Page 96 of The Quest for Excalibur
On a gust of windy rain, the door opened, and Bedwyr ushered in our half a dozen wounded. The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of so many warriors in her house, but she took it in her stride and handed me a bowl of the savory smelling stew.
The old woman, cradling the baby, seemed to be enjoying the much fiercer heat now being thrown out by the fire. We were probably burning their hardwon winter’s supply, but right now, I didn’t care. The farmer and his two older sons would just have to cut more.
Arthur scooped up some of the food with his bread and took a bite. At least he was eating now, but was that rain or sweat on his forehead? I felt it. Hot.
With an impatient gesture he shook me off. “Just a little fever. To be expected after an injury. I’m fine.” He scooped in more food. “Look, I’m eating, so I must be.” He gave me a lopsided grin, then switched his attention to the woman. “It’s good. What’s your name?”
Those lovely gray eyes widened in renewed fear, but she was made of stern stuff. “Raewyn, M’lord.”
The old woman cleared her throat and spat onto the ground in front of the fire, shooting her daughter-in-law a venomous look. Presumably she disapproved of consorting with anyone but their own family, and probably especially not with passing soldiers, whatever side they were on.
Arthur smiled. “Thank you, Raewyn. My men and I appreciate your hospitality. I know it’s enforced, and I’m sorry for that, but we have wounded men who need a night out of the rain.” He touched his shoulder where blood had leaked through from his dressings. “Myself included.”
She bobbed a rough bow to him, and gave the stewpot a stir. The old lady, scowling, stuck a gnarled and grimy finger into the fretful baby’s mouth for it to suck on. Yuck.
“He be hungry,” the old crone grumbled. “As I be.”
Our wounded settled themselves around the fire, their clothes steaming. Raewyn hung all their cloaks near ours, and dished out the remaining stew, scraping the bottom of the pot. The old woman, with a disgusted snort at losing her own dinner, hawked and spat again, and, minus its tasty finger, the baby set up a mewling cry.
Under the interested gaze of our men, Raewyn gathered up the baby and retired to one of the alcoves to feed him, and I finally relaxed enough to try the food as well. Tastier than I’d expected from its bland appearance, the heat revitalized me. I scraped my bowl as well as the next man, and Cei produced a skin of cider that did the rounds. Bedwyr handed it to the old woman, who smacked her lips and took a long pull that dribbled down her wrinkled chin. The man beside her had to wrest the skin from bony claws that didn’t want to give it up.
Bedwyr sat on the log nearest to Arthur, “I’ll need to look at your shoulder, I’m afraid.” He sounded apologetic, as well he might have been.
Arthur sighed, the sheen of sweat on his face shining in the firelight. “If you must.”
Oh, for a shirt that buttoned down the front. For buttons, actually. Now, there was something I could introduce. How useful would buttons be for things like flies on braccae? How useful would flies be, full stop. I chided myself for not having thought of them before. We had a craftsman at Din Cadan who carved in bone– I’d get him to make me some buttons for my next gown. The only drawback would be learning how to hand stitch a buttonhole, and sewing was not my favorite pastime.
Merlin and Bedwyr edged Arthur’s tunic and undershirt off as carefully as they could with minimum movement to his shoulder, but even so, he winced in pain. His shoulder would have stiffened up no end. The bandages, stained with blood and difficult to pry apart, came off. I held my breath, and Arthur’s hand, as Bedwyr peeled back the pads covering the two wounds. Underneath, the flesh around the small exit and entry holes looked inflamed and red, but no pus showed. Bedwyr sniffed both wounds, probing gently with practised fingers.
“Well?” Arthur asked, through clenched teeth.
“Smells clean,” Bedwyr muttered. Then, seeing my anxious face, “Natural for all this inflammation after such a severe wound. And for the fever. I’ve an infusion of Feverfew for him to take tonight, instead of poppy syrup. He’s had enough of that already.”
Arthur grunted. “Talk to me, not her. It’s my shoulder you’re discussing. And I’ve not gone deaf.”
The old woman gave a loud snort. “Comfrey’s what ’e needs on that.”
Bedwyr turned his head, eyes eager. “You have some?”
She sucked her flaccid lips in over empty gums, as though she were gurning. “I might have.”
Bedwyr glanced toward the closed door to outside. “Fresh?” The thick thatch had muted the sound of the falling rain, but no doubt it hadn’t stopped.
She shook her sparsely covered head. “Already made into a salve.” She waggled a bony finger at him. “By these hands.”
Not a great recommendation. “These hands” were ingrained with dirt, the nails broken and blackened.
“May my healer use it?” Arthur asked, ignoring the potential threat. “Not just for me. My men, as well, would find it helpful.” He gave her his most winning smile, which to my knowledge had never failed to work on a woman of any age.
Even with its owner unshaven, pale-faced, and sweaty, the smile worked its magic yet again. The old woman bridled like a coy teenager, and levered herself to her feet, no doubt stiff from sitting for so long.
Bedwyr sprang up and hurried to her side, supporting her to a shelf tacked lopsidedly onto one of the rafters. A row of small, covered pots adorned it. She took one down, lifted the lid, sniffed, and handed it to Bedwyr. He sniffed as well, and his nose wrinkled, to be followed with a smile. “Thank you, Old Mother.”
From over on one of the beds, the baby noisily suckling, Raewyn grunted. “She be a healer born.”
Bedwyr helped the old woman back to her place by the fire and pressed the cider skin into her clutching hands. “For you, in exchange.”
With a cackle of glee– she’d have made an excellent witch in Macbeth– she uncorked it and took a long draught, the cider running down her chin.
