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Pus seeped through the bandages. The man was feverish, muttering imprecations at the Sasunnach soldiers, at their misbegotten king, at some lass named Ainslie. Death hovered about the man eagerly. Deidre hadn’t any of Leagsaidh’s skill with potions, though she was dab enough with a needle. The wound across his chest would heal into a neat scar if he lived. “I’ve found the moss Deidre.” Praise be. She’d seen Leagsaidh brew this poultice often enough. They’d had cause to. Soldiers churned into corpses no matter who wore the crown. War was men’s business, a powerful stupid one at that. As always it was the women left behind, to make of their lives what they could with no fathers and husbands. “Deidre?” “Forgive me Anna. My mind wanders. Get me the pestle. God willing, it is not too late for him” “Will he die?” “It’s in God’s hands. We are but His servants.” He would die, a miracle excepting. For gone on ten years now Deidre apprenticed under the cailleach chearc. It was a poor fit but better than a nunnery. In that time she had seen more men struck down with sword and bullet than had ever lived in the village of her birth. Rarely did any of them survive, no matter how powerful the healings. Anna was young yet, barely thirteen summers. In all her living days she had known nothing but war. Yet still she rose each morning with a smile and a song. Even at that age, Deidre could not claim such innocence. How Anna retained her sweet nature in the face of such calamities was a mystery. And it made her a lively, if exhausting, companion. “Tell me what you do child.” “First, we have to wash the leaves in purified well water…” They ground the moss with water, faery wine and feverfew, then boiled it to a viscous consistency. She knew her poultices and potions rarely turned out to Leagsaidh's exacting standards. The old witch was missing, gone over a fortnight. Deidre was the only healer in this town. There were four other injured men housed at the inn, and one of the stable master’s daughters was due any day. It was more work than she could handle on her own. Thank God for Anna. She should do her rounds before the sun set. Satisfied that the poultice was more or less correct, she could leave it to the girl to apply the bandages. But she dreaded going outside. The bite of the wind promised snow and a hard winter. Her bones ached with cold. Deidre sent up a quick prayer of protection as she wrapped her hands and face. They needed peat and coal. Perhaps one of the villagers could be persuaded to help. “I will be with Sorcha. Send Torlaine if you have need of me,” she told Anna, shrugging into the moth-eaten coat, “or if he sickens further.” “Aye. Be careful on the roads. I heard talk of bandits and renegade soldiers.” Good advice that. “If I cannot make it home by sundown, I will sleep in the village.” With one last look at her patient, restless with nightmares, Deidre stepped outside, taking care to seal the cottage door with cloth. The man would certainly die if he caught a chill. |
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