Page 44 of My Hero
Cynthia picked through her bag of vials and packets, setting a few aside, dismissing several immediately, finally choosing the three she’d seen in her vision.
“I’m going to leave you these. Give them to him only after he can hold down a few spoons of watered wine. This,” she said as the woman sponged her husband’s forehead, “is lady’s mantle. It should settle his bowels.” Nan nodded. “And this is extract of roses,” she continued, holding up a tiny bottle. “Mix it with a little honey, and it will work as a restorative.”
The little boy marched in then, carrying the egg before him like some precious jewel. She took it and asked one of the older children for a clean cup.
Rob moaned on the bed, drawing his knees up, and Nan’s brow wrinkled in worry.
“His belly pains him,” Cynthia said, picking up the third packet, dried red clover. “Make an infusion from these leaves. Steep them in boiled water. Then strain the leaves and let him sip at the liquid. It should help with the pain.”
The older child handed Cynthia a cup, and she cracked the egg into it, swirling it around with a piece of the shell. Then she ladled warm water from the pot on the fire over the egg, swishing it so the egg would cloud the water. When the cup was half full, she knelt by the man.
Nan’s brow creased. “But, my lady, he can’t have eggs! Lent has begun!”
Cynthia had expected that the woman would protest. She paused in her labors. “I know, Nan,” she murmured, “but the truth is, he must have nourishment. He’ll die without it. I’m certain God will forgive him this one transgression. Let’s pray that your good Rob lives to pay the penance.”
Nan chewed at her lip uncertainly for a moment. Then she lifted her husband’s shoulders so Cynthia could tip the broth, sip by sip, into his mouth.
“Make this for him twice a day, if possible,” Cynthia said quietly. “But it must be absolutely fresh. Send your children to fetch the eggs, and your neighbors will take no note of it. Keep everything tidy, but if another of your household takes ill, use the same herbs.”
Nan bobbed in agreement. Cynthia lowered the man’s head and tucked the coverlet in around his shoulders.
“I’ll visit tomorrow,” she assured the woman, rising and picking up her satchel.
As she bid them farewell and mounted up again, Cynthia sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. She often wondered how these people could live like mushrooms, huddling together in their close, dark, damp world. Were she as penniless as they, she’d choose to bed down like a wild daisy, in an open field beneath the sky.
The second family had much the same complaints as the first. It was odd, she thought. The two lived at opposite ends of the village. Sickness typically appeared like spring bulbs, clustered at first in one area, then radiating outward.
There were two victims of the illness this time, Jack Trune and his eldest son, Richard. They, too, had had the complaints for two days. She learned from Elizabeth Trune that the two men had been to market on Friday in the village of Elford.
“Did they see Rob atte Gate there, do you know?” Cynthia asked, cradling Richard’s head to give him egg broth.
“Aye,” Jack croaked from where he lay.
“Does Rob have the sickness?” Elizabeth asked.
“Aye.”
Cynthia explained about the egg broth. Elizabeth seemed only too eager to have an excuse to forgo the restrictions of Lent. Cynthia smiled to herself. If this continued, every household in the village would be sneaking out to fetch eggs and concealing it from their neighbors.
It was early afternoon when Cynthia mounted up again for the trek home. She looked forward to a nap in the solar. It was a consequence of her gift that healing others drained her own energies.
As her horse plodded along the curving lane, a young man called out from behind her, despair cracking his voice.
“Please, my lady, if you will!”
She looked around. Here was a face she didn’t recognize, a face darkly handsome, but twisted in pain. He made no effort to hide the tears streaking down his cheeks.
“They say you can heal the sick!” he cried, loping toward her.
Wasting no time, she turned her mount. “Lead the way.”
His shoulders dropped in relief. He beckoned her to follow.
“It’s my wife,” he said brokenly. “We’d just come to the village from Elford to make our home here.”
“Elford?” An uneasy prickling started at the base of Cynthia’s spine.
“Aye, it’s on the other side of—”
