She should have worn her good dress, the crimson one with the bit of white silk at the neck and wrists that Frau Geruscha had given her. Hildy said it brought out the red tint in her chestnut hair. But how could she have known Hildy would draw the attention of both Lord Hamlin and Lord Rupert and that they would look straight at her?
Realizing her train of thought, she snorted. What difference did it make which dress she wore? Everyone knew Lord Hamlin was betrothed to the daughter of the Duke of Marienberg. But betrothed or not, he’d hardly be interested in her. And Lord Rupert, as the younger son, would inherit none of the family’s wealth and so would need to find a rich heiress to marry.
If, as an apprentice, Rose could impress Frau Geruscha with her skill, she would become the next healer — needed, respected. She could avoid the indignity of marrying someone out of desperation.
So she’d never experience love. Most married people didn’t, either.
Rose dipped her quill in the pot of ink and concentrated on scratching out the next sentence of the tale she was writing. Frau Geruscha encouraged her to write her stories, although she said it was probably best if she didn’t tell anyone about them.
Shouts drifted through the open window of the healer’s chambers. From her vantage point in the southwest tower of Hagenheim Castle, Rose peered out, seeking the source of the commotion.
“Make way!”
Two men hastened across the courtyard. They carried a boy between them, using their arms for a seat. A woman ran behind them.
Rose scrambled to hide her parchment, pen, and ink in the small trunk beside her desk. “Frau Geruscha! Someone’s coming!” She snatched up a gray apron that lay nearby and slipped it over her head.
Wolfie adjusted his grip on his bone and growled low in his throat.
“Wolfie, stay.”
The dog’s lips came together, sheathing his fangs, but he focused his eyes on the door.
Frau Geruscha entered the chamber from the storage room, her wimple bobbing like the wings of a great white bird.
The two men carrying the boy burst through the door, the woman following close behind. Rose recognized one man as a farmer who lived near her parents’ home. The boy was his son, perhaps eight years old. He wore ragged brown hose and his torn shirt drooped on his thin frame. Bright red blood covered one of his sleeves. His lips were white, as if all the blood had drained out of his body.
Here was her chance to show Frau Geruscha she was a competent apprentice. She would strive to appear calm and ready to help. She was thankful she had already braided her hair that morning and covered it with a linen cloth, as her mistress had instructed her.
“Frau Geruscha!” Fear and panic lent a high pitch to the woman’s voice. “Our son fell on the plow blade.”
The healer’s wise face wrinkled in concentration as her gaze swept the boy from head to toe. She pointed to a low straw bed against the wall, and the men laid the child on it.
Pain drew the boy’s features tight. Rose longed to comfort him, but she didn’t want to get in Frau Geruscha’s way.
Frau Geruscha sat on the edge of the bed. She showed no emotion as she pulled back his sleeve, revealing the gaping wound.
“No!” The boy screamed and shrank away from her. He held his arm against his chest and drew his knees up like a shield.
Rose turned her head. O God, don’t let me get sick. She had to prove herself.
Frau Geruscha glanced back at Rose. “Fetch me some water from the kettle and a roll of bandages.”
Rose scurried to the fireplace and grabbed a pottery bowl. Using a cloth to hold the lip of the iron kettle, she tipped it to one side and poured hot water into the shallow vessel. She carried it back to Frau Geruscha then dashed to the storage room to get the bandages.
“Don’t touch it!”
Rose tried to force the boy’s terrified voice from her mind. When she returned, Frau Geruscha was washing the blood from the wound. Rose held out the roll of fabric.
Her hand shook. She had to get control of herself before her mistress noticed.
Frau Geruscha took a section of the clean linen and used it to soak up the blood and water around the wound. “Rose, get him some henbane and wormwood tea.” She turned to the parents. “The herbs will help ease his pain.”
Biting her lip, Rose ran into the adjoining storage room again. She should have guessed Frau Geruscha would want that tea. She should have already gone for it instead of standing there with her mouth open. So far she wasn’t proving herself very competent.
Shelves of dried herbs lined the walls. She grabbed the flasks labeled henbane and wormwood and scooped a spoonful of each into a metal cup, then used a dipper to ladle in steaming water from the kettle.
She hurried back and placed the cup in the mother’s outstretched hands. The woman held it to her son’s lips.
Frau Geruscha made the sign of the cross and laid her hand on the boy’s arm. She then closed her eyes. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, we ask you, God, to heal this boy’s wound in the name of Jesus and by the power of his blood. Amen.”
The smell of blood, warm and stifling, mingled with the odor of sweat. The bowl of water was now bright red, and Rose caught another whiff of the familiar, sickening smell.
Frau Geruscha opened her eyes and crossed herself again. She reached into her box of supplies and held up a needle. The tiny metal object glinted in the morning light.
The boy locked wide eyes on the needle and screamed, “No! No! No!” His father moved to hold him down.
Rose fled into the storeroom, her bare feet noiseless on the stone floor. She leaned against the wall and sucked in deep breaths. Her head seemed to float off her shoulders, as light as a fluff of wool, while her face tingled and spots danced before her eyes.
How childish. Rose pressed her face into her hands and stifled a groan. Had Frau Geruscha seen her flee the room? She must get back in there and overcome this squeamishness.
She drew in another deep breath. The earthy odor of the herbs that hung from the rafters was stuffy, but at least it didn’t trouble her stomach like the smell of blood. Rose focused on the sights around her — the rushes strewn over the stone floor … low shelves packed with flasks of dried herbs … the rough stone wall poking her back. The screaming drifted away.
The tingling sensation gradually left her face and she breathed more normally.
She entered the room again, stepping carefully so as not to rustle the rushes on the floor and draw attention to herself. The boy’s eyes were closed and his lips were the same ash gray as his face. He must have lost consciousness, since he didn’t even wince as the needle pierced his skin.
Frau Geruscha quickly finished stitching the wound. After she tied the last knot and clipped the string of catgut, she wound the remainder of the bandage around his arm and tied a thin strip of cloth around it to hold it in place.
Finally, the people left, carrying the limp boy with them.
Rose hurried to clean up the water spills and the bloody linen. Her stomach lurched at every whiff of the metallic odor, but she had to pretend it didn’t bother her, to hope her mistress didn’t notice how it affected her.
“Are you well?” Frau Geruscha’s gray eyes narrowed, studying Rose. “You looked pale when you ran into the storage room.”
So her mistress had noticed. “I am very well.”
How could she be so pathetic? She had to find a way to prepare herself for the next time she must face the blood, screams, and smells.
About the Author
MELANIE DICKERSON is the author of The Healer’s Apprentice, a Christy Award finalist and winner of the National Reader’s Choice Award for Best First Book. Melanie earned a bachelor’s degree in special education from the University of Alabama and has been a teacher and a missionary. She lives with her husband and two daughters in Huntsville, Alabama.
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Other books by
Melanie Dickerson
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Copyright © 2012 by Melanie Dickerson
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