook his head. “Nae, they didna give them to me. They said they didna mind if I watched them make arrows, if I was quiet. I learnt from watching. Sometimes they would let me try while they watched me, and they told me what I was doing wrong. Now, I give them my verra best arrows for yer warriors to use.”

Alysandir steadied the arrow on his extended finger. It was perfectly balanced and made of yew. The shaft was straight and smooth, the point perfectly fitted. Goose feathers had been carefully selected and attached with glue and thread to stabilize the arrow during flight. Even the most difficult part, the nock, was damnably close to being perfect and remarkably executed by one so young.

“And the crossbow and longbow ye have? Ye made them as well?”

“Aye, but the crossbow was easier to learn.”

Alysandir smiled at the truth of Bradan’s words, impressed with the boy’s ability to teach himself and the discipline that required. “I have noticed that ye have always managed to stay out of my way. Is that because ye are afraid of me?”

“Nay, I stay out of yer way because I dinna want to know if I am afraid of ye or not.”

Alysandir wanted to laugh, at not only the lad’s honesty, but also his deductive reasoning. He studied the boy while his dark head was bent. He was a handsome lad, tall for his age, slender, and brave, for he knew the lad had not found it easy to accompany him. If anything surprised him, it was that Bradan seemed quite accepting, in spite of Alysandir’s hostility and coldheartedness. He could only surmise that the lad was the forgiving sort and not one to harbor a grudge, both of which spoke highly in his favor.

“We should bed down for the night,” he said. “We’ll be up before daybreak to track roe deer.”

They gathered up dry heather and made it into pallets and then covered them with their plaids. Soon, the dogs came to lie beside them and share their warmth. Alysandir looked over at the boy, watching how naturally he fit into this setting. He did not want to think that Bradan reminded him of himself. But, sleeping under the stars, building sandcastles, hunting and fishing were the same things Alysandir had loved as a lad—before duty had intervened.

The next morning, they found a grassy burn where the deer were in the habit of feeding and hid downwind from where the deer would arrive. The sky began to lighten, and they heard deer as they came down from the heights to search for grass and rushes. Alysandir signaled the dogs. They picked up the scent and took off, noses to the ground.

Before long, they returned, covered with blood. “Where is he?” Alysandir said. “Show me!” The dogs tore off again, with Alysandir and Bradan loping behind them on horseback, until at last they came to a rocky outcrop where a stag lay dead, his throat torn open by the dogs.

Bradan had never hunted a stag before, so Alysandir said, “’Tis time ye learned to dress the carcass.” Once that was done, he showed Bradan how to load it on the packhorse.

“Check the cinch first. It should be not too tight but not loose.” He ruffled Bradan’s hair to show his approval. “Now, grab the hindquarters, and we’ll throw it over the back like this.” Together, they secured the rope and mounted and led the packhorse back to camp, where they feasted on oatcake and cold grouse after they skinned and dressed the deer.

Later, they sat around the fire and talked about the day’s events. Alysandir wondered how he could have been so consumed by his own pain that he had never taken the time to notice the pain he had caused his son. Had it not been for Isobella… He sighed, almost breathing the sound of her name.

“Ye are verra fond of Isobella, no?” he asked Bradan.

“Aye, she is my best friend. The first time I saw her, I was afraid. I thought she was an angel.”

“She has made ye verra happy, just as ye have made her happy.”

“Aye, ’tis true, but she is also verra sad.”

“Sad? Isobella? Why do ye think her sad?”

“Because her heart aches. She thinks no one can see it.”

“Why is she sad? Do ye think she is unhappy and wants to leave?”

“Nae, I ken she is happy here, but she is sad that she will never marry.”

“How do ye know she willna?”

“She told me so.”

“Why is that sad?”

“Mayhap it is because she willna have a bairn and she likes them verra much.” He said that quite matter-of-factly, so matter-of-factly that Alysandir smiled at his innocence. For someone who doubted he could love anyone again, Alysandir felt what could only be described as fatherly affection for Bradan. He liked being with the lad and enjoyed listening to his soft voice and the way he explained his feelings with such maturity and honesty. He also realized that he wanted Bradan to like him in return.

They hunted a few grouse the next morning and then ate and packed up their belongings in readiness to leave. As Alysandir walked down to the burn to clean his knife, the dogs started barking. He passed a thicket, so dense that rain could not penetrate it. He was thinking that something lay hidden in the dark tangle of bracken, when suddenly a huge, wild boar charged out of his lair, the coarse hairs on his back bristling and his eyes glowing like red-hot embers from the devil’s hellfire.

Bradan saw the dogs and heard the noisy thrashing. He grabbed his crossbow and followed, arriving as the boar hooked one of the hounds and tossed him in the air. Bran lay where he landed, mortally wounded. Then the boar turned back to Alysandir, who had only his knife for defense.

Before the boar had time to charge, Bradan aimed and let the arrow fly. It lodged in the boar’s tough hide, but the blow was not fatal. The boar squealed and turned toward Bradan and charged. He fired again. The boar kept running. Bradan jumped to one side, just as the boar drove his sharp tusk sideways and ripped up the boy’s thigh.

