by Lee Ramsay
“Some blisters and chafed skin. Nothing that can’t wait.”
“I’ll be wanting to see for meself when we’ve tended yer boys. Now, let’s have a look at this finger, shall we?”
The Caledorn woman selected a fine-bladed tool from her kit and sawed through the glove’s seams. Seamus gagged as he caught the rank stench of rotting meat rising from Tristan’s hand as Heather peeled the leather away, and Brenna turned her head away as her belly heaved.
“Aye, the wound’s gone sour. Look here, and here,” Heather said, frowning at the red lines running across the palm and through the veins across the back of the hand. She pulled away the crusted bloodmoss dried to his finger and examined the shattered knuckle, then turned his hand in hers to inspect the damage to the finger. Bone shards extended from inflamed flesh of vibrant red, dead white, and necrotic black. Broken, blackened nails on his little and middle finger fell away at a touch. “Let’s hope the rot hasn’t set too deep, or we may have to take the whole hand. Hagmoss may have kept corruption from spreading. ‘Tis late in the season, and what ye’ll find won’t be potent, but ‘twas good that you packed the glove with it.”
“I thought it was bloodmoss.”
“Alike enough, and oft used for the same purpose. Hagmoss is better for wounds.” Heather made an odd noise in her throat as she lifted Tristan’s hand for a closer inspection. She pointed to a corner of the room. “The lower half of the finger cannae be saved – the knuckle’s cracked, and the marrow has shown too long – but we can spare the hand. Seamus, ye’ll find a blue bottle with a cork stopper in that cabinet. Bring it, and we’ll try to get it down his throat. Best he not wake for this.”
“What is it?”
“Laudanum laced with hemlock.”
Brenna blinked at the Caledorn woman. “Hemlock’s a poison.”
“Depending on how it is processed, aye, a right deadly one. There is a way to work it so it slows the heart, which yer friend needs if he’s to survive the shock of the cutting. Laudanum will keep him from waking while we take what’s left of his finger.” She laid Tristan’s hand in her lap, then poured out a fresh cup of whisky and held it out to Brenna. “Ye’ll be needing this, I think.”
“I don’t want to get drunk.”
“Have ye ever seen an amputation done before?”
“Just when I took the top of his finger. It was dark, so I didn’t see much.”
“Well, my girl, ye’re about to see a whole lot more.” Heather held out the cup. Hesitating, Brenna downed it in a single swallow.
It took time to get enough of the laudanum down Tristan’s throat. Administered in small sips, he swallowed thirstily, though the bitterness caused his bearded face to twist with displeasure. He grew more lethargic, reacting less often to the pressures used to test his responsiveness. When Heather was confident he was adequately sedated, she poured whisky across her hands. “Seamus, I’ll need ye to hold his shoulders to the ground. Brenna, hold his feet. Even with the laudanum, he’s like to thrash. His heart’s calm, but best we do this quick.”
The physicker drew a knife with a short, curved blade from the bowl of whisky and gave it a shake. She splayed Tristan’s fingers across her thigh and made a swift incision down each side of the mangled digit. Blood welled and ran into the brown wool of her dress; she paid it no mind as she worked the scalpel across where finger met the palm.
Fascinated and repulsed in equal measure, sweat beaded Brenna’s forehead as she watched the surgery. Tristan’s knees trembled and shifted beneath her hands, forcing her to sit on his shins to keep his bandaged feet pressed to the thick rug. Pale beneath his beard, Seamus used his weight to pin the young man’s shoulders to the floor.
Laying bare the underside of the first knuckle, Heather pulled aside the flap of skin made by two small incisions to sever the tendons and ligaments. Cutting the small vessels which fed blood to the finger was delicate work, and fresh blood flowed from the incisions. Waiting until Tristan settled once more, she slid the fine blade between the knucklebones to separate the deep tissues. When the bones parted, she turned his hand over and made several more incisions to the back of the finger.
The ruined digit dropped into her lap.
