“I didna catch the landlord’s name yesterday,” Ambrose said, wondering how many hours a day the lad worked. His Uncle Munro would already have found that out and probably whisked the lad away to the family’s sanctuary in Ayrshire. “Are ye an orphan?” he asked, suddenly realizing he’d made the assumption.
“Nay, the landlord’s my Da. Neville Neville’s his name.”
Ambrose hadn’t noticed the lad stutter before. “So, Neville’s his first name?”
“And last, sir.”
“And ye are…”
“Ollie Neville, sir.”
It was on the tip of Ambrose’s tongue to comment on the youth’s good fortune that he hadn’t been named after his father, but Ollie strode away to the kitchens. He’d likely heard the remark before, in any case.
The public rooms of the inn proved to be less crowded than when they’d arrived. As he sauntered through, he suspected some bleary-eyed fellows staring into half-empty tankards had been there all night.
He was about to return upstairs when a commotion at the door drew his attention. He held back when half a dozen uniformed soldiers clattered in, shouting for ale. Neville hurtled out of the kitchen. “Patience,” he hollered. “What’s yer hurry?”
“We’ve a wounded man ’ere,” one of them exclaimed with a distinct north of England accent. “He needs to drown ’is sorrows.”
Wishing he could ignore the news, Ambrose stepped out of the shadows, noticing one soldier’s hand swathed in a soiled rag.
“Fykingmad dog bit ’im out on the moor.”
Ambrose cringed. Dog bites could be nasty. He was about to offer his services when Neville pointed to him. “Dr. Pendray’s a guest here. He willna mind taking a look at yer comrade.”
Hoping guilt wasn’t written all over his face, Ambrose approached the soldier. “I’ll take a look if ye wish.”
The man hesitated. “What kind of doctor are ye?”
“A surgeon.”
The sniggering soldier withdrew. “One that cuts off limbs? I’ll keep my ’and, if ’tis all the same to ye.”
Amid the jeering laughter of the other men, Ambrose insisted. “I promise I willna cut off yer hand. Just let me see.”
When the patient grudgingly complied, he unwound the filthy strip of linen, relieved to see the dog’s teeth hadn’t penetrated deeply into the flesh. “There’s nay sign of infection. I’ll cleanse it and fetch a clean bandage.”
Smiling with relief, the soldier thanked him. “Must be my lucky day. Two doctors in one morning.”
Icy heat marched up Ambrose’s spine. “Two?”
“Out on’t moor. Come across ’im by chance when we chased yon mongrel. Led us right to a hut where we shot the mangy beast.”
Struggling to keep his composure, Ambrose asked, “What on earth was a doctor doing out on the moor in a hut?”
“That’s the beautiful thing,” came the reply. “Turns out he was a Jacobite, tending another rebel what lost ’is arm. At Sheriffmuir, I reckon.”
Feigning renewed interest in the bite marks, Ambrose took a risk. “And what’s become of this doctor and his patient?”
“The doctor’s on his way to the Tolbooth in Perth. The rebel’s in the wagon outside. No point taking him to prison. He’ll be dead before we’ve finished our ale.”
Infuriated by the raucous laughter of the soldiers, Ambrose fled back to the room in search of bandages and a way to save Evan and Giles.
* * *
Eala knew something dire was amiss the moment an ashen-faced Ambrose burst into the room and leaned back against the closed door.
“Evan’s alive?” she asked after he explained in hushed tones what had transpired downstairs.