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was kneeling beside the most seriously wounded of his own men, Kelson’s squire Jatham assisting him, unaware of the royal scrutiny. His plaid lay discarded in a heap beside him, sword and baldric atop it, and Kelson could see that he had unbuckled the front of his brigandine for greater ease of movement as he bent to his surgeoning duties.
    Dhugal’s patient was a sturdy mountain lad hardly older than himself but half again as large, sporting a gash from wrist to elbow which would probably render him useless as a swordsman in the future, if he even kept the arm. His other brawny arm was pressed across his eyes, the bearded face beneath it drained of color. As the squire poured water over the wound and Dhugal loosened the tourniquet above it just slightly, bright blood pumped from deep within. Even from where he stood, Kelson could see that the cut had severed deep muscles and probably arteries.
    â€œDamn!” Dhugal muttered under his breath, tightening the tourniquet again and muttering an apology as his patient sucked in breath between his teeth in pain. Neither he, his assistant, nor his patient seemed to notice Kelson’s presence as he picked up a needle trailing a length of gut threat.
    â€œYe must nae move now, Bertie, if we’re tae save yer arm,” Dhugal said, his earlier court accents blurred with the lilt of the highlands now, as he positioned the bloody arm to his liking and shifted Jatham’s grip. “Hold him steady as ye can, lad.”
    As Bertie braced himself and young Jatham clamped down at wrist and bicep, Kelson touched the squire’s shoulder and nodded as he looked up, startled. Dhugal, too, blinked as he suddenly became aware of Kelson’s presence.
    â€œWhy don’t you let me take over here, Jatham?” he said to the boy, smiling and signalling him to move aside. “He’s a little big for you to hold. Go with Baron Jodrell.”
    As Jodrell and the boy withdrew, Kelson dropped to his knees across from Dhugal and rinsed his hands in the basin of clean water near the patient’s head, permitting himself a little smile as Dhugal stared at him in amazement.
    â€œI was beginning to feel useless,” Kelson explained. “Besides, it looked as if young Bertie, here, nearly outweighted you both. Hello, Bertie,” he added, as their patient uncovered his eyes to squint at him suspiciously.
    â€œWell, then.” Dhugal grinned, the lilt of the highlands muted to only a slight blurr as he shifted to court dialect. “Last I heard, you weren’t a battle surgeon.”
    â€œLast I heard, neither were you,” Kelson countered. “I suspect we’ve both learned some things in the past few years. What would you like me to do?”
    Dhugal made a grim attempt at a chuckle. “Hold his arm steady, then—just there,” he said, repositioning the arm and guiding Kelson’s hands into place as his patient continued to stare.
    â€œUnfortunately,” Dhugal went on, “battle surgeoning isn’t one of the things I’ve had time to learn as well as I’d like—more’s the pity for friend Bertie, here. Just because I’ve made something of a reputation patching up horses, he’s convinced I can put him back together, aren’t ye, Bertie?” he added, lapsing into border dialect again for just a few words.
    â€œAch, just watch who yer comparin’ to a horse, young MacArdry,” Bertie replied good-naturedly, though he hissed through his teeth and then tried to curl up on his side in reflex as Dhugal probed in the wound.
    Moving nimbly, Dhugal helped Kelson immobilize the arm and again attempted to place his first suture, shifting from court speech to border dialect and back again with ease, though his face reflected the strain of the other.
    â€œBertie MacArdry, ye may be as strong as a horse, in smell if not in muscle,” he ranted, “but if ye wish sommat besides a