The Knight and The Healer: A Medieval Romance (7 page)

Two days later, Beth was dead tired. She had been called by a midwife to assist in a difficult a breech birth delivery. The labor had lasted hours. As she slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she was still shaken by the attempt on her life. But now she reflected on the positive outcome of the birth, a new baby boy.

The mother, Helen Shawcroft, was the wife of the village potter. This was baby number four but her first boy. Needless to say, the father, Peter, was overjoyed. The mother was just glad to have an end to a relentless labor.

In an effort to ease the pain, the flanks of the woman were rubbed with rose oil and she was given vinegar mixed with sugar to drink. Some midwives advocated using gemstones or applying poultices of eagle's dung. Beth did not approve nor permit either method.

Beth knew she had been lucky. Many breach babies died during the birthing process. In this case, after moistening her hands with a decoction of flaxseed and chickpeas, she was able to turn the boy's head into the proper position. The maneuvering was quite painful to the mother and very draining for the healer. However, the next contraction was rewarded with the lusty cry of the infant.

Tradition required Beth to stay while the umbilical cord was burned. The prevailing belief held the purifying influence of fire was seen as a way of counteracting the sinful origins of conception.

Helen was attended by two of her sisters and the midwife so Beth was comfortable in excusing herself after three intense hours and head for home. The women understood the consequences of the breech delivery and the likelihood of the baby not surviving. The positive result was sure to add to Beth's growing reputation as a miraculous healer.

When home, Beth heated water both for tea and to wash herself after the messy delivery. When finished, she slid under the covers of her bed and was soon sleeping soundly.

Pound, pound, pound, "Lady Beth, Lady Beth wake up", pound, pound. Her front door was under attack. She was suddenly awake. Startled, her heart was beating like a drum.  She grabbed her robe and ran down the stairs and threw open the door. Two squires from the castle were standing on her porch.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Sir Malcolm. He's burning up, he's drenched in sweat, and he won't stop moaning. He is very ill." One of the two squires at her door exclaimed, "Lady Margaret begs you to come quickly."

"Just give me a moment to dress." Beth quickly sprinted up the stairway, shed her shift and pulled on her work-a-day smock. On her way out the front door, she grabbed the "ready" bag she had previously prepared and was always handy.

Moving at a speed between running and trotting, she was soon on the third floor and greeted by Lady Margaret. "Thank god you've come. Mal is in deep trouble. He seems to have picked up an infection somewhere. We thought he was well on the way to recovery!"

"Yesterday morning, on the way to my uncle's, we were attacked by a troubadour. Mal killed him, but not before he struck Mal across his chest striking his wound and unseating him. Mal swore he was fine. Apparently, he was wrong."

"What? You were attacked? Why am I just hearing of this now?"

"Mal planned a full report to the Laird when he returns. He felt there was no further threat so no reason to alarm you."

"And now he lies inside perhaps dying."

Beth entered the room, her head spinning. This was no mere patient, this was her secret lover. Tears came to her eyes and were running down her cheeks. Somehow, she needed to put her personal feelings aside and become the healer Mal needed. She thought "what would Arthur do?" and a calm came over her. She was ready.

She walked over to his bed. His condition had not been exaggerated. "Lady Margaret, could you have someone fetch my assistant?" She removed the sheet covering Mal. Near the bottom of the wound, just above the navel, was evidence of green pus oozing from the incision. The wound was deepest at the point of the pus. She knew from experience, the deeper the cut, the greater the likelihood of infection.

Leah arrived shortly and Beth directed her to "Go to the monastery and get a small amount of dwale, then pick up the brass pots of my uncle's potion. I made a batch a fortnight ago and bring them here. While you are doing that, I am going to try and reduce his fever with an alcohol rub. The dwale will make him unconscious so I can reopen his wound without pain and try to purge the infection."

Lady Margaret was almost as pale as Mal. "You know it isn't necessary for you to stay," Beth told her, "I'll come to you and report when I have finished working on him. You do know, however, there is a greater chance of his dying than of his recovery."

"Mal is as close to us as any relative. If he should die, a loved one should be with him. So, I guess I'm the one to be here. I've sent for a priest."

