“Alright, sir,” said the woman tending to Jack, “hold still.”
Jack relaxed back, aware that the nurse was holding one of the arrows stuck in his shoulder, and bit down on a block of wood. She waited a second before ripping the member out of his flesh with a sharp pull. He screamed out in agony and groaned. One more to go. She placed a hand on his chest, the other grasping the second arrow and did the same. Jack whimpered when she peeled off his blood-stained clothes and chainmail, and began to gently dab the wound with a wet cloth.
“Aye! Fight like a big man in the day, but cry like a little girl in the night,” she laughed, “It's alright, sir. The worst has passed. Now I just need to clean you up and you should be fine.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
It wasn't until then that he actually saw her. Before that it was just pain, pain, pain and a woman who was pulling arrows from his flesh which caused him more pain, pain, pain.
She was a young woman, with fiery red hair and a soft, beautiful face. A sprinkle of light freckles ran over her nose and cheekbones, and she had eyes of the bluesy blue. The woman smiled at him as she worked.
“You're welcome, sir,” she said, cleaning his wound.
“Please. My name Jack Molay,” he said, “You are...?”
“Iona,” she said, “Iona Moore.”
Jack smiled at her and didn't say anything more.
“Ah, Jack Molay!” boomed the Bruce's voice, “Good to see you are still mostly in one piece!”
Jack smiled up at the man, and the King sat down before him.
Jack said, “How long will it take to clear the English dead of these lands, do you suppose?”
“God knows,” the Bruce shook his head and passed Jack a flask of drink.
He took it, nodding his appreciation of the gesture, and drank, “Well, I suppose you have your country now.”
“Aye, I suppose we do,” the King agreed, “the lads are thinking about writing a letter to the Pope about pressuring the English to accept me as King, but I don't know... With my excommunication and all, I don't think it will work out well.”
“Yes. Pope Clement isn't really the... forgiving type.”
“Clement? God, no. That man's been dead for just over two months now! The new pope is Pope John.”
Jack paused, waiting for the King to recant his statement and tell Jack he was just pulling his leg. When the King said nothing of the sort, Jack asked, “Clement is dead?”
“Aye. Died of some sort of long-term ailment, it's been said.”
One of the men responsible for Jacques de Molay's murder at the stake.
“Jack?” the Bruce said after a while.
“Sorry,” Jack said, returning his attention to the King.
Iona finished patching him up and he watched her leave. “You were saying?” Jack said.
“What will you do now?”
Jack glanced over at Iona, “I don't know. I might stay here a while, start a family. It's not too bad a place to call home. But...” he sighed, “I do intend to return to France at some point. Not soon, but some day. There's a score left for me to settle, a bone left to pick.”