by Smith, Skye
He tried to take it off but the blood had stuck it to his wound and every time he pulled at it the pain seared through his body. By hopping, he moved over to his water skin and shook it. If he used his drinking water all up by dampening the silk to free it from the blood, then what would he drink. The pond water may sicken him. There was no obvious sign of where the spring came out of the ground. It was a long way down a steep hill to fetch more drinking water. The nightshirt would have to wait, because what he really needed to do was to sit down and rest before he fell down. He was feeling quite dizzy. The best he could manage without making the pain worse was to lie face down on the cool, damp, sheep sheered grass.
* * * * *
There it was again. Something was moving towards him. Was that the cry of a lamb? Were the moving sounds from Femke or a sheep? He wiped the crust of sleep from his eyes and looked around. How long had he been asleep. The sun was low and the shadows long. A shadow moved. It was erect with arms, so not a sheep or a horse. Slowly he moved his right arm to reach for a pistol, any pistol.
"Move and I will stab you,” said a nervous voice.
"I mean no harm,” he said. Had it been a woman's voice or a lad who had not yet grown into a voice. "I am injured. I need help."
"I can see that. You've lost a lot of blood."
"My problem is that I can't see the wound. Please help me." Keeping his body raised up had sapped his strength and he let him self drop.
"If I come closer to look, how do I know you won't grab me?"
"I'm so weak I can't even twist my body to look at you," Daniel whispered. "At least move forward to where we can speak face to face." It was a woman. She circled him never taking her eyes of him. She carried a baby on her back held to her by a length of cloth tied around her shoulders. In her hand was a stone. She threw it at him. It hurt and he flinched and moaned in pain. Perhaps it was because he didn't have the strength to duck or block the stone that she came closer. He felt her gently tugging at his silk shirt. "Oww!"
"Your shirt is stuck in your wound,” she told him.
"Do you have some clean water to unstick it?" he whispered hoarsely.
"I didn't say stuck to your wound, I said stuck in it. What weave is that. It is like spun spider webs woven together. So tightly woven, so thin, so light."
The woman had never seen silk before, so she had probably never been to a town market or known a manor born woman. "It is silk. A moth makes the thread in the same way that spiders do. If it is stuck in the wound then something pushed it in there. Can you see what it is?"
"No. The blood has dried over it."
"Do you have some clean water to wash the blood away?"
"If I do that then it will start bleeding again. For now it is stopped. There is dried blood all around you. You can't have much left inside you."
Daniel wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open. If he slept before the wound was clean and staunched he may never wake up again. "Listen to me. I want you to grab the silk around the edges of the wound and yank it out of the wound. One yank, as hard as you can. Then I want you to hold a ball of the shirt cloth firmly against the wound until it stops bleeding. Do you understand?"
"Yank it free then press down. I can do that. Tell me when you are ready."
"I'll never be ready, just do it. Yiiiiiii! Oowwwww! Noooo!"
* * * * *
Was it night or was he dead? Oh the pain. He must be alive to be in so much pain, so it was night.
"I'm sorry,” she told him. " It wouldn't stop bleeding so I had to sew it shut. That was the last stitch."
"Have you pulled it tight and tied it off yet?" He had to get his mind clear. Why did he ask that question? She had said no. Why was the question important? Ah, yes. "Before you tighten it, go to my saddle. There is a flask of aqua vitae there. Fetch it."
"But I'm finished. If you wanted to get drunk to dull the pain, you should have asked me before."
"I want you to use the aqua vitae to flush the wound and the stitches before you close it tight."
"But won't that hurt?" she asked all concerned.
"Oh yes,” he whispered weakly.
* * * * *
He was so cold. So very cold. He opened his eyes. It was still night. She was sitting on a grass mat, leaning against the barrow and nursing her baby. If he hadn't been so bloody cold he would have admired the gentle scene. "Please find my blanket and put it over me,” he whispered.
"It already is."
"Then throw my cloak over it."
"It already is."
"How long until morning?"
"A full night."
"But when I last woke it was almost midnight."
"That was last night,” she told him.
"Then I must have fever chills. Am I dying?"
"No you are just cold. You lost a lot of blood and the nights get cold up here. You would be warmer if I could move you into my barrow, but you weigh too much."
He was so cold he had to do something. He pushed himself up on two hands and one knee and crawled slowly along the ground and down into the barrow.
* * * * *
"My husband and I are cottagers at the foot of the hill,” she told him the next afternoon when he was feeling warmer and well enough to lie on his good side covered only by his blanket. "I go down every morning to work our field and I bring what I have harvested to hide up here and we sleep here where we are safe."
"While your husband sleeps in your cottage?"
"Yes," she said quickly, too quickly. "No. The king's men came to claim our animals and when they left they took him with them. I haven't seen him for weeks. I brought all our things up here for safety. The cottage is empty. Each day I cut and thresh and pick only what I can carry up the slope."
"But don't others see you climbing the slope each day. They must know you are up here."
