Devil's Angel (28 page)

Throwing off her cloak, Erika quickly cleared off one of the trestle tables. “Put him here. Take care not to jostle him overmuch.” She continued with her orders as she checked Ardan for further wounds, her voice flowing with command, not pausing to marvel at the quickness with which her orders were obeyed.

Besides the wound just above his ribcage, there was a deep gash on Ardan’s right temple, which probably had much to do with his unconscious state. His breathing, while light, was steady, not rattling, and no blood poured from his mouth. She breathed a silent heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving that there were no more injuries. She could tend the head injury easily enough, but she had never attempted so serious a wound as the one on his chest.

“Rhory, find Old Aine and bring her to me. Múireann, have the cook bring boiling and fresh water, and mead. Sibheal, where are the fine needles and boiled thread I asked for? Magda, did you tear the bandages?” Turning to the table, she pulled free her dagger, to slice the yellow
leine
away from the wound.

“Who are you to order me about?” Magda sputtered. “I am a princess, not a servant. Besides, the man is already dead!”

Quick as silver lightning, Erika turned to face her detractor. Her blade gleamed in the candlelight, its tip steadily pointed at the red-haired woman’s pale throat.

“Though you are no longer mistress here, you have responsibility to those once your people,” Erika said in the sudden quiet, her voice ringing with chilling gravity. “I have not the time to argue with you, my lady. You will either help us save Ardan and the other men of Dunlough who once served you, or you will retire to your room.”

Averse to saying more than she had already, Erika turned back to the table, if only to hide the paroxysm in her hands.

She had pressed a blade to the throat of a princess of Ireland, a feat that would little help her situation. There was sure to be a law against such a thing.

She could ill-afford to dwell on it now. Even if she were to be banished from Dunlough, she would keep her promise to Conor and do all in her power to save Ardan.

Behind her, Madga audibly swallowed then chimed, “Come, Conor, I will see to your needs.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Erika came close to violence. It took a supreme effort not to turn and throttle the Irishwoman. If Conor went to her now, Erika would never forgive him.

Knowing that everyone watched her, she began slicing away the top of Ardan’s tunic with more calm than she felt. Save his life, she thought to herself. Perhaps later there would be time to save her heart from breaking.

“Leave go, Magda,” Conor’s voice rumbled as he moved to stand beside Erika. “There are many here more injured than I. See to their needs.”

Erika released a breath she didn’t realize she held. She knew she had done herself no favors by drawing her blade on Magda—the violent rending of cloth being torn into bandages assured her that she had made an enemy for life.

“My lady.” Aine’s voice washed over her, calm and soothing. “I am here.”

Grateful for the ancient woman’s presence, Erika ordered everyone to their duties as she continued to carefully pull the
leine
, bloody brown instead of saffron yellow, away from the wound. “Conor, can you tell us what happened? Was it a sword or an axe blow?”

Her husband stood beside her, staring down at the still form of his dearest friend. His hair was matted to his head; Erika could see dried blood on his temple. His eyes were dark with inner turmoil as he answered. “I-I do not know. Everything happened so fast…I think it was a sword, meant for me, but he—he stepped in the way. His death is on my hands.”

His voice was wooden, lifeless. Yet there was an undercurrent to his words, anguish so deep it was nearly imperceptible.

Not to her. Erika could feel it, see it. Conor had lost enough. By all that was holy, she would not have him lose a man who was more than a good friend but was like a father to him. She would battle Hel and hell if she had to.

“Conor, stand by his head. We may need you to hold him down as we work.” If Ardan showed any signs of struggling, it would be a sign from heaven.

“Will you not give him a potion, to make him sleep?” Múireann asked from her right.

“I don’t dare,” Erika whispered, even as Aine shook her head. “He is weak enough already.”

Aine’s soft voice brought her back to the task at hand. “Tell me what you see, child.”

