I paused in the shadowed doorway, Lady Annabelle behind me. Jamie's eyes were closed; apparently he had fallen into a doze brought on by whisky and fatigue. The blankets were thrown back, rendered unnecessary by the heat of the fire. Sir Marcus casually rested a hand on Jamie's bare rump as he reached across the bed for a rag. The effect was electric. Jamie's back arched sharply, the muscles of his buttocks clenched tightly and he let out an involuntary sound of protest, flinging himself backward in spite of the shattered ribs, to glare up at Sir Marcus with startled, dazed eyes. Startled himself, Sir Marcus stood stock-still for a second, then leaned forward and took Jamie by the arm, gently settling him facedown once more. Thoughtfully he drew a finger very gingerly across Jamie's flesh. He rubbed his fingers together, leaving an oily sheen visible in the firelight.
"Oh," he said matter-of-factly. The old soldier drew the blanket up to Jamie's waist, and I saw the tense shoulders relax slightly under their dressing.
Sir Marcus seated himself companionably near Jamie's head and poured another pair of whiskies. "At least he had the consideration to grease ye a bit beforehand," he observed, handing one beaker to Jamie, who heaved himself laboriously up on his elbows to accept it.
"Aye, well. I dinna think it was so much for my convenience," he said dryly.
Sir Marcus took a gulp of his drink and smacked his lips meditatively. There was no sound for a moment save the crackle of flames, but neither Lady Annabelle nor I made any motion to enter the room.
"If it's any comfort to ye," Sir Marcus said suddenly, eyes fixed on the decanter, "he's dead."
"You're sure?" Jamie's tone was unreadable.
"I dinna see how anybody could live after bein' trampled flat by thirty half-ton beasts. He peeked out into the corridor to see what was causin' the noise, then tried to go back when he saw. A horn caught him by the sleeve and pulled him out, and I saw him go down next to the wall. Sir Fletcher an' I were on the stair, keepin' out o' the way.O' course Sir Fletcher was rare excited, and sent some men after 'im, but they couldna get anywhere near, with all the horns pokin' and beasts shovin', and the torches shook down from the wall wi' the ruckus. Christ, man, ye should ha' seen it!" Sir Marcus hooted at the memory, clutching the decanter by the neck. "Your wife's a rare lass, and no mistake, lad!" Snorting, he poured out another glass and gulped, choking a bit as the laugh interfered with the swallow.
"Anyway," he resumed, pounding himself on the chest, "by the time we'd cleared the cattle out, there was no much left but a rag doll rolled in blood. Sir Fletcher's men carried him awa', but if he was still livin' then, he didna last long. A bit more, lad?"
"Aye, thanks."
There was a short silence, broken by Jamie. "No, I canna say it's much comfort to me, but thank ye for tellin' me." Sir Marcus looked at him shrewdly.
"Mmphm. Ye're no goin' to forget it," he said abruptly. "Don't bother to try. If ye can, let it heal like the rest o' your wounds. Don't pick at it, and it'll mend clean." The old warrior held up a knotted forearm, from which the sleeve had been pushed back during his ministrations, to show the scar of a jagged tear running from elbow to wrist. "Scars are nothin' to trouble ye."
"Aye, well. Some scars, maybe." Apparently reminded of something, Jamie struggled to turn onto his side. Sir Marcus set down his glass with an exclamation.
"Here, lad, be careful! Ye'll get a rib-end through the lung, next thing." He helped Jamie balance on his right elbow, wadding a blanket behind to prop him there.
"I need a wee knife," said Jamie, breathing heavily. "A sharp one, if it's handy." Without question, Sir Marcus lumbered to the gleaming French walnut sideboard and rummaged through the drawers with a prodigious clatter, emerging at last with a pearl-handled fruit knife. He thrust it into Jamie's sound left hand and sat down again with a grunt, resuming his glass.
"Ye don't think ye have enough scars?" he inquired. "Going to add a few more?"
"Just one." Jamie balanced precariously on one elbow, chin pressed on his chest as he awkwardly aimed the razor-sharp knife under his left breast. Sir Marcus's hand shot out, a bit unsteadily, and gripped Jamie's wrist.
"Best let me help ye, man. Ye'll fall on it in a moment." After a moment's pause, Jamie reluctantly surrendered the knife and lay back against the wadded blanket. He touched his chest an inch or two below the nipple.
"There." Sir Marcus reached to the sideboard and snagged a lamp, setting it on the stool he had vacated. At this distance, I couldn't see what he was peering at; it looked like a small red burn, roughly circular in shape. He took another deliberate pull at his whisky glass, then set it down next to the lamp and pressed the tip of the knife against Jamie's chest. I must have made an involuntary movement, because the Lady Annabelle clutched my sleeve with a murmured caution. The knife point pressed in and twisted suddenly, flicking away in the motion one uses to cut a bad spot out of a ripe peach. Jamie grunted, once, and a thin stream of red ran down the slope of his belly to stain the blanket. He rolled onto his stomach, stanching the wound against the mattress.