I sank the knife into the swelling. He shrieked and a huge fountain of hot, thick, yellow-brown pus erupted out over my hand. I discarded the knife, picked up the first bandage from my pile, and began to clear away the matter, glancing anxiously at Peterson as I did so. After that initial shout, he’d fallen worryingly quiet. But he still had a pulse and that was good enough for me.
I squeezed and mopped and squeezed and mopped. The stench was awful. The discharge colour darkened to brown. Streaks of blood began to appear. I kept at it because there was no going back now. I remembered Hunter once telling me that the secret with any infected wound was to keep at it until the blood flowed. Then you could be almost certain everything was cleared out.
On the other hand, this was Peterson’s groin and there were some major arteries in this area – to say nothing of various bits of equipment he appeared to set great store by – so definitely no more knife work.
I worked away, mopping and swabbing, throwing the soiled linen into the fire. I was beginning to worry I’d run out of dressings, when I saw it. A nasty, stringy clot of blood and pus.
My eyes stung with sweat. I blinked hard to clear my vision, because I couldn’t afford any accidents now. I took the knife and using just the point, gently teased it free. It came out quite easily, and suddenly, there was blood. Bright red blood.
The relief was overwhelming. I took a clean pad and pressed hard with both hands. He murmured and shifted, but I wouldn’t let go. He was just going to have to lump it.
Finally, I took my hands away, gently removed the dressing, and looked. A small trickle of blood oozed gently, but nothing to worry about. I replaced the dressing with a clean one and bandaged it in place as best I could. It’s an awkward area on a bloke – too many knobbly bits.
Then I sat back on my heels, carefully washed my hands, and got my breath back.
Peterson lay like a stunned ox for the rest of the day. I left him to sleep, and when I could force my aching back and legs to move, I cleaned up the obvious signs of my butchery, washed myself all over as best I could, had a long drink of water, and watched him like a politician studying his popularity ratings.
I was awoken by the sounds of the bar being removed and Brother Anselm telling me there was food outside.
I cautiously opened the door and looked out. He stood some ten feet away.
‘How is your husband?’
‘Better.’
He looked a little surprised. I think he thought I was making it up so I could escape. Or that I was deluding myself.
‘No, brother, the bubo has burst and his fever gone. He is sleeping now.’
‘God be praised, that is good news, indeed. But you must watch him.’
‘I will, brother. Thank you for the food.’
‘And you, my child, how are you?’
‘Well, so far, thanks to God.’
‘You know I cannot let you go.’
‘I understand.’
‘It is almost certain that you will contract the disease.’
‘I may not, brother. My parents both died of the plague when I was a child and I did not contract it then, either.’
He nodded. ‘I have heard that survival when young sometimes ensures survival later in life. Your parents’ misfortune may be your salvation.’ He paused. ‘I am praying for you.’
I smiled. ‘Thank you.’
I meant it. It was so good to have someone on my side, for once.
Even though I was stranded in the 14th century with a plague-ridden Peterson, targeted by the Time Police, and worried out of my mind for Leon, it was the most peaceful evening I’d had for a long time. Nothing erupted. There were no crocodiles. The weather was pleasant. No one came close enough to shoot me.
I finished the bread and cheese he had left me, chewing carefully because medieval bread is full of medieval grit and I didn’t need a broken tooth on top of everything else.
I sat next to Peterson with my back against the wall. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. The fever had gone, leaving him semi-conscious and very weak. He could still succumb to infection or any of the other unpleasant diseases rife in the 14th century. I tried to get him to sip a little water, lifting his head to help him drink. His eyes were open but he didn’t recognise me, or anything around him. He could still die. He probably would. Once again, I was an historian watching someone die.
While there was still enough light to see by, I checked him over again. There were no other swellings that I could discover. His body was much cooler to the touch and his pulse slower and stronger. I peeled off his dressing, peered closely at the wound. It looked fine, but just to be on the safe side, I lowered my head and sniffed.
A feeble voice demanded to know what the hell I thought I was doing.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak properly. I cleared my throat. ‘Checking for infection. Close your eyes if it bothers you.’
‘They are closed … Makes no difference. I can still hear you … snorting away like a pig … rooting for truffles.’
‘Trust me – if I find one down here it’s all yours.’
There was no reply. He seemed asleep.
I followed his example.
It had been another long day.
We both woke several times in the night. I helped him sip a little water. This led to problem number two. Well, number one, actually.