Wicked Whispers (5 page)

“What was forgotten?” the younger man asked.

Enrique warned himself not to frown or argue. He tried to recall what Sancha had used on Fernando when she’d treated him. The stench of illness had been horrific, though not as daunting as the scent of death.

“Wine.” He remembered having seen a bottle in Fernando’s room and something else. “Vinegar too.” He patted the leather
alforjas
behind him, indicating where he had the items, hoping neither man would ask to see them or tell him the village was already in possession of the things.

The older man pointed. “The last hut to the right.”

“
Gracias
.” After tossing the coin to the fellow, Enrique directed his horse through the village. Dust and mud seemed to cover everything, smoke permeating the air. No candles burned here. Light came from the moon and a few torches placed at such a distance from each other, he couldn’t determine what they were meant to illuminate.

Although the village was grim in comparison to a castle, the people had tended the property well, keeping their chickens and pigs in pens. Tattered clothes hung on a limp rope strung between two sorry looking cork trees.

He stopped at the last hut, its windows shuttered. Faint light spilled through separations in the wood. The mules Sancha and the men rode were off to the side, tethered properly.

Before Enrique could dismount, a man left the hut, slammed the door behind him, and strode into the darkness.

After debating whether to knock first, Enrique slipped inside quietly, prepared to deal with an argument from Sancha or the men she’d travelled with.

Shadows darkened most of the room. Torches shone on a rough wood table with a little girl lying on top. Eyes closed, and moaning, she couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. A rip in her homespun dress showed ribs as prominent as Fernando’s had been during his recovery, the child’s thin body nothing like those belonging to the nobility’s sons and daughters. Their skin was olive or pink, not gray like this child’s. Their arms and legs had never been as spindly as hers.

A pungent smoke smell was as strong in here as it had been outside, along with the odor of decay. Someone had hiked the child’s garment above her right thigh to reveal a large wound, angry red around the edges, yellowish pus oozing from the center. Given how swollen the injury was, Enrique sensed there was far more pus inside. He’d heard Fernando and their other brothers speak of injuries like these when relating scenes from their battles.

Men had died from similar wounds, as Fernando would have, if not for Sancha’s skilled help.

She, the two men who’d ridden with her, and a woman stood to the far left side of the table, their backs to Enrique. Several of Sancha’s tresses dangled from her sack hat.

The woman wore a frayed kirtle and worn shoes, her hair uncombed, shoulders drooping.

The taller of the men asked, “Will you listen to him?”

“How can I?” The woman spoke to Sancha. “No matter what my husband said, you must save my daughter’s life whether you can spare her leg or not. He worries if Maria loses a limb, no man would want her. I will. So will her uncles. We can see to her welfare.”

The men promised they would.

Sancha nodded. “What did the woman who usually takes care of these things do for Maria?”

“She died recently.” The mother pushed lank hair behind her ears. “Her daughter took her place. Under her care Maria has grown worse.”

Sancha placed her bag on the table and emptied it.

Enrique frowned at her scraped fingers.

“I need several containers of water.” She glanced at the pots hanging from hooks over the crude hearth. “Both the water and containers must be clean.” She placed a stack of snowy linen napkins on the table, followed by a bottle of vinegar. “Two of you will need to hold Maria down when I cut into her wound to drain it.”

“Cut? Drain?” The woman shook her head. “We were told never to do so. What flows from the wound would harm other parts of her body.”

“Whoever told you so was misinformed.” Sancha gestured to the wound. “See how red the skin is at the edges, how swollen the center of her injury is? The yellow matter inside causes both. Your daughter’s body is trying to expel the vile liquid. Once removed, the wound will have a chance to heal.”

The mother stroked her child’s leg. “Will she live?”

“I will do everything in my power to help her. Please fetch the water.”

The woman grabbed a battered pot and spotted Enrique in the darkness. She lifted her eyebrows. He put his finger to his lips, asking for silence. She gave it. So did the two men who followed her outside, pots in hand.

Hurriedly, Sancha pulled other items from her bag. There was a brass container, wine as she’d had when tending Fernando, a dagger, thread, and a needle.

