Timestruck (33 page)

“Gina, you’re bleeding!” Lady Adalhaid caught
her arm and held on with a tight grip. “We must get to the church.
We can take shelter there. Fardulf, help me with her.”

Fardulf stopped trying to argue with Gina and
grabbed her other arm, pulling her in the direction of the church.
Both he and Lady Adalhaid were bleeding.

“Dominick!” Gina gasped. “Where is he? I
can’t leave him.”

“Dominick is well able to take care of
himself in a battle,” Lady Adalhaid said. “Do as he wants, so he
doesn’t have to worry about you.”

Reluctantly, knowing Lady Adalhaid was right,
Gina allowed herself to be drawn toward the church entrance. They
climbed the wide, shallow steps, pausing when they reached the
door. While Fardulf was pulling on the heavy handle, Gina looked
back to where the fighting continued. From her vantage point three
steps above the square she had a good view.

She spotted a man in a bright blue tunic
lying face down in the middle of the square. The burly man who
stood over him, still laying about with his sword though covered
with blood, was unmistakably Harulf – Harulf, who was valiantly
protecting his master’s body with his own. But was that master dead
or alive?

“Dominick!” Gina screamed. Lady Adalhaid and
Deacon Fardulf together were not strong enough to hold her.
Breaking away from their restraining hands, she headed straight for
Dominick, dodging among the combatants, leaping over a motionless
body, barely escaping the downward slash of a rearing horse’s
hooves.

“Dominick!” She was kneeling beside him,
touching his shoulder, noting the blood that stained his tunic and
afraid to turn him over lest she inflict greater damage by moving
him. She couldn’t feel any pulse in his neck, and she couldn’t tell
whether he was breathing or not.

“How is he?” Harulf was squatting beside her,
his blood-smeared sword still in his right hand.

“I don’t know.” Gina caught her breath,
repressing a sob. She was not going to cry, not while she cherished
a hope of helping Dominick. “Why is it suddenly so quiet?”

“The battle’s over,” Harulf said. Raising his
voice, he called, “Bring a litter at once! Count Dominick is
wounded.”

They had to move him, of course. He couldn’t
remain there in the square, with his face in the mud. The
men-at-arms were accustomed to such duty. As gently as they could,
they rolled Dominick over onto his back on the litter. One of his
arms slipped off the litter, to dangle lifelessly until Gina lifted
his hand and laid it on his chest. His lips were blue. Gina could
feel her heart breaking, quickly and silently, yet she must have
appeared calm, for the men-at-arms were asking her where they were
to take Dominick. She couldn’t speak to answer them.

“Take him to the church,” said Fardulf in a
firm voice. The usually timid deacon then proceeded to prove
himself the hero Gina had once insisted he was, and a competent
organizer of weary men and women, as well. “There is an infirmary
in the priests’ lodging house, where there is room enough to take
in the wounded or the sick. We have no patients at present, so it
will be private. We will need a guard at the door to protect Count
Dominick and his companions from further attack. Someone should
notify the king of what has happened. The bodies will have to be
removed from the square and their identities established. Charles
will want to know who did this.”

“I can guess who’s to blame, and so can you,”
said Harulf. To the officer who was leading the men-at-arms he
added, “Let’s do as the good deacon says. Dominick needs immediate
care, and the ladies are both hurt. I don’t think we ought to risk
carrying Dominick down that narrow street to his house. There may
be more men waiting for us along the way, in case we escaped the
attack and decided to run for home.”

“Any wounded man is welcome to use the
services of the infirmary,” Fardulf said to the officer. “That
includes the attackers, for Christian charity requires us to aid
anyone who suffers, regardless of the cause. Besides, there is a
purely practical consideration. Charles is going to want those men
in good health when he interrogates them.”

With this advice the commanding officer
agreed, and he issued his orders. Half a dozen men-at-arms
surrounded Dominick and his friends, another group began to pick up
the wounded and the dead, while a third contingent was sent to
round up the horses and see to their welfare. Finally, the officer
left to report the incident to Charles.

