True Highland Spirit (37 page)

Morrigan raised her ax to crush one of the soldiers, but her arm was jerked back. With a curse Morrigan swung around, trying to dislodge the chain of the mace wrapped around her ax. Her mounted attacker pulled back, and the ax was ripped from her hand. She grabbed for her sword but her opponent was fast, swinging the mace again. She protected her head with her arm, and the mace tore off her right gauntlet.

The man swung back with his mace, but suddenly slumped forward on his horse, a knife thrown through the small gap in the visor of his helm. Morrigan swirled around to see who had thrown the knife. It was Dragonet.

“No!” she screamed as an English soldier swung his sword at Dragonet from behind. Dragonet parried to the side but was still caught in the downswing of the mace. Dragonet went down, and Morrigan could see him no more.

Spurring her horse, she drew her sword and charged the English soldier before he could deliver Dragonet the death blow. She attacked with cold fury and struck him several times before he limped away into the mist.

“Dragonet!” She bashed another attacker on the helm with the hilt of her sword. He staggered back stunned.

“Get up!” Morrigan yelled. Dragonet mumbled something, but did not regain his feet.

Morrigan charged another who tried to take advantage of the French knight on the ground, clashing swords. This Englishman was a knight by his expensive armor and was skilled at the art of swordplay, driving Morrigan back a few steps before she could read his attack and better hold her own. She swung to defend his attack and then struck at his flank, which he blocked. She swung again, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a man charge her with a spear, just as her opponent with the sword attacked. She blocked the sword and cringed for the inevitable impact of the spear, which never came.

Dragonet had struck down the spear with his sword and swung wildly at the man. Morrigan was prevented from assisting by her own attacker, who was proving to be much too persistent. Dragonet’s form was not as precise as she remembered, his attack uncontrolled. Morrigan gasped—he was fighting left-handed, his right arm hung limply at his side.

Morrigan focused on her enemy. She needed to dispatch him quickly before Dragonet fell to his opponent. She memorized the English knight’s attack, searching for weakness, and swung left as he lunged right, catching him painfully under his arm. He recoiled from the blow and fled back into the dense fog. She let him go to assist Dragonet, but he felled his opponent with a desperate slash.

Morrigan caught him as he stumbled back. “What is hurt?”

“My shoulder.” His voice was tight, as if even speaking the words caused him pain.

“Thank you. Thank you,” said the duke, joining them. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Morrigan realized the English soldiers had either been defeated or ran away. She took a deep breath of cold, damp air. It was over.

“He needs a surgeon,” Morrigan said, putting her arm around Dragonet’s waist for added support. He did not refuse it, a sure sign that he was badly wounded.

“Yes, yes. We will take him now,” said the duke.

The sound of approaching horses drew the attention of all. From the mist appeared none other than MacLaren, Chaumont, and Archie McNab. They had removed their helms and were riding at a comfortable pace.

“Archie!” Morrigan was so surprised she almost dropped her sword.

“Morrigan! I thought I told ye to stay out o’ this. Ye should be at home,” chastised Archie.

Morrigan ignored his words. “How are ye here? I thought ye were in Rome.”

“I have been to Rome and have returned,” said Archie as if he had gone to the market.

“Just in time too!” said Chaumont.

Morrigan opened her mouth to say something, but could find no words. Chaumont was happy to see her brother? What kind of world were they in? Perhaps she was still under the influence of the sleeping potion and was actually still asleep in the tent.

“How goes the battle?” asked the duke.

“The day is won,” declared MacLaren. “The English have sounded the retreat; they did not break through to Edinburgh.”

Morrigan’s men and the French knights cheered at the news.

“And we are still alive thanks to our friend McNab,” said Chaumont with a broad smile.

“Ye are supposed to hate him!” blurted Morrigan.

“You will forgive me,
mademoiselle
, if I most humbly disagree. We were pinned down, and Archie turned the tide.”

Archie shrugged. “’Twas no trouble.”

Morrigan shook her head. She would reason it out later. Dragonet leaned more heavily on her.

“I need to get him to a surgeon.”

Morrigan sat by Dragonet’s bedside, willing him to wake. He was sleeping but was so still and pale, she put her hand on his chest to make sure he still breathed. Morrigan leaned her head against the cool wall and waited.

It took two days to get him back to St. Margaret’s. The cart Morrigan’s men found proved useful, and they traveled without ceasing, changing horses and drivers as they could. By unspoken consensus they all went, Morrigan and her men, the duke and his knights; even Archie, Chaumont, and MacLaren returned with them.

Dragonet lay in the cart and said very little, not complaining, but also not resisting the plan to take him to the convent. His shoulder was not his only injury; he also sported a gash on the back of his thigh where the armor did not cover and a large bump on the head.

Dragonet lost a lot of blood, but Mother Enid was reassuring. He slipped into unconsciousness shortly after he arrived, and woke only once since. Mother Enid reported he had asked for Morrigan in the night, and Morrigan was determined to be at his side the next time he woke.

“Is he awake,
mademoiselle
?” asked Chaumont. He strolled into the small cell like he belonged there and leaned his shoulder against the wall in a casual manner.

Morrigan tried to think of a caustic remark, but she was tired, and Chaumont was too agreeable to grouse at for long. “He sleeps still.”

“I was talking to the duke. Dragonet’s defense was impressive.”

“Foolish,” said Morrigan. “He should have left the duke and protected himself. He got hurt because he stood in harm’s way.”

“Ah, I have labored under the false assumption that standing in harm’s way was the job of the soldier. I thank thee for the enlightenment.” Chaumont’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“Piss off.” She lacked the energy to devise an articulate retort.

Chaumont laughed heartily.

