“Mother wants me to churn the butter,” she replied with a sad shrug. “Are you going to work in the fields?”
“I do not know. I have work to do within the manor house,” Amoda replied.
“I like to work the fields. I like to rake the soil and plant the seeds.”
“I do not think we’re planting these days.” Amoda tilted her head, her gaze intent upon the young girl, when she shifted uncomfortably.
“Nay, but we have to fertilize them and water them,” she said.
“Do you? I’ve never worked in a field before,” Amoda admitted.
“Why not?”
Amoda shrugged, a shift of her shoulders as she put the end of one bed linen in the basket. “It is not my fate.”
“What is?”
“I do not know,” Amoda replied as she heard a woman’s voice hollering. “Is that your mother?”
“Aye. I must go.” The child darted back along the path only to return a moment later. “You are not mean like Mother said you are. I like you.”
“Thank you.” Amoda smiled as she scampered off again. With a quick shake of her head, Amoda turned and started for the thick branched trees to hang the laundry on. She left the basket in the warmth of the sun to dry and started back for the manor house.
The cool interior of the manor, absent of occupants, offered a welcome respite from the dark looks that the women cast her on a regular basis. She rubbed, ineffectively, at the dampness that clung to her tunic and apron as she walked, contemplating changing into something drier. A sudden high-pitched scream of agony ripped apart the morning air.
Amoda felt her stomach clench at the sound of the cries coming from the kitchen as she raced along the narrow corridor. Stumbling to a halt in the doorway, she stared in shock and horror at the scene that greeted her.
Women crowded into the room. Some stared, others whispered as they tended to a small figure lying, screaming upon the floor. Stepping past two women, Amoda peeked over their shoulders, her eyes widening in horror as she recognized the girl who’d spoken so nicely to her.
Amoda blanched at the sight that greeted her. Huge red and white blisters had already begun forming along the child’s arm. The soaked fabric of her dress stuck to her flesh. An overturned pot lay steaming nearby. She could tell that the burns carried further down her side, and raced over her hip and thigh.
“Be gone with you.” One of the women turned to her, a harsh scowl upon her chubby face. “We don’t need your kind.”
Without a word, Amoda turned and hurried from the room. Pushing past Byrne, she bolted toward her chamber. The assorted murmurs from the kitchen faded quickly as she hurried along. Her mind raced with thoughts as she considered the wounds.
“It is a bad scald. I will need many things,” she muttered to herself. “I have witch hazel and blackberry. They will help with the burns. Trembling Aspen leaves for pain. Aye, they will help her. Fresh hazel, nay, nay, I will need to make a poultice. ‘Tis not the season anyway, though I do have some dried from earlier in the year.”
Hands moved quickly, dried plants eagerly tossed in a small basket, and she collected a small wooden bowl and stone to crush them. “Something to help with her nausea is necessary, mint, of course. Oh that poor girl. So young to experience that wound, must not open the blisters. Let the herbs soak up the toxins.” She paused suddenly, standing upright. “Moss! I need moss.” Tossing aside rolled furs and the quiver, she dug around in the small, tightly sealed basket, pulling out several handfuls of dried bog moss.
“I’ll soak these, place them on the wound, and it will help to draw out any poison.” She tossed them into her bowl and darted out the door.
Ignoring the puzzled looks from those still milling about in the corridor, she pushed her way through the crowd, her steps sure, as she hurried into the kitchen. Pushing past the other women, she set her basket on the nearby table. Seeing the girl still on the floor, agony written in her expression while her mother heated a knife, Amoda roughly shoved the older woman aside.
“What do you think...?” Talia, the girl’s mother snarled.
“Keep your teeth together, woman,” Amoda ground out. She grabbed the knife and pulled. Kneeling next to the girl, Amoda made one slow slice up the girl’s dress, slicing the threads and peeling it away from the wound. A wrinkled nose at the smell of burned flesh displayed the only outward sign of her dismay and disgust. Large, painful red and white blisters had risen along the girl’s flank. Stretched thinly, the skin glistened in the light, the puss and poison beneath it clear in the light.
