Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [394]
Dougal snorted. “Aye, and they’d pick ye off your horse like a ripe apple.”
“It hardly matters,” Jamie said dryly. “I canna see the lot of ye to be slipping out quietly with no one noticing, no matter how much fuss I made over it.”
As though in confirmation of this, Rupert gave a loud groan by the wall. Dougal and I dropped onto our knees beside him at once, followed more slowly by Jamie.
He wasn’t dead, but wasn’t doing well, either. His hands were chilly, and his breathing had a wheezing, whining note to it.
“Dougal,” he whispered.
“I’m here, Rupert. Be still, man, you’ll be all right soon.” The MacKenzie chieftain quickly pulled off his own plaid and folded it into a pillow, which he thrust beneath Rupert’s head and shoulders. Raised a bit, his breathing seemed easier, but a touch below his beard showed me wet blotches on his shirt. He still had some strength; he reached out a hand and grasped Dougal’s arm.
“If…they’ll find us anyway…give me a light,” he said, gasping. “I’d see your face once more, Dougal.”
Close as I was to Dougal, I felt the shock run through him at these words and their implication. His head turned sharply toward me, but of course he couldn’t see my face. He muttered an order over his shoulder, and after a bit of shuffling and murmuring, someone cut loose a handful of the thatch, which was twisted into a torch and lit with a spark from a flint. It burned fast, but gave enough light for me to examine Rupert while the men worked at chiseling loose a long splinter of wood from the poles of the roof, to serve as a less temporary torch.
He was white as a fish belly, hair matted with sweat, and a faint smear of blood still showed on the flesh of his full lower lip. Dark spots showed on the glossy black beard, but he smiled faintly at me as I bent over him to check his pulse again. Lighter, and very fast, missing beats now and then. I smoothed the hair back from his face, and he touched my hand in thanks.
I felt Dougal’s hand on my elbow, and sat back on my heels, turning to face him. I had faced him once like this before, over the body of a man mortally wounded by a boar. He had asked me then, “Can he live?” and I saw the memory of that day cross his face. The same question stood in his eyes again, but this time in eyes glazed with fear of my answer. Rupert was his closest friend, the kinsman who rode and who fought on his right-hand side, as Ian did for Jamie.
This time I didn’t answer; Rupert did it for me.
“Dougal,” he said, and smiled as his friend bent anxiously over him. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed as deeply as he could, gathering strength for the moment.
“Dougal,” he said again, opening his eyes. “Ye’ll no grieve for me, man.”
Dougal’s face twitched in the torchlight. I could see the denial of death come to his lips, but he bit it back and forced it aside.
“I’m your chief, man,” he said, with a quivering half-smile. “Ye’ll not order me; I shall grieve ye and I like.” He clasped Rupert’s hand, where it lay across his chest, and held it tightly.
There was a faint, wheezing chuckle from Rupert, and another coughing spell.
“Weel, grieve for me and ye will, Dougal,” he said, when he’d finished. “And I’m glad for it. But ye canna grieve ’til I be deid, can ye? I would die by your hand, mo caraidh, not in the hands of the strangers.”
Dougal jerked, and Jamie and I exchanged appalled glances behind his back.
“Rupert…” Dougal began helplessly, but Rupert interrupted him, clasping his hand and shaking it gently.
“You are my chief, man, and it’s your duty,” he whispered. “Come now. Do it now. This dying hurts me, Dougal, and I would have it over.” His eyes moved restlessly, lighting on me.
“Will ye hold my hand while I go, lass?” he asked. “I’d like it so.”
There seemed nothing else to do. Moving slowly, feeling that this was all a dream, I took the broad, black-haired hand in both of mine, pressing it as though I might force