Dragonet stirred, and Morrigan immediately grabbed his hand.

“Jacques?” she asked. He mumbled something, and Morrigan leaned in closer.

“What does he say?” asked Chaumont, leaning closer too.

“He says he wants ye to go f—”

“Morrigan!” Dragonet rasped.

She stopped mid-sentence. “Aye?”

“Be nice.”

“’Tis not in my nature.”

“I sincerely disagree.” He squeezed her hand and gave her a weak smile.

“Ye’re hoping I’ll be nice and forget what ye did to me. Dinna think I’ll ever forgive ye for leaving me naked the way ye did!” said Morrigan, forgetting they were not alone.

“Well now!” exclaimed Chaumont. “I do believe my breakfast is calling. I’ll be back to visit with you later, Brother.”

Morrigan winced as he quit the room. “I suppose I could have phrased that better.”

Dragonet clapped his hand over his eyes. “So much for discretion.”

“I’m sorry, but it is all yer fault. Ye had no right to seduce and poison me!”

“I beg you to acquit me of the charge of seduction, but of the rest I am most certainly guilty.”

“Ye bedded me so ye could stick me wi’ my own sleeping potion!”

“I do apologize. I know what I did was unpardonable, but you are alive, and that was my only concern.”

“Well… well, that was right nice of ye.” Morrigan frowned when she said it.

“Anytime.”

“Not a chance.”

“
Bonjour
.”

Morrigan swirled around at the sound to see a tall man enter the room. He was dressed in black robes embroidered with gold thread. He must be a priest of some sort, but she had never seen one so finely dressed. He was middle aged and rather handsome, though his carriage and slight sneer revealed a cold heart.

Dragonet started at the sight of the man, his eyes open wide. His already pale skin turned white. Never had Morrigan seen Dragonet afraid, but he was. He struggled to sit.

“Who are you?” Morrigan put her hand on her sword hilt.

The man eyed her with contempt. He spoke French to Dragonet, who had managed to sit up in bed.

“He is the bishop of Troyes,” said Dragonet in a voice that wavered.

The
bishop
of… Dragonet’s father?
It was Morrigan’s turn to be astounded. Remembering herself, she bowed low until she could get her expression under control. She must not reveal she knew anything.

The man spoke again, and Dragonet nodded.

“He wishes you to leave us,” Dragonet said. His voice was calm again, but Morrigan knew he was distressed. How did such a man get here?

“He just took a sleeping draft,” said Morrigan, pushing Dragonet back down to his bed. Dragonet glanced at her, a question in his worried eyes. With a quick flick of her hand, she pulled out her hair pin and stabbed his shoulder as she pretended to pull up the covers. “All’s fair,” she whispered.

“He is injured. He needs to sleep,” she said to the bishop.

The bishop did not speak to her, but rather continued to address Dragonet in French. Dragonet answered in French, but his eyes started to droop.

“He should have no visitors; he has taken a sleeping draft,” said Morrigan.

Dragonet said something in French she hoped was a translation. The bishop glared at her and pointed to the door. Morrigan was a bit surprised at how much she felt compelled to comply, but held her ground.

“He canna speak to ye,” said Morrigan. She needed to give Dragonet time to recover from his wounds and time to grow accustomed to the fact that his father the bishop had traveled all the way to Scotland. No good could come from that unexpected visitor. Dragonet needed time.

The bishop spoke louder to Dragonet, but he had already fallen unconscious. He stood over Dragonet, his face a scowl. Morrigan kept her hand on the hilt of her sword, prepared to draw if he displayed the least amount of aggression. Instead he turned to her and raked her with his eyes. He took a step back as if not wanting to sully himself with her presence.

“You will send for me when he wakes,” the bishop said in perfect English.

He swept from the room, and Morrigan collapsed back into the chair. What did that man want?

She put her hand on Dragonet’s chest, taking comfort in the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. What were they to do?

***

Morrigan woke to a slight shake of her shoulder.

“Let us get you some rest,” said Mother Enid.

Morrigan stood and stretched, her muscles, cold and stiff from sleeping in the chair. “How is he?”

“He sleeps. His color has improved, and there are no signs of fever. Rest is the best thing for him. You also need sleep.”

“Nay, I will stay until he wakes.”

Mother Enid shook her head. “You must sleep. Come, let me lean on your arm as we walk. I am not as young as once I was. Sister Lucinda will watch over him tonight.”

Sister Lucinda, a thin lady with the deep lines of many years etched into her face, glided into the room and sat in the chair that Morrigan vacated. Mother Enid took Morrigan’s arm and gently led her to the door. Morrigan tried to think of some argument to stay, but she knew Mother Enid was right. She was tired, and there was nothing she could do watching over a sleeping man.

She allowed Mother Enid to lead her down the long hallway of the convent’s guest house. Their pace was slow, and Mother Enid indeed leaned heavily on her arm. Their journey was not a long one, but at the pace they were traveling it would take some time. Morrigan realized it was an opportunity to ask the good nun a question.

“Mother Enid. What must a person do to be forgiven by God?”

“You are concerned about a particular sin, my child?”

Morrigan sighed. Why could nuns not answer a question directly? “Well… aye.” She glanced back at Dragonet’s room.

“Your young monk is quite handsome, no?”

Morrigan stiffened. “Ye know?”

“He may have said some things in his sleep…” hinted Mother Enid.

“Then ye ken I am a sinner of sinners. I defiled a monk!”

“Ah, to be young again,” said Mother Enid with a wistful smile.

It was not the reaction Morrigan expected. “Ye defiled monks too?”

“Oh no, not monks. Dukes!” Mother Enid gave her a conspiratorial smile.