The stench of dead flesh nearly brought her to her knees upon entering the makeshift tent that stood in the middle of the enemy camp. Her husband was going to blame her for the mess she was in, that was a fact, he was always blaming her for everything.
How was she to know that the rival clan was sitting directly outside the gates of his lands and was just waiting for an opportune time to snatch her from her horse and carry her away? He would probably blame her for the wretched smelling rag they used to blindfold her too, the smell of manure lingered when the rag was pulled away from her.
The heavy canvas flap of the tent nearly smacked her in her rear as it swung back into the tent after her initial captor left her alone in the presence of what appeared to be very wounded man. She took a quick survey of her surroundings and found nothing useful to grasp before the leader joined her. The man laying on the dirty cot that was situated in the middle of the tent began to groan turning her attention to him; she quickly went to his side and knelt beside him.
The years of warring in Scotland left her with considerable knowledge of healing. Her father’s men would often come to her when they had been felled during combat or had a slight mishap during training. This man laying on the ground was in a considerable amount of pain from what looked to be a leg wound. She tried to ignore the smell and began to look more closely at the wound.
“I have heard that you are a healer,” a dark voice caught her off guard from the opening of the tent. She feigned disinterest as she gazed over her shoulder at the man standing above her. He had his hands clenched at his sides, his feet where braced apart and he looked mad enough to kill with his glare, much like her husband had looked at her earlier in the day. She shoved the memory of her husband from her mind and forced herself to deal with the issue at hand.
“I have skill, but this wound is not new. The skin is rotting,” she pointed to the ugly gash in the man’s thigh.
“You will fix it,” he commanded her as if he was asking her for a pitcher of water.
“I’m not sure I can.” she shook her head and looked at his eyes, there was anguish hidden behind the anger he showed. She took a deep breath and gave a curt nod as if she had just made a very distinct decision. “I will need fresh water, a needle, some thread and a lot of ginger root, this will burn like hell and he will scream for the devil to take him. He is already starting to catch a fever, we will have to move quickly,” she barked her orders. “Well?” she demanded when he stood motionless.
“We have none of those things,” he shrugged his shoulders in defeat and she cursed under her breath.
“Well then. You will just have to carry him back to my home. My husband is sure to scream my ears off for this, but it must be done,” she shook her head again as she stood from the ground and tried to swat the dust from her skirts. “Your brother is in a lot of pain, if we do not move quickly he will surely die,” she assured him, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “I can help him, and I will, but we must get him to my home,” her words were just what he needed, and he quickly called for his two men to ready a cart.
The small group were on their way back towards her lands within moments, and she started to say several prayers that her husband would still be away on his hunt when they arrived.
No comments:
Post a Comment