Lady Adalhaid was swaying on her feet. Blood
dripped from a gash on her forehead. When she crumpled toward the
steps, Harulf, himself blood soaked, simply caught her by an arm
and a leg, slung her unceremoniously over his shoulder, and marched
through the church door after Fardulf, who was leading the way.

So numb was Gina in the aftermath of
violence, and so fearful that Dominick was dying if not already
dead, that she saw nothing the least bit amusing in the way Harulf
was carrying the elegant court lady as if she were a sack of dried
beans.

The infirmary was a white-walled, quiet place
with a row of narrow beds for the patients. According to Fardulf,
the infirmarer, whose name was Brother Anselm, was skilled with
herbal remedies and could neatly sew up almost any wound. He was
also shorthanded, so he was willing to allow Gina and Fardulf to
assist him once their own wounds were bandaged.

“You are the fortunate ones,” Brother Anselm
said. “Fardulf, this gash on your upper arm is but a shallow flesh
wound. It ought to heal quickly.” He finished tying a cloth around
Fardulf’s arm. “Go yourself, good deacon, or send one of the guards
you’ve brought here, and inform Father Theodulf of what has
happened. Ask if he will release some of the younger priests and
deacons from their duties so they may come and help us here. Then
return, yourself, I beg you. We will want all the help that Father
Theodulf will allow us.”

While Brother Anselm spoke to Fardulf, he was
cleaning and bandaging the wound on Gina’s shoulder.

“I have put an herbal poultice on it,” he
explained. “Now you may begin to assist me.”

“I think Count Dominick’s injuries are the
most urgent,” Gina told him somewhat impatiently, for she thought
Brother Anselm should have seen to Dominick at once and let herself
and Fardulf wait.

Dominick had been laid on one of the beds,
and Harulf, though still bleeding from his own wounds, was busy
cutting off his master’s tunic to reveal the damage beneath the
blue wool.

“When we moved him to bring him here, he
started to breathe again,” Harulf said, sending an encouraging
glance in Gina’s direction. “See? His lips aren’t blue
anymore.”

“He’s been stabbed in his side,” Brother
Anselm said. He pressed on the flesh that surrounded the gash just
under Dominick’s left ribs, then moved on to touch a bruised area a
little higher. “One, and possibly two, ribs have been broken. They
can be bound tightly until they heal. That’s a minor concern. It’s
the open wound that worries me.”

“Did the sword thrust open his guts?” Harulf
asked, not mincing words. “If so, he’ll swell up and die, for no
man can survive such a wound.”

Gina couldn’t move for shock. She was
incapable of uttering a single word of objection to what Harulf had
just said. The gash in Dominick’s side was only three or four
inches wide, yet in a world without antibiotics or sterile
instruments it could mean the death of a strong and vital man.

Brother Anselm examined the wound more
closely, putting his nose right against the torn area to smell the
flesh beneath, then poking his fingers into the opening until Gina
gagged and had to look the other way.

“I don’t think his innards have been opened,”
Brother Anselm declared. “I will wash the wound with wine and
water, and then I’ll sew it closed, after which we can only pray to
the Good Lord for Count Dominick’s recovery.”

“Just a minute,” Gina said. She’d had time to
recover from her initial shock, and she was now prepared to do
whatever was necessary to help Dominick to survive. She supposed
prayer was a good idea, though it certainly wasn’t the first
defense against a raging infection. She didn’t know much about
twentieth-century medicine; in fact, most of what she knew was
derived from television shows, and she wasn’t sure how accurate her
information was. But she did know one thing beyond dispute.

“Cleanliness is absolutely essential,” she
said to Brother Anselm. “I want to watch while you boil the needle
and thread you are going to use. Your hands are to be scrubbed with
the strongest soap you have. And you are going to clean that wound
thoroughly before you start sewing it.”

“As always before repairing an open cut, I
will cleanse the area with cool water infused with herbs .and
wine.” Brother Anselm spoke as if he was addressing a hysterical
woman who needed calming so he could then get on with his work.

“If the wine comes from a freshly opened
bottle it will likely act as a mild disinfectant,” Gina said,
trying to sound as if she knew whereof she spoke. “But any water
that touches that wound is going to be boiled first. Any herbs you
use will also be washed first in freshly boiled water.”

