Alys Clare - Mist Over the Water

Sibert put aside his squeamishness and worked tirelessly, splitting wood, building up the fire steadily until he could put on larger logs. Then he took the bucket down to wherever this community drew their water, following my instructions and first filling the vessels in which I would make the infusions, suspending them on a tripod above the heat. Next he filled a larger pot for washing water. While he was busy with this I rolled Morcar off his sacking and on to the cleanest of the straw, which I had heaped up ready. Then I swept out not only the space where he had been lying but also the rest of the floor area, what there was of it, right down to the bare, beaten earth. In his foraging Sibert had located the clean straw supply, and he dragged in a bale, cutting the twine around it and strewing it on the clean floor. We padded it up as best we could, and then I took a sheet from my pack and laid it on the makeshift palliasse. Sibert took Morcar’s blanket outside and gave it a good shake — it was not soiled because, like his cloak, he must have pushed it off as he burned with fever — and folded it up out of the way until we needed it.

Then I turned my attention to my cousin.

It was fortunate that I did not know him very well for the tasks I had to do for him now were of the most intimate nature. He was my patient before he was my kinsman, and I found it easy to find the necessary detachment, focusing only on caring for him. Sibert helped me strip off his foul garments, taking them outside the house. I would see to them later. Then I dipped a length of linen in the hot water and began to bathe the stinking, sweaty, soiled body. It took two changes of water until I was satisfied. I had thrown a handful of dried lavender flowers into the water as it simmered and now at last the sweet, sharp smell was overcoming Morcar’s stench.

The water in the smaller vessels had come to the boil, and I paused in my washing task to make the febrifuge, making up a brew of white willow bark. As soon as it was sufficiently cool, I tried to feed a little to Morcar. Sibert propped up his head, and I put some drops on his cracked lips. As I had hoped, he licked them off with his poor, dry tongue, so I dripped some more. Slowly , I warned myself. Slowly, for probably he has not drunk for a long time, and too much all at once will only make his stomach clench so that he vomits .

Then at last I looked at his foot.

I had not yet even washed it, merely covering it with linen while I attended to the rest of him; I was afraid that the wound would start to bleed as soon as I touched it, and I wanted to be sure that both he and the room were as clean as I could make them before that happened. I was ready now. I nodded to Sibert, and he came to kneel beside me at Morcar’s feet, holding the lamp so that its light shone down on the wounds.

I removed the piece of linen. I dipped my washing cloth in the lavender-scented water and, taking a steadying breath, began to bathe Morcar’s right foot. As the crust of blood and pus came away I saw that there were not one but two wounds, one deeper than the other and torn around its edges. As gently as I could, hoping that my cousin was too deep in his unconsciousness to feel the pain I must be causing, I delved into the bloody holes in his flesh.

I had almost forgotten about Sibert when he spoke. ‘Looks as if he speared himself with a pitchfork,’ he whispered.

I only remembered then that he didn’t know the details of Morcar’s accident. ‘Almost right,’ I whispered back, ‘but it wasn’t a pitchfork, it was an eel gleeve.’

‘Er-’

I smiled. ‘It’s what they call the three-pronged thing they catch eels with.’

‘You would know,’ Sibert remarked. As I’ve said, my father is an eel catcher, but he invariably uses willow traps rather than a spear. It was not really 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 enough.