The Return of Black Douglas (31 page)

He gathered his men close about him, and with his boot, he cleared a small patch of sand of all debris. He dropped down on his haunches with a stick in hand to sketch the layout of Duart Castle, so his men could see how they would enter once the nuns were inside and had gained control. And as he did, he did not think of the victory he could reap but of the danger that might incur.

Chapter 33

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestic train.

—“Il Penseroso,” 1645
John Milton (1608–1674)
English poet

It was one of those tales that would one day be told by bards. Accompanied by the minstrel’s lyre, they would sing of how the mighty Mackinnons came, a dark-veiled silhouette of holy nuns approaching Duart Castle and telling a tale of woe about being cast adrift in a rowboat by unscrupulous pirates. Only the coldest of hearts could turn away the poor, the chaste, and the obedient. The gates of Duart swung open to grant them entry.

But the scorpion stings him who helps it out of the fire.

Pensive, devout, pious, and pure, they walked slowly through the gates, heads bowed, in their coarse woolen robes of darkest brown, their faces hidden beneath flowing hoods, a blessing in disguise. From beneath their robes, their swords came, and they had the advantages of surprise and the absence of some of Duart’s soldiers. Their weapons sang as the ring of clashing metal rang out, steel against steel, clan against clan, and the commotion of battle echoed throughout the bailey and the keep.

The Mackinnons fought with the strength of twice their number, for Alysandir had much to gain and his brothers and his men rallied behind him. Exhausted and overpowered, the guards would be spared if they threw down their weapons.

“In exchange for Elisabeth Douglas,” Alysandir said. He was utterly weary to the bone but filled with iron-willed resolve to see this thing through. “I will ask ye only once,” he said. “Where is she?”

“In the north tower,” a voice answered.

While Drust and Alysandir went after Elisabeth, the defeated Macleans were locked in an abandoned cell. When they arrived at the north tower, Drust and Alysandir crept quietly into Elisabeth’s room and found her asleep. With a puzzled expression, Drust glanced at Alysandir.

“How shall we wake her?” Drust whispered. “There isna a safe place to touch withoot getting yer face slapped.”

Alysandir reached over and gave a gentle shake to Elisabeth’s shoulder, and when she gasped, he clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Say naught,” he said. She nodded, her eyes wide with fright. He removed his hand and realized she did not recognize him in the murky darkness, so he pushed back his hood. “’Tis Alysandir Mackinnon.”

When she saw who it was, she asked, “How…”

He shook his head, put a finger to his lips, and motioned for her to get up. In the meantime, Drust had fetched her cloak from the peg and handed it to her. “Put this on,” he whispered. “Ye havena time to dress.”

And that is what the bards and minstrels would tell of the night that the Mackinnons rescued Elisabeth Rhiannon Douglas out from under the Maclean noses, how they rode into the enchanted world of Celtic antiquity upon Maclean horses while showers of arrows fell down around them as plentiful as drops of rain. And how one found its mark lodged deeply in the back of their beloved leader.

***

Alysandir swayed in the saddle and fell forward, his face alongside Gallagher’s neck, his hands clutching the stallion’s mane. He managed to stay in the saddle until they were safely away and the horses had slowed their pace. But the Mackinnons could not afford to stop.

After some time, Elisabeth saw Alysandir’s blood-soaked horse and, reining her horse, she said, “We must stop! Go on if you wish, but I refuse to go any further. Can’t you see that you’re killing him?” It may be too late already.”

Surrounded by frowning cliffs, they were without a place that could provide them shelter except for the nearby ruins of a castle, which Elisabeth aptly named Castle Desolation, a once proud fortress now deserted and devoid of inhabitants. It stood ghostly silent among ancient standing stones and beneath a silvered moon that sent shadows scampering about.

They made camp not far from what had been the postern gate, near a tower, its seaward side whitened with spray as it stood as it had for centuries, a sentinel looking over the wild surges of the Sound of Mull. She could almost feel the encroaching spirit of some ancient ruler reaching out from the weather-beaten walls to chastise them for the intrusion upon his castle.

