“But that guy said those two men were almost killed.”
“’Twas Sir Rolfe, not Sir Guy. And Sir Winston and Sir Miles are not the first to fall. These blackguards have plagued my lord’s holdings overlong, taunting him with their cruelty to those who cannot defend themselves sufficiently. Their attacks have weighed heavily on his heart. He is most eager to capture those responsible and put an end to their violence.”
This had happened before? When? How many times? “Who is doing it?”
“We know not, or Lord Robert would have long since dispatched them.”
Robert, Michael, and Stephen stormed from the castle and launched themselves into the saddle.
Seconds later, they and the rest of the mounted men thundered across the drawbridge.
“You need not fear for him, my lady,” Marcus stated. “Lord Robert is one of the finest swordsmen in all of England. I vow only the Earl of Westcott can match him.”
That did little to alleviate her anxiety. When two men hacked at each other with broadswords—their only protection a bunch of metal links, a padded shirt, and a helmet—how could they not get hurt? And without satisfactory medical care, even small wounds could turn septic and result in death.
Speaking of which…
Beth grabbed the solar charger she had placed on the bench in the sun, turned toward the castle, and headed for the steps leading up to the entrance.
Marcus remained at her side, even when she quickened her pace, his long legs having no difficulty matching her stride.
Shoving the heavy doors open, she marched into the great hall and elbowed her way through the throng of men gathered around a trestle table servants had hastily erected. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Pardon me. Would you move? Excuse me.”
When, at last, she made it to the front of the pack, she actually felt the blood drain from her face. “Holy crap,” she whispered, and swallowed hard.
“Lady Bethany, you should not be here,” Adam said behind her. Strong hands clasped her shoulders and tried to turn her away.
She shrugged them off, her horrified gaze surveying the carnage.
Two men, laid out head to head, their faces indiscernible for the gore. Eyes closed. Enough blood gushing for four.
A young priest, who couldn’t be much older than she was, muttered something in Latin above them.
“Who are they?” she asked when she could find her voice.
“Sir Miles and my cousin, Sir Winston,” Adam answered, motioning to one, then the other.
Winston’s eyelids twitched a little at the sound of his name.
“Are they married?”
“Sir Winston is.”
Her eyes rose to meet those of the men standing across from her. “Fetch his wife,” she ordered in a voice that brooked no argument.
One of the men looked to Adam, then departed.
“Does Fosterly have a healer?” Beth asked.
“Nay,” Adam answered. “None will reside here because they know they will be carefully scrutinized by Lady Alyssa when she visits.”
“What about a midwife? Do you have one of those?”
“Aye.”
“Fetch her, too.”
A second man took his leave.
Beth gripped her charger tighter and wiped the sweaty palm of her other hand on her dress. “Remove their clothes,” she said, gesturing to the motionless victims. “I need to see what I’m going to be dealing with here.”
A dozen rough, scarred hands flew into motion.
The priest’s eyes widened as he was shouldered aside and layers of clothing and armor began to fall away.
Beth looked around at the men towering over her, unable to locate the face she sought. “Where’s Kirk?”
“Who?”
“Captain Kirk.” What was his name again? “The, uh… the, um…” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “The steward.”
Adam turned his head. “Edward!”
“I am here, my lady.” Edward’s somber face appeared as the men to her right parted.
“You’re the go-to guy, right?”
His forehead twisted into a confused pucker. “What?”
“The go-to guy. You’re the one everyone goes to when they need something?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Good. I need boiling water and clean cloths for bandages.” How could she prevent infection? The little tube of antibiotic ointment in her first aid kit wouldn’t cover this. Since she had been drinking well water, she didn’t know what kind of alcohol they drank or what proof it was, so she had no idea if it could be used as an antiseptic. And she could have sworn she had read somewhere that alcohol might not be the best choice to sterilize a wound because it killed good cells along with the bad. “Honey,” she blurted. Hadn’t she seen on the news that honey could be just as effective as antibiotic ointment when applied to wounds? “I need lots of honey.”