The atmosphere in the room was grim. Several servants stood against the wall softly crying. Beth began by soaking long strips of cloth in an alcohol mix. She draped the strips lengthwise on Mal's body. As each evaporated, she replaced the dry strip with a new, wet one. Mal continued to moan, his body shivering. He showed no signs of awareness.

Leah came bustling into the room with the pots and a small glass vial of dwale. "Leah, help me raise Mal up so he can take some dwale. I worry about the portion. Too much will simply kill him." Within minutes, Mal became silent and his quivering stopped. Beth tested his awareness by poking him in his thigh, he didn't respond. They gently lowered his head again and Beth retrieved a scalpel from her kit.

She carefully reopened the bottom third of the wound. "Leah, I'm going to clean the wound with vinegar. You'll need to spread the opening so I can flood the site with my Uncle's potion." She was speaking as much to herself as to Leah. "Then, I will restich the wound and it will be up to nature what happens next."

Turning to Lady Margaret, she said "Mal will sleep for six or eight hours now so we can get some rest. Leah will stay and keep vigil."

* * *

The following morning, Beth could hardly wait to get to Mal's room. Even she was astounded at what she found. He was sitting up in bed enjoying a full breakfast. Leah and two servants sat quietly in the corner against the wall. His color had returned along with his good humor.

"Well, girl, you've done it again. Is there no end to your magic tricks? They tell me I frightened everyone with my swoon. I don't remember much, but I know I could hardly make it to my bed. Lady Margaret described my condition when we talked this morning. Then you show up, do your mysterious things and now I only have a sore chest and a new bandage to show for my problem. I guess I am destined to be perpetually in your debt, not that I mind."

"Thank you, but it wasn't so much me as my Uncle's 'gladiator cure'. I guess you and the ancient gladiators have much in common. Still, I want you to stay in bed for the balance of the day. I'll leave you with some drops if the pain bothers you.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have other patients to tend to. Don't leave bed until the morrow and I'll see you again tomorrow morning." She reached down, grasping his hand, gave him a big squeeze she winked while staring into his clear eyes. Both flushed with a blush. "Come, Leah, time to go. Did you get any rest?" they chatted as they left the room.

Celia was in the sewing room with three other ladies-in-waiting mending some of the many garments that routinely required repair. The group met every Wednesday to work on the garments and exchange gossip.

The door opened and two castle guards entered. "Lady Celia, please come with us."

"And why would I do that?" Celia said in a perturbed voice, "Can't you see I am busy here?"

"I'm afraid you are wanted elsewhere. Your attendance is mandatory", the taller of the guards replied.

Celia turned to the other ladies and said, "Apparently, my services are needed so if you'll excuse me, I'll see you later."

With that, the taller guard grabbed her arm and began pulling her toward the door and the other guard. "Ouch, you're hurting me. Let go of me! I'm going. I'm going."

As they approached, the second guard grabbed her remaining arm and joined the march to the door. They stopped in the hallway and pushed her up against a wall. The taller guard removed handcuffs from his pack. He turned to Celia and said "All prisoners are transported in irons and you are no exception. I didn't put them on you in front of your friends out of deference to your position, but you are just a common prisoner now."

"But, why? What do you think I have done?"

"Suffice to say, Lady Beth is alive and well. That's all you need to know."

With that, the trio began the long trip to the dungeon. The dungeon was located deep in the bowels of the castle. Celia had never seen it.

It was dark in the dungeon, lit only by a few flickering torches mounted on the walls. There were three iron cells all of which were currently empty. The guards opened the barred door to the first cell on the left.

"You'll be fed twice a day and your slop bucket will be emptied once a week."

"My god, once a week, will I be here that long?"

"I'm sure I don't know the answer to that, but if was a betting man, I'd bet you'll be here a long while. It takes time to prepare for a trial."

He removed the irons, pushed her into the cell and locked the door. She began to sob and literally beating her breast.

After the guards had long gone and Celia was out of tears, she looked around her new quarters.

