Celtic Fire(17)
“As you wish, Magister.” Marcus scooted past the healer and collided with a woman who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Water sloshed up over the edge of the large clay bowl she carried and hit him in the face. He sputtered, ducked around her, and disappeared.
The healer shook his head. “Zeus help me.”
He moved to Rhiannon’s bedside, gesturing for the slave woman to enter the chamber. She advanced, setting her bowl of water on the low table near Rhiannon’s bed. A younger woman laden with linens followed in her wake, bare feet slapping on the wet floor.
The first woman crossed the room and flung open the shutters. Light flooded the room, sending blessed illumination into the shadowed corners. Rhiannon drew a deep breath, feeling her courage strengthen. The second woman gave Rhiannon a shy smile and placed her bundles on the bed.
Demetrius dismissed the slave women and they hurried from the room. Rhiannon watched the healer’s approach with wary eyes.
“How fares your leg today?” Without waiting for an answer, the old man grasped the lower edge of Rhiannon’s makeshift cloak and pushed it to one side.
She snatched the blanket’s hem from his fingers. Her fingers curled into a fist, ready to strike should he reach for her a second time.
The healer spread his arms, palms up. “I mean no disrespect,” he said gently. “I must examine the injury. Surely you realize that.”
Rhiannon’s shoulders hunched. His words were true enough. She knew only too well what became of wounds left untended. And no doubt both the healer and the commander had seen her unclothed the night before, when she lay unconscious. Her face flamed at the thought.
“Very well.” Anchoring the top of her blanket about her throat, she drew back the lower portion with her free hand.
“You must lie down, girl.”
Rhiannon shook her head. She would not put herself in such a vulnerable position.
“As you wish.” He slid his hands under her leg, straightened it at the knee, and unwound the bandage with practiced precision. To Rhiannon’s surprise, the gash was neatly closed with precise stitches, as if her skin were a length of fabric mended with the finest of needles.
The healer took a clean cloth from the bundle on the bed and dipped it in the bowl of water the slave woman had left. He washed the last traces of blood from the wound, then smeared the contents of the smaller wooden bowl over his handiwork. The remedy soothed immediately.
“The gash is not deep,” he said. “It should heal without causing a limp. Do not put undue weight on your leg for a full day at least.” He replaced the discarded bandage with a clean length of cloth, nodding toward the remaining linens as he worked. “Clothing, I believe—one of the women must have located something suitable for you.”
When she did not answer, he clucked softly. “What has happened to your tongue, girl? It wagged freely enough yesterday.”
“I find I have little to say this day.”
He let out a barking laugh, showing a tooth encased in gold. “The gods be praised.”
She glared at him, lips pressed together.
His expression softened. “You are fearful now, of course, but you will adjust quickly enough to your new situation. You may even find it preferable to the life you left.” He snorted. “And since Zeus knows this household is overrun with slaves, your duties are not likely to be taxing.”
“Save for those I will perform on my back.”
The healer’s grizzled eyebrows shot up. “So. The fire has not quite died.” He chuckled at some private amusement as he wiped his hands on a discarded cloth.
A third slave woman arrived, her sturdy arms bearing a tray laden with enough food to feed Rhiannon and several others besides—savory pork roasted with nuts, two soft round loaves, winter apples, and a large clay mug. The woman set the tray on the table by the bed. She threw a wide smile in Rhiannon’s direction before collecting the soiled linens and exiting the chamber.
“Eat, then, and rest your leg,” the healer said. “I will look in on you later.”
When he had gone, Rhiannon slipped the blanket from her shoulders. She shook out the folded fabric on her bed and found a long tunic of the softest linen she’d ever held in her hands. It had been dyed an apple green and stitched so carefully that its seams were all but invisible. She slipped it quickly over her head, eager to cover herself. It slid over her skin like a caress. She belted it at her waist with a braided leather cord.
Though clothing had been quite welcome, her stomach protested the smell of food. She suspected any nourishment she tried would not remain long in her stomach. The mug, however, was filled with cervesia, not wine. She could probably keep that down. She lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip.