Chapter 20
February, 1177
Saint Mary’s Abbey, Gwynedd
The wound wasn’t as bad as it looked at first glance; if it was, the poor man would have been dead already. The rain had kept it somewhat clean and the man’s companions hadn’t stuffed it with leaves or horsehair or bits of their filthy tunics to stop the bleeding. She’d seen people pack wounds with some very imaginative materials, mostly to little effect. And anyway, now that the knight was lying horizontally and was still and out of the wet, the bleeding had stopped on its own.
But how to dislodge the arrow…She frowned at the protuberance at the base of the Norman’s neck. She knew what an arrowhead looked like, of course; even the peasants’ little boys went hunting for small game with rude versions of the weapon. She also knew that pulling it out without causing much more damage to the area would be her second hardest task. The first would be to prevent her patient from sickening with fever once the arrow was removed.
She heard the other knight, Sir Richard, shift impatiently on his stool by the door. He was waiting for her to do something instead of just staring.
She looked over to him. “Perhaps you can help me,” she said.
“How?” He came to stand at her side.
“Well, I need to know how wide the base of the arrow point is,” she said. “Is there any way you can tell?”
He peered at the shaft and then stretched out an arm to touch it gingerly. He slid his fingers along the smooth surface. “Judging from the length of this and the tail, I’d say probably so wide.” He held up his thumb and forefinger spread about three-quarters of an inch apart. “And I think it’s in rather deep. I think there’s almost an inch of shaft missing.”
“Mmm.” She was thoughtful.
“The bleeding’s stopped.”
“Yes.” She pointed to the spot on Longsword’s neck just above the arrow shaft. “He’s lucky. He wasn’t struck here. Have you ever seen a pig slaughtered? Or sheep? The butcher draws a knife across the neck right in that spot because it’s one of the life centers of the body. It’s the same with people. If the arrow had gone in here, your lord would be dead now.”
Sir Richard exhaled noisily and Gwalaes studied him curiously. Even though he was almost as bedraggled as the injured knight, she could see he was a handsome man. His short, dark hair had already dried and curled in a pleasing manner and his eyes, lit by the softly flickering candles, were the color of spring leaves. His jaw was firm and lightly flecked with a day’s growth of beard, which he rubbed every now and then as if it irritated him. His nose was long and straight. But she wasn’t impressed by mere beauty; her brother had been just as good-looking and she had known him to be cold and calculating and often times cruel.
She reached into her basket and pulled out a roll of white cloth. “Do you think you could ask someone to fetch me a jar of water?” she said to him.
He wavered, obviously loath to leave, but then nodded. “Very well.”
He had to go out of the dormitory, she knew. She also knew the darkening sky meant the sisters would be in the church for Vespers and that the men who had been with him were probably lounging around the kitchens waiting for supper and getting in the way of the cooks. Unless he happened to snag a passing child there was little chance of him returning right away, which was fine with her because she didn’t want him to witness her next maneuver.
She unwound the roll of cloth to expose a short, sharp knife, polished clean and sparkling. For good measure she wiped the cloth across the blade several times and then she used it to gently pat at the crusting blood near the wound, to clear away what she could without starting it to bleed again. She put the cloth down on the bed and picked up the knife. Although she wasn’t nervous or unsure of her actions, she closed her eyes and murmured a brief prayer.
She had actually performed this operation once before, on one of the mutts at the abbey. Some boys had been playing, shooting arrows into trees and at birds flying high in the sky, and then they had turned on the puppy that had been following them around and shot at it. The dog had run away but not before being struck in a flank. Her daughter, who had been watching this vile game, had found the animal cowering under a wagon, gnawing at the arrow shaft, picked it up and carried it unprotesting on teetering three and a half-year-old legs to her to fix. She’d tipped a little wine onto her hand and let the dog lick it off her fingers. The puppy had grown drowsy, its senses dulled. With a razor, she had scraped away the animal’s fur from the wound and then had gently rocked the arrow shaft, pulling slowly up on it at the same time until the arrowhead had popped out. She’d bathed the wounded area with infusion of dried goldenrod and afterwards, with not a little trepidation because she had never done so before, took a thin sewing needle and thread and stitched the mouth of the wound shut. To her daughter’s delight, the puppy was kept in the storehouse for a week and watched whenever possible to see that it didn’t tear at the stitches. She had been mildly surprised that the procedure proved successful; its only ill effect was that by the end of the week the dog had adopted Bronwen and she couldn’t get rid of it.
The arrow point in the Norman was larger than the one that had been stuck in the dog, now named Kigva in honor of the cheerful, matronly woman who presided over the abbey’s kitchens and filled Bronwen with immense admiration for her culinary talents, and she decided to slip the tip of her knife down into the wound and alongside it to help ease it upwards. She worked very slowly and carefully; blood began to spurt again, filling the gap, but she ignored it because she could feel the point shifting and coming loose of whatever muscle had seized it. She took the knife out and wiggled the arrow shaft tentatively; she felt it give and she pulled.
The handsome knight returned just when she had finished packing the puncture with dried moss and winding a long strip of linen around the injured man’s neck to keep it in place and put pressure on the wound so it would stop bleeding. There were others with him. She didn’t turn around; she heard the door slam and then their spurs clink urgently as they hurried to the bed.
“What’s going on? What the hell have you done?” Sir Richard demanded angrily. He looked down upon the wounded man. “My God, he’s soaked in blood!” He whirled on her and she, despite her previous bravado, now took a few steps backwards, wary of his fury. “What did you do to him? Answer me!”
“I removed the arrow as you wanted, Sir Richard,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She pointed towards the foot of the bed. “There it is. You can see the entire head came out, unbroken.”
Delamere snatched up the arrow and gestured threateningly with it. “You weren’t to do anything unless I was present! Look at all this blood! How do I know you haven’t caused him to bleed to death?”
“He isn’t bleeding now, Sir Richard. Look for yourself.”
She stood still, her arms down at her sides, as he bent over the bed. Her heart was pounding with fright. So many years spent in the peaceful atmosphere of the abbey…she had forgotten the violence that was encouraged in these men. If the handsome knight was displeased with her work, he would think little of taking out his anger on her. But when he finally straightened up he appeared to be satisfied, although his face remained grim.
“You weren’t to do anything unless I was present,” he said again. But this time he wasn’t shouting.
“I’m sorry, Sir Richard,” she answered meekly.
He hmphed and looked down at Longsword once more.
“I would like to clean all the blood away. Can you raise him while I remove his—this mass of metal he’s wearing?” she asked.
“You’ll never get it off him; it’s too heavy.” He signaled for one of the men who was with him to get behind Longsword. They were far gentler than she would have supposed rough men to be and they were quick. Within minutes they had stripped Longsword to the skin.
The room was silent as she unwound the linen from his neck and removed the soiled moss. She used the water Delamere had brough
t and a fresh cloth to clean out the wound and applied a poultice of sicklewort, warmed over the fire, to it and held it fast with another wrapping of linen bandage. All the while, she felt every eye watching her carefully and it made her nervous.
“What next?” Delamere said suddenly, startling her.
“I’ll have to change the poultice every few hours. The sicklewort draws out the bad humors and prevents festering and the poultice must remain fresh.” She glanced at him. “The bedding is filthy. The linens must be changed as well.”
“I agree,” he said curtly. “But this time you will fetch what you need and I’ll remain with Lord William.”
The night passed slowly. Delamere dozed on the stool, which he placed against the wall near Longsword’s bed so that he was in her way and had to be wakened and asked to move whenever she wanted to change the poultice. In this manner he was able to observe her ministrations and satisfy himself that she wasn’t poisoning the injured man or fouling the wound and could afterward sleep easy for another two hours.
She didn’t sleep. She spent the hours making up new poultices or washing out the soiled bandages and setting them near the brazier to dry. Her sicklewort came from the forest. The leaves were dried for future use in teas or syrups, while the stalks were mashed and boiled in water until the mixture congealed. She kept the jelly in a tightly closed earthen pot in a dark corner of her quarters until some accident necessitated its use. To make a poultice she mixed the jelly with a little barley meal, which gave it an even consistency, and suet, which made it spreadable, put it on a clean cloth, warmed it over the fire and applied it directly to the wound.
The suet, which at St. Mary’s was primarily from mutton, made a strong odor in the hot, closed room, but it was a small inconvenience when weighed against the satisfactory effects of the poultice. With each successive changing, she could see the positive results of her labor. The bleeding had stopped long ago, and the red, swollen mouth of the wound was clearly visible against the Norman’s light skin. The first few poultices had drawn up pus; now they came away clean. The neat lips of the puncture had come together. She was pleased. A few days of observation, because the danger of fever striking her patient was possible until the wound healed sufficiently that air couldn’t get into it, and then she would permit him to sit up and take solid foods.
Toward dawn he stirred and spoke. She had finished changing the poultice and Delamere, instead of returning to his seat, had gone outside to use the latrine. Longsword suddenly groaned in his sleep and shifted position, thrusting his arm out violently and knocking aside his blanket. She went to tidy the bed and as she leaned across his chest to put his arm underneath the cover, his hand clamped with surprising strength around her wrist. Her eyes flew in consternation to his face; his eyes were open and staring at her.
“Where am I?” he said to her in a hoarse whisper. “What happened?”
“You were wounded, my lord,” she said. “It’s all right now. You’re in the abbey of St. Mary.”
His breathing was labored. A spasm of pain made his mouth twist, but he did not release her wrist. “Who are you?”
“Gwalaes, my lord.”
“What happened to my men? Richard…”
“Sir Richard is here. The rest of your men are here, my lord.” She put her free hand on his forehead and on the side of his face. He was warm but she felt no trace of fever. He wasn’t sweating or shivering.
Her touch appeared to calm him and the grip on her wrist relaxed. For a moment they watched each other intently. Finally his fingers loosened and his hand slid to his side. “I’m thirsty.”
