“When did you say she was injured?”
All nine knights, Jathan, and the silly dog were crowded into a small, grossly dirty one-room hut that was near the Worcester cathedral. Mannig was the man asking the question. The abbot at Worcester had referred the knights to him when they’d shown up at the cathedral door carrying a feverish, half-conscious woman. Mannig was actually an apothecary, not a physic, but he was known to treat the sick and injured and, at the moment, he was the best option they had. The abbot didn’t know of a local physic to refer, so they had to go with the apothecary. Gaetan, greatly distressed by the turn of events, answered the man’s question.
“Three days ago in an ambush,” he said. “What will you do for her?”
Mannig was a tiny man with a bushy beard and a bald head. He was also very old and had seen a great deal in his life, which meant he lacked tact at times. He simply spoke what was on his mind because he had no time for pleasantries.
Moreover, he was looking at nine very big Norman knights and was quite puzzled as to their presence, especially in the heart of Saxon England, but that curiosity would have to wait. He had a sick woman on his hands and the knights wanted answers. When the knight who seemed to be the leader of the group asked the question, Mannig turned back to the bed where the woman was sleeping feverishly and fitfully.
“She has the poison in her,” he said. “It is a matter of taking the poison out and healing her humors. She is in very bad humor.”
He was speaking with a strange mix of his language and Latin terms, which gave the knights pause when listening to him. They were all multi-lingual, as was necessary in these times, but it took them a moment to decipher what he was saying. Even so, Gaetan already knew what the old man was telling them. He was impatient with a fool who spoke the obvious.
“What will you do for her?” he asked again, trying not to sound angry or desperate about it. “And what can we do to help?”
The old man glanced over his shoulder at the patient. “Everything depends on how much poison is in her body. If it is too much, then I can do nothing. But if there is a chance….”
Gaetan cut him off. “Then examine her now. Waste no more time.”
The old man dutifully went to the bed and bent over Ghislaine, peeling back the layers of clothing on her leg. The movement jolted her awake and she slapped her hands over the leg that the old man was trying to uncover, trying to stop him from moving her painful limb. Gaetan, Aramis, and Téo went to the bed, quickly, to calm her.
“Be at ease, little mouse,” Gaetan said quietly, kneeling down by her head and pulling her hands away from her thigh. “We have brought you to a healer. He wishes to inspect your wound.”
Ghislaine looked at him, her eyes big in her pasty face, and shook her head. “Nay,” she breathed. “It is nothing. I must go now.”
She tried to get out of bed but many hands stilled her as the old man finished peeling back her cote and shift to get to the trousers she wore beneath. The entire time they’d been traveling, she’d never parted ways with her trousers, which she was comfortable with, but she’d continued to wear the cotes that Gaetan had given her, making for many layers and an awkward mix of clothing for the lady warrior who had never dressed like a lady.
It had also been part of the problem when the arrow penetrated; there had been many layers to go through, taking many layers with it into her leg. There was a binding around her right thigh, stained with seepage, which the old man carefully unwrapped. All the while, Gaetan kept eye contact with Ghislaine to keep her calm.
“We are in Worcester,” he told her softly. “The priests at the abbey sent us to this man. He will help you.”
In just the past few hours, Ghislaine had gone from lucid and feverish to hardly lucid and burning with fever. The poison in her body was creating a muddled mind and her thought processes were affected.
“The abbey?” she repeated. “Where is the abbey?”
Gaetan smiled faintly at her. “Not far,” he said. “We took you there first.”
“The abbey is still here?”
He nodded to the odd question, stroking her forehead simply because he couldn’t help himself. She was so very sick and he felt so very miserable for her, an odd reaction from a man who had little compassion for anyone other than his men. Even when Adéle had been giving birth to his sons, he’d been away at the time and had spared little thought to the woman who was struggling to bring forth his children. It was cold of him and he knew it, but it was of no matter. There was no emotion involved when it came to his bedslave, a mere possession and nothing more.
But with Ghislaine, the situation was much different. She brought forth emotion from him that he never knew he had, a depth of pity that he didn’t know he was capable of, but he was afraid to show any of it, afraid it might look like weakness. Still, seeing her so ill made him sick to his stomach and he felt foolish for it, wrestling with this sense of compassion he was unused to.
She made him feel.
“The abbey is still there,” he murmured. “Quiet, now. Let the apothecary look at your wound. He will know what to do.”
Ghislaine simply nodded, her eyes never leaving his. There was that faith again, reflected in her gaze, faith he’d seen before and faith that made him feel stronger than anything he’d ever known. He continued to hold her attention as, down below, the apothecary took a sharp knife and cut away her trousers to inspect the wound better. Aramis and Téo hung over the man’s shoulder to see the wound for themselves.
“You will not leave me here?” Ghislaine asked, her voice hoarse and weak.
Gaetan continued to stroke her forehead as he gazed down at her. “I will not leave you here. You are part of us, Mousie. I would not leave you behind, not ever. Put your mind at rest.”
Ghislaine sighed, relieved by his words. She clutched his hand tightly as if afraid to let him go. She was just starting to doze off again when the old man touched the arrow entry wound and she nearly came off the bed, shrieking in pain. Even de Moray and de Reyne rushed forward to keep her still because she was kicking so, throwing a knee right into Aramis’ chest as he stood over her. The man grunted as the wind was knocked from him. Now, everyone was rushing to still her as the old man peered more closely at the wound.
“Keep her leg still,” he commanded quietly. “She is raging with fever and the leg is full of poison. Who cleaned the wound after she was injured?”
Gaetan looked at him. “I did,” he said without hesitation. “It was doused repeatedly in wine before we stitched it.”
“Did you remove any debris?”