“No. Way.” She backed off, shaking her head. This was far beyond the call of duty. She’d tried to fit into this world. God knows she had. But assisting in an amputation? I think not.
Agatha grabbed Martha’s arm. “If you are going to be squeamish, take my place at the foot of the table. I will hold his head.”
She felt everyone glaring at her.
“But wh-what if he wakes up?” Despite her objections, she found herself steered to a place beside one of the man’s outstretched legs.
“If you delay me any longer, he may well do so,” the surgeon said with a superior sneer.
Martha clutched the man’s leg—more to steady herself than for any other reason—burying her fingers in the fabric of his woolen leggings. His leg muscles felt warm. Alive.
The surgeon nodded to a young boy beside him. Immediately, the lad handed him a steaming jug of water. But it wasn’t for sterilization purposes. The surgeon dribbled a little water over a sponge then held it in place over the patient’s nose and mouth.
Martha leaned on the unconscious man’s boot, straining to see. She caught the faint scent of herbs coming off the sponge. Anesthetic?
She must have spoken aloud.
“Well done, m’lady.” The surgeon’s lips formed a thin smile as he glanced at the people standing about his table. “Not quite so ignorant as I assumed, it appears.”
There were several sniggers from Dr. Death’s sycophantic helpers.
You think I’m the ignorant one, you pompous arse? Martha bit her lip. Rise above it, Bigalow.
She tried. But when she saw how filthy the surgeon’s knife was, her mouth refused to stay shut. “Have you washed that thing recently?” Surely he wasn’t about to use that dirty, blood-smeared thing on the unconscious man?
The surgeon didn’t bother to look up. “’Tis hardly necessary.” He ran a dirty finger over the man’s arm, probably decided where to cut first.
“What about infection? Gangrene?” Martha ignored the chorus of groans from the surgeon’s devoted disciples. Tough. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to stand by and say nothing.
“You speak of putrefaction?” The surgeon glanced up at her. “Unlikely. Would my learned assistant object terribly if we deferred this conversation on experimental medicine to a more appropriate time?”
Before Martha could protest, the surgeon’s blade descended, slicing through the mangled flesh of the patient’s arm.
The surgeon dropped the knife then held out his hand. “Saw.” His young assistant was quick to respond.
Martha tried to look away but couldn’t. Wide-eyed, she watched the surgeon saw through the glistening bone of the man’s arm. In a few deft strokes, it was over. The patient hadn’t moved at all.
After dropping the amputated limb into a basket at his feet, the surgeon reached for the bladder of wine his assistant held out to him.
He’s drinking? At a time like this?
But, no. Instead, he poured the wine all over the stump before handing the bladder back to the boy. “Brand.”
“Holy Mother of God!” Martha gagged and clung onto the patient’s leg. No wonder the infirmary smelled like a dodgy barbeque.
The surgeon pressed something resembling a hot metal poker to the naked stump. The raw flesh hissed, sizzled, and steamed. Fat and loose bits of skin spattered everywhere. The stump was cooked in seconds.
Martha held her breath for as long as she could then turned her head away. She took several shallow breaths over her shoulder, trying to avoid the smell of toxic Sunday roast.
It was no good. I’m gonna barf. Bile flooded her mouth, hot and bitter. She swallowed it down. The last thing the poor patient needed was her vomit adding more contamination to this most un-sterile of theaters.
The surgeon handed the brand to his assistant, then untied the leather tourniquet from his patient’s upper arm, loosening it gradually. He bent down to examine the stump.
“Perfect. No ooze at all.” The man’s stern face relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, everyone.” He took a swig from the wine bladder and then turned to Agatha. “If you would apply a light dressing of...”
Martha just stared, unable to believe what she’d just witnessed. She glanced at the patient. His chest barely moved. It would be a miracle if he survived.
Her stomach rebelled again, and this time she couldn’t fight the urge to vomit. She managed to turn her head aside before emptying the sparse contents of her stomach into the floor gutter. Thank God, she hadn’t had any breakfast. She closed her eyes and leaned against the table, waiting for the room to stop spinning and for the buzzing in her ears to subside.
A gentle hand rested against her lower back. The same someone pressed a piece of linen into her hand so she could wipe her sour mouth. No words. Just silent compassion.
The surgeon wasn’t so kind. “For the love of the Great Spirit. Will someone please take that woman outside?”
Her head felt as heavy as a chunk of masonry. She managed to focus her bleary eyes on the surgeon as he sat perched on the table’s edge, alternately swigging from the wine bladder and then tapping at his unconscious patient’s face.
A gentle angel held onto Martha’s arm. Effie. Right then and there, she dismissed every doubt she’d ever harbored about the girl.
The surgeon smirked at Martha. Agatha was occupied with bandaging the patient’s stump, but she happened to look up and witness it.
“Now, Alric. Do not mock her. M’lady is untested in the trials of war.”
“Hmm.” The nostrils of the surgeon’s hooked nose flared, and he regarded Martha as if she was an unpleasant insect. “Then let her remain untested. Take her away, young Effie. I think m’lady’s charity work is over for today.”
