The Fifth Knight(71)

“Not we. I.” She smarted at his dismissal of her skill. “Of course it matters. The written word has great power.”

“Only if you smother someone with it.” He moved to the door. “Now, let’s be off. Every second is precious.”

Theodosia tightly rolled the letter once more and handed it back to the Abbess. “I think it is safest with you, and not my heathen companion. If anything were to happen to us, to Edward…” She couldn’t continue.

Ursula finished for her. “We would still have a robust account with which to bring the murderers to justice.” She replaced it carefully in the little chest and patted the closed lid. As she stood up, her look met Theodosia’s. “Oh, my child,” she said, her voice hoarse with sudden emotion. “I understand your struggle for your vocation, the obstacles in your life that seem too high. God will guide you, I can promise you that.”

“Thank you, Mother. I will try and think of your words often.”

“Think too of Amélie’s joy when she sees you, and yours when you see her,” said Ursula. “A glorious reward for your courage, Laeticia.” She gave Theodosia a soft pat on the cheek. Composing herself, she returned to her brisk demeanor with a clap of her hands. “Now, come. Let us make all haste.”

♦ ♦ ♦

“Wilfreda!”

The call cut through the hubbub of the busy kitchen.

Wilfreda paused from her scrubbing of a copper pot, wet bran stuck to her fingers.

Stood in the doorway, one of the infirmary sisters beckoned to her across the noisy room. “We have two new arrivals. Bring a pail of hot water. At once!”

Wilfreda looked to the nearby cook for permission.

The cook nodded. “The sooner you’re gone, the sooner you’re back. Don’t dally.” She returned to her supervision of a young sister who prepared a pile of sheep’s hearts for the evening meal.

With a quick wipe of her hands on the front of her apron, Wilfreda filled a wooden pail from one of the large boiling vats that would cook the peeled and chopped carrots and parsnips. She hurried out to follow the nun across the courtyard, glad to leave the steamy kitchen and its heavy scent of uncooked meat. She liked the infirmary, liked it much better than waiting on tables, where people who didn’t know her would stare at her one eye. Sick people were a lot kinder than hungry people. Patients with a fever cared not if you were disfigured. They cared only that you could damp down the raging fire within them.

She could do that. Sit there, by the bedside, as the night stretched long and dark. Put the cloth in the bowl of iced water. Wring it out. Put it on the sweltering brow. Soon as the cold left the cloth, put it back into the water. Wring it out. Back on the brow. Over and over again, till the burning left the sufferer. Time didn’t matter when you were with the sick. All that mattered was that they got well.

As Wilfreda entered the infirmary behind the nursing nun, the familiar sight met her.

Neat beds, calm, order, with the settled half a dozen patients. A flurry of activity around the new, as the groans of the injured man drew nosy looks from the rest.

Three sisters attended to a huge knight stretched out on the bed, the sleeves of their black robes rolled up to reveal pale busy arms and hands. A second knight, soiled from battle of some sort, stood over him too.

Wilfreda approached, pail handle secure in both hands, ready for her instructions, ready for the companion’s look of mock, of disgust. She cared not. One day, she’d be first round the bed, checking the wound, guessing the rash, judging the strength of the fever. For now, all she could do was watch, learn.

“A dog bite, you say?” The head sister addressed the second knight.

“More serious,” he said. “A wolf. We were attacked as we rode through the forest.”

This knight must be a high-ranking one. His tones were definitely those of a gentleman.

“Is it only this one at the top of his leg?” said the sister.

“That is the worst,” said the knight. “He has a number of scrapes and scratches, as do I, but not anything to cause harm.”

The sister bent to make a closer examination.

The big knight gave a muted gasp of pain as his heavy brows drew together and his scarred mouth closed tight.

Wilfreda panged inside. He too bore the cross of a damaged face.

“Make up an onion poultice,” said the sister as she straightened up. Her two assistants hurried off at her order. “His breeches need to come off. Wilfreda, I need your help.”

Wilfreda stepped forward. “P-pardon me, sir.”

The second knight moved back to let her past as she placed her pail next to the bedside.