Blood clouded the whisky as Heather slipped the scalpel back into the bowl and rolled her neck. She divided a look between her husband and Brenna and gave a dry chuckle as they stared at the blood flowing into her lap from Tristan’s hand and wrapped the severed finger in a scrap of wool. “Och, both of ye can stop looking like ye’re about to faint; the worst is over. Best to let the wound bleed a bit to get some of the rot out. I wish we had more candlelight to do the stitching, but this will have to do.”
Brenna’s hands shook as she eased her hold on Tristan’s ankles. “Will he be alright?”
“Aye, the hand’s color is already improving. His body’s sending fresh blood, which will push much of the infection from his veins. I’ll have to keep it bleeding for a bit, to be certain. He’ll be needing meat and broth to replace the blood he’s lost.” Tapping Seamus’s shoulder with her wrist, she gestured toward the cookstove. “Be a dear and put the stew back on the fire to heat. But for the stitching, we’ll be done right quick.”
Chapter 59
Heating the scalpel blade with the candle allowed Heather to sear the finer blood vessels closed. Cutting away excess skin, she sewed two flaps closed over the knuckle’s stump. After applying a compress of yarrow root to the sutured wound, she wrapped the hand with clean linen. True to her word, the stitching and bandaging were done before the stew was warm.
“He’ll be fine,” she assured Brenna, washing her hands as Seamus ladled out bowls of stew. Taking two, she handed one to the young woman. “Eat, then feed the broth to the lad. What he doesnae take, you will – unless ye want to join him in a similar state.”
“I’m not hungry,” Brenna said, swallowing the odd lump in her throat as she took the food.
“Ye may have trouble with the first few bites, but ye’ll soon be scraping the bowl’s bottom,” Heather said. Gathering her surgical tools and the whisky bottle, she gave Brenna a wink. “We’re off to tend yer others and see them fed. I’ll have a look at ye after.”
“I’m fine.”
“I have seen a half-drowned pup that’s been kicked once too often look better,” Seamus said, hefting the stewpot by its handle. Heather gave her a soft smile as she slipped into the rainy evening behind her husband and closed the door.
Brenna set the bowls on the floor. Other than the crackling fire, she heard little. Long accustomed to Feinthresh Castle’s cold, tense silence, the cottage’s warm comfort was as welcoming as Masha and Ferhan’s home had been. Where others might find their ease, though, she was awkward and nervous. Staring at the food – more than she had been able to scrounge at any one time in the past eight years – she forced herself to stop gnawing her lip. There was no trick here, no bait to lull her into a false sense of security. Seamus might be wary and unhappy with their presence, but did not seem likely to poison them.
She turned her eyes to Tristan’s face. Pale as he was beneath his short beard, his pinched and pained tenseness had eased. His furrowed eyebrows had smoothed, and his eyes remained still beneath their lids. Though his lungs rattled, he no longer struggled for breath save for the occasional catch. A soothing medicinal scent hung around him.
Brenna had always assumed someone as ill and battered as he would moan and thrash about, but he was quiet and still.
Hesitant, she picked up one of the bowls. Fragrant lamb and onion, carrot, and earthy potato set her stomach rumbling, but her appetite remained elusive as she chewed a mouthful and swallowed. Tendrils of warmth unfurled through her and drove the chill from her bones. After weeks of wild tubers, near-spoiled autumn vegetables, and scant berries washed down by bitter pine needle teas, the stew was almost painfully rich. One mouthful connected her belly’s empty rumblings to her mind and fired her appetite. Within minutes the spoon scraped the bottom of
the bowl, and she slurped down the salty broth.
With a contented sigh, she set the bowl aside and belched. Soft as it was, the sound caused Tristan to shift. His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and glazed, and he stared at her without recognition for a long moment. He licked his dry lips. “Where are we?”
“Safe,” Brenna said, scooting to his side. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and found his skin still feverish but without worrisome clamminess. “You fell. Do you remember?”
Tristan's eyes drifted closed as he shook his head. He took a rattling breath and coughed, going limp once the spasm passed. “I hurt, and my feet feel strange.”
“The pain is a good thing. It means your body is trying to heal,” she said when he lifted his left hand and stared at the blood spotting the swath of unbleached linen bandages. “It had to come off, and we had to tend your other injuries. You couldn’t go any further. Now, let’s get some food into you.”
