Redemption (Book Two of the Shipwrecked Series) (20 page)

My mind was racing
as I pulled away from her and ran back into my chamber, having the presence of
mind to throw a dressing gown on over my night dress.   Leti was standing rigid
as a board in the threshold, color gone from her face, waiting impatiently for
me to follow her.  She turned on her heel as we left my chamber and walked
briskly down the hallway as I slammed the door behind me. I rushed down the
corridor following close behind Leti, knowing that there was not much that I
could do to help if the situation was as grave as she had described. 

Apparently not
happy with the pace of my progress, Leti whispered “Hurry,” tersely as her
sweaty hand reached back and grabbed mine, speeding my walk into a jog as she
drug me through the candle lit corridor.  Her nails dug into my skin and I felt
the desperation in her hurried, methodic movements as she rushed me through the
maze of halls.  I followed her into the great hall.  My breathing ragged now. 
Nervous anticipation filled my senses as I dreaded the scene I was about to
enter into.

The fire roared at
the end of the great hall and there was a hustle about the room as if it was midday rather than the middle of the night.  The tension in the room was palpable.  People
were speaking tersely in Gaelic.  At this moment, I first learned the smell of
true fear.  It seemed to permeate the room, with its damp, adrenaline soaked
reek.  Leti drug me to the far end of the hall and pushed our way through the
throng of people toward the table where we had met for the first time only
hours before.

He lay on the
table, glistening with sweat, which from my immediate assessment of the patient
stemmed from a raging fever, not from his close proximity to the fire.  His
body trembled slightly and his skin had a sickly pallor.  Leti dropped my hand
and grasped his flack, lifeless hand as if by will alone, she could hold him to
this Earth.  He was a handsome man and yet at the same time he had almost plain
features.  His sandy brown hair was crusted with blood and debris from his
injuries and his journey home on the pallet.  It fell in sweaty clumps about
his broad shoulders.  He had a kind, boyish face that was slack with fever and
expressionless.  His eyes were closed and fluttered behind his pale lids with
feverish dreams.

I pushed my way
towards his head and realized instantly that I would have to take charge of
this situation or Brennan would surely die.  It was clear that no one knew what
to do for him, and consequently, no one was doing anything!  No one except
Leti, who was bawling her eyes out as she held onto his hand for dear life.  To
what good her efforts were, I was not sure.

A kitchen maid was
gawking at the scene, and I pointed in her direction, breaking her trance with
my harsh orders.  The authority in my voice surprised me.  “Get clean, boiled
water.  Lots of it. Bring a kettle of cold water too.  I need clean cloths for
bandages and garlic.  See if you can find willow bark tea as well.  Get whisky
for the others, they will need to wait their turn for treatment.  Organize them
in order of most grave injury.”

The maid nodded in
immediate acceptance of my orders, looking relieved to have something
purposeful to do that would remove her from the scene in the hall.

 “Everyone else,
get out of here!” I barked as I made my hasty preparations for my impromptu
healing debut. 

The crowd of
onlookers dissipated, either from the authority in my voice or from relief that
they would not have to be the one who let Brennan die.  I moved up beside
Brennan’s head and placed my palm flush against his forehead.  His eyes
fluttered behind his eyelids.  His skin was dreadfully hot. 

My requested
supplies arrived moments later and I knew that my first priority would be to
reduce his fever.  “Dip the rags into the cold water, and drape them over his
limbs.  We must change them as often as possible, keeping them as cool as we
are able to.  This should help to reduce his fever,” I explained.

 My assistant was
quick to follow my orders, soaking the cloths in cool water, ringing them out
and laying them over Brennan’s arms.  I took a sopping cloth and draped it over
his forehead, covering his rapidly moving eyes.  Next, we draped the larger
cloths over his legs, and began changing the cloths that were already placed,
refreshing them with the cold water each time.  In only a few minutes, Brennan
began to shiver in response to the cold cloths.  I hoped that this was a good
sign.

Leti sat as if she
was made of stone, still holding on to Brennan’s hand for dear life.  Her
beautiful features were clouded with red, puffy eyes.  The color was still
completely absent from her face.  She looked like a different person all
together.