Staring at the last items, Enrique stepped closer. His arm hit a broom. The smack of the handle against the packed earthen floor sounded louder than it should have.

She looked over and gaped at him.

“I mean no harm.” He held his hands behind his back to prove his words.

The child squirmed and opened her eyes. “Mamá?”

Sancha stroked the little girl’s cheek. “Your mamá is fetching water. She should return in a moment.”

The child’s face reddened with her strained breathing, fat tears sliding down her face. “My leg hurts.”

“Of course it does.” Sancha smoothed the girl’s hair. “I promise to make it better.”

No words would console Maria. She cried loudly without end. The moment her mother returned with the water, she put the pot on the table and held the girl to her breast, rocking her.

Sancha touched the woman’s shoulder. “We need to begin now, before the infection grows worse.”

“Should we give Maria some wine?” the smaller man asked. “The drink may quiet her some and make what you do less painful for her.”

“No. Given how weak she is, the wine could do more harm than good.”

“What did you give Fernando?” Enrique asked.

Everyone glanced at him.

Sancha looked away first. “Fernando had already swooned when I tended to his injuries. Nothing I did roused him in the least.”

After rolling a napkin into a ropelike shape, she handed the item to the mother. “Have Maria bite down on this to help ease the pain.”

Sancha pushed up her sleeves, washed her hands in the water, and dried them on yet another napkin. She uncorked the wine and vinegar, showing both to the mother. “This is to cleanse your daughter’s wound.”

The moment the liquids touched her, Maria screamed around the napkin. Immediately, the men held her down. Swiftly, Sancha washed her knife blade in another pot, then ran it through the torch flame. Upon her return, she spoke to the men. “Hold her firmly. She will fight the pain and me.”

Maria spat the napkin from her mouth and wailed. Sancha hadn’t even touched her as yet. Didn’t matter. Screaming now, the child struggled against her uncles’ hold. Footfalls and voices neared the hut. Enrique stuck his head outside. Women and men stepped back.

Not only was he a stranger but a noble. “All is well.”

The child’s ear-piercing shrieks turned to gasping sobs.

“Tell the same to anyone who asks,” he said. “Especially Maria’s papá.”

Enrique closed the door. Sancha finally sliced into the child’s wound. Blood and pus spurted out. The girl shrieked louder than before.

His stomach rolled.

Sancha mopped up the mess with the napkins. She used so many, the crumpled linens fell off the table. Despite the gore, she never flinched or became ill as he would have. At last, she’d exposed the raw core of the wound and poured vinegar over the dark red flesh.

The little girl stiffened and swooned.

“The worst is over.” She looked at each family member in turn. “Do keep holding her should she awake without warning.”

Weeping, the mother made the sign of the cross over herself.

Sancha opened the brass vial. The moment she brought the container to the wound, the mother put out her hand. “Wait. What is that?”

“A mixture of wine, garlic, onion, and cow bile to keep the injury from infecting again.”

Enrique went to her. “Bile helps against an infection?”

“Physicians have used this for centuries as I did on Fernando.” She poured the mixture on a fresh napkin and applied it to the wound.

Once the area was fully saturated, she ran the tip of the needle through the fire as she had the dagger and pulled thread through the eye. Then she held the edges of the wound together with one hand while stitching with the other. The same as she’d do when repairing a rip in fabric rather than a child’s skin.

The mother covered her face.

Maria moaned several times but never awakened fully.

He’d never seen anything to match Sancha’s actions and knowledge. She’d performed similar healing with Fernando but Enrique hadn’t witnessed the actual methods. After snipping the thread with her scissors, Sancha washed the wound with more wine and vinegar, then wrapped several napkins around it. “You must keep the area clean.” She gestured to the dressings. “In my experiments—”

“Your what?”

She ignored him. “During those times when I was faced with a similar problem as Maria’s, if the wound became dirty, the infection returned.” She handed the remainder of the napkins and the brass bottle to the woman. “You can care for her during the next days using these.”

“What if she grows worse?”

