By the time I returned with the basin of water and the clean shirt, the Fool had arranged my supplies for me. “Lavender oil, by the scent of it,” he said, touching the first pot. “Beargrease with garlic in here.”
“Good choices,” I said. “Here comes the water.”
He hissed as I sponged it onto his back. I gave the half-formed scabs time to soften and then gave him the choice. “Fast or slow?”
“Slow,” he said, and so I began with the lowest one on his back, a puncture far too close to his spine. By the time I had painstakingly freed the fabric from the oozing wound, sweat had plastered his hair to his skull. “Fitz,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just do it.”
His knotty hands found the table’s edge and gripped it. I did not rip the shirt free, but I peeled it away from him, ignoring the sounds he made. At one point he hammered on the stone table with his fist, then yelped at that pain and dropped his fist to his lap and his brow to the table. “It’s done,” I told him as I rolled the lifted shirt across his shoulders and let it drape there.
“How bad are they?”
I pulled a branch of candles closer and studied his back. So thin. The bones of his spine were a row of hummocks down his back. The wounds gaped bloodlessly at me. “They’re clean, but open. We want to keep them open so that they heal from the inside out. Brace yourself again.” He kept silent as I wiped each injury with the lavender oil. When I added the beargrease with garlic, the scents did not blend well. I held my breath. When each had been tended, I put a new cloth over his back, trusting the grease to hold it in place. “There’s a clean shirt here,” I said. “Try not to displace the dressing as you put it on.”
I walked to the other end of the room. His injuries had spotted his bedding with blood and fluid. I would leave a note asking Ash to bring fresh linens. Then I wondered if the boy could read, and decided it was likely so. Even if his mother had not demanded it of him for her business, Chade would have immediately set him to learning. For now, I turned his pillows and tugged the bedding straight.
“Fitz?” he called from the worktable.
“I’m here. Just straightening your bedding.”
“You’d have made a fine valet.”
I was silent for a moment, wondering if he mocked me.
“Thank you,” he added. And then, “Now what?”
“Well, you’ve eaten and we’ve changed the dressings. Perhaps you’d like to rest some more.”
“In truth, I am tired of resting. So weary of it, in fact, that I can do nothing except seek my bed again.”
“It must be very boring.” I stood still and watched him haltingly totter toward me. I knew he did not want me to offer help.
“Ah, boredom. Fitz, you have no idea how sweet boredom can be. When I think of endless days spent wondering when next they would return to take me, and what new torment they might devise, and if they might see fit to give me food or water before or afterward … well, boredom becomes more desirable than the most extravagant festival. And on my journey here, oh, how I longed for my days to be predictable. To know if the person who spoke to me was truly kind or cruel, to know if there might be food that day, or if I would find a dry place to sleep. Ah.” He had almost reached me. He halted where he was, and the emotions that passed over his face tore me. Memories he would not share with me.
“The bedstead is right there, to your left. There. Your hand is on it.”
He nodded to me, and patted and felt his way back to the side of the bed. I had opened the blankets to the linens for him. He turned and sat down on the bed. A smile crossed his face. “So soft. You’ve no idea, Fitz, how much this pleases me.”
He moved his body so carefully. It reminded me of Patience toward the end of her years. It took him time to maneuver so that he could lift his legs up onto the bed. The loose trousers bared his meager calves and the distorted knobs of his ankles. I winced as I looked at his left foot. To call it a foot was a charity. How he had walked on that I did not know.
“I had a stick to help me.”
“I didn’t speak that aloud!”
“I heard that little sound you made. You make it when you see anything hurt. Nosy with a scratch on his face. Or the time I had a sack put over my head and took a beating.” He lay on his side and his hand scrabbled at the bedcovers. I pulled them up over him with no comment. He was silent for a minute and then said, “My back hurts less. Did you do something?”
“I cleaned out the injuries and put dressings on them.”
“And?”
And why should I lie? “When I touched you to clean the first boil that had broken, I … went into you. And encouraged your body to heal itself.”