  “Thank you,” she
whispered, making eye contact with me for a fleeting instant as I peeled back
the woolen material of the kilt that was crusted to Brennan’s upper thigh,
dangerously close to his nether regions.  Now was certainly not the time for
modestly, but I placed the shreds of his kilt in such a way that they covered
his masculine parts from view.

I inhaled swiftly,
and my eyes darted towards Leti, “You need to go,” I said sternly.

“No.  I’m staying
with him, Kate,” her eyes were full of challenge.

I sighed as I
turned back to Brennan’s leg. I had never seen such a grave injury before and I
was taken aback as I exposed it’s entirety to view.  The gash went from
Brennan’s lower abdomen and stretched towards his groin and down his upper
leg.  His flesh looked like it was about to explode from the pressure of the
infection that had overtaken the wound.  The edges of the cut were a
frightening, angry red.  There were clear red lines radiating from both the top
and the bottom of the wound.  My heart sank. I knew what these streaks meant. 
Brennan had blood poisoning from the infection. 

My stomach began
to churn and roll as I took in the situation at hand.  I felt like I was going
to be sick from the smell emanating from Brennan’s wound coupled with the fear
of knowing that I would likely not be able to do much to save him.  Poor Leti. 
My eyes darted back in her direction, and she looked back at me encouragingly. 
She thought that I knew how to handle this!  I faked a smile, exhaled slowly,
and turned back to Brennan’s infected leg.

I tentatively
probed the wound with my fingers, applying light pressure near the swollen cut
inflicted by the sword.  The flesh felt sickeningly full and tight beneath my
fingers.  I pushed back my gag reflex, knowing what lay inside the wound.  I
would have to abrade the wound.

 “I need the
whisky,” I said, as I looked hard in Leti’s direction.  “I need you to leave
for a few minutes, and no matter what you hear, don’t come back until I tell
you to.” I ordered, challenging her with my eyebrows knit together to disobey
my orders.  “Nathan!” I shouted across the hall to the older clansman.  Nathan
and I had become bonded after he had discovered me in the forest.  I knew that
I could count on the clansman to not only help me care for Brennan, but to keep
Leti away while I worked. “Can you take Leti out for a few minutes?” I asked,
although it was meant more as an order than a question.

Nathan scurried
over to our table, looking ragged from assisting the wounded.  He nodded in
reply to my request as he pulled Leti away from Brennan and whisked her from
the hall.  He shot me a nervous glance from under his bushy eyebrows after
looking at Brennan’s leg.  I could tell that he thought that Brennan didn’t
have a chance in Hell of making it.

“We’re going to
open the wound,” I stated matter-of-factly to the kitchen maid.  She nodded
briskly in response and let out a heavy sigh, preparing herself for what lied
ahead.  “I’ll open it, and we need to flush out as much of the infection as we
can with the boiling water.  I need you to hold down his shoulders in case he
wakes up.” 

Without further
prompting, she moved around to Brennan’s head and stood behind him, placing one
hand on either of his shoulders.  Her freckled face was red from exertion and
her brown hair was a frizzled mess. 

She rolled her
shoulders in a final preparation and said, “Go to it, lass.  I can be braw
enough when I need to be.” Her muscles tensed and she pressed down on his slack
shoulders with all of her might.

I took a deep
breath and placed one hand on either side of the wound.  As I slowly exhaled, I
pressed both hands down and slowly drew them apart, causing a thick stream of
pus to flow from the gash on Brennan’s lower torso.  The amount of pus and the
smell that leached from the wound caused me to choke and gag and I turned my
head away as I continued to drain the wound.  I moved my hands up the entirety
of the wound, repeating the same movement and releasing the infection from Brennan’s
fevered body. 

The maid had been
holding her breath with her eyes clenched tightly closed for what felt like
minutes, but was probably only a few seconds.  She finally exhaled and released
her grip on Brennan’s shoulders.  He had not moved during the entire procedure.
She opened her eyes and timidly peeked at the wound.  Her eyes bulged when she
saw the infection that I had leached from the wound.