The cell was quite small, perhaps 12-foot square. In a corner was an empty slop bucket. Lying on the floor at the opposite corner was a dirty blanket which passed as bedding. Along the north side, she was sitting on a roughly constructed bench four feet long and less than a foot wide. There were no windows. The sole source of light came from the torches in the hallway which dimly shone through the cell's barred door. The cell smelled of something rotten.

After several hours had passed, two matrons came to the cell door. "You'll need to undress, my lady. Hand your garments to me and we will safeguard them for you. You'll get them back for your trial."

"That's outrageous. I will not do such a thing. Please leave me my dignity."

"You have no choice, I'm afraid. There are two of us, one of you, and we will strip you by force if that is required. Nonetheless, we are not leaving without your clothes.

* * *

That night, as she lay naked shivering under the filthy blanket left in the cell, she remembered the luxury of her quarters in the castle. She had shared comfortable quarters for the first fourteen years at the castle with the other female children. On her fifteenth birthday, she was transferred to her own room. She was given a wardrobe of fine garments, tailored to fit. Her assignments were all befitting a lady.

The following afternoon, one of the matrons appeared at the cell door. "Here, put this on. You have a visitor." She handed Celia a loose shift.

A few minutes later, a tall man elegantly attired entered the cell. He was wearing an elaborate tunic. Over the tunic, he had a black hooded garment that nearly reached the floor. His overall appearance was very forbidding. He was a mature man whose years shown on his face. His eyes were an icy blue. He was armed with a sword in a scabbard hanging from his belt.

"I am Sir Alistair Warner, and I have been appointed to represent you at your trial. I need to know something about what happened."

"I don't know what happened. I was sewing with other ladies when the guards arrested me and put me in this dungeon!"

"Do you know a Tomas Hawtrey?"

A cold shiver went through Celia's body. She shook her head and said, "No, I don't."

Sir Alistair continued "Well, what I have been told is that you arranged to have a man named Tomas Hawtrey, assassinate Lady Elizabeth Duncan. He named you as his employer before he died. His confession was heard by Friar Tobias while he was administering last rites. Since it was a deathbed confession, it was given considerable weight and an arrest warrant was issued and, obviously, served."

Celia's face turned ashen. She knew Beth was alive, but not that her involvement was known. "I may have met him, I'm not sure. Why he would even know my name is beyond me."

Sir Alistair shouted "DON'T LIE TO ME. IT WILL DO YOU NO GOOD."

Celia began to weep. In a broken whisper, she said, "I did know him."

"What on earth possessed you to arrange the murder of an innocent woman? Why would you do such a thing?"

"Sir Mal and I had an understanding. We were to become married. But, it became obvious this woman was more than interested in him. As his healer, she was with him all the time. I know she wanted him for herself. I could see the way he was looking at her. The crowning blow came when I was ordered to leave the main table to make room for her. It was so unfair."

"Has Sir Mal indicated he reciprocated your feelings?"

"Not in so many words, but he is basically shy. He always treated me special. I just knew he had feelings for me! A woman knows these things."

"You should know he denies any such feelings for you. He describes you as 'a naive little girl.' "

Celia buried her face in her smock and renewed sobbing. "What will happen to me now?"

"You will stand trial for attempted murder. The Laird, Sir Paul, will hear the case against you and, ultimately, make a decision. He could find you innocent of all charges, but given this Hawtrey fellow's confession that is not likely to happen.

"If he finds you guilty, he will assign a punishment. He could order you to be tortured to death. He is quite angry with you and feels you have betrayed him and his family given all they have done for you.

"He could order you to receive 40 lashes with the cat and be reduced in rank to a peasant performing menial tasks for the rest of your days.

"He could order you expelled from the clan. By the way, I consider this the least likely punishment. If this is your sentence, they will give you one dress and you will be physically escorted to the nearest border. Messages announcing your ban would be sent to the King and to all the villages in the region. Anyone found helping you would be punished. Your name would be forbidden to be spoken again."

By now, Celia was hysterical. She had collapsed to the floor and was, literally, beating her breasts. She seemed oblivious to Sir Alistair's presence.

"Lady Celia, I will return in a few days to discuss your possible defenses. It is too soon to give up hope." With that, he called for a guard and left the cell.