“Not hungry.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Brenna said, dragging the full bowl of soup toward her. She slipped her arm beneath his shoulders and leaned him against her shoulder. She lifted a spoonful of broth to Tristan’s lips and said, “If nothing else, it will ease your thirst and make you feel warmer.”
It took time, but she managed to coax him into swallowing most of the broth. He managed a few chunks of shredded lamb before his head lolled against her shoulder. Unable to rouse him beyond an annoyed grunt, she pushed the bowl away and eased him down to the rug. Covering him with a blanket, she helped herself to the rest of his stew despite her stretched stomach protesting every mouthful.
Heather slipped into the cottage with a swirl of chill air and set the empty pot on the counter. She glanced at the empty bowls at Brenna’s knee as she closed the door behind her. “How long has it been since ye’ve all had a decent meal? I thought for sure there would be enough. The gods know I have to make plenty to keep my Seamus full, but yer friends put his hunger to shame.”
“Too long. I apologize for the inconvenience we’ve caused,” Brenna said as she climbed to her feet.
“Och, think nothing of it. Ye were brought to our door for a reason, and we’re glad to be of help. Or at least I am,” Heather said, taking the empty bowls and setting them on the counter. “Now then, the ginger’s tended as best we might. Aside from a few bruises and blisters, yer friend Rathus is hale and hearty. The Hillffolk is hale enough, aside from some bites and scratches. Ye’d have to bash his head with a stone to slow him down. What hurts are ye hiding?”
“I am fine, truly.”
The Caledorn woman’s lips twisted in a doubting smirk. “And I’m a dockside bangtail. I’m speaking not only of the body’s hurts. Ye’re how old? No more than one and twenty, I’m guessing.”
“What year is it?”
“The year is Fourteen-Fifteen,” Heather said with a lift of her eyebrows.
“Then I have twenty years to my name come Midwinter. Why?”
“Because ye’ve the build of a girl passing fifteen, but the eyes of a woman twice twenty.” Heather rested her hand on Brenna’s shoulder and gave it a compassionate squeeze. “I’ve seen women in need of Siranon’s grace and comfort when they’ve been ill-used, and ye’ve the look of one in need of her kindness. Yer hair’s been cut short to be hard to grab, and yer lip’s more scab than skin. I can see ye’re comfortable with the lads ye travel with, but there’s a wariness to ye.”
Brenna backed away. “Quite the assumption.”
“It hasn’t always been neighborly between the Reesenat or the Caledorn, ye ken. And all too often, the lads get a wee too handsy when they sink in their cups.” The older woman cupped her swollen belly as she leaned against the stone counter. “In the latter case, the law takes a hand, or if it’s the husband that’s doing it, the lass will eventually brain him. In the former – there’s small recompense for being the spoils of war.”
Shoulders hunched and stiff, Brenna hugged her torso and turned away.
“’Tis odd, though, to hear of an Anahari woman suffering such ill-use. Was there a bairn?”
“I have no wish to talk of this.”
“No wish, but a need. I’ll not push, but yer hurt festers like an untreated canker for those with eyes to see.”
Silence filled the space between them. Brenna knew Heather was waiting her out and hated her for it. Remembered pain and fear rose, threatening the fragile calm she had built around herself. “Eight years.”
“Pardon?”
“You wanted to know. Eight years I was a prisoner of the Grand Duchess of Anahar, given over to her before I was twelve. My maidenhead was taken before I was a woman grown.” Anger surged as she glanced over her shoulder, and her voice turned venomous at the compassion on Heather’s face. “You have seen women to whom it has happened in war?”
“I have.”
“I envy them. It happens, and then it’s done. They can go on with their lives.”
“Some choose to end their pain.”
“I hate them for the luxury of choice.”
Heather said nothing as she took a pair of clay cups from a shelf. The cork popped from the whisky bottle’s neck, and she pouted until both cups were full. Brenna took the offered cup without seeing it.
