Mist Over the Water by Alys Clare

I’m a healer,’ I added, in case this man thought, like the plump woman, that it was other comforts I was offering.
    The man spun round, and I thought I saw relief in his face. ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ he demanded.
    ‘Do you know where he is?’ I snapped out.
    ‘Oh, yes, I certainly do,’ the man replied angrily. ‘He lodges next door to me, and his moans and groans have kept me awake these past nights!’ Then his better nature got the better of him. ‘I’m right glad to see you, girl, and so will he be,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the way.’
    He set off at a trot along an alley that led off to our right, and we passed several dwellings that gave the impression they were leaning on each other for support. Their walls were made of hazel hurdles on which daub had been haphazardly slapped, and not one of them had a properly fitting door. The man stopped at the one that was almost at the end of the row, and pushing open the door – I noticed that he did not bother to knock – he jerked his head towards a long shape lying on the floor and said, ‘There he is.’
    He was about to leave – I could sense how much he wanted to be away from the foetid, stinking little space – but, again, he must have listened to the voice of his conscience. He leaned close to me and said softly, ‘If you need anything, my door’s next one down.’
    There were two things I needed immediately. ‘I must have water and I need to mend the fire,’ I whispered. There was a hearth in the middle of the floor – my cousin lay curled around it – but the circle of stones enclosed little more than faintly glowing embers.
    The man nodded. ‘Firewood’s behind the house. Water you’ll need to send your man to fetch –’ I realized who he meant, and I almost laughed as Sibert’s faint snort of protest indicated that he did too – ‘from the end of the track. You’ll find a bucket and pots in the corner there.’ He indicated to where the vague shapes of cooking pots and other utensils lay in a heap.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very kind.’ I realized he was swaying with exhaustion. ‘Go and get some rest.’
    He bowed briefly and hurried away.
    Sibert had struck his flint and was putting a light to a tallow lamp on the floor beside the insensate Morcar. I smelt the fat and registered it as one more unpleasant aroma in the midst of all the others. Then I gathered my courage and looked around me.
    The room was filthy. There were the remnants of very old straw on the beaten earth floor, and from the stench I knew it must be sodden with urine and worse. Morcar lay on a thin piece of sacking, and that, too, was soaking. I could see suspicious stains spreading out from his backside. It looked as if he had tried to wrap himself in his cloak, but then the heat of his fever must have made him push it off, for now he was naked except for a linen shift, torn open to the waist, and his hose.
    His face was deadly pale. He was soaked with sweat and shivering like a wet dog. I made myself look at his wounded foot and then wished I hadn’t, for it was caked with black blood, oozing yellow pus and it stank of rot.
    I glanced at Sibert. He was staring fixedly down at Morcar, his expression a mixture of revulsion and compassion. Before revulsion could win the upper hand, it was time to get him busy.
    ‘Sibert, please would you build a good fire?’ I said, gratified to note that my voice sounded calm. ‘As quickly as you can, for the first thing to do is to prepare hot water and lots of it.’
    Sibert turned his eyes to me. He looked as if he were about to be sick, and I could not blame him. Through my work with Edild I was starting to get used to the various stenches of disease, but all the same I could feel my mouth filling with water as I desperately quelled the heaves that rose up from my stomach.
    ‘We’re going to clean up?’ he said hopefully.
    ‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘We’re going to make this little