Catherine Archer - Dragon's Daughter

She knew he must be warmed, and without delay. More than one death had been brought about by extended exposure to the cold.

Hurriedly she continued to run her hands over him, searching for injuries. She found nothing more than a prominent lump on the back of his head. And though she tried not to think on it as she slid her fingers over the smooth skin beneath his woolen tunic, she had an unaccustomed awareness that the man’s body was hard and lean, the muscles well developed. Rowena felt an odd stirring, a sense of him as a man that was far different than what she usually experienced in her work as a healer.

Even as uncertainty coursed through her, he groaned and opened his eyes.

Starting, Rowena looked up at his face, into the most unusual blue eyes she had ever seen in her life. They were an oddly compelling shade, light and yet dusky at the same time, like periwinkle blossoms.

Rowena’s heart thudded in her chest.

As she continued to return his gaze, she noted that although the man was looking directly at her, he did not appear to be focusing. He was seeing but not seeing, his expression troubled by some inner vision. Even as she noted his distress, she saw that it was softened by compassion and yearning.

He opened his pale lips, murmuring, “Rosalind.” His lids drifted closed once more.

Rosalind? For a brief instant Rowena felt a stirring of familiarity in hearing that name. She quickly dismissed it. There was no one hereabouts named Rosalind.

Clearly this unknown woman meant something to the man with the unusual and compassionate blue eyes. What an enigma he was. Unless she was completely mistaken, her examination of that powerful, lean body told her he had been in the best of health and vigor ere he had washed up on their beach.

Though she wondered once again how he might have gotten here, the way to Ashcroft being arduous and seldom traveled, Rowena knew that would be determined only if the man regained consciousness. He could have fallen from a passing ship, but few ships sailed this close to their treacherous shores, for the sea was far too shallow for any vessel larger than a fishing boat.

She stood, looking up along the cliffs, as the sound of voices came to her. A group of women led by Hagar, who had become something of a mother to Rowena when her own had died, and the excitedly prancing Padriac, hurried along the path. It looked as if most of the women in the village had come to her aid. They picked their way carefully down to the beach, continuing to ply young Padriac with questions about the man he had found.

Rowena smiled with gratitude. As always, there would be enough hands to accomplish the task. Here in this quiet village were folk who cared for one another. They did not value land or position above life or family.

In a relatively short time, Rowena and the other women had the stranger on the bed, covered with blankets, in Rowena’s small but tidy cottage in the wood. He had begun to moan and murmur under his breath, but his words were indecipherable, though the distress behind them could not be mistaken.

It was Hagar who finally stood back and surveyed the man with hands on her narrow hips. “I can make out none o’ that. Where do you ken he might come from?”

The elderly widow Aggie answered, “I canna reason it, neither. ’Haps his mind be addled.” She sighed. “We won’t be finding out, if he dies. And he may indeed, for he’s got the look of one not long for this world.”

Rowena knew a renewed sense of disquiet at the thought of this powerful man having lost his mind. But she made no mention of the name he had uttered with such clarity. She wished to give them no false sense of hope for his recovery. “’Twill be Rowena who brings him ’round if anyone can,” Hagar replied with some uncertainty. “Ye mun recall how bad off was young John last fall when he fell overboard and breathed in all that seawater.”

There were nods of agreement as all eyes turned to Rowena. She knew not what to say to this, and covered her disquiet by addressing Padriac. “Pray fetch me an extra bucket of water from the stream.”

She then began to clear the table of the roots she had been preparing for drying when Padriac came to fetch her. As she did so she listened as the women continued to discuss the stranger and the severity of his condition.

They might indeed have great faith in her, but their very likely accurate assessments of the man’s chances of recovery were trying Rowena’s self-confidence. As soon as Padriac returned with the water, she stated gently, “Thank you all so very much for your assistance. I am certain you must all have more pressing duties to attend than this. I do promise to let each of you know if there is some change in his condition.”

It would indeed be best if they all went back to their own work. Except for Hagar.

Rowena stopped the older woman with a hand on her arm. “Pray, would you stay and help me to tend him?” The request had nothing to do with the odd awareness she had had of the man as she examined him on the shore, she told herself. “I would greatly appreciate your doing so, for there are some plants I must gather in order to treat him.”

The older woman nodded and said, “I will warm some water whilst you are at it and clean him up, lass. He’s needing a bit of a wash.”

“I…yes, he is.” Uncertain as to why the thought of washing the man was so very disturbing to her, when she had seen many a man in various states of undress while treating them, Rowena put water on to heat. She then hurried out into the wood to gather some fresh mandrake. Only when she had gathered what she required did she return to the cottage.

Giving Hagar a brief nod as the older woman looked up from the large wooden bowl of water and the cloth she held, Rowena could not help taking in the long form on the bed. Quickly she set about brewing an infusion that would help to strengthen the stranger’s blood as well as calm his unrest.

As she did so, Rowena was infinitely conscious of the fact that Hagar had removed the man’s wet and bedraggled clothing, for it lay in a filthy heap upon the floor at the foot of her bed. The sounds of her wetting and wringing out her cloth could not be mistaken, nor could the soft but incoherent sounds he made as he stirred restlessly from time to time.

Rowena did not allow herself to even glance toward the bed again, though she was not certain why. As she had told herself earlier, she had examined and treated more than one man, despite her somewhat tender years. It had been her mother who had taught her about plants and their medicinal properties. Yet she had soon confessed that Rowena’s natural aptitude far surpassed her own abilities.

Fascinated as she was with trying new and varied combinations of plants, Rowena had taken what her mother had taught her and expanded her knowledge by trial and error, as well as by searching out every other healer in the surrounding countryside.

Rowena’s knowledge and skill had grown until she was often called upon to minister to those in nearby villages. She took great satisfaction putting her life to some use in the community that had taken in a bastard child and her English mother, making them their own when they had had no one.

After what seemed a very long time, Hagar said, “You can get a better look at him with all that muck washed away.” She stepped back, the bowl of water held before her, murmuring, “What a pity,” as Rowena drew near.

The man was so pale without that covering of sand and dirt that his tenuous hold on life was obvious. As Rowena stopped beside the bed, it seemed as if his incoherent muttering had grown louder, though she still could make out none of what he was saying. Again she felt a sense of regret. At the same time she could not help acknowledging that the face was undeniably a strong one, the features quite pleasingly formed.