Cleansing her hands as Aine had taught her, Erika then dipped a clean cloth into another basin of warm, herb-steeped water. Carefully she wiped at the wound, but Ardan did not stir. “It’s a sword thrust, Good-mother,” she said. “It’s crusted with dirt, cloth and dried blood.”

Her hands shook as she retrieved a small knife with a thin, sharp blade. Expelling a breath, she forced her hands to steady and cautiously widened the wound.

Múireann gasped, then made a gagging sound. Erika was about to order her away when blood welled, angry-red, from her incision. “Ah!”

She could feel people pressing in on her. “What is it?” Conor’s voice, harsh and grating, sliced through the murmurs.

“The wound’s not deep,” Erika explained. Hope tinted her voice. “The blade was stopped by his ribs. And there’s no smell. That is a good sign.”

Aine nodded. “So there are no foul humors, at least not yet. Are you ready, my lady?”

Hesitating, Erika glanced at her husband. He looked down at her, and in the steel-gray eyes she saw silent pleading, as well as resigned hopelessness. He believed Ardan would not live.

If she was the only one to believe Ardan could survive, so be it. She would believe enough for all of them. She could not, would not falter. “If I could have room and more light, I am ready.”

Everyone stepped back a respectful distance. Some held candles and torches near. One soldier stood on the table in front of her, holding two torches aloft. The firm set of his face suggested he would not move until she told him to.

The dun fell silent as the severely wounded drifted to sleep and those already tended gathered to watch her and the old healer perform a miracle. Time ceased to be a concern, the agony in her back a distant memory as Erika, following Aine’s quiet instructions, meticulously cleansed away every minute trace of grime. The Druid woman had stressed repeatedly the necessity of cleanliness, a tenet that had been shared by only a few other healers Erika had encountered during her travels. But she trusted the old Druid as she trusted few people in her life, and she had seen enough people, supposedly healing from their wounds, sicken and die. She would not give Conor that false a hope; it would devastate him.

Finally she began the methodical, excruciating process of patching Ardan’s innards together. Calling for more light and blinking through her fatigue, Erika slowly set her stitches into the pale skin. She was grateful to Aine and Múireann that they refused her entreaties to cease her needlecraft; her sewing had transformed from clumsy tangles to delicate, orderly stitches.

“It is done.” Releasing her breath with a drawn-out sigh, Erika attempted to straighten and nearly toppled over. Múireann was by her side, steadying her.

“Come away, my lady,” the woman pleaded through her tears. “You have done your best, and that is all that we could hope.”

Erika took a proffered goblet of mead from a servant, managing an exhausted smile of gratitude before she drank. “There is still much to be done, Múireann. We must salve and bandage both wounds, and move Ardan to a pallet near the fire.”

Startled green eyes met her own. “You—you mean Ardan will live?”

Not wanting to inspire false hope yet needing to offer comfort, Erika chose her words carefully. “The next few hours will be telling. We must make sure he takes mead, and a wee bit of the herbal if possible. If Ardan survives the dawn, I believe he will have a chance.”

Murmurs of relief swept through the dun’s people. Múireann stared at her in wonderment. “You’re not the Angel of Death!” she whispered in awe. “You are the angel of life, sent from God Himself!”

It seemed as if others were in agreement. Uncomfortable with the sudden reverence, Erika said, “Godsend or no, we still have much to do. Sibheal, help Múireann bind Ardan’s wounds. Use that salve—yes, the dark green. I will see to the others.”

But first she would see to her husband. Grabbing a bowl of fresh water and clean cloths, Erika turned to tend to Conor’s injuries. He was gone. Anxiety rippled through her as she cast about for him.

He stood near the door, talking to the priest. Gathering her skirts, she hurried to join them. Abbott Brochadh was speaking, and it took her a moment to realize he was giving Conor names.

Names of men of Dunlough, now dead.

Stricken, Erika watched Conor’s face as each was spoken. It was as if each were an arrow loosed, striking his heart with mortal accuracy. His face could have been as solid and immutable as the crosses of the ancient Celts. It seemed as if darkness gathered in the planes of his face, changing him.

