Mist Over the Water by Alys Clare Page B

the moment to mention it though so I just nodded.
    I concentrated on the wounds, trying to bring to mind everything Edild had ever told me about deep cuts. Stop the bleeding . Well, it had stopped now, or at least it had till I’d started poking at the holes, and now the blood was only welling up slowly as if in token protest. Clean out pus and dirt . Yes, done that. Check for damaged bones . Hmm. Trickier; if I eased open the wider wound I could see pale bone, but judging whether or not there was any break was beyond my skill. I would just have to hope there wasn’t. Stitch if necessary . Oh, Edild, must I stitch the bigger wound? If there is play in the edges of the cut, then yes . I don’t think I can! I’ve only ever practised on a pig’s bladder! You must. Do it now .
    I was used to obeying my aunt and even now, when the authoritative voice only existed inside my head, I did so. I asked Sibert to fetch my pack and rummaged in it for my bone needle and the thread made of gut. Then, working from the middle outwards, I put five stitches in Morcar’s foot.
    I sat back on my heels looking down at what I had just done. Then suddenly, the tension and the fear caught up with me and my head swam. Don’t you dare faint! said Edild in my head. You haven’t finished yet .
    But it was not my aunt but Sibert who brought me back to myself. He was staring at Morcar’s foot, then looking up at me, slowly shaking his head.
    ‘What is it?’ I demanded urgently. Had he spotted something I’d missed?
    He smiled, then a soft laugh broke out of him. ‘Lassair, you just sewed up someone’s foot,’ he said, still smiling. ‘You really are a healer, aren’t you?’
    I was absurdly pleased, so much so that I could have hugged him. I didn’t. Instead I repeated his words silently to myself, my confidence rising with each repetition. Then, before I could get carried away with my own importance, I reminded myself that there was still a long way to go.
    ‘He’s not better yet,’ I said quietly. I rested a hand on Morcar’s leg. ‘He’s aflame with fever. I’m going to dress these wounds –’ I reached for comfrey to make a poultice – ‘and then we’ll try to get some more of the willow bark infusion into him.’
    It was a very long night.
    Once Morcar was clean and bandaged, Sibert and I laid him on the clean sheet and wrapped him up in his blanket. He was burning up and shivering at the same time, and I did not know whether to cover him to keep him warm or to remove the bedding to cool him. I compromised by tucking him up but removing the blanket frequently to sponge him down. All the time I kept dribbling more and more of the febrifuge into his parched mouth; soon he was actually drawing the liquid in, which I hoped was a good sign.
    When, amid the sponging and the administering of the medicine, I occasionally had a moment’s rest, I closed my eyes and prayed as hard as I could to the friendly guardian spirits who help healers in their work, begging them to guide my hands and make me do what was right. Recalling that we were cheek by jowl with a great Christian abbey – the second-largest in all of England, men said – I also appealed to the good Lord as well. I muttered Edild’s favourite incantation, over and over again. Whenever I felt my eyelids droop, I made myself get up and feed some more of the infusion into my cousin.
    Sibert was fast asleep, curled up in a ball on the far side of the hearth. I did not blame him; he had worked as hard as a man could work, and I was enormously grateful. Besides, Morcar was my patient; it was up to me to sit vigil by him.
    I think I dozed for a while for suddenly the little room seemed brighter. Not exactly light; just not quite so dark. I guessed dawn must be close. Feeling guilty that I had slept, I rolled closer to Morcar and stared down at him. The tallow lamp had gone out, its fuel exhausted, but there was enough light from the glowing fire for me to see him well