“I have years of experience in these
matters,” Brother Anselm protested.

“I am not questioning your skill,” Gina said.
“I am merely telling you how these problems are handled in my
country, where only rarely do the doctors lose a patient from a
simple wound like Dominick’s.”

“Really?” Brother Anselm frowned, looking
doubtful. “I must tell you that in Francia, death is a common
outcome when the area between ribcage and groin has been
opened.”

“All the more reason for you to try my
methods.” Gina’s mouth was dry with fear. She wasn’t sure how much
longer she could continue the argument. Then Harulf added his male
authority to her insistence.

“We will treat Dominick as Lady Gina
suggests,” Harulf declared with great firmness. “If he dies, she
and I will take the blame.”

“It’s not a matter of blame,” Brother Anselm
responded. “The will of the Lord will determine whether Count
Dominick lives or dies.”

“If that be so, then where is the harm in
trying a new treatment?” Harulf asked.

“Very well,” Brother Anselm said, casting a
sympathetic look at Dominick’s inert form. “I do confess, I am
curious about the effects of such excessive cleanliness. Harulf,
hold this compress over the wound and press hard to stop the
bleeding. Come with me, Lady Gina, and show me the methods of the
physicians of your country.”

He led her to a little room off the
infirmary, where a vile-smelling concoction was simmering over a
charcoal brazier. Lined up neatly on shelves around the room were
the herbal medicines that Brother Anselm said he made himself or
with the help of two assistants. At the moment, those two younger
men were attending to the wounded men-at-arms from the palace, and
to the horsemen who had attacked Dominick and his friends.

Lady Adalhaid, who was resting on one of the
beds, was complaining of a severe headache, which was being treated
with moist cloths dipped in cool water infused with lavender and
mint. The cut on her forehead had stopped bleeding, and she didn’t
appear to have any other injuries.

Gina observed all this activity while she was
overseeing Brother Anselm’s preparations. When the threaded needle
and the knife he was going to use had boiled for what Gina guessed
was twenty minutes, she placed the pot on a linen-covered tray.
Brother Anselm added to the tray a bowl of clean herbs and a bottle
of wine he had just opened, along with a pile of clean linen
bandages. Gina carried the tray to the infirmary and set it on a
stool.

Having done all she could to try to prevent
infection, Gina nodded, and Brother Anselm began to repair the gash
in Dominick’s side. Dominick was so deeply unconscious that he did
not waken or move or even moan. He just lay there on the bed that
was stained with his blood and the mud that had been on his
clothing. Harulf had finally removed all of his garments and had
slipped a clean piece of linen under him beneath the area of the
wound. Only a cloth draped across Dominick’s loins covered his
nakedness.

Gina watched everything Brother Anselm did
and tried to keep herself from becoming sick. She counted each
stitch in Dominick’s flesh, telling herself she was responsible for
seeing to it that Brother Anselm did his very best, so Dominick
would have a chance to heal. She was forced to admit that Brother
Anselm knew what he was doing. He drew the edges of the wound
together so skillfully that she knew there would be only minor
scarring -assuming that Dominick lived.

“There.” Brother Anselm cut the thread with
the sterilized knife and packed the fresh, cleaned herbs over the
wound. He laid a piece of folded linen on top of the herbs. “I’ll
wrap a bandage around him to keep the compress in place. I can do
no more.”

“Thank you,” Gina said when he was finished,
and stretched out both her hands to him.

“I must see to the other patients,” Brother
Anselm said, as if embarrassed by her gratitude. “Harulf, come and
let me tend to your injuries. You’ve been standing too long; that’s
why you are so pale.”

“Go on, Harulf. Ill stay with Dominick,” Gina
said. She thought his pasty, clammy-looking skin was more the
result of watching Brother Anselm work on Dominick than of
standing. All the same, Harulf ought to sit down.

Left alone with Dominick, Gina pulled a stool
to his bedside and sat on it. Dominick appeared to be breathing
normally, but he gave no indication of returning consciousness. The
skin was drawn tight over his finely chiseled features, and when
she took his hand it was limp.