Page 43 of My Hero
“In the field,” he finished, watching Elspeth, watching the new maidservant, watching the two children shoving each other on the back bench. Anyone but Cynthia.
He stumbled through his thoughts with about as much grace as a novitiate, striving to ignore that radiant face, those translucent eyes, that adoring smile. He silently prayed for strength, focusing on the religious accoutrements that comforted him—the candles, the stained-glass windows, the Bible.
Eventually his voice grew steady. Gradually he relaxed into the familiar duties of his office. And at last he sensed he could face her again. At last he could offer his congregation the meat of his sermon. Finally he could deliver the message so crucial to her.
Alas, it was not to be. As he continued his discourse, an unfamiliar messenger stole up the aisle to speak briefly with Lady Cynthia. And before Garth could say another word, before he could even begin to expound upon the very important lesson he had to impart, Cynthia fled in a hush of golden velvet, simultaneously relieving and disappointing him, and leaving behind the subtle fragrance of jasmine.
Chapter 11
The satchel of herbs and tinctures rattled on the saddle behind Cynthia as she rode with her guard toward the village. She wished she’d been able to stay for Garth’s sermon. She could have listened to his seductive voice all day.
But there was no time for delay. There wasn’t even time to change out of her heavy velvet Sabbath gown. The messenger said the stomach illness had affected at least three members of the village nearby already. Time was of the essence to keep the sickness from spreading.
A hundred yards from the first house, a dirty little urchin ran up to meet her small entourage. She knew him—little Tim atte Gate. Tear tracks muddied his cheeks, and he sniffled as he bade them to hurry, for his father was sick. Unmindful of soiling her skirts, Cynthia reached down and scooped the lad up before her on the palfrey, nudging the beast to a swift pace.
Her heart pumped faster. She was facing the unknown, and others were relying on her. This ability she had to heal was a mixed blessing. Sometimes, looking into the bright eyes of a child she’d rescued from death’s grasp, elation burned fiercely within her breast. Other times, no matter what potions and curatives she tried, no matter how long she labored beside a suffering patient, death—that heartless reaper of souls—slowly drained the life from its victim, and she inevitably languished in defeat and despondency for days.
Still, her gift brought with it a certain responsibility. If anything could be done to relieve suffering or remove pain, Cynthia felt obliged to try it. The villagers depended upon her and knew she’d drop everything to come to their sides should they need her.
“There!” the little boy cried suddenly, wiggling on her lap and pointing toward a stone hovel off the main road.
Cynthia nudged her palfrey toward the cottage while her men waited outside. The house was as stooped as an old woman and as tightly shuttered. Smoke boiled forth from a hole in the roof. Cynthia set the child down and then dismounted. She grabbed her bag and swept past the boy to let herself in.
The interior was oppressively hot. A cloud of smoke swirled about her when she opened the door, stinging her eyes and throat. She coughed. Where anyone got the notion that stifling heat and darkness were beneficial to a sick person she couldn’t imagine. She left the door ajar and immediately ordered the bevy of children in the cottage to open the shutters.
Tim’s father, Rob, lay curled on his side atop a filthy bed. A threadbare coverlet concealed the bottom half of his body. He shivered uncontrollably. Cynthia pushed up her sleeves and commanded Nan, Rob’s wife, to begin warming water over the fire. Then she set her bag down beside the bed and bent to peer closely at her patient. His skin was flushed and dry, and his eyes were sunken in his head.
“How long has he been this way?”
“Two days, my lady,” Nan replied.
Cynthia touched the man’s forehead. It was papery and hot. She felt both sides of his throat. His pulse was rapid, and there was swelling beneath his ears.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began slowly rubbing her palms together. Her flesh tingled at the friction, warming until the heat was like a glowing force held between her hands. Then she placed her palms on either side of the man’s head, resting her thumbs at his temples. She imagined a bright white radiance flowing down her arms, through her fingertips, and into Rob’s body, warming him, soothing him, healing him. And in brief flashes behind her eyes, she received images of the herbs he needed.
When the light diminished, when the power ran its course, she withdrew her hands, shaking off the vestiges of energy that lingered.
“He needs something to drink,” she told the wife.
Nan, her eyes full of nervous doubt, wrung her hands by the fire. “He can keep nothing down, my lady.”
“He must have drink,” she explained. “See how dry his skin is? We must find something he can take in small sips.” She opened her satchel. “I have herbs I can use, but only when he is able to take a little liquid.”
She reached into her bag and drew forth a stoppered vial. Shaking it gently, she handed it to the woman.
“This is yellow dock. I want you to find a clean rag and wash his body with this. We must wipe away all traces of illness.”
Yellow dock’s merits were questionable, but Cynthia found it useful for keeping many a fretful relative busy while she administered more potent cures.
“You, Tim. I saw hens in the yard. Can you fetch me a fresh egg, one laid this morn?”
The boy nodded solemnly and scampered off.
Cynthia whispered to Nan, “You must keep the children away from him.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“He’ll need warmth, but you must let the fresh air in as well.”
