Walking as steadily as she could, Frida followed the throng back inside the hall. The cosy welcome of the great hall was jarring, almost unsettling when so much violence had crossed their path. A small group of servants hovered near the fire, watching her with wide eyes. The girl called Jennifer stepped forward.
“I would be of assistance, milady. My pa trained as a barber-surgeon. I am well-used to the sight of blood.”
Frida released a breath she had not known she’d been holding. “Thank you, Jennifer. Come with me to the solar. The rest of you should help Agnes in the kitchen. We need a regular supply of hot water. And all the clean linens you can find.”
Glad to have a purpose, the girls scurried away. Frida led Jennifer to the solar, careful to keep her nerves under wraps. The guards had pushed back the heavy furniture and made roomfor the boy on the floor. Frida frowned when she saw this, she had intended he be laid on the couch. But perchance they were right not to move him too much. At least the room was warm.
But she did not want an audience.
“I thank you all for your help,” she declared. “Can everyone please leave us now, except Jennifer. And Callum,” she added, noting his entreating gaze.
In truth she would prefer Callum to go. His very presence unsettled her, which was the last thing she needed when every moment and every decision carried so much import. But she could see in his eyes how much the boy’s welfare meant to him.
His concern did him credit, she decided. It touched her heart, which had started opening to him e’en before this.
The guards shuffled out and moments later, two young housemaids rushed in with their arms full of linens. Agnes followed them, panting slightly, with a large basin of hot water.
“There is more coming,” she said, answering Frida’s unvoiced question.
Frida knelt on the rug by Arlo’s side. His breathing had become shallow. There was no time to waste. She glanced up to Jennifer.
“Can you hold him still?”
“Aye.” The girl placed her hands on Arlo’s shoulders, well clear of the knife. Her calm certainty helped steady Frida’s nerves.
Frida did not want to do this, but she had no choice.
Breathing deeply, she grasped the handle of the knife and pulled. The blade came free easily, followed by a sickening spurt of blood, which Frida hastily suppressed with a wad of folded linens, passed to her by Jennifer. Her first attempt to staunch the blood failed, as did the second. She could not apply enough pressure, partially because of her injured left arm. Steadying her rising panic, Frida swathed her right hand with a clean cloth andjammed the heel of it into the boy’s wound, pressing down with all her strength. Opposite her, Callum muttered something that may have been a prayer.
She met his anxious gaze over Arlo’s prone body and smiled with what she hoped was reassurance.
“I do not believe the blade came into contact with the boy’s shoulder blade.”
“That is good?”
“Aye, that is good.” Long moments passed and the bleeding at last began to lessen. She turned her head to Jennifer. “We shall need honey, strong thread and a sharp needle.”
“I’ll go at once, milady.”
“Can you save him?” Callum asked again.
“I shall try,” she promised. They were momentarily alone in the quiet chamber. A log cracked in the fire and the boy stirred, moaning slightly. Frida put the back of her hand to his smooth cheek, registering his coolness. “Can you cover him with a rug?” She nodded to the soft, hand-stitched rug laid over the chair behind Callum.
He reached for it. “It will be ruined.” He paused. “Shall I fetch a rough one from the loft where we slept?”
“Nay. Do not be foolish.” She shook her head, her hair swinging below her shoulders. “A rug has no value next to a life. Besides, I imagine Arlo is comforted by your presence here.”
Callum snorted, even as he folded the rug over the boy’s legs and torso with the greatest of care. “I do not deserve his esteem.”
“How so?”
“’Tis my fault he is like this. I should have kept him safe.”
Her eyebrows raised with surprise. “But you were not the one to throw the knife.”
A look of anguish passed over his face, making Frida all the more confused. But all he said was, “I should have known what Gregor was capable of.”
Frida’s legs were growing cramped on the floor. Her back burned through proximity to the fire and her efforts to staunch Arlo’s bleeding had brought perspiration out on her brow. “We can never know what lies ahead,” she said, steadily. She knew that more than most.
