‘Oh, Brid.’ Irritated, he released her and stepped back. ‘You think there are gods everywhere. I’ve told you it isn’t true. There is only one true God.’
‘I know.’ Stepping away from the stone she dusted herself off furiously. ‘So you say. The Jesus god.’ The Jesus god was powerful. His servant Columcille had several times now outwitted Broichan, to Broichan’s fury. But then Broichan’s strength had rallied … She put her uncle hastily out of her mind. There must be no possibility of him probing her thoughts and discovering Adam there. Broichan had brought her south himself, to visit her mother whilst he went on to Abernethy. There would be several long blissful days before he returned, days she intended to spend with Adam.
‘Jesus won’t care if we kiss here, anyway. Crosses are idolatrous.’ Adam had shoved his hands into his pockets. His face was burning suddenly. He was remembering the kirk and his father’s grey haggard face above him in the pulpit, the burning eyes boring down into his. He shivered as Brid reached for his hand.
The bothy was deserted. Brid did not seem worried by Gemma’s absence. Quite the contrary, as it gave them more time together. Sitting down by the fire Adam waited while she brought him some heather ale, then he pulled her down beside him. ‘So, tell me about your studies.’
She shook her head. ‘That is not allowed.’
‘Why?’ He stared at her wide-eyed.
‘Because it is secret. I am not permitted to say.’
‘That’s silly.’ He leaned forward and picking up a stick poked the fire with it. A tongue of flame shot from between the peats. Standing on a stone beside it was one of Gemma’s iron cooking pots. The familiar succulent smell of venison stew seeped from beneath the lid. ‘Where is your mother?’ He changed the subject abruptly.
Brid shrugged. ‘She will come.’ She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. ‘She and Gartnait are near.’
Following her gaze Adam stared into the old pine trees. The red-barked trunks caught the evening light and glowed with a warm intensity, but behind them the shadows were cool and dark. He could see nothing in the heart of the wood.
Brid had risen to her feet. She was staring anxiously, her hands clasping and unclasping on the folds of her skirt. ‘Something is wrong.’
Adam was watching her, catching something of her anxiety. ‘Should we hide?’
She shook her head, concentrating, and he fell silent.
‘My uncle,’ she whispered suddenly. ‘He is here in my head. There is blood! Someone is hurt. Gartnait!’ She had gone very white.
He did not ask her how she knew. Nervously he moved behind her. ‘What do we do?’ he asked under his breath.
‘Wait.’ She raised her hand, gesturing him back, then she spun to face him.
‘This way!’ she cried. She was already running towards the trees.
They found Gartnait lying beneath one of the old pines, his head cradled on his mother’s lap. His face was like chalk and his eyes were closed. The shoulder of his tunic was soaked in blood.
Gemma looked up. ‘Brid?’ The one word was a desperate plea.
Brid was already on her knees by her brother, her hands flying over his body, barely touching him as though feeling for his wounds.
‘How is he?’ Adam knelt beside her. He smiled uncertainly at Gemma and shyly reached over to pat her hand.
‘A-dam. Good boy.’ Gemma’s face was tired, but she managed to return the smile.
‘What happened?’
She shook her head. ‘The tree break. Gartnait should know not to be there.’ She gestured at the fallen branch with its rotten shredded broken end and near it the axe Gartnait must have been wielding when he was hit.
Brid had pulled away the blood-soaked fabric of the shirt. ‘It was Broichan. He has done this to punish me.’ She was tight-lipped.
‘Broichan?’ Gemma stared at her, shocked.
Brid looked up, her face hard. ‘Broichan. Enough. I will make Gartnait better. He is hurting.’ She glanced up at Adam. ‘I will make my brother sleep while we clean the wound.’
He did not stop to ask her how. ‘Shall I fetch some water?’
She nodded. ‘Good. And moss. From the wood box under the lamp.’
‘Moss?’ He hesitated at the word but she was already cutting away her brother’s shirt with the small knife she carried in her girdle.
Adam filled a leather bucket with cold water from the burn and found the moss as she had predicted in a small chest in the hut below a bronze candlestick. Also in the box were some small pots of ointment. He sniffed them cautiously and decided to take them all.
Brid nodded approval when he put his finds beside her. Gartnait was lying before her quietly, his face relaxed, his eyes closed. Adam watched as with neat deft fingers Brid swabbed the deep bruised cut she had exposed over Gartnait’s collar bone and applied one of the ointments he had produced. Satisfied that it was properly cleansed and sealed she packed the wound with moss and while Adam held it in place deftly bandaged it with her own girdle.
She glanced up at Adam and gave a quick, worried smile of approval. ‘You make good healer.’
He smiled. ‘I want to be a doctor when I grow up.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Healer.’
She nodded. ‘Good. Now, Gartnait must come back.’ She put her palm flat over the unconscious young man’s forehead and sat quietly, her eyes closed.
Adam watched, intrigued. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered at last.
She glanced up, surprised. ‘I put him to sleep so he could go away from the pain. He waited while we make it better. Now I go and tell him he can come back. The pain is not so bad, and it is better he come to home and we make him medicine to stop the hot time coming.’
‘The fever, we call it,’ Adam corrected her. He was impressed. He could see the young man’s eyelids fluttering beneath Brid’s commanding hand. It seemed to Adam only a matter of seconds before Gartnait was sitting up, staring round him groggily, and not long after that that they were making their way back towards the hut, Brid and Adam supporting him, one bent beneath each shoulder, Gemma hurrying ahead to stir up the fire and set a pot of water over the flames to heat.
Brid had, it seemed, a store of medicaments ready for just such an occasion. Adam watched as she brought a woven bag out of the hut and produced an array of small packages. Inside were numerous substances, most of which he guessed had dried herbs of various kinds.
A handful of this and a pinch of that were thrown into the steaming water. A bitter, strong smell began to flavour the air. Gartnait caught Adam’s eye and smiled wryly. ‘Will not taste like chocolate cake.’
Adam laughed. If the young man’s sense of humour had returned he was starting to mend, in spite of the startling pallor of his face and the purple bruise which was beginning to spread down his cheekbone.
To Adam’s relief the venison stew was placed back on the fire beside Brid’s medicine and, thanks to Gartnait’s sudden healthy hunger, it was not long before they were all eating bowls of it, sopped up with chunks of coarse bread torn from the loaf.
‘Brid?’ Only once her son was settled, his arm in a rough linen sling across his chest, did Gemma at last turn to her daughter. ‘What has Broichan to do with this business?’ Her eyes were sharp on her daughter’s face.
Brid scowled. ‘He threatened to hurt Gartnait.’
‘Why?’
‘He does not