The whimpers and cries from Kaila as she lay there seemed to swell until they filled the room, leaving no room for anything else. It was obvious to all that the girl suffered a great pain.
The startled and pained gasps from those gathered around, echoed in the room. Amoda reached out gently and began pressing against the skin, testing for heat. “Fetch cold water,” she ordered. “The flesh is too hot. She’s still burning.”
A moment later, a large bucket in hand, one of the older girls appeared by her side. “This enough?” she panted. Amoda glanced at the bucket with a grateful smile.
“For now. It would be best to get more though. I will need to bathe the wounds clean before applying a poultice.”
“I’ll fetch it.” The girl darted off, ignoring her mother’s dark look.
Amoda glanced around at the women, standing and looking at her with disdain and barely controlled anger. “If you have nothing better to do than stare at her, might I suggest you return to your work. Bring me a large piece of clean fabric to bind the wounds,” she ground out, before turning from them to the girl who lay whimpering in agony. “I will make you something to ease the pain. You must drink it all.”
The girl nodded quickly, her face scrunched in agony and tears rolling down her face. Amoda smoothed her hair away from her face and turned to make the tea. Grinding the dried bark into a fine powder with familiarity, she poured in some warm water and stirred it. Tossing in a few bits of mint to ease the bitter taste, she nodded to herself. Certain of its readiness, she dipped her finger into it and tested it.
“Come, sip of this drink,” she commanded as the girl made a face at the harsh taste. “I know it tastes horrid, but you must drink it.”
Once the child had drank it, Amoda began pouring cool, clean water over the girl’s burns. With each touch of the crisp liquid, the girl hissed in pain, even as the redness seemed to fade a bit. Once the bucket was empty, Amoda examined each wound. As tenderly as possible, she pressed against each blister, checking for resistance and signs of deeper wounds. Flesh too badly burned peeled away beneath her fingers, and she washed the area even more. Soon, she had fresh pink flesh uncovered, and she pressed along it as delicately as she could. Each touch of her fingers drew a soft cry from the girl.
Finally satisfied that the wounds were clean and the girl was as comfortable as she could make her, Amoda rose and began to make the poultice she would apply. She ground the dried leaves into a thin, greenish-grey powder as two more buckets of water appeared next to the table. The turn of her wrist, and the ladle dipped into one. Quickly, a thick paste rested in the bottom of the bowl. Taking another dish from the table, Amoda put the moss into it and covered it with water. With the moss soaking, she added more of the crushed aspen bark and blackberry leaves. She reached across the table and grabbed the small bowl of honey, adding a few spoonfuls.
Annoyance with the other women pounded through her blood. Each moment their soft murmurs curled about the room made her heart pound until it seemed ready to jump from her chest. Determined to ignore them, she focused on mixing the right concoction to help her patient. She would do what she could for the girl and go back to her duties.
The girl smiled weakly as Amoda smoothed the thick, creamy poultice over her wounds. It would cool her fevered skin and promote healing of the wounds. If Freyja was kind, the girl might not scar too badly. The rich, spicy smell that arose from it wafted through
the room. With the last of the poultice on the girl’s flesh, Amoda rose and collected the now plump green and brown moss. She lifted each piece out of the bowl, nodding as the now dry bottom came into clearer view. The moss had soaked up all the water, a good sign.
Placing each piece atop the worst of the burns, she quickly wrapped the girl’s wounds and tied the clean bandages. “You must not take this off,” she advised. “It will help heal the wound and prevent scarring. It will begin to itch but you must not remove it.”
“But my chores…” the girl whimpered as Amoda sat her up.
“You will not be doing much, you must rest. Come, I’ll help you back to your bed.” Amoda eased the girl to her feet. She turned from the hostile, shocked glares around her to collect a small pouch of dried bark and herbs.
“I shall take her,” Talia ground out, staring at her with mixed emotions.
“Aye. I have mixed up some powder for you. Just add water to make a tea for the pain.” Amoda stepped back. Quick, efficient movements had her things gathered, the space she’d used clean before she stalked out of the room.