"The sheep path goes through high bush. No one sees me. No one else comes up here because the fort is haunted." She lifted the harvest sack and carried it to the back of the barrow to a row of large earthenware pots, and lifted one of the lids and poured the barley into the pot.
"Cerys, where did you get those huge pots?" he asked. Her name was Cerys and she was perhaps seventeen. The baby was Nia and perhaps six months.
"They were here already. I was afraid that rats would gnaw through my sacks so I emptied the pots and cleaned them and now I use them for storage."
"Emptied them of what?" he asked more to pass the time than out of interest. His wound was healing quickly. The silk had saved his life. The silk and this woman. He was no longer sleeping all the hours of the day so now he was bored and anxious. Anxious about where the Freiston men were. Anxious that no one knew where he was or how he fared.
"Bones. Old crumbly bones. There were some beads and stone carvings too, and some metal jewelry ... rings, broaches, torques." She pulled a twisted metal bracelet from around her wrist and handed it to him.
As he was staring at the torque he asked. "So what was it that you pulled out of me with the silk?"
"It's there beside your pistol."
Daniel kept holding the torque while he picked up a bent and rusty piece of metal from beside his pistol. "A horseshoe nail. What kind of idiot would risk scoring the barrel of his gun by shooting horseshoe nails?"
"The kind of idiot who almost did for you. The silk not only kept the nail from driving deeper and into an organ, but it kept the rust out of your blood." She moved over to him and pulled back the blanket and touched her hand to his bare bum. "See, the wound is no longer hot. It is healing."
"Any excuse to touch my bum,” he jested. It fell sour on her ears. "Sorry."
"I walked to the hamlet today and bought some cooked meat. You need to eat meat to build up your blood." She handed him a plate with a greasy chunk of something on it.
"They've cheated you love. What is this, the fetlock of a horse?"
"It cost all that I had,” she said with an edge to her
voice and then stood and walked away. She was petite enough to stand full height in the low barrow.
He wanted to apologize but that would seem like sympathy and rob her of her pride. "Why didn't you take some coppers from my purse? They are all yours in payment for board and nursing." It was still the wrong thing to say.
"How would I know that you have a purse? I don't snoop in other folk's things."
"This torque,” he held it up hoping to bring her closer. "I think it is valuable. Go over to my saddle and unscrew one of the front posts. It is hollow and inside it there are some coins. Bring one to me." Meanwhile he rolled over to where the sun was shining through the doorway and looked at the metal of the torque in good light.
She handed him a gold eight and he compared its color to that of the torque. "What metal did you think this was?"
"A mix of tin and copper. That is common around here because we are so close to Wales."
"I think it is copper and gold. Here look for yourself. The piece of eight is pure gold. See how the torque is slightly darker than the yellow of the eight. They added some copper to strengthen it." He compared the weight. The torque was much heavier. "If you bring me the rest of the coins then I can guess at its weight which will tell us its worth."
"I have a scale," she told him and fetched it along with his coins. While she held up the balance bar, he carefully added eights until the torque was balanced.
"Your torque is worth a house in the closest village,” he told her.
"I have other ones, larger ones, men's ones."
"Then you are a very wealthy woman. If I were you I would hide them away somewhere. Bury them somewhere away from this barrow and come back for them when your husband returns. You should certainly not be wearing any of it for others to see. They will mark you to the thieves."
"Then you aren't going to take them away from me?" she asked, as she took her torque back.
"I don't snoop in other folk's things,” he echoed her words. "In the inside pocket of my cloak there is a purse of coppers and some silver. Take that with you tomorrow and buy me some liver. Eating young liver is what will give me back my blood."
"When I go will you watch Nia for me."
"I would love to,” he lied. Nia was not a well baby for she always stank of shit and cried a lot. "Buy some cultured milk for her, sheep’s milk. That may sort out her tummy."
"May I take Femke?" she asked.
"Can you ride?"
"I can ride Femke. She has already let me."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14
Chapter 22 - Hiding in Bury Walls, Shropshire, October 1642
"You're late back,” he told her angrily as she came down the slope into the barrow. "Nia hasn't stopped crying for two hours. There was nothing I could do to stop her. I don't have the right kind of tits." Nothing got on his nerves more than a crying baby. He supposed the goddess made babies that way on purpose.
"I had to go all the way to Shawbury to find liver, but there I found lambs liver, and some cultured sheep’s milk, and cheap candles. Because I rode Femke I still had time to do some more harvesting." She said all this as she hobbled passed him and put down a sack of beans and a shopping basket so that she could pick Nia up. "Some of the king's men followed me back to the cottage ... well dressed gentlemen on fine horses. They searched the cottage but it is empty except for some benches and our bed. I was afraid they were going to take Femke, but they didn't want her." She reached out to take Nia from him.
As she stretched her arms her wrists showed out from under the long sleeves of her homespun smock. Her wrists were ringed in fresh bruises. He looked into her face. Her mouth was also bruised. As she picked up Nia he looked down at her ankles. Rings of fresh bruises. "Just who were these men?" He grabbed back Nia because Cerys was stumbling as if she were dizzy.
