Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [39]
I was sure that such filth and chaos existed nowhere in the Scotland of 1945, bomb craters or no. And we were definitely in Scotland; the accents of the people in the courtyard left no doubt of that.
“Ay, Dougal!” shouted a tattered hostler, running up to grab the halter of the lead horse. “You’re early, man; we hadna thought to see ye before the Gathering!”
The leader of our little group swung down from the saddle, leaving the reins to the grubby youth.
“Aye, well, we’ve had some luck, both good and bad. I’m off to see my brother. Will ye summon Mrs. Fitz to feed the lads? They’ll need their breakfasts and their beds.”
He beckoned Murtagh and Rupert down to accompany him, and together they disappeared under a pointed archway.
The rest of us dismounted and stood steaming in the wet courtyard for another ten minutes before Mrs. Fitz, whoever she might be, consented to show herself. A cluster of curious children gathered around us, speculating on my possible origins and function. The bolder ones had just begun to get up enough courage to pluck at my skirt when a large, stout lady in dark brown linen and homespun bustled out and shooed them away.
“Willy, my dear!” she cried. “How good to see ye! And Neddie!” She gave the small balding man a hearty buss of welcome that nearly knocked him over. “Ye’ll be needin’ breakfast, I reckon. Plenty in the kitchen; do ye go and feed yerselves.” Turning to me and Jamie, she started back as though bitten by a snake. She looked openmouthed at me, then turned to Jamie for an explanation of this apparition.
“Claire,” he said, with a brief tilt of his head toward me. “And Mistress FitzGibbons,” he added, with a tilt the other way. “Murtagh found her yesterday, and Dougal said we must bring her along wi’ us,” he added, making it clear it was no good blaming him.
Mistress FitzGibbons closed her mouth and looked me up and down with an air of shrewd evaluation. Apparently she decided that I looked harmless enough, despite my odd and scandalous appearance, for she smiled—kindly, despite several missing teeth—and took me by the arm.
“Well then, Claire. Welcome to ye. Come wi’ me and we shall find ye somethin’ a bit more…mmm.” She looked over my short skirt and inadequate shoes, shaking her head.
She was leading me firmly away when I remembered my patient.
“Oh, wait, please! I forgot Jamie!”
Mistress FitzGibbons was surprised. “Why, Jamie can fend for himself. He knows where to get food and someone will find him a bed.”
“But he’s hurt. He was shot yesterday and stabbed last night. I bandaged the wound for riding, but I didn’t have time to clean or dress it properly. I must care for it now, before it gets infected.”
“Infected?”
“Yes, that is, I mean, inflamed, you know, with pus and swelling and fever.”
“Oh, aye, I know what ye mean. But do ye mean to say as ye know what to do for that? Are ye a charmer then? A Beaton?”
“Something like that.” I had no notion what a Beaton might be, nor any wish to go into my medical qualifications, standing out in the chilly drizzle that had set in. Mistress FitzGibbons seemed of a like mind, for she called back Jamie, who was making off in the opposite direction, and taking him also by an arm, towed us both into the castle.
After a long trip through cold narrow corridors, dimly lit by slitted windows, we came to a fairly large room furnished with a bed, a couple of stools, and most importantly, a fire.
I ignored my patient temporarily in favor of thawing my hands. Mistress FitzGibbons, presumably immune to cold, sat Jamie on a stool by the fire and gently got the remains of his tattered shirt off, replacing it with a warm quilt from the bed. She clucked at the shoulder, which was bruised and swollen, and poked at my clumsy dressing.
I turned from the fire. “I think it will need to be soaked off, and then the wound cleansed with a solution for…for preventing fevers.”
Mistress FitzGibbons would have made an admirable nurse. “What will ye be needin’?” she asked simply.
I thought hard. What in the name of God had people used for preventing