Martha took a deep breath. His sneering sarcasm was just what she needed. Her temper flared, calming her stomach and slowing the whirling pit inside her head.
“Come.” Effie slid her arm about Martha’s waist. “Can you walk, m’lady?”
She nodded and drew herself upright, dabbing at her sour mouth with the linen cloth. She took a few tentative steps away from the table.
“Thank you.” The surgeon launched a parting shot. “Your assistance has been… invaluable, dear lady.”
“Oh, go and boil your tools, why don’t you?” Martha snapped. She had the satisfaction of seeing the surgeon’s brown eyes widen before she walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As they made their way back to the keep, they saw Anselm up one of the wall-walks, overseeing makeshift repairs to the battlements.
With luck, they’d manage to sneak by without him noticing.
“Martha!”
Uh-oh. Busted!
Anselm bounded down the steps and across the ruined courtyard, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides. “Erde! What are you doing out here?” he demanded. “Death stalks those who are foolish enough to poke at it.”
Lovely. Just what she needed, a little bit of weird homespun wisdom to properly round off her morning. Aunt Lulu would love that particular little gem.
Before she could reply, there came a loud collective shout of warning, “Beware!” A second later, a large missile flew over the castle wall at terrifying speed.
“Get down!” Anselm dragged Martha and Effie to their knees and pulled them close to him, sheltering them against his body.
Boom! Chunks of wood and masonry rained down about them, clattering and crashing in a deafening shower of sound.
Terrified and trembling, Martha burrowed her face beneath the arm of Anselm’s leather hauberk, breathing in the scent of sweat and leather. She closed her eyes tightly as a light hail of falling debris pelted her exposed back. She heard Effie whimpering at Anselm’s other side, the sounds of the maid’s terror echoing through his chest.
Then, there was silence.
Martha followed suit, forcing her fingers to release their death-grip on his belt. The danger had passed. For now.
Without speaking, Anselm helped them to their feet.
Martha raised her arm and used it to shield her mouth and nose from the worst of the billowing dust. Suddenly, the wind changed direction and the dust cloud parted. Moments ago, an empty wagon had stood by the wall of the keep. Now, only a crushed wheel and a few large splinters of wood remained.
One by one, figures rose from out of the haze, coughing and dusting themselves down.
“You there!” Anselm bellowed at a soldier who emerged from the shelter of a nearby outbuilding. “Yes, you man! Take a message to those imbeciles on the slings. Tell them if they want to keep their worthless heads on their necks, they had best find a way to increase our range. Make haste!”
The soldier raced away up the ramp leading to the castle’s trebuchet platforms. As he did so, he stumbled over a plank of wood.
Anselm scowled and shook his head. “Useless dolt.” Then he turned his angry gaze on Martha. “So, where were you today?”
“The infirmary.” Martha reached for Effie’s hand and clasped it tightly.
Anselm’s jaw dropped. “For the love of Erde! Why?” He looked horrified.
A good question. Martha still wasn’t sure how she’d ended up there. “I-I wanted to help—”
“Help? Little wonder you are so pale.” His eyes narrowed. “Did that old witch Agatha force you into it?”
Yes. “No. It was my idea.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Is this true, girl?” Anselm demanded, targeting Effie with a cold, hard glare.
“Yes, m’lord,” she squeaked, before casting her gaze downward.
Thankfully, he said no more on the subject.
Instead, he offered Martha his arm. She was glad to accept it. The loan of his strength had never been more welcome. The trials of the morning had definitely taken their toll. Her legs felt like jelly, and her head was still woozy.
With Effie trailing silently behind them, Anselm escorted Martha across the perilous courtyard, weaving a careful path through the rubble.
“I do not much care for the influence of your chosen companions, my dear,” he said. At least he wasn’t shouting anymore. “I would much prefer that you remained in safety with the ladies of the court.”
“Oh, stop fussing, Anselm,” Martha snapped. The last thing she wanted was to spend time with those superior bitches, forever gossiping and competing for the king’s favor. “At least let me choose my own friends.”
“M’lord!”
A knight clanked toward them on a fast intercept course, saving her from Anselm’s reply.
The man removed his helmet and drew a weary hand over his grime-streaked face. “A messenger approaches bearing the white flag. What do you think it means?”
Martha’s heart skipped a beat. Rodmar’s surrendering? But why? He’s beating the crap out of us in here. Even so, hope flared in her heart. Was the siege finally over?
“So soon?” Anselm clasped Martha’s hand as it rested on his arm, giving her cold fingers a gentle squeeze. “’Tis a little early to be offering terms, I think. Our masters are certainly not yet ready to hear them.”
So the white flag didn’t necessarily mean surrender, then?
“Aye. I fear you are right there, my friend.” The knight stroked his silver-streaked beard. “Though, it would hearten me a good deal if the women and children were allowed to go free.”
Anselm chuckled, but not unkindly. “Ah, Hugh. The fair Beatrice has transformed you from a warrior into a husband.”
Beatrice. King Erik’s discarded mistress?