Claiming him.

When the priest finished speaking, Conor raised his eyes, staring directly at her. Erika’s blood ran cold, and she instinctively stepped back.

His eyes were empty.

Without uttering a word, he spun towards the door. Erika, galvanized by the movement, made to go after him.

“Conor, wait!” Strong arms grappled hers. Padraig. “Leave go!”

“I cannot, my lady. No one follows the
tigerna
at times like this. Not if he values his life.”

Exhausted by her work, she ceased her struggles and turned to stare at the commander. “Conor has done this before?”

The warrior nodded, his eyes dark. “Since Clontarf.”

Fear gripped her heart. Not fear for herself, but fear for Conor. “Where does he go, and how long is he gone?”

Padraig’s face was pinched with fatigue and sorrow. “My lady, do not ask me.”

Erika grabbed his forearm. “Please, Padraig. I must know.”

Her desperation must have been evident for he continued, “The
tigerna
does not leave the tribe’s lands. Some say he joins the
bhean sidhe
on Slieve Torc, adding his grief to hers. Some say he races through the fields in the dark of night, or stays in a cave.”

His words came with difficulty, as though reluctant to betray his lord. “It is like a madness, my lady, the way his mood darkens. Like a fever runs its course, so does this. It may be one day or four, but it does pass.”

Four days? Every part of her being yearned to dislodge Padraig’s hold, to follow Conor into the darkness. He was out there in the night, hurting. He needed her.

She gave Padraig a long stare that would countenance no disobedience. “You will send one guard after him. I would know where he goes.”

Padraig opened his mouth and Erika narrowed her eyes at him. He hesitated, then bowed to her. “I will see to it, my lady.”

Sighing, Erika turned back to tend to the remaining injured. She needed to rest, but these men needed her. It would also help distract her from her worry over her husband. He would come back to her. He had promised, and she intended to hold him to that promise.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“So you have come for me, then?”

Erika jerked upright, startled by the rasping voice. “Ardan?”

The grizzled warrior stared back at her, his moss-green eyes unnaturally bright. “Sure and you know who I am, if you’ve come to lead me home?” He smiled weakly. “But ’tis good to know that heaven has a sense of humor.”

Looking up, Erika saw that Múireann had returned, and pulled up a chair on the other side across from her. The older woman’s eyes welled with tears as she stifled a gasp with her hands.

Apparently Ardan thought she was an angel, not
the
Angel. Erika touched his forehead; it was warm, but dry. Had the wound in his chest become festered? She prayed against it.

“How do you feel, Ardan?”

“If I did not know you for one of the angelic hosts, I would swear that I am being tortured in hell.” His eyes strayed to the crackling hearth. “I’m not in hell, am I?”

Smiling despite the circumstances, she answered, “You are not.”

“Then might I trouble you for a drink?”

Múireann hurriedly poured watered mead into a cup and passed it to Erika, who, with Padraig’s help, lifted Ardan enough to help him sip. He gagged, but managed to down most of it. “I don’t suppose heaven has something stronger?”

Her smile grew. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

Closing his eyes, the warrior sighed. “Una and my boys, are they here? I will see them soon?”

Erika cooled his forehead with a damp cloth. It was a moment before she could speak past the tightness in her throat. “They send you their love, but say you are still needed in Dunlough.”

“Conor.”

“He needs you, Ardan,” she said, clasping his hands in hers. “Come back to him.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze steady and clear as it fixed upon her. “’Tis you he needs, my lady.”

Unsure if he was truly with them or not, Erika tried to ease the hammering of her heart. “C-Conor needs me?”

“He does. Darkness dogs his every step. Losing Murrough and his sons took much from him, sure it did. Aislingh could not understand it, and then she betrayed him. You
can
understand it. You are a light against that darkness. You can help him escape it.”