She caught her balance and stared back at him. "I told you, the king's gentlemen. Cavalryers, cavaliers, whatever. I'm all right now. There were only three of them. They finished with me within two hours." She sat down on the mat next to Daniel. "Pass her to me. My breasts are aching."
He didn't know what to say to comfort her. Would she even want a man around her, hugging her, comforting her, after being raped by three of the king's cavaliers.
She sniffed up a tear and told him, "Before all these armies began moving around the countryside, if a gentleman stopped to hump a country girl he would given her tu'pence or even sixpence, you know, just so she couldn't claim it was rape. Now they don't bother. Now they think they are above the law, or beyond punishment, so they just do what they want."
"I know love. The king's gentlemen have become gangs of outlaws,” he said and searched for something, anything to say that would comfort her. "It's just not fair."
"It was never fair," she hissed. "Now it is worse. I told them that I was married and still nursing a baby. I told them that my husband was in the service of the king. They didn't care. They told me that it was my duty to service them because they were the sons of manor lords. Gentlemen always say something like that."
"Sometimes it is a curse being so pretty." And she was pretty. Not big blonde Frisian pretty but small dark Welsh pretty. Dark hair and eyes and milk white skin and petite. So light on her feet that when she moved about the barrow it was like a fairie was dancing about.
"My looks are my curse when men catch me alone," she said as she moved Nia to her other nipple. "Someday soon I wish that all the fine gentlemen of this kingdom would meet in battle and kill each other. Think of it. Line up all of the king's fine gentlemen on one side of a field, and all of Parliament's fine gentlemen on the other side of the field and let them fight and kill each other until there is only one left."
"And what would that last gentlemen win?"
"A hangman's noose for murdering the rest, and then all the folk everywhere could live in peace on their own land and raise children that aren't always hungry and everyone would be so happy."
"When your husband comes back you can sell your torques and buy a farm and be happy,” he told her.
"Not so long as there are cavalier gentlemen still about. They will find a way to take the land away from us. They will say that we don't deserve to own land because we weren't born of a manor or because we don't have kin in France."
* * * * *
The liver was doing its work well. Every new day he was stronger and slept less, which meant that every day he was even more bored and restless. Each day he took longer and longer walks to strengthen his muscles which had become frighteningly weak in just a week. The sheep's milk culture was doing its work as well. He had an appetite again and Nia no longer stank. She was sleeping more and crying less. Her tummy gas had gone away, and now she hungered for more than just Cerys's tits.
The nights were getting colder and in the mornings there was just a hint of frost. Winter was coming early, yet again. As soon as he could hobble as far as the pond he had washed out his clothes, especially his silk nightshirt. Not that he was wearing it, for as soon as it was clean and dry, Cerys had put it on to feel its touch and then had refused to take it off.
The barrow had no vent for the smoke so they could not build a fire inside it. To stay warm all three of them slept together under all of their blankets. It felt good to be lying beside a woman again, a good and comforting woman, and he never took advantage. Every morning she would jest that she could see how much more blood the liver was giving him by the swelling of his morning cock stand. Every morning she would ask if she could wear the silk shirt for just one more day.
Each day he took longer and longer walks until one day he was brave enough to walk down hill. This was brave because for every step he took down he would have to climb back up. He went with Cerys down to her cottage at the base of the hill below the ancient fort. She had told him that the locals called the fort Bury, but she also told him that the ancients had called it Camelot and that King Arthur once live
d here and that was why the locals thought it was haunted.
That day she planted the tiny seeds of a plant she called the 'stay alive plant' because it was the first edible green to shoot up after winter. By her description it was what the English called 'farmers cabbage' and what Frisians called 'kale'. Her name for it was the best. The true shortage of food for cottagers was not during winter, but in early spring when all the stored food was gone and the new growth was not yet ready to eat.
While she was planting, he found a trail along the foot of the hill that led back to the wood and the clearing where he had been injured. The cart was still there. Yes it had been pushed off the road, but no one had taken it or dismantled it or used it for kindling. Perhaps that was not so surprising. This place was miles away from any town, and during the whole time he had been walking parallel to the road not a single person had walked or ridden by. Everyone was doing like Cerys and hiding from the king's foragers.
Originally he was going to climb back up to the ridge using the trail he had used on the day he had been wounded, because it had been a gentle grade, but he changed his mind and instead walked back to Cerys's cottage to walk with her up the gully path behind the cottage. She put him to work carrying up some fresh straw up to make their beds more comfortable.
"How did you ever come to live here?" he asked her as they took a rest and looked down at the tiny cottage. "Why haven't you gone back to your family? They would keep you and Nia safe."
"When I married a Welshman my family disowned me,” she replied. "This was his grandfather's cottage, and if someone from his family did not claim it and live in it, the local manor lord would have claimed it for himself. In truth it should revert to common, but the Shropshire manor lords never allow any land to revert to common. It is as if the very existence of communal land threatens them."