The boar turned and charged again, but the damage from Bradan’s arrow was done. The boar dropped to the ground, squealing and kicking until it stilled and fell silent.

Alysandir knew only a shot to the heart or lungs would have dropped the boar as quickly as it had, and he was amazed at Bradan’s sensibility and quick thinking. He set up camp again and tended to Bradan’s wound. He gave the boy several sips of brandewijn to ease the pain and poured some over the wound, which he then stitched and bound tightly with an old plaid. Alysandir did not leave camp, occupying himself with dressing the boar. That night, he managed to get enough mead down Bradan that the lad began to grow sleepy.

Alysandir watched the fire burn down as Bradan slept. His son had saved his life. He did not know many men who could think so quickly or display such a level head and unbelievably steady hand. And Bradan had never made a sound while Alysandir stitched his leg. He was brave beyond his years, and Alysandir wondered how he thought the lad too soft?

Bradan stirred and opened his eyes. “How do ye feel, lad?” Alysandir asked.

“My leg doesna hurt,” he answered, albeit groggily.

It had to hurt like the devil. “Can ye stand the ride back to Màrrach if we leave early in the morning?”

“Aye, I can make it.” Bradan paused a moment as if thinking long and hard upon something. “I am verra sorry that ye have to care for me.”

Alysandir pushed Bradan’s hair back. “I owe ye fer saving my life. ’Tis I who owes ye.” Bradan closed his eyes, and a faint smile turned up the corners of his lips. The sight of it put a tiny crack in Alysandir’s heart, for he knew that the lad had had little in his short life to smile about. Alysandir vowed to change that.

They left at daybreak. By the time they arrived at the castle gate, Bradan was riding in the saddle in front of Alysandir. Just before dismounting, Alysandir leaned close and whispered, “’Tis a fine way ye handled yerself. I am proud to call ye my son.”

Having heard a commotion at the gate, Isobella was waiting for them in the courtyard when they arrived. She watched with an aching heart as Alysandir handed Bradan to Drust before he dismounted.

She rushed to Bradan’s side. “What happened?”

“He saved my life and was gored by a boar.” They followed Drust to Bradan’s room.

“He is burning with fever, so the wound is infected,” Isobella said. “We must take him to Elisabeth.”

Alysandir shook his head. “The lad may not survive more travel.”

“We cannot let him lie there and do nothing.”

“I agree, but he canna travel.”

“What other choices do we have?” Angus would never let Elisabeth leave.

“I will take care of it,” he said, and departed before she could say anything more.

Isobella was infuriated at Alysandir’s callousness, but she put it out of her mind for the time being. She had a lad to tend, and she set to work doing what she could, while fearing it would not be enough. She slept beside his bed, awakened the next morning by the sound of Bradan talking out of his head. He was still burning with fever, so she kept bathing him with cold water.

She was wishing she had a bottle of aspirin, when she remembered the aspirin from her backpack, lying in her trunk. She dashed to her room and hurried back with the aspirin. She crushed two tablets, mixed them with water, and fed the mixture to him with a spoon. She checked his wound, still red, angry, and oozing.

When Mistress MacMorran arrived with a tray, Isobella asked about Alysandir, who had not checked on his son.

“Och! Dinna be angry wi’ him. The chief left last night.”

“Where did he go?”

“I didna have time to ask, fer he rode away with Colin and Drust like the deil himself was a-nippin’ at his heels.”

Isobella returned to Bradan’s side, happy to see the aspirin had brought his fever down. But she had only one bottle, and it did nothing for infection. She needed antibiotics or the sixteenth-century medical equivalent, or better yet, Elisabeth.

The next day was a repeat of the first—Bradan burning with fever, her giving him aspirin. Mistress MacMorran helped with his cool baths. Later that evening, Isobella fed him broth again, and when he slept, she put her head down beside him on the bed.

Sometime later, she was awakened by a commotion in the hallway. She had barely raised her sleepy head when the door to Bradan’s room flew open and Elisabeth walked into the room. Isobella gasped and sprang to her feet.

“Oh, thank God! I’ve never been so happy to see you!”

“Yes, I am here and happy to see you, too,” Elisabeth said in a professional voice as she gave Isobella a quick hug, for she was already turning toward the bed. “How is he?” she asked as she made her way to Bradan’s side.

“He’s been burning with fever. I found a bottle of aspirin in my backpack, so I have been giving it to him since yesterday.”

Elisabeth began to examine Bradan, and he opened his eyes. “Don’t worry, Bradan,” she said, speaking in soft tones.

“Elisabeth,” he said.

“I’ve come to take care of ye if you will let me.”

“Aye,” he said, with a dry, raspy voice.

Without looking away, Elisabeth asked, “Has he been drinking plenty of water or other liquids?”

“As much as I can get him to take,” Isobella replied.

She smoothed the hair from Bradan’s brow. “I want to look at your leg. May I do that?”

He nodded.

Elisabeth pulled back the sheet and removed the cloths tied around his thigh. Isobella winced. The wound was worse than it had been before, now bulged apart and almost bursting with infection. The margins of the cut were a dark brownish-black color, surrounded by a ten-inch perimeter of bright red skin. Elisabeth turned to Mistress MacMorran, who was standing nearby.