Freya got to work. She rolled him back onto the fur rug, and sponged the sweat from his face and neck, pausing to dribble a few drops of water into his slack mouth. She rinsed off the wound as well as she could, dabbing at packed-on dirt until the gash was red and clean, oozing more blood.
Then for the herbal infusion. Ground up and made into a paste—it felt like time was running out while she worked—it had to be carefully placed over the open wound.
Brendan groaned and bucked as she applied it.
“I know, lad, I know it hurts,” Freya whispered. “Just bear with me, eh?”
Once the poultice was on, she applied a bandage, tying it around his waist. It would be good to change his shirt, dirty and crusted with blood as it was, but she had no idea where to find his fresh clothes, and getting the shirt on and off him would be an ordeal. Besides, jostling his wound now would do no good.
Now what?
Freya sat back on her heels, watching him sleep. Although, it didn’t seem much like sleep, or rest of any kind. Brendan breathed out heavily, brow furrowed, jerking and muttering under his breath. The sheen was back on his forehead.
“I helped in the infirmary, ye know,” she found herself saying. Argentum cocked his head at her. “Da let me. He said it was becoming of a lady to know how to nurse. He put a stop to it when I started to get too interested. He imagined I would mop a few fevered brows, and float around prettily while noblewarriors looked up at me like some sort of angel. Nursing’s not like that. It’s bloody and dirty and sickening. I watched men die. They don’t die nicely, either. They die screaming or crying, begging for help. It hurts. You decide that ye will learnhowto help them, so the next man who begs for the pain to stop can get his last wish because ye know that catmint will make him sleep and dull the pain. Or he’ll lose his leg but keep his life because ye know that lemon balm and lamb’s ear can stop infection setting in.”
She cleared her throat, not quite able to believe she was talking to herself so openly.
First sign of madness, Da said. Talking to yersel’.
“I miss it,” Freya said, after a long pause. “I liked being able to help. I felt useful. I can’t imagine ye can relate to that. Men like ye, ye must be useful to just about everyone.”
Brendan sucked in a ragged breath, his eyes moving behind his closed lids.
“Freya,” he breathed.
She sat bolt upright, leaning forward. “Aye, Brendan, I’m here. I’m here.”
His brow furrowed, and he mumbled a string of gibberish.
He’s still feverish,she thought, feeling foolish.Of course, he doesn’t know I’m here. Why would he?
“Blood,” he breathed. “So much of it. Fire will burn it up, and the men, too. I tried my best, I really did. Wasn’t good enough, was it?”
She banked up the fire, and carefully spooned more water into Brendan’s mouth. His throat worked without her having to massage it down, and that was good. He was getting some moisture, at least, although a good amount of the water trickled out of the corner of his mouth, streaking across his cheeks. After a moment’s thought, she retrieved a pillow from his bed, tucking it under his head.
“There,” she murmured. “More comfy for ye, eh?”
She had no idea what time it was. There was no sign of even the grayish pre-dawn light just yet. This was the dark hour before dawn, when the world was at its darkest and coldest. If the old wives’ tales were to be believed, this was when the veil between living and dead, the real world and the world of spirits, was at its thinnest. Sometimes, things came through. Sometimes, people could stumble through themselves, and find themselves lost.
It was hard to say what came through the veil. Spirits and ghosts, certainly, but also ideas. Feelings.Traces, although nobody could say what of.
Or so the stories went, of course.
It was an appropriate time for a fever to reach its highest. Shivering, Freya tucked the blanket around her shoulders. Brendan was shivering now too, although the fire was warm and brisk. Argentum curled up between Brendan and the fire, tucking himself into the space between his arm and his torso.
Slowly, carefully, Freya lay down on her side, close enough to feel the way Brendan’s body shivered.
“Come on, man,” she whispered. “All ye have been through, and ye are going to die from an infected cut? Surely not. Stories don’t end this way.”
This isn’t a story, though.
That was what her father had told her, the day he packed her into a locked carriage and sent her off to Laird Grahame, like someone might send off a package of goods or money.
This isn’t a story, lass. Ye are a grown woman. Time to act like one. Do yer duty, can’t ye, or what is the point of ye?
The words still stung. She rested her cheek on Brendan’s shoulder, wrapped her arm across his chest, closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Chapter 12
