Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [393]
“Did it come out anywhere?” I whispered. The inside of the church was quiet, except for the horse, who was moving restlessly in his own corner. With the door closed, the sounds of battle outside were still audible, but diffuse; it was impossible to tell how close they were.
“No,” he said, and coughed again. I could feel his hand move toward his mouth, and I followed it with a fold of his plaid. My eyes were as accustomed to the darkness as they were likely to get, but he was still no more than a hunched black shape on the floor before me. For some things, though, touch was enough. There was little bleeding at the site of the wound, but the cloth I held to his mouth flooded my hand with sudden damp warmth.
The ball had taken him through one lung at least, possibly both, and his chest was filling with blood. He could last a few hours in this condition, perhaps a day if one lung remained functional. If the pericardium had been nicked, he would go faster. But only surgery would save him, and that of a kind I couldn’t do.
I could feel a warm presence behind me, and heard normal breathing as someone groped toward me. I reached back and felt my hand gripped tight. Dougal MacKenzie.
He made his way up beside me, and laid a hand on Rupert’s supine body.
“How is it, man?” he asked softly. “Can ye walk?” My other hand still on Rupert, I could feel his head shake in answer to Dougal’s question. The men in the church behind us had begun to talk among themselves in whispers.
Dougal’s hand pressed down on my shoulder.
“What d’ye need to help him? Your wee box? Is it on the horse?” He had risen before I could tell him that there was nothing in the box to help Rupert.
A sudden loud crack from the altar stopped the whispers, and there was a quick movement all around, as men snatched up the weapons they had laid down. Another crack, and a ripping noise, and the oiled-skin covering of the window gave way to a rush of cold, clean air and a few swirling snowflakes.
“Sassenach! Claire! Are ye there?” The low voice from the window brought me to my feet in momentary forgetfulness of Rupert.
“Jamie!” All around me was a collective exhalation, and the clank of falling swords and targes. The new faint light from outdoors was blotted out for a moment by the bulk of Jamie’s head and shoulders. He dropped down lightly from the altar, silhouetted against the open window.
“Who’s here?” he said softly, looking around. “Dougal, is that you?”
“Aye, it’s me, lad. Your wife and a few more. Did ye see the sassenach bastards anywhere near outside?”
Jamie uttered a short laugh.
“Why d’ye think I came in through the window? There’s maybe twenty of them at the foot of the hill.”
Dougal made a displeased noise deep in his throat. “The bastards that cut us off from the main troop, I’ll be bound.”
“Just so. Ho, mo cridh! Ciamar a tha thu?” Recognizing a familiar voice in the midst of madness, my horse had thrust its nose up with a loud whinny of greeting.
“Hush, ye wee fool!” Dougal said to it violently. “D’ye want the English to hear?”
“I dinna suppose the English would hang him,” Jamie observed mildly. “As for them telling you’re here, they won’t need ears, if they’ve eyes in their heads; the slope’s half mud outside, and the prints of all your feet show clear.”
“Mmphm.” Dougal cast an eye toward the window, but Jamie was already shaking his head.
“No good, Dougal. The main body’s to the south, and Lord George Murray’s gone to meet them, but there’s the few English from the party we met still left on this side. A group of them chased me over the hill; I dodged to the side and crawled up to the church on my belly through the grass, but I’ll guess they’re still combing the hillside above.” He reached out a hand in my direction, and I took it. It was cold and damp from crawling through grass, but I was glad just to touch him, to have him there.
“Crawled in, eh? And how were ye planning to get out again?” Dougal asked.
I could feel Jamie shrug. He tilted his head in the direction of my horse.