Around them, the night was full of noises, but she was not afraid, for they were the sounds of the sea, while a sweet, fragrant scent of salty air wrapped around them, haunting and quiet. Was Queen Mab galloping by?

As soon as Alysandir was out of the saddle, Elisabeth felt his cold, clammy skin. “He is chilled to the bone from blood loss. We must have a fire to warm him while I see to his wound.”

With nothing but the light of the fire, Elisabeth examined him, terribly afraid that the arrow had passed through his lung. Then there would be nothing she could do to save him. But upon closer observation, Alysandir did not have trouble breathing, and no air was bubbling up from the wound. A very good sign.

She inspected the entry point at his back and then his chest. It would be too dangerous to push the arrowhead on through the chest and break off the point. She glanced at Drust and said, “It must be removed from the back.”

With no medical supplies and a campfire for light, she was at a loss as to how she could remove the arrowhead. She knew no traction should ever be made with the shaft unless the arrowhead has been removed. There were two problems with simply pulling on the arrow. First, pulling it with the arrowhead attached could loosen the head and leave it in the wound. Second, if the arrowhead did not pull loose, the two barbed fangs above the arrow point would tear his organs to ribbons.

“Do ye need help to pull it oot?” Ronan asked.

“We cannot pull it.”

“How will ye get it oot then?” Drust asked.

Elisabeth was already thinking about something she had heard about the Indians. A couple of years earlier, she and Isobella had been traveling in Colorado with their family when they stopped at the cliff dwellings near Durango. They were discussing the hard life and short life span the Indians had, with their limited medical knowledge and even less in the way of painkillers, antibiotics, and surgical supplies.

“Back then, if someone was shot with a musket ball, he might well end up carrying it with him for the rest of his life, rather than risk death if someone tried to remove it,” their father had told them.

Isobella had mentioned then that she had been on a dig in North Dakota while in college. “We unearthed a human lumbar vertebra in which a small quartz arrowhead was encased. It was completely overlaid with new osseous formation, which proved the wounded man had lived for several months, at least, and possibly years with that arrowhead lodged in his bone.”

“Why didn’t they remove the arrowhead?” their mother asked.

Elisabeth remembered she had explained that the Indians had had no way to surgically remove an arrowhead.

“Oh, but they did,” Isobella said. “It was so ingenious that it was adopted by U.S. Army doctors in the old West, after they observed the method the Indians used.”

Elisabeth closed her eyes, thinking back to that day and trying to recall precisely what Isobella had said. After a few moments, she took a deep breath. She turned to Ronan and said, “I will need a willow limb this long.” She measured about a foot between her open palms. “Rub the limb as smooth as possible with your knife. Split it lengthwise into two halves, and hollow out the pith of each half.

“When that is done, taper the ends to narrow, rounded points. Those are the ends I will insert into the wound-track. And bring a flask of anything you have. If we can get him drunk enough, he may not remember my prodding about.”

Alysandir was stirring and moaning in his sleep. Drust plied him with drink, while Elisabeth and Ronan set themselves to the task of preparing to remove the arrow, shaft and all. Ronan handed her the two limbs he had prepared exactly as instructed. She smiled as she took them. “Perfect.”

He grinned down at her. “I have three older brothers. I am good at following orders.”

Mesmerized by his eyes, she did not realize for a moment that she was staring at him. “Well… then I shall have to remember that next time I feel like giving orders.”

He raised his brows and grinned widely at her. “Is there anything else ye will be needing now?”

“Yes. I will need something to bind these two sticks to the arrow shaft once I have them in place. Perhaps if you have a thin strip of leather.”

“I think I have something that will work,” Drust said. He went to the pouch hanging from his saddle and removed a small leather bag, tied with a narrow length of leather. He removed the leather strip and handed it to her.

“Hold him steady, Drust,” Elisabeth said, “for his life depends upon it. If he moves while I am working, it could kill him.” She then turned to Ronan. “I want you to hold the leather strap and be ready to bind the limbs tightly to the shaft when I tell you.”