“Send for me.” Sancha pulled several loaves of bread, a wheel of cheese, and a container of roasted pork from her bag and put each on a shelf to the side. “Make certain your daughter eats as much as she can during the healing period and drinks plenty of water to prevent a fever.”

She put out her hand to Enrique. “Give me any ducats or
reals
you have.”

Sensing she wasn’t in the mood for questions, he handed his money over.

She gave the coins to the mother, dug into her bag once more and produced even more gold and silver. “Use the coins to purchase whatever food you need for Maria and others in the village. If you eat well, you are less likely to fall ill.”

“I could never accept so much.”

“You can and you will. Señor Don Enrique insists.” She glanced over. “Do you not?”

He lifted his hands. “Of course.”

She fought a smile. The mother wept.

“Do you leave now?” Enrique asked Sancha.

She regarded Maria. “In time. I want to wait and watch. You may go, of course.”

He would stay.

Sancha tried to concentrate solely on Maria, as she should, but kept failing to do so. With the child quiet for the moment, Enrique’s presence was too potent for her to deny. Each time she glanced over, he regarded her, his gaze thoughtful rather than possessive or filled with disdain.

She bathed Maria’s face to keep her cool. He drew near, watching the child, then her. The moment Sancha sank to her knees and gathered the soiled napkins, Enrique joined her, seeing to the task.

Turned to Maria’s mother, he lifted his hands filled with filthy linen most nobles would have been loath to touch. “Where should I put these?”

The woman was far too concerned about her daughter to answer him. Maria’s uncles sat on the floor, backs against the walls. Their heads repeatedly fell forward. They flinched each time and tried to stay awake.

Seeing no receptacle for rubbish, Sancha held out the sack she’d brought. “Use this.”

After dropping the napkins inside and washing his hands in the pot, he pulled a chair over and gestured to Maria’s mother. “You should rest.”

She regarded him gratefully, tears in her eyes.

Enrique placed his hand on the woman’s arm, guiding her to sit. “Maria will be fine.”

He brought the other chairs over and offered Sancha one. “You should also relax while you can. Maria may need you later.”

Sancha didn’t argue. Her shoulders and legs ached with tension even as weariness washed over her. After tending the ill, she always experienced crushing fatigue driven by her intense concentration over their maladies, coupled with worry that she wouldn’t succeed in keeping her charges alive and whole.

The moment she sank to the chair, Enrique grabbed two clean napkins and dampened one with vinegar.

She couldn’t imagine what he was doing and hoped he wasn’t planning to treat Maria.

He dropped to one knee in front of Sancha. “Give me your hand. Either one, as I intend to see to both.”

She buried her fingers in her homespun shirt. “My hands are fine.”

“You hurt them. How?”

She wasn’t about to say until he glanced at the table, its rough wood possibly the source of her injury. “Whilst I was at the castle collecting the items I needed for Maria, I moved too quickly and tripped. Not wanting to drop anything, I scraped my hands on the kitchen wall.”

He accepted her lie without challenge, taking great care in cleansing her fingers with the vinegar. At the first sting, she winced. He blew on the hurt, easing her pain.

Moved by his tender care, she curled her fingers around his.

After giving her a fast smile, he used his dagger to cut the other napkin into strips and wrapped the linen around the scrapes to protect them from further damage.

“You should take more care with yourself.” He knotted the last strip. “You know what an injury can do.”

Her hands weren’t her biggest concern. Her future was at stake, and yet she wanted him more with each passing minute. Already she’d allowed Enrique far too many liberties with their relationship. As she would a husband who had the right to follow her, remain here, and see to her physical comfort.

How pleasant she found his touch. He was a good man. Certainly chivalrous. But he wasn’t her destiny. People like Maria and others in this village were. They needed her more than he ever would. There were countless women who’d want him, giving him heirs.

Too few saw to the needs of the ill and poor.

“Gracias.” She eased her hands from him and gestured to his chair. “You should rest.”

With a sigh, he sat. “This evening has been long.”

She smiled. Given his stricken expression earlier, she was surprised he hadn’t swooned as the child had. Although the scene had disturbed him, he’d kept his peace, affording Sancha the same right to do what she wanted as he would a man.