“Lord in heaven,”
she mumbled before looking away.  “Ready for water?” she asked, already moving
around the table to the basin of steaming water that she had brought from the
kitchen.  “He’s not going tae be moving, let’s get on with it,” she remarked
with a glance towards Brennan’s lifeless face. 

I touched my hand
to his face and it seemed slightly cooler.  Maybe the fever was breaking, or at
least I hoped it was going down from the cool cloths.

The maid nodded,
hoisting the steaming pitcher above the wound.  “Ready?” she asked, holding eye
contact.  I nodded in response and she immediately poured the near boiling
water directly onto Brennan’s infected flesh.  The last bits of pus were washed
from the wound and the water running from the incision was stained pink with
blood. 

“Again,” I
prompted her to pour the second pitcher directly into the wound.  There was no
response from our patient, a fact that terrified me.  I wanted him to scream,
to rise up, to respond in some way.  I wanted him to show some sign of life! 
“Now the whiskey,” I coached, eyebrows knit together in concentration.

 She grabbed the
stoneware bottle of whiskey and removed the cork.  “Hold him,” she ordered as
she tilted the bottle towards the injury and let the amber liquid flow directly
into the bloody incision.

Brennan’s scream
was agonizing.  At the same time, I was relieved that he had finally responded
to our torture, showing a sign of life.  It broke my heart knowing that Leti
had most likely heard the cry of her betrothed and was probably being
restrained from running to his bed-side.  Restrained from what would most
likely be his death bed.  I used all of my strength to press Brennan against
the table, and was thankful when the strong arms of his clansmen took over
Brennan’s restraint and allowed me to step away.

Brennan abruptly
stopped screaming due only to the fact that he had passed out again from the
overwhelming pain.  I could not imagine what pouring whiskey into such a raw
and inflamed wound must have felt like. 

“Go get Leti,” I
coaxed the maid, whose eyes bulged with fear from what she had done to
Brennan.  “He’ll be better for what we’ve done,” I encouraged, as she gently
set the whisky bottle down and strode from the room, smoothing her skirts.

Leti returned,
glaring at me, obviously believing that I had first tortured and then killed
her beloved.  After finding him still alive, hastily feeling his forehead and
inspecting the gash in his torso, she hesitantly asked, “Will he live, Kate?”

“I don’t know. 
His injury is grave.  We did our best to rid him of the infection, but it may
have gone into his blood.  I don’t know if he will live,” I said honestly, fear
once again unsettling my stomach.

“Thank ye, Kate. 
I ken that ye did yer best for him,” Leti mustered an anguished slight smile as
she resumed her place next to Brennan, again holding his hand for dear life. 
She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, then whispered something in
Gaelic into his ear.

 “Ye did braw
well, lass,” the kitchen maid smiled up at me with her broad grin and gapped
front teeth.  “Braw well,” she encouraged.  “I can mind Brennan and the lassie
from here, I’ll wager that there are other patients in need of yer help,” she
said, patting my hand with assurance that she had the situation under control.

My final patient
of the evening was clearly in the advanced stages of inebriation.  Self
assessment of his injuries must have brought him to the conclusion that as he
was not on death’s door, and thus not in danger of losing neither life nor
limb, he would kindly wait his turn and allow his more seriously injured
comrades seek treatment first.  While he waited, he had partaken heavily in
self-medication for his wounds in the form of my “medicinal” whiskey.  He had a
long wait while I performed my medicinal ministrations on his peers and due to
the quantity of whisky he had consumed and perhaps the late hour, he had
finally passed out atop a table near the fire. 

Throughout the
night I had felt his hot gaze on me, watching my movements, watching how I
tended to the men.  I knew from the cautious concern in his steely gaze that he
was their leader.  He watched to make sure that their needs were tended before
his own.

I approached his
prostrate form cautiously so as not to wake him while I accessed his injuries. 
He was neatly laid out atop the table, the fingers of his hands were
intertwined and rested on his abdomen.  He looked as though he had laid down
for a peaceful nap except for the incriminating empty whiskey bottle next to
him on the table.  He was breathtakingly handsome.