“I hope he doesn’t thank me with a punch later,” Ronan said.

“Nothing would please me more than to see him do just that,” she said, “but I don’t think he will remember much of what happens.” She said a quick prayer that all would go well.

She glanced down at Alysandir, lying on his stomach, his head turned to one side. “Look at him. Smiling like a babe, innocent as you please, and drunk. Now, if you are ready.” She took a deep breath and carefully introduced one stick into the wound-track. She pushed until she reached and covered the uppermost fang of the arrowhead.

Alysandir stirred and mumbled. Elisabeth knew what he felt was a paralyzing pain, so she waited until he settled. Then she introduced the second limb and pushed it along the same wound-track as the first. She manipulated the second stick into place to cover the lower fang of the arrowhead. Once she had both fangs covered, she held the two limbs pressed together tightly against the arrow shaft.

“Are you ready, Ronan?

He nodded.

“Bind the two limbs securely to the arrow shaft while I hold it in place. Try to get them tied as close to the entry wound as possible. We want the limbs to hold fast against the arrow fangs. If one should slip off, it could kill him.”

She could hear the whispers of Alysandir’s men watching from some distance away. She ignored them and concentrated on Ronan as he secured the willow limbs tightly together. When he had finished, she held the bound shaft firmly in both hands. Slowly, carefully she withdrew the arrowhead without doing any noticeable damage to the wound-track.

When the shaft was out, Elisabeth released her long-held breath and felt her body shudder. She went limp as she sat back and would have fallen if Ronan had not been there to catch her. She leaned against him and closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths. A few moments later, relief washed over her when she looked at the bloodied shaft still in her hand and saw the arrowhead held between the two limbs.

She ignored the increased whisperings around her. “I need a knife,” she said as she pulled her cloak back. “I’ll cut some fabric from my nightgown to bind the wound.”

With Ronan’s help, she hacked several inches off the hem of her gown and tied it firmly around Alysandir’s chest. She wished she had some antiseptic, but she would have to wait until they reached Màrrach for that.

Drust came over and offered her some of their meager food, but she shook her head and turned away. She could not eat. She had so much adrenaline rushing through her that it would need some time to dissipate. She cleaned her hands with sand and accepted a cup of mead from Ronan.

She turned away to walk among the ruins, inhaling the fresh night air and welcoming the chill that rippled over her. She stood for a time, watching the eerie shadows cast upon ancient walls by the firelight. When she turned back to join the others, she was warmed by the sight of Ronan standing guard on a boulder not far away. She smiled. Who said chivalry was dead? It was functioning perfectly in sixteenth-century Scotland.

When she returned, the men were gathered together some distance away, eating and talking softly. She checked on Alysandir. His skin was cold, his pulse rapid. His core body temperature was lower than it should have been, and she was concerned that he could go into shock from the loss of blood. She covered him with her cloak and sat in her nightgown on a pile of stones near the fire.

As she watched him sleep, she was mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and praying earnestly that the movement did not stop. The night was quite cold. He needed rest, but they faced a long, arduous journey before he could be put to bed beneath thick furs in a fire-warmed room. And they would have to wait until morning.

She was shivering when Ronan came to sit beside her. He wrapped her in a plaid, “borrowed from one of the men,” he said. Suddenly, she turned her head against him as tears began to flow silently down her cheeks. She knew her tears would ease some of her stress, but she was still terribly afraid of losing Alysandir.

She felt hopeless and then thought there was only one thing she could do. Her hands shaking, she dropped to her knees and began to pray. Then Ronan went down on his knees beside her, and soon all of the Mackinnon’s men joined them.

***

Hours passed, and Elisabeth lost track of time. They would leave at daybreak, but she was too weary to sleep. She felt so helpless for she had nothing with which to treat Alysandir other than her knowledge. She was afraid the trip back to Màrrach might well be the last journey he ever made. She shivered, aware suddenly that a peculiar silence had gathered around her. A thousand fantasies fluttered in her mind, and out of the shadows he came… a glowing light bright as a celestial torch.