The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(28)

“The entry wound is small and round, so I think it must be a needle bodkin.”

He nodded, returning to the moment. “Aye. That’s what I thought as well.” To pierce mail at such a close distance, the long, thin, pointed arrowhead was more effective. The flat, broadhead arrowhead would have done much more damage, particularly had it been barbed.

“Do you have an arrow spoon?”

He shook his head. He’d seen them used before, but had never had need of one himself. It was a thinned piece of shaft with a wooden spoonlike end to cup around the arrowhead and help ease it out in one piece.

“Then we shall hope the English soldier glued this arrowhead on with something stronger than beeswax. But if not, I shall need something to pull it out.”

“I have a few instruments.” He unfolded the items he carried with him in a piece of leather that he’d fashioned with pockets and held them out for her inspection.

She looked pleased by what she saw and removed a long, thin pair of iron pincers. “These will work well.” She paused. “All right, here it goes.”

He knew from the way her cheeks flushed and her hand shook as she grasped the shaft that she was much more nervous than she appeared. But her concentration was as fierce as any warrior’s on the battlefield as she unhesitatingly started to pull the shaft out.

She’s good at this, he realized. She seemed suited for this and more comfortable in her own skin than he’d ever seen her before.

The arrow came out easily. Unfortunately, it was without the tip. But the removal of the shaft didn’t appear to have caused any extra bleeding.

The small frown between her brows was her only reaction to the dangerous complication. “I would use a trephine to make the entry wound wider, so that I might be able to see the arrowhead. But with this location, I’m reluctant to try.” She picked up the pincers. Their eyes met. “Be ready to press that cloth on the wound as soon as I have it out.”

He nodded.

She inserted the pincers into the hole created by the arrow shaft. MacGregor moaned, but Magnus didn’t need to call for help to hold him down. The wounded warrior was so weak, he was able to keep him still with one hand. She bored the instrument steadily through his neck, taking care to follow the exact path of the arrow. Magnus heard the strike of iron on iron. With a deft, delicate touch she squeezed the pincers, attempting to grasp the arrowhead. It took a few tries, but finally, she stopped. Slowly, she began to pull it out.

Each second was agony. He kept waiting for the telltale burst of blood that would indicate something had gone wrong. That she’d struck one of the deadly veins that ran through the neck.

Even when he saw the arrowhead, he still didn’t believe she’d done it.

“Now,” she said, “Press the cloth to his neck.”

They both stared at MacGregor, watching for any sign of a change.

“It’s Gregor MacGregor,” she said suddenly.

He frowned. “You know him?”

She gave him a bemused look. “From the Highland Games. But I should know him anywhere. Every woman over five has heard of that face.”

Magnus knew well of MacGregor’s reputation—God knows they loved to needle him about his “pretty” face—but hearing it from Helen didn’t impart quite the same level of amusement.

He clenched his mouth and turned away, concentrating on his friend while Helen found Lady Anna and gave her instructions on how to make a salve.

By the time the salve was prepared, the wound had stopped bleeding enough to remove the cloth.

“I’ll need to cauterize it with an iron,” she said.

He removed one of the tools made for such a purpose—a long, thin piece of metal with a wooden handle at one end, the other end bent at a right angle with a flat nub on the tip—and heated it in the fire. He held MacGregor down firmly as Helen placed the hot metal on the wound, searing it closed. She never flinched from the smell. Finally, she spread the salve and bound the wound with a fresh cloth, before turning her attention to him.

With help from Boyd and MacRuairi—the sadistic bastard seemed to enjoy watching Magnus bite back his pain—she forced the broken bones back into position. The shoulder where the first stone had hit wasn’t that bad, but his forearm where he’d tried to block the falling walls had been snapped nearly in two. The only good part, according to Helen, was that the bone hadn’t broken through the skin.

When she had finished, Helen braced Magnus’s forearm arm between two thin pieces of wood just like she’d done with his dog, and wrapped it with linen bandages soaked in egg white, flour, and animal fat to harden. His shoulder had to be kept immobilized in a sling. And miraculously, MacGregor was still alive.

Because of Helen, one of his friends had been saved tonight.

But his happiness was tempered by the loss of the other. When Helen met his gaze, he turned away.

The death of William Gordon cast a dark pall over the castle that not even Gregor MacGregor’s continued improvement could lift. The guests who’d celebrated their wedding only a week before now listened to the same priest pray for the groom’s immortal soul.

Helen sat on the first bench in the chapel beside her brothers, listening to the priest drone on in Latin, still unable to fully comprehend the horrific turn of events. It seemed inconceivable that the handsome, lighthearted young man who’d stood beside her in this chapel a week ago could be gone.