The ball had taken him through one lung at least, possibly both, and his chest was filling with blood. He could last a few hours in this condition, perhaps a day if one lung remained functional. If the pericardium had been nicked, he would go faster. But only surgery would save him, and that of a kind I couldn’t do.

I could feel a warm presence behind me, and heard normal breathing as someone groped toward me. I reached back and felt my hand gripped tight. Dougal MacKenzie.

He made his way up beside me, and laid a hand on Rupert’s supine body.

“How is it, man?” he asked softly. “Can ye walk?” My other hand still on Rupert, I could feel his head shake in answer to Dougal’s question. The men in the church behind us had begun to talk among themselves in whispers.

Dougal’s hand pressed down on my shoulder.

“What d’ye need to help him? Your wee box? Is it on the horse?” He had risen before I could tell him that there was nothing in the box to help Rupert.

A sudden loud crack from the altar stopped the whispers, and there was a quick movement all around, as men snatched up the weapons they had laid down. Another crack, and a ripping noise, and the oiled-skin covering of the window gave way to a rush of cold, clean air and a few swirling snowflakes.

“Sassenach! Claire! Are ye there?” The low voice from the window brought me to my feet in momentary forgetfulness of Rupert.

“Jamie!” All around me was a collective exhalation, and the clank of falling swords and targes. The new faint light from outdoors was blotted out for a moment by the bulk of Jamie’s head and shoulders. He dropped down lightly from the altar, silhouetted against the open window.

“Who’s here?” he said softly, looking around. “Dougal, is that you?”

“Aye, it’s me, lad. Your wife and a few more. Did ye see the sassenach bastards anywhere near outside?”

Jamie uttered a short laugh.

“Why d’ye think I came in through the window? There’s maybe twenty of them at the foot of the hill.”

Dougal made a displeased noise deep in his throat. “The bastards that cut us off from the main troop, I’ll be bound.”

“Just so. Ho, mo cridh! Ciamar a tha thu?” Recognizing a familiar voice in the midst of madness, my horse had thrust its nose up with a loud whinny of greeting.

“Hush, ye wee fool!” Dougal said to it violently. “D’ye want the English to hear?”

“I dinna suppose the English would hang him,” Jamie observed mildly. “As for them telling you’re here, they won’t need ears, if they’ve eyes in their heads; the slope’s half mud outside, and the prints of all your feet show clear.”

“Mmphm.” Dougal cast an eye toward the window, but Jamie was already shaking his head.

“No good, Dougal. The main body’s to the south, and Lord George Murray’s gone to meet them, but there’s the few English from the party we met still left on this side. A group of them chased me over the hill; I dodged to the side and crawled up to the church on my belly through the grass, but I’ll guess they’re still combing the hillside above.” He reached out a hand in my direction, and I took it. It was cold and damp from crawling through grass, but I was glad just to touch him, to have him there.

“Crawled in, eh? And how were ye planning to get out again?” Dougal asked.

I could feel Jamie shrug. He tilted his head in the direction of my horse. “I’d thought I might burst out and ride them down; they’ll not know about the horse. That would cause enough kerfuffle maybe for Claire to slip free.”

Dougal snorted. “Aye, and they’d pick ye off your horse like a ripe apple.”

“It hardly matters,” Jamie said dryly. “I canna see the lot of ye to be slipping out quietly with no one noticing, no matter how much fuss I made over it.”

As though in confirmation of this, Rupert gave a loud groan by the wall. Dougal and I dropped onto our knees beside him at once, followed more slowly by Jamie.

He wasn’t dead, but wasn’t doing well, either. His hands were chilly, and his breathing had a wheezing, whining note to it.

“Dougal,” he whispered.

“I’m here, Rupert. Be still, man, you’ll be all right soon.” The MacKenzie chieftain quickly pulled off his own plaid and folded it into a pillow, which he thrust beneath Rupert’s head and shoulders. Raised a bit, his breathing seemed easier, but a touch below his beard showed me wet blotches on his shirt. He still had some strength; he reached out a hand and grasped Dougal’s arm.

“If… they’ll find us anyway… give me a light,” he said, gasping. “I’d see your face once more, Dougal.”

Close as I was to Dougal, I felt the shock run through him at these words and their implication. His head turned sharply toward me, but of course he couldn’t see my face. He muttered an order over his shoulder, and after a bit of shuffling and murmuring, someone cut loose a handful of the thatch, which was twisted into a torch and lit with a spark from a flint. It burned fast, but gave enough light for me to examine Rupert while the men worked at chiseling loose a long splinter of wood from the poles of the roof, to serve as a less temporary torch.

He was white as a fish belly, hair matted with sweat, and a faint smear of blood still showed on the flesh of his full lower lip. Dark spots showed on the glossy black beard, but he smiled faintly at me as I bent over him to check his pulse again. Lighter, and very fast, missing beats now and then. I smoothed the hair back from his face, and he touched my hand in thanks.

I felt Dougal’s hand on my elbow, and sat back on my heels, turning to face him. I had faced him once like this before, over the body of a man mortally wounded by a boar. He had asked me then, “Can he live?” and I saw the memory of that day cross his face. The same question stood in his eyes again, but this time in eyes glazed with fear of my answer. Rupert was his closest friend, the kinsman who rode and who fought on his right-hand side, as Ian did for Jamie.

This time I didn’t answer; Rupert did it for me.

“Dougal,” he said, and smiled as his friend bent anxiously over him. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed as deeply as he could, gathering strength for the moment.

“Dougal,” he said again, opening his eyes. “Ye’ll no grieve for me, man.”

Dougal’s face twitched in the torchlight. I could see the denial of death come to his lips, but he bit it back and forced it aside.

“I’m your chief, man,” he said, with a quivering half-smile. “Ye’ll not order me; I shall grieve ye and I like.” He clasped Rupert’s hand, where it lay across his chest, and held it tightly.

There was a faint, wheezing chuckle from Rupert, and another coughing spell.

“Weel, grieve for me and ye will, Dougal,” he said, when he’d finished. “And I’m glad for it. But ye canna grieve ’til I be deid, can ye? I would die by your hand, mo caraidh, not in the hands of the strangers.”

Dougal jerked, and Jamie and I exchanged appalled glances behind his back.

“Rupert…” Dougal began helplessly, but Rupert interrupted him, clasping his hand and shaking it gently.

“You are my chief, man, and it’s your duty,” he whispered. “Come now. Do it now. This dying hurts me, Dougal, and I would have it over.” His eyes moved restlessly, lighting on me.

“Will ye hold my hand while I go, lass?” he asked. “I’d like it so.”

There seemed nothing else to do. Moving slowly, feeling that this was all a dream, I took the broad, black-haired hand in both of mine, pressing it as though I might force my own warmth into the cooling flesh.

With a grunt, Rupert heaved himself slightly to one side and glanced up at Jamie, who sat by his head.

“She should ha’ married me, lad, when she had the choice,” he wheezed. “You’re a poor weed, but do your best.” One eye squeezed shut in a massive wink. “Gi’e her a good one for me, lad.”