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Fia did not hesitate to defend herself even though she knew it would do no good. “I am not evil, and I am no witch, Abbott. I am a healer.”
“That is difficult to believe when word reached us that you cut a heart out of a man and made it ready to eat. A God-fearing woman would never desecrate a man that way.”
Varrick listened with interest. Argus had kept him abreast through messengers with all that had gone on while Fia sat imprisoned at Clan Strathearn. Though Argus had only heard of the heart incident through others, he had had no firsthand knowledge of it, which had left Varrick wondering the validity of the tale.
“There is only a partial truth to that,” Fia said, wondering why her husband had not moved away from her in disgust upon hearing such shocking news. If anything, he had pressed tighter against her as if offering not only protection but support, making it less frightening to speak her piece. “The heart had already been cut out of the man. As a healer I wish to learn all I can about the workings of the body and so I took the heart and cut it in half to examine it and see what I could learn. My only interest in the heart was to gain knowledge.”
“Evil sinner!” a monk shouted.
“Whoever said that will do penance for it,” Abbott John called out without casting a glance at any of the monks. He kept focused on Fia. “You are a wife now and your duty is to your husband. You should leave knowledge to those who know better.”
“Tell me, Abbott John, why did you become a cleric?” Fia asked.
“I was called to it. I knew it was what I was meant to do.”
“And do you learn more and more each day from God?” Fia asked.
The Abbott nodded. “Aye, each day He teaches me something new and reminds me the importance of my work.”
“I feel the same about being a healer. It is what I am meant to do, and if I am to be a wise healer then I must learn all I can. And part of that wisdom is learning to be tolerant of those who refuse to see beyond their own beliefs.”
“So, you are tolerant of me?” Varrick asked.
Fia had not expected her husband to respond but it did not stop her from answering him. “That remains to be decided, but I will strive to do my best.”
“Do your best and show us how you heal,” Argus called out in a challenge.
“Ayes!” were called out, some from monks and some from warriors.
Varrick thought to put an end to it, but he was curious to see how she would respond and so he waited.
With her husband remaining silent, Fia wondered if he waited to witness her skill, though she doubted any of them believed she was a healer. They waited for her to perform magic.
“Abbott John, I have noticed that you keep your hands tucked into the wide sleeves of your robe. Does the cold make the pain in your hands worse?”
The monks gasped, then silence fell in the room when Abbott John removed his hands slowly from his sleeves and rested them on the table. His knuckles were swollen and a few of his fingers gnarled. That they pained him was obvious.
“You noticed my hands while I ate,” Abbott John said.
“I did and if you allow me, I can help ease the pain and the swelling,” Fia offered, feeling terrible for the pain he must be suffering.
Shouts of protest and warnings not to let the witch touch him came from the monks.
Varrick’s accusing tone silenced all in the room. “You encouraged the challenge Argus put forward and now you jeer it? It would seem you have little faith.”
He wanted to see for himself if his wife could work magic, since it would take magic to relieve the Abbott’s affliction. He had seen such distorted hands before and nothing quelled the suffering.
The Abbott settled the argument. “I accept your offer of help, Lady Fia.”
Lady Fia.
He may have addressed her properly, but she did not like the sound of it. She was not a noble. She was first and foremost a healer.
“I need some leaves brewed,” Fia said, reaching for her healing pouch attached to her belt. She had been glad to retrieve her grandmother’s pouch at the cottage, her own having been confiscated and never returned to her when captured. She had added several small pouches of herbs to the larger pouch, herbs that she used more frequently than others. She had also added small pouches filled with an often-used salve.
She handed crushed nettle leaves to the monk waiting to make the brew. It would relieve the Abbott’s swelling and ease the pain he suffered. In the meantime, she fished for a pouch of salve she was certain she had packed and smiled when she found it.
Varrick felt a jolt to his chest seeing her smile and the Abbott’s eyes turned wide, as well as all who looked at his wife. He hid his own surprise well. His wife was a beauty, there was no denying that, but when she smiled there was a softness to her beauty that forced one to linger there and drink it in as if one could never get enough of her gentleness.
