Air whooshed out of her lungs in a rush as the men’s shirts and braies were cut away. “Hhho boy,” she said shakily, surveying the deep gashes on their limbs and torsos. “I’m going to need a needle and some thread. Soak both in boiling water for me, Edward. And I’ll need a basin of hot water to wash my hands in, along with clean cloths to dry them.”
“Aye, my lady.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Beth glanced at the men across from her. “Tear their shirts up and use them as padding. Apply pressure to the worst wounds and keep it there to staunch the bleeding until I get back.”
“Where are you going?” Adam asked as she turned away.
“I need some things from my backpack. It will only take a minute.”
The throng of concerned soldiers parted swiftly for her this time.
Beth hurried up to her chamber. Her backpack was on the chest by the window. Setting the charger down beside it, she took the backpack to the bed, unzipped it, held it upside down, and shook it violently until it vomited all of its contents onto the blankets.
Marcus appeared in the doorway. “My lady?”
“Here,” she said. “Hold this.”
Leaping to her side, he obediently held out his arms as she began thrusting items toward him.
The travel-sized first aid kit was first (as if anything it contained could seal the kind of lacerations she’d just seen). Then a bottle of ibuprofen. A small box of butterfly closures. What was left of her antibacterial hand wipes. Her bar of deodorant soap.
What else? What else? What else?
There was nothing else. Help was supposed to be a brief 911 phone call away.
“Okay,” she announced. “That’s it. Let’s go.”
The basin of water and cloth towels Beth had requested awaited her when she returned to the great hall. All eyes followed her as she approached the table.
No pressure, she thought hysterically.
A young woman, blond and pretty, about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, sobbed over Winston.
“Are you his wife?” Beth asked her.
She nodded, sniffling. “Aye, my lady.”
“Can you sew?”
Her red-rimmed, blue eyes widened, then flew to the wounds three soldiers applied pressure to on Winston’s shoulder, arm, and thigh. “Y-you do not wish me to…?”
“Can you sew?”
Reluctantly she nodded. “Aye, my lady.”
“Then pull yourself together. I need your help.”
Adam moved to Beth’s side.
“Where’s the midwife?” she asked him.
“Attending a birth. She will come as soon as she is able.”
Crap. That meant this was all on her shoulders, because—even though she’d had no medical training—she still probably had more knowledge of wound care than the men in this room.
Beth motioned for Winston’s wife to follow her to the basin of water. “What’s your name?”
“Mary.”
“Okay, Mary, I want you to watch me and do everything I do. All right?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“First, we’re going to wash our hands and forearms.” Extending her arms before her, Beth glared at the long sleeves that trailed to the floor. “Adam, these sleeves have to go. Would you please remove them?”
A dagger appeared in his hand. “Where shall I cut them?”
“At the shoulder, please.”
She suffered not even a scratch as he trimmed the material away.
“Much better. Thank you.”
Taking her bar of deodorant soap from Marcus, Beth worked up a good lather and scoured her hands and arms up to her elbows. Mary did the same as soon as another man cut her sleeves away, too.
Beth frowned down at the basin of dirty, soapy water that resulted. “Edward, would you—?”
“Right here, my lady.” Anticipating her request, he set a second basin of hot water down beside the first.
“Thank you. Mary, let’s do it one more time just to be safe.”
Several men continued to apply pressure to the more severe wounds while the two women finished.
“Now wipe your hands with one of these.” Beth handed her one of the antibacterial hand wipes, then used another on her own hands.
Drawing in a deep, fortifying breath, she tried to ignore the metallic scent of blood combined with the pungent odor of sweat. “Mary, you work on Miles. I’ll tend Winston.”
Mary wrung her clean hands. “But, my lady—”
“Trust me. It’s for the best.” If Winston didn’t pull through, Beth didn’t want Mary to have any reason to blame herself. “Which wound is the worst?” Beth asked the men staunching the bleeding.
The man beside her removed wadded up linen from Winston’s thigh and stepped back.
Beth’s stomach lurched. Holy crap, that’s deep. “I’ll have to clean it, then stitch it. Mary, you do the same for Miles. More water, please, Edward.”
Beth bent over the man’s thigh. “Light. We need more light, too.”