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ended and wondered how long she had been staring at the grim results of her actions. Fiona forced herself to turn her attention to Simon, who still knelt upon the ground. As she knelt by his side, Ewan and Gregor ran up to them. She supposed that, once she had recovered from the horror of killing a man, she would appreciate the looks of astonishment and respect the two men were giving her.
    “Get Simon on a blanket and bare his wounds,” she said as she stumbled to her feet. “I will need that small leather bag from my saddle. It carries what I shall need to tend his injuries. I will return in a moment.” She raced to the wood, knowing that she could no longer control the urge to be sick.
    “Shouldnae ye follow her?” asked Gregor as he picked Simon up in his arms.
    “Nay, she will return,” replied Ewan as he moved toward the horses to get what was needed for Simon’s care. “She will be back to tend Simon.” Ewan was a little surprised at how certain he felt about that.
    “Weel, if she means to tend him, why did she run off at all?”
    “I suspicion she has gone to empty her belly into the bushes.”
    “Ah, I used to do the same when I was a lad.”
    By the time he and Gregor had gotten Simon settled on a blanket, his shirt removed, the boy appeared to revive a little. “She moved like lightning, Ewan,” he rasped as Ewan bathed away the blood from his torso.
    “Aye, she was quick,” agreed Ewan, pleased to see that the wounds were shallow ones.
    “I failed ye. If she hadnae found those weapons, she would have died once the mon finished me off.”
    “Ye didnae fail me. The mon was bigger, stronger, battle-hardened, and had a longer reach than ye. Ye have the skill to win in an even match or a fair fight. Ye just have to learn the skills to win in the uneven and unfair ones. As soon as ye heal, we will begin those lessons.”
    Ewan saw Fiona returning. Her stride was steady, but she looked wan, and when she drew closer, he could see that she had wept. He was glad to see that the body of theman she had killed had been taken away. She needed to be steady of hand and clear of mind to tend Simon.
    “Ye saved my life,” Simon began when Fiona knelt beside him, only to be hushed when she gently pressed her fingers against his lips.
    “Ye put yourself between a sword and my heart. Twas my duty to see that ye didnae die for it. Now, let us see to these wee cuts.”
    “Do ye ken much about tending such wounds?” Ewan asked.
    “Aye, I was taught a great deal about healing from our Gilly and her kin,” she replied as she gently bathed Simon’s wounds, checking carefully for any dirt or bits of cloth that might have become trapped within. “These are nay verra dire wounds and have bled freely, cleaning themselves weel. Some salve, some stitches, and some rest until they close and all should be weel.”
    “Can he be moved once ye stitch him?”
    “How far do ye have to go and is it rough ground?” Fiona knew it would be best if Simon rested for a few days before he was moved, but understood that their safety required them to leave this place.
    “Near half a day, but nay too hard a ride. A pallet wouldnae be too rough on him.”
    “And ’tis verra necessary to leave here right now? Hold him steady, please. I fear this will burn some, Simon.” As soon as Gregor and Ewan pinned Simon to the blanket, Fiona washed his wounds with uisque-beatha. “Ah, good, that sent him into a swoon.”
    “Why did ye pour that onto his wounds?”
    “It has proven to be a help. The wounds dinnae seem to get infected when ye bathe them in the drink. Now, if ye would be so kind as to keep holding him still, I will stitch him up.”
    Ewan watched the skillful way she worked, her stitches done quickly, but neatly. Simon would be left with scars, but her small, tidy stitches ensured those scars would not be like the ugly, ragged ones marring his flesh. The swift efficiency with which she worked assured him that she had not lied