“For eight years, I hid as best I could. Those first years were the worst, passed around the grand duchess’ soldiers as nothing more than a hole for them to stick their cocks into. There were pregnancies, but they were dealt with.” The young woman’s jaw muscles jumped as she took a swallow of her drink, and she blamed the alcohol’s sting for the tear tracking through the dirt on her cheek. “I learned to hide, and how to sneak through the castle to steal food and clothing. I could have escaped perhaps a dozen times and didn’t. Most times, I remained unseen. When I was caught...”
Brenna took another swallow. Her hand shook so badly she spilled a bit down her chin. Whether the tremor was from remembered fear or repressed anger, she was uncertain.
“I didna think such a thing was done in Anahar.”
“Neither do most Anahari.” After a moment of silence, the young woman gestured to where Tristan lay unconscious. “I admire and hate him almost in equal measure.”
“Oh? For someone ye hate, ye seem to care a fair bit.”
“He is a means to an end. Or he was. I freed him for no other reason than I thought he might help me escape.” Brenna met Heather’s eyes as she set her cup on the counter. “In the year he was a prisoner, he resisted. He fought back when I didn’t, and nearly died doing so. It’s why I admire him, and why I hate him. He did what I could not muster the courage to do.”
“There is more to it, I think.”
“There is. When I freed him from his chains, I did so with no thought but how it might help me. Once he was free, though, he thought of others – and did what he could to help them with no thought on how it might benefit him.” Brenna scowled as she met Heather’s steady gaze. “You want to know what my hurts are? It’s not the memory of the rapes, or the beatings, or any injury I took while running – those I can bear. My shame is what hurts. When he had the chance to strike back, he took it. I...I hid, and wanted to run away. And now that I am free, all I want is to keep running.”
Chapter 60
It was a small luxury, and it spoke of how much Seamus adored his wife. Remote from everyone and everything, the taciturn tinker-farmer had built his wife a bathing chamber against the back of the cottage, using the cottage’s hearth to heat pump-drawn water. The windowless room was illuminated by candles and warmed by heat radiating through the chimney.
Head pillowed on a rolled cloth and knees bent, Brenna reclined in the copper tub’s chest-deep water. Soaking in a hot bath was an unexpected pleasure after eight years of cleaning herself with cold water and musty rags. Rudimentary compared to the bathing chambers she had seen as a child or spied from Feinthresh Castle’s hidden passageways, it nonetheless shared some of the same engineering principles.
&nbs
p; She had not expected such generosity from Heather, and Seamus had thawed toward his unexpected guests. Three days had passed since arriving on the couple’s doorstep, the farmer giving up the comfort of his bed so that Heather and Brenna could tend Tristan without his constant comings and goings. His wife fed them from stores laid away in the cellar; Brenna could not remember the last time she had gone so long without an empty belly.
In return for their generosity, Rathus and Groush assisted Seamus in tending the animals and bringing in the last of the autumn harvest. With Tristan having passed beyond the danger of sickening any further, Heather had taken to knitting in a comfortable chair, sparing her pregnancy-strained back and feet while Brenna assumed the household chores.
It was a simple life of routine, and one Brenna found satisfying. She was no use with the cooking, never having been taught more than the basics of boiling water for tea, but found the quiet work of cleaning and cutting vegetables, cheeses, and meats soothing.
She recalled Tristan’s first lucid moment the day after their arrival with a slight smile. His fever broke in the night. His modesty had unaccountably returned as well, leaving him blushing and attempting to hide his nudity beneath a blanket. Assuring him she had seen far more impressive men than his scrawny self, Heather checked his bandages and dosed him with laudanum to send him back to sleep.
Each day they lingered heightened the risk of the remaining Dushken finding them. Though Groush was by far the strongest of them and Rathus the healthiest, both admitted they were near done in after their first warm night sleeping in the barn. With a few days of food and rest, though, they were growing anxious.
They could not leave yet. Improved as he was, Tristan’s feet were still a mass of torn flesh, and his lungs rattled when he breathed. Though the fever was largely broken, he still suffered lesser bouts. Heather assured her it was his body fighting off the corruption which had set into his wounds. With a few more days of rest, clean water, and solid food, the young man would recover.