She brought over a cup of water and held it to his lips. He gulped at it sloppily and half of the water ran down the sides of his face but the act of swallowing didn’t seem to be painful to him.
When he finished, he closed his eyes. She put the cup down and gently patted his face dry with the end of her sleeve.
His eyes struggled open briefly. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You are kind…”
It was only afterwards that she realized with a start that the Norman had spoken to her in French—and she had answered him the same way.
She heard the thunder of hooves behind her and she began to run. She didn’t have to look around to know that it was the handsome Norman, the one who hated her, who chased her. Had the injured man died after all? Her mind struggled to think as she forced her legs to move faster. He’d been fine, breathing easily, when she had told Sir Richard that she was going back to the storehouse for fresh herbs and bandages and to sleep for several hours. She had told him she would return when her daughter came to wake her after Prime. What had happened during those few, short hours?
The pounding grew louder. The warhorse seemed to have no problem negotiating the dense terrain of the forest. The knight was gaining on her. Already she was running as fast as she could, her skirts catching around her legs. Her lungs were bursting; all she could think to do was pray, so she did. Then she heard the knight call to her and even though it meant slowing her pace, she turned around. She gasped. To her horror, it wasn’t Sir Richard bearing down on her but her husband, his face cold and distant but for the satisfied smirk which creased his mouth. He hung low on the saddle and reached out his hand.
“Mama! Mama!” The hand which grabbed and shook her roughly did not have a grip like a vise but all the ineffectual muscles of a small child. And it was a child who had taken hold of her; it was Bronwen. She opened her eyes, her heart still pounding from the residual effect of the nightmare.
“Wake up!” her daughter commanded sternly. “There’s a big man at the door.”
“Who?”
“The strange man with the pretty horses.”
Bronwen was used to the abbey’s two ancient mares and had expressed pleasure at the sight of the six Norman stallions, tall, fine-boned and decked out with massive, high-backed saddles and fancy tack. She had never before seen such finely dressed men, either, and had stared in awe at their gleaming swords, short hair and expensive cloaks.
Gwalaes had merely fallen fully-clothed on the small pallet she shared with her daughter upon her return from the sickroom, too exhausted to care about changing. She threw a shawl over her shoulders, ran her fingers through her hair and retied the ribbon which held it back and pushed aside the cloth partition which separated the little sleeping alcove from the rest of the room. Delamere was standing with his back towards her, idly inspecting the contents of a pot on her worktable.
“Is something wrong?” she said.
The knight spun around. “Gwalaes. No—nothing’s wrong. As a matter of fact, everything is fine. Lord William awoke for a short time and spoke to me. He’s still very weak but his mind was sound and he didn’t complain of pain.”
“He will shortly,” she said. Bronwen came up behind her and held on to her skirts while she gazed shyly at the Norman. “As he regains full consciousness. I have herbs here that when steeped in boiling water will lessen the pain.”
Delamere rubbed his hand over his beard. “Actually, that’s why I’ve come. If you give me these herbs, I can take them back to Rhuddlan. We’re leaving now.”
She was so shocked by his words that her fear of him evaporated. “Sir Richard, that’s impossible!” she said. “It’s out of the question! Your lord needs bed rest for at least the next three days.” The knight shook his head. “He cannot be moved!”
“He must be moved, Gwalaes,” Delamere said, quietly but firmly. “Rhuddlan is safer than St. Mary’s. If the Welsh who ambushed us discover we’re here, they’ll come in full force and we won’t stand a chance. And it would only mean putting the abbey at needless risk,” he added, when she started again to protest. He glanced pointedly at Bronwen. “You don’t want that to happen.”
Her mouth clamped shut abruptly. No, nothing must happen to her daughter. The Norman lord would have to take his chances with his men.
She untangled Bronwen’s hand and went to a corner cupboard in which she kept
jars of various dried herbs. She found the chamomile and shook out a generous portion onto a clean square of linen. She tied the ends of the linen together and held it out to the Norman.
“This is chamomile. It’s quite safe. Whenever Lord William complains of pain, have someone brew a spoonful in a cup’s worth of freshly drawn water and then make him drink the entire mixture. If he doesn’t like the taste you can add honey until it suits him.”
Delamere took the bundle and slipped it inside his tunic, adjusting his cloak so that it fell over his chest and left his right arm exposed. “Thank you, Gwalaes.” He hesitated. “And thank you for what you’ve already done,” he added awkwardly. “You saved his life. I’m grateful. I’ll see that the abbey is properly rewarded.”
Gwalaes stood in the doorway with Bronwen and watched Delamere walk away. She hoped the weather was a propitious omen of Lord William’s recovery, for the rain had stopped during the night and with the exception of a few scattered puffs of white, the sky was deep blue and the sun was bright. Perhaps, she thought, shooing Bronwen inside and closing the door against the cold air, there was someone at Rhuddlan who would look after him and make sure he remained in bed and would change the wraps around the wound…if, of course, he survived the rigorous journey back to the castle.