Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [317]
“Madame Fraser,” he said, bowing graciously to me.
“Your Highness.” I bobbed a curtsy back, hoping he didn’t intend to stay long.
“Your labors in our behalf are very much appreciate, Madame,” he said, his soft Italian accent stronger than usual.
“Er, thank you,” I said. “Mind the blood. It’s slippery just there.”
The delicate mouth tightened a bit as he skirted the puddle I had pointed out. The doorway freed, Sheridan, O’Sullivan, and Lord Balmerino came in, adding to the congestion in the cottage. Now that the demands of courtesy had been attended to, Charles crouched carefully between two pallets.
He laid a gentle hand on the shoulder of one man.
“What is your name, my brave fellow?”
“Gilbert Munro…erm, Your Highness,” added the man, hastily, awed at the sight of the Prince.
The manicured fingers touched the bandage and splints that swathed what was left of Gilbert Munro’s right arm.
“Your sacrifice was great, Gilbert Munro,” Charles said simply. “I promise you it will not be forgotten.” The hand brushed across a whiskered cheek, and Munro reddened with embarassed pleasure.
I had a man before me with a scalp wound that needed stitching, but was able to watch from the corner of my eye as Charles made the rounds of the cottage. Moving slowly, he went from bed to bed, missing no one, stopping to inquire each man’s name and home, to offer thanks and affection, congratulations, and condolence.
The men were stunned into silence, English and Highlander alike, barely managing to answer His Highness in soft murmurs. At last he stood and stretched, with an audible creaking of ligaments. An end of his plaid had trailed in the mud, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I bring you the blessing and the thanks of my Father,” he said. “Your deeds of today will always be remembered.” The men on the floor were not in the proper mood to cheer, but there were smiles, and a general murmur of appreciation.
Turning to go, Charles caught sight of Jamie, standing out of the way in the corner, so as not to have his bare toes trampled by Sheridan’s boots. His Highness’s face lighted with pleasure.
“Mon cher! I had not seen you today. I feared some malchance had overtaken you.” A look of reproach crossed the handsome, ruddy face. “Why did you not come to supper at the manse with the other officers?”
Jamie smiled and bowed respectfully.
“My men are here, Highness.”
The Prince’s brows shot up at this, and he opened his mouth as though to say something, but Lord Balmerino stepped forward and whispered something in his ear. Charles’s expression changed to one of concern.
“But what this is I hear?” he said to Jamie, losing control of his syntax as he did in moments of emotion. “His Lordship tells me that you have yourself suffered a wound.”
Jamie looked mildly discomfited. He shot a quick glance my way, to see if I had heard, and seeing that I most certainly had, jerked his eyes back to the Prince.
“It’s nothing, Highness. Only a scratch.”
“Show me.” It was simply spoken, but unmistakably an order, and the stained plaid fell away without protest.
The folds of dark tartan were nearly black on the inner side. His shirt beneath was reddened from armpit to hip, with stiff brown patches where the blood had begun to dry.
Leaving my head injury to mind himself for a moment, I stepped forward and opened the shirt, pulling it gently away from the injured side. Despite the quantity of blood, I knew it must not be a serious wound; he stood like a rock, and the blood no longer flowed.
It was a saber-slash, slanting across the ribs. A lucky angle; straight in and it would have gone deep into the intercostal muscles between the ribs. As it was, an eight-inch flap of skin gaped loose, red beginning to ooze beneath it again with the release of pressure. It would take a goodly number of stitches to repair, but aside from the constant danger of infection, the