She crouched down and studied him. “I can help,” she said.
“Bring me that lamp. The one over there.” She was anxious to flaunt her apothecary skills, earned when a rush of fevers struck the Abbey two winters ago. He obeyed and produced it.
The injured one was no older than seventeen or eighteen—a man for certain, but one young enough to still have the blemishes of youth on his face. His hair was cropped short around his neck. His build somewhat resembled that of Getmin, the blacksmith’s help who loved to torment her.
“Is this your squire?” she asked. “We should have carried him closer to the fire. He is bone cold. I can start the fire quickly.”
“Squire? Well, he is . . . he is a good lad. Not my squire, though.
His father was a good man. How old are you lass? Sixteen?”
“I am thirteen. At least I think so. I am a wretched.”
“I would not have believed you thirteen. You look tall enough to have danced beneath a maypole already.”
“I am hoping to this year, if the Aldermaston lets me. I am near enough to fourteen and think he should.” The blood flowed from a cut on the young man’s eyebrow. She stanched it firmly with a cloth.
It might take a while to make it stop as the cut was deep. She glanced up at the loft, half expecting to see Sowe cowering there, but there was no one. Part of her was glad that Sowe was asleep.
“I always try to make it to Muirwood for Whitsunday. A most profitable day it is.”
“You mean the tourneys or the trading?”
“Yes, yes, the tourneys. Nothing like bumping a man onto his hindquarters. And I most gravely apologize for knocking you onto yours just now. My, look at that wound. That is a nasty cut.” He looked into Lia’s eyes, and she felt a sudden jolt of warmth. “Rode his piddling mare right into an oak branch. Too many trees here, lass. Too dark and the storm made it worse! Praise the Medium, we are both still alive. Let me grab another cloth, and we can wring out that one. Wait here.”
Lia knelt by the limp body, her stomach buzzing, and pressed the wound harder. She looked over her shoulder and watched the knight slice a shank from the spitted hog and stuff it into a leather bag at his waist. It was followed by three buttered rolls and a whole cherry tart.
“Those are for the Aldermaston’s dinner tomorrow!” she whispered in a panic, knowing exactly who Pasqua would blame.
“The hog is not even done cooking yet!”
“There we are, a cloth!” He snatched one of the fine linen napkins and hurried over, licking his fingers. He held out the napkin to exchange with hers.
“That is one of the Aldermaston’s napkins!”
“Is a lad’s life held so cheaply here? We must stop the bleeding.
Here, put your hand on this and hold it tight. The linen will sop the blood better.” He grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand against the bleeding.
“That is not the way to do it,” she said. “Here, let me fetch some things. I can cure him.” Lia ran to the benches and grabbed some clean dishrags, a kettle of warm water from the fire-peg, and a sprig of blue woad. She watched as the knight grabbed two more tarts, veins of grapes, and a small tub of treacle and stuffed them into his leather knapsack.
“What are you doing?”
“Hmmm? Victuals, lass. I will leave a little pouch with coins on the mantel.” He pointed to the fire.
“Pasqua will be furious,” Lia muttered under her breath, arranging the healing provisions near the young man’s head. She steeped the cloth with some hot water and wiped blood from his face. He did not flinch or start, but his eyes darted beneath his eyelids. His body started to tremble. She grabbed his hand.
“He is too cold. Where is his cloak?” She poured more hot water and wrung out the cloth, bathing his face a second time before wadding it up and pressing it against the cut on his eyebrow. If Sowe were awake, she could have helped pestle the woad. But Lia was left to do it all herself.
The knight’s shadow smothered her from behind. She turned her head and looked up at him.
He nodded. “Woad? Ah, you studied under a healer as well as a cook? It is a useful plant. You are a good lass. Make him well. I will be back for him in three days. Keep him hidden, if you can.”
Panic. Pure and sudden panic.
“What? You are not going to . . . not leaving him . . .”
“I must throw the sheriff of Mendenhall’s men off our trail, lass. It is dangerous for mastons in this part of the country. Especially this Hundred.” He walked quickly to the door and the rain puddling on the entryway. “Keep him safe. If Almaguer comes, do your best to hide him. His life is in your hands. I am trusting you in this.”