~ * ~
Snapping the dried sheet, Amoda made short work of folding it as the late day sun beat down upon her head. She counted each item left before folding it, slightly shocked to see so much of her laundry still hanging cleanly. With a shrug, she reached for the other sheet, only to tense as she saw two of the other women grab for it at the same time.
She raised her chin and tugged, pulling the woolen fabric from their hands to roll it carelessly and stuff it into the basket. “They are dry; I have no desire to wash them again,” she snapped and jerked the remaining pieces from the branches and stuffed them into the basket.
With her head bent, Amoda hurried toward the manor house. A confrontation with the others was not what she wanted. Their constant dislike and petty tricks aggravated her greatly. Would this be what her life came to? If she bore Mykyl a child, would the others accept her? Treat her with, if not caring, perhaps tolerance?
“Nay, they will never let me in,” she whispered to herself as she reached for the door only to have one of the other women step in her path. “Let me pass. I have much to do.” Wordlessly, the other woman opened the door and held it while she slipped inside. Amoda frowned as she walked past two of the other women, their looks still filled with hostility, but something else lay in their gazes too.
“You did well today.”
Amoda jumped slightly and glared at the weathered old man standing in the shadows. “There is much left for me to…”
“Where did you learn your skill with burns?” Byrne demanded as she brushed past him. “A slave would not be taught such things.”
Amoda paused and turned to stare at him, aware of several other women standing in the doorway. “I learned what I had to. Rognvaldr is old and riddled with illness. I gathered the herbs, mixed the potions he gave out to those seeking his aide.”
“But the burns are not something most would think to treat thusly.”
Amoda shrugged and smoothed at her skirt. She knew all too well the searing agony of a scald. She’d experienced several in varying degrees when Rognvaldr’s ire had gotten too great. “A burn is hot, ‘tis best to cool the flesh.
It delays scarring.” She turned and stared up the stairs, her basket clutched to her hip.
~ * ~
With the manor house silent as stone, Amoda crept from her chamber. Using the flickering of torches placed along the walls, she made her way to the front doors. Slipping them open, she stepped out into the cool night air. Stealthily, she slipped down the steps and out onto the ground. It was cool and soft beneath her bare feet as she crept along the shadows of the manor house.
Pale silver light lay over the ground, hinting at the shadows that stretched out like greedy hands. The scent of roses mingled on a faint breeze that stirred the loose tendrils of hair around her face. She paused at a low snort and glanced around. Amoda oriented herself until she recognized the looming bulk of the servants’ quarters. She trotted along the wall, her back pressed tightly to the wall. She hugged the shadows until she came to the long, wooden building, which housed all of the servants of the manor house. Noiselessly, she pushed open the door and squeezed through the small opening. Standing in the foyer of the long house, she glanced around, her eyes narrowing at the slight glare of the single torch’s flame that danced in the hanging pot. Single women slept on benches that lined the walls, while families occupied the dwellings at the rear of the building. The design and layout were more familiar to her than the Irish family dwellings she’d been through, probably because a Norse lord lived in the manor.
“Which is Talia’s?” she whispered to herself. “I do not recall what Mykyl said.” Tiptoeing through the middle of the house, she paused before the first divider. A trembling hand peeled the thin, woolen sheet back to let in the light. “Nay.” She shook her head, a frown crossing her face before she moved on. Four curtains later, she gave a small, victorious cry. Amoda clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound as she glanced around. Everyone slept soundly, even Byrne hadn’t moved from his bed by the doors. She turned her attention back to the alcove and the tenants within it.
Talia slept soundly on her bed several inches off the floor, the thick mattress smelling of stale straw and body odors, her covers pulled up to her chin. On a small, thin pallet on the floor, her daughter lay with a thin covering. Even in the poor light, she could see the girl’s wounds. A tremble raced through her body from the pain. Amoda glared at the sleeping woman a moment before moving over to look at the girl.
“Shh,” she whispered when her touch upon the girl’s fevered brow woke her. “‘Tis I, Amoda.”