Martha studied the knight with fresh interest. He was older than many of the knights she’d seen about the castle. Perhaps he wasn’t quite so dashing, nor so swaggering, but his eyes were kind. Instinctively, she knew this wasn’t a man who would ever ill-treat his wife.
“That she has.” Hugh smiled. “And I am not sorry for it.” He nodded, indicating Martha. “I wager you will feel much the same way after you and your good lady are wed.”
Anselm tightened his grip on her hand. “I am quite certain I shall,” he replied.
Hugh exhaled. “I had better go and inform the king of developments.” The prospect didn’t seem to thrill him. “M’lady.” Giving Martha a brief bow, he headed away in the direction of the keep.
As she watched Hugh depart, Martha felt Anselm staring at her. She turned to look at him, and the expression in his eyes made her cheeks burn. For once, his look was unguarded, vulnerable.
Vadim used to look at her in a similar way. If they were ever reunited, would he still do so? She dared not consider the alternative.
Was Anselm in love with her? For his sake, she hoped it was only a mild dose of lust. She wouldn’t wish unrequited love on anyone, not even him.
Suddenly, Martha noticed a thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face. “You’re hurt.” She pulled a linen handkerchief from its hiding place down the front of her gown and offered it to him.
“’Tis nothing.” But all the same, Anselm took the handkerchief and applied it to the top of his head, wincing a little. His fair hair was dark and matted with blood.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” she said with a frown. “Here, let me take a look.”
He ducked away when she tried to examine him. “Stop fussing,” he said with a smile, using the very words she’d so recently used on him. He dabbed the wound one final time then tucked the bloody hanky inside his hauberk.
“Effie?” Anselm addressed the maid, but his eyes never strayed from Martha’s. “Take your mistress back to our rooms. See that she is fed and well rested.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
He raised Martha’s hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss on it. “You are a good deal too pale, sweeting.”
He’s twitching about me? I’m not the one with a head wound. “I really think that—”
“Go. I must seek out my master.” He gave her a small bow then walked away.
As she watched him leave, Martha shivered. The gray folds of his cloak swirled about him like the wings of a huge, dark bird. She felt as if a shadow had blocked out the sun. “Anselm?”
He paused and looked back. “What is it, sweeting?”
“Be careful.” The words were out before she realized she was saying them.
When did I start giving a damn?
Anselm swept a low theatrical bow and grinned. “As always, my dear.” Then he departed.
The arrival of Rodmar’s flag-bearing messenger bought the castle a welcome respite from the constant bombardment.
Taking advantage of the unexpected ceasefire, Martha bathed, washing away every trace of the infirmary from her skin. If only her memory could be cleaned so easily. Once dressed in fresh clothes, she consumed every bite of the substantial breakfast that Effie had brought for her—surprisingly, the horrors of the morning hadn’t managed to kill off her appetite.
Clean and well fed, she sat on the hearth, drying her hair by the heat of the fire. She ought to have been content, but she couldn’t shake her bleak mood.
For once, thoughts of Anselm, not Vadim, claimed her attention. How had the lines become so blurred without her noticing? There was no black or white anymore. No wrong or right. Just a sludgy, uniform, gray color.
What the feck is happening to me?
Anselm was still a complete arse, but she found she no longer hated him. When had that happened, she wondered. It wasn’t love. Not on her side, anyway. But she couldn’t deny a grudging fondness for the man. Why, though? Were his occasional kindnesses enough to cancel out all the terrible things he’d done? Apparently so.
She groaned and covered he
r face with her hands. Vadim wouldn’t be happy if he ever learned she cared about his foster-brother—however grudgingly.
But Vadim isn’t here, said a small voice inside her head—not that she needed a reminder.
She was so angry with him. Rationally, she understood the choices he’d made, but the fact remained, he’d let her go, abandoning her to Anselm and His Evilness. The small voice inside her was bitter and unforgiving.
You’ll always come second to his noble causes. In this world, there will always be another war for him to fight. And now you’re carrying his child? How will you cope? In case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t the twenty-first century.
If she had any sense, she’d find Madoc the Seer again and beg him to find her a way home. Problem was, she still loved Vadim as much now as on the day they’d spoken their vows. Love trumped anger. Just.
A headache rumbled behind her right eye, the pain knifing to the back of her skull. She got up from the hearth and lowered herself into her fireside chair then leaned back. She was tired of thinking. Closing her eyes, she let the blissful silence to wash over her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“The knights are returning.”
Effie’s excited voice jolted Martha from her catnap, shattering Vadim’s face within her dream. She staggered to the window seat and knelt beside the young maid, staring toward the gate.
She’d been asleep longer than she thought. Now, vivid pinks and purples stained the sky as the sun set on another day.
Anselm and the knights had been gone for hours this time.
The first meeting between the opposing factions had taken place early that morning, and it had been worryingly brief. But not half an hour after arriving back at the castle, Anselm and his men had ridden out a second time—presumably carrying fresh orders from King Erik.
Time slowed to a drunken crawl after they’d gone. Men lined the wall-walks, looking from the battlements into the enemy camp below. The war machines stood still and silent. Somehow, the peace seemed too loud.
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