Road to the Castle

“Buthaigir duine,” James muttered angrily beneath his breath, his tone sharp and deep - almost a growl as he guided his horse back to the palace, “Mac an donais.”

He rode through the mud and up the hill to the castle, already covered in dirt from the fall and not much caring if he was entirely black by the time he stepped foot into the palace. He kept his arm folded over his broad chest, finding that if he moved it even slightly the constant pain would become a searing agony which not even James would suffer willingly. The horse moved calmly, at a steady pace, avoiding any natural ridges or bumps upon the ground - as if he knew that any extra jolt would be felt by James. He’d rode his horse into greater conflicts and now both man and horse, a little older, communicated silently - knowing when to push the other and when to leave them be.

He knew his shoulder was dislocated, he’d seen it before - the dreadful hump which rose on the side, the arm hung at an impossible angle… Although, he’d never set one himself, indeed, he had stitched more than a few wounds and removed his fair share of pellets from muskets but never a bone. He cursed himself again. He’d never fallen from his horse, not anytime that he remembered anyway…no time when he was sober. Yet, that day was the first time the English had strayed so close to his home. He’d been made upon by an English knave - two to be exact. Stupid soldiers who had delusions of grandeur and greatness, wielding swords that would be dangerous in skilled hands and muskets which could kill if James was shooting.

A shot was fired and James’ horse, having been spooked by the noise, broke into an agitated sprint across a sheet of ice and as it wobbled violently, James toppled off - leaving the horse unscathed but his shoulder detached. He managed to dispatch the two soldiers with little effort, even with one arm incapacitated.

He knew he would have to find someone in the castle who could set it quickly. James was promptly greeted by a swarm of worried soldiers, more skilled than the English men, all concerned yet not knowing quite what to do - just like James. They were all normal men and the delicacies of modern medicine were greatly lost on them, “Something strong to drink, please,” James said - his voice strained with the pain - and handed his horse to his young squire, who was amongst the men and the first to reach James, “And bring the Queen to me.”

Throughout the castle items of Mary's clothing were left like a trail she was trying to get to James. Time had slowed down the halls had stretched longer acting like a maze each looking all the same to her. Why did this happen was the visit a ploy to distract them all only so they could attack them unexpectedly? Once outside, she could spot him from a mile of all the men surrounding him protecting him from a second attack that might happen. Mary had no clue as to what she might see or if she wanted to see James at all in such a state.

With apprehension Mary stood behind the men one by one they made a parting taking off their caps holding them to their chest as she moved past each one. The smell of blood was foul his arm lying limp by his side, but where did the musket hit and had the ball gone all the way through. Kneeling beside him Mary was careful where to touch him even if the sight repulsed her. Gently she lifted up his head, letting it rest in her lap. Trying to find the right words proved an impossible task.

James was handed a small hip flask, bound with leather - worn from age. He bit off the cork and took whatever was in it - without any thought. It was heavy and thick, like a syrup cordial. It was far from what James would have preferred. He glanced to the soldier who gave it to him with a look of amused incredulity, “That’s about as strong as a cup of warmed milk!” he joked and chuckled - the soldiers about him teasing and pushing the one whom the port belonged to with brotherly affection.

As James laughed he suddenly became aware of the warmth at the crook of his neck. He reached up his hand and when he brought it down to before his eyes, he saw that his palm was coated in blood. He gulped, wide eyed and suddenly fearful.

At that moment he could hear the rustle of men move, the five or so bodies that stood about him dispersed and Mary was with him, “A ghràidh,” he greeted with relief and touched his forehead against her’s, “Don’t be worried. 'Tis but a scratch.”

He had been afraid. He thought the bullet had missed but clearly - it had not. Perhaps it was the shock of it all that dimmed his senses. Yet, with Mary beside him - he was calm.

“I'll need seein' to,” he said with a sigh as he heard the soldiers muttering about a physician. He wished Mary would have been able to tend him, let him rest by the fire and not have some stranger come about him, “Will you stay…at least until the shoulder is set?”

She stroked his hair getting a clear view of his face, those dark eye's slightly blood shoots. Through his clothing Mary could feel a puddle of blood soaking up in his clothes it made her cringe no one had ever prepared her for this happening. With his drink that he complained about Mary ripped away the clothing that stuck to his shoulder many times she had seen her mother tend to her father. And he had more scars than James! Just relax and think of something happy like me.~

At an odd angle it proved a hard task to kiss him to feel his breath against her lips. She didn't like it though being exposed out in the open James couldn't protect her like he used to he only had one good arm. Gently lifting his head off her lap, Mary moved to his side, her fingers dancing around where he had been hit with the musket. Ripping open his clothes, her eye's narrowed at the sight of his wound another scar to talk about in bed together Mary was surprised she wasn't being hysterical. Like the time after her coronation.

Taking whatever drink it was James was drinking Mary dripped it over her fingers and then his wound. Her mother had done this once if anyone knew their family, they would know that her father was always getting attacked his back covered in battle wounds. With gentle care Mary stuck one finger inside the hole trying to feel the tiny round ball. A look of concentration etched on her face as her finger fondled around inside him. James do you any weapon with a hook on it.~

Mary smiled, taking out her earring which had a long pointed hook on its end. Soaking it in the alcohol or whatever it was she gently slipped it in his wound coaxing the little ball to come forth. Removing her finger Mary squinted as it took a while to hook the earring around the little ball. With great effort it finally came to the surface, easy for her nail to scrape out.

James’s dark eyes looked about the scene as he kept himself buried amongst the damp grass. The soldiers had stepped back, holding their hats at their chests - all seeming equally dumbfounded and concerned. He recognised each of them. Two were newer arrivals to the garrison, the three other older with even more experience than James He knew they would barely know how to act around Mary - having only guarded a Queen but never been so close.

James himself barely knew how to react to her either. She was so calm, completely in control that he allowed himself to succumb to the dizziness that came about him.

He’d expected to go back to the palace but he remained still as Mary touched his forehead. Her gentle hand was a complete contrast to the pain in his shoulder, he barely felt the gunshot wound at his neck. Although he had grown cold and somehow he realised that bleeding would have to be stopped.

As Mary dropped the port over the wound he hissed and glanced to where her hands worked - his eyes wide. He squirmed for a moment as she attempted to remove the pellet and immediately he felt the weight of two men holding him down. He could feel the grit beneath the flesh and how Mary was coaxing it out.

Christ, he thought, she is going to save my life.

Mary wiped her hands on the inside of her skirts, leaving her hands blood stained. She was running on pure anger she could taste it in her mouth the hate she was feeling to who done this to her husband a man she loved with all the stars and moon. One of the men brought clean cloth more alcohol and a thread and needle. If it went any deeper it would've cut the artery in his neck. Mary placed her hand solidly behind his neck coaxing James to drink some to numb the pain. She didn't want him to succumb to a whiskey state she wanted him awake. Sip from the flask and dont moved your head to fast.~

James barely stopped looking at Mary - both unaware of the intensity of his gaze and that he would be quite unable to look away unless forced to by some external event. After a moment or so, he became unaware of the people around them. His eyes were for her. He found that if he looked at her hair: how it was the brightest thing in front of him, how it spilled over her shoulder and grazed his chest, the comforting smell of home - that the pain was diminished almost entirely.

He raised his head to take the flask but his shoulder ached and with a groan he sat back down. He caught his breath after a couple of breaths - deep heaves, his broad chest seeming to expand. He sensed the commotion about him, “Tha mi gasta,” he mumbled stubbornly in reassurance and shut his eyes for a moment. He wanted to kiss Mary. So he held onto how it would be, how it would feel to have her on him - when he wasn’t broken - and have her embrace him.

How fragile he looked laying so helplessly on the cold ground. With a final prod the tiny ball that had caused all this damage was finally out. Much to the relief of Mary more help had come, what looked like a stick was placed between his lips and with one rather loud crunch then a click his shoulder had been set back into place. She winced, having to look away Mary couldn't stand to see him suffer like he was. His soldiers then stood in the way of them both acting like a protective shield around James.

Minutes later James was being hoisted up into the air as they carried him on their shoulders. Mary followed them like a lost sheep she had not noticed the evening sky about to appear. What she did notice was the dent in the grass that had moulded his body shape all the blood shed.