The girl nodded and glanced fearfully toward her mother. “She sleeps?”
“Aye, she does. Come, I would check your wounds,” Amoda whispered, her grip firm upon the girl’s uninjured arm.
With a wince of pain, the girl struggled to get up, smiling her gratitude as Amoda helped her rise. The threadbare linen that enclosed their living space threatened to tear under the weight of Kalia’s awkward steps through the opening. Her movements stilted and awkward, she waited for Amoda. Her small, calloused hand clutched Amoda’s arm tightly as they made their agonizingly slow exit. Once in the pale moonlight, Amoda breathed a sigh of relief.
“Come, we can go to the stream. I have more poultices ready, but we should change the bandages, and cleanse the wounds again. Did she give you the tea to drink that I made?”
“Nay. I did not complain of any pain. I know not what she did with it. Mother will be displeased by your kindness,” the girl panted. “She is very unhappy with you.”
“I care not. Come now, child, I will help all I can,” Amoda promised, a dismissive shrug was her only reaction to the notion of Talia’s displeasure. A sad reality of her station, Amoda realized that it would be unlikely the other women ever warmed to her. The position she held, considered contemptuous, and the women’s reactions came more from the sake of wounded pride than due to difference in station. Nay, it served her better to focus upon the ones she could help and forget the others.
“My name is Kaila.”
“Aye, I know. I’ve heard your mother’s summons more than once.” Amoda eased the tired girl onto a large, flat stone before settling into the slow moving current. Letting Kaila move at her own pace, Amoda settled the girl with her head in her lap, her body in the water.
“Why are we here?” Kaila shivered. A sigh of relief slipped past her lips.
“The water will help wash away the pain and swelling from the burns. ‘Tis a trick I learned long ago,” Amoda explained patiently. “I know the water is cold, but it has healing properties that only the Gods know.”
“Oh,” Kaila whispered. “‘Tis true that the coolness is a relief against the agony within me.”
Sitting, shivering in the cold water as the slow crawl of the night passed, Amoda ran her fingers through Kaila’s hair. As she carefully worked kn
ots loose in the strands, her mind wandered. She’d been this girl’s age when Rognvaldr had lost his patience with her. His walking stick had sent the pot of boiling stew flying. The stench of burned flesh had filled her nose. Her mind and body screamed in agony as she’d run. It had only been chance that had led her to the pool. The cold, deep water had felt heavenly upon her heated flesh. It had been dawn’s fingers that stirred her. She had seen the burns had reduced, the flesh still red and raw, but at least it had healed quickly. ‘Twas a secret she had revealed to no one, but perhaps the memory could now help Kaila.
~ * ~
Byrne stood at the edge of the trees and stared at the pair huddled in the stream. He shifted to lean more heavily upon the tree trunk, where he’d stopped after he’d followed them out of the longhouse late in the night. It had been a shock to wake to Amoda easing the injured girl from her family’s dwelling. When he’d risen and followed, the shock had not lessened. Instead, he’d listened to the soft, calming tones of the young woman as she explained her reasons to the young girl. His tired body ached, yet he refused to leave his long vigil. The sun’s touch stretched over the ground as Amoda finished wrapping the girl’s arm with a fresh poultice. It would not be long before the rest of the city awakened, and he wondered how the others would react to Amoda now.
“She does not seem so willing to fit in.” Erin’s soft lilt drew his attention.
“What do you mean?” Byrne turned to stare at the woman hidden by shadows. When she did not answer him immediately, he turned back to Amoda and Kaila.
“She does not work in the fields, rarely speaks, and has no interest in seeking any of us out.” Erin paused, her brow furrowed. “That is hardly the way to gain—”
“She has spent the entire night sitting in that icy water with the child,” Byrne interrupted. “Mayhap, when you and the other women stand about today, you will ponder that. Mayhap, you will look past her position within our lord’s bed, to the woman who has done nothing to any of you. If Lord Mykyl came to see how you treat her, his displeasure would be swift and great!”
Patricia Bates Page 10