Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“You did not need the King’s backing to enlist my aid, Will Sinclair. How badly is the boy hurt?”

Will did not react to her use of his informal first name and simply waved back over his shoulder. “Badly enough. He needs rest and shelter and is in great pain. We made a bed for him in the wagon, but every movement jars him into crying out, no matter how bravely he fights against it. He has a physician attending him, Brother Matthew, lent to us by the King himself, but even so, the physician’s remedies are useless against the roughness of the roads.”

“Enough. When they get here, bid them inside and bring the wagon as close to the door as it will go. I see Tam is with you. Have him and his fellows ready to lift the boy out. We have a litter just inside the door. I will send Hector out with it, and then have them load him carefully onto it. By the time they are ready I will have a bed prepared on the ground floor.”

She left him standing there and made her way back into the house, where she sent two servants running to bring down a cot from the floor above. She then ordered her two women to fetch clean bedding and bring it into the main room of the house, where they would set up a bed for the young man in one corner, between the enormous fireplace and a shuttered window in the wall. In the meantime, she and Marjorie began clearing space for the bed, a temporary sickroom, separated from the main part