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“Well, I think I shall take this full belly and finish up in the apothecary,” Gram says as she stands.
“Treena and her friends were teasing a man who was in the stocks,” I blurt. “They were kicking dirt in his face and assaulting him. It was quite the display.”
“Good heavens, where were the guards?” Gram shakes her head. “They shouldn’t allow that kind of tomfoolery. Poor man is probably just a hungry thief. It’s positively shameful.”
“No, he claims to be a mage,” I reply. “He’s to receive twenty lashes at sunup and be tossed from the kingdom.”
“A mage?” Gram sits in the chair again, the color draining from her face. “Twenty lashes? By the gods. There hasn’t been a mage arrested in Timberness in quite some time. You would think folks would know by now not to practice magic here. Poor soul.”
“Maybe his madness has taken hold and he can’t think clearly. Would be the only reason a fool would choose to profess magic here.” I plunk another piece of olive loaf in my mouth. “News of public floggings travels fast.”
“Madness, hah! Cockles and nonsense.” Gram pushes away from the table again. “Folks might believe me mad because I’m a healer, but it doesn’t make it so. Now, I have work to do. Keep your distance from that flogging come morn, and from Treena. I’d like to bend that girl over my knee and give her a sound thrashing myself.”
I chuckle and reach for the ale when Gram leaves the table. My barley tea is long gone, and I can’t resist one last slice of cheese. I stand to clear our plates when I finish the ale and startle when the sound of pounding fists assaults our door.
Thrap! Thrap!Thrap!
Gram’s eyes are wide when she comes back into the room. “Someone’s at the door at this hour? After curfew?”
I hurry to the door and unlatch it with Gram on my heels. Two young men push their way inside before I can speak, one of them being supported by the other.
“Close it, quickly!” the tallest of the two says to me. “Guard patrol is on the side street near the market square.” He looks at Gram. “Please, help my friend, mistress healer. He’s been stabbed through the arm. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
I take the injured man’s freed hand and help lead him to the table in the apothecary that Gram uses to tend her patients. We help him lay on the table, and all eyes fix on Gram.
Gram takes in a fortifying breath. “Milla, get me two buckets of water and tie on a clean apron. Wash your hands with the lye soap on the back porch. I’ll need your assistance.”
I nod and head into the kitchen. I open the lid to the water barrel and grab the buckets before setting to work on her requests.
“What can I do?” the other young man spouts, his voice panicked and breathy. He’s running his hands through his hair and pacing like his feet are on fire.
Gram’s voice is calm. “You can start by telling me your names and exactly what happened to your friend. I need to know the extent of his injuries. You’re not thieves, are you?”
“No, mistress,” he blurts. “We’re not thieves. My name is Kevan, and that there is Marcus. We work on the docks and were unloading tobacco from a cargo ship. We were nearly done and about to head to the tavern when Sir Malek and another knight approached and asked us to open one of the tobacco crates.”
Oh, Sir Malek. That explains a lot.Sir Malek is a knight and part of the king’s guard, and as horrible a human being as any unfortunate soul could encounter. He is devil spawn, but somehow manages to hold the king’s favor. He is a dreaded sight when he decides to walk amongst the common folk, something he takes great pleasure in doing. Our fear is his aphrodisiac.
“When Marcus spoke up and refused to open the crate,” Keven continues, “Sir Malek drew his sword and stabbed him in the arm, saying all the while that refusing his request was as much as direct defiance to the king. He spat on the ground and told Marcus he should feel blessed that he didn’t cut his arm clean off. But his words are untrue, mistress healer. We aren’t allowed to open the cargo at anyone’s request, only unload it. Opening cargo from a ship could get us hung. We aren’t thieves, mistress. But Sir Malek is a monster. He laughed as Marcus bled, and then simply walked away.” Kevan’s mud-brown eyes are glassy and his voice is low and haunting. He puts a hand on Marcus’ shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze. “The blade went through his arm and pierced his side as well. I don’t think the cut in his side is very deep, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
I hurry to the porch and wash my hands as instructed. I come back inside and carry the water to Gram. Marcus’ shirt is already off and Gram is inspecting his side. Her brow tightens when she looks at me. She dips her hands in one of the buckets to wash them. She takes a cloth and wets it, then puts it on Marcus’ forehead. He’s moaning and seems feverish. Gram puts another wet cloth on his neck.
“I fear Sir Malek was using you to test out a new adornment to his blade,” Gram says. She points to the blisters now forming on Marcus’ punctured arm and side.
“What do you mean?” Keven asks.
“Those whelps are from the toxic sap of the Turgoot tree. But the sap only poisons what it touches, so it is not in his entire body. The toxins in the blisters will cause a fever, though. Your young friend here will recover, but I will need to lance each blister to relieve his body of the toxins before I sew him up. Milla, get the ether. And, young man, I suggest you take a seat at the kitchen table and help yourself to some ale. I doubt you have the constitution for the task we are about to undertake. I will take good care of your friend. I promise.”
Kevan nods and does as instructed. I put some ether on a rag and give it to Gram. She covers the patient’s nose and mouth until he’s sleeping. I toss the ether rag into the fireplace and join Gram again. I know the routine. We work in unison, sometimes with hardly a word spoken. She has taught me well.
“First, we take care of the blisters,” she says, her eyes scanning his arm and side as she makes a mental count of the whelps. “Can you stomach it, Milla? It will not be pleasant. The smell will be pungent.”
“I’ll be fine Gram,” I assure her. I draw in a slow breath, hoping my words are true.
Gram gives me a small, flat bowl to catch the sickness that will flow from the blisters. She uses a thin knife with a sharp point to prick the first spot, and what looks like water and blood flow from the sore. I put the back of my hand to my nose. Looks are deceiving. It doesn’t smell like water and blood at all. It smells like death. Gram nods as she quickly moves to the next blister, working like a woman still in her youth. She could shame a magician when she’s healing others, and I am beyond proud to be her granddaughter.
After a couple of hours, Marcus is relieved of the blisters and properly sewn up. His arm will need some time to heal, but the cut on his side isn’t very deep. It will heal nicely. We join Kevan in the kitchen when our task is through. Gram isn’t ready to rouse Marcus quite yet. The fever has broken, and he isn’t fitful anymore, but sleeping like a baby.
“How is he?” Kevan says when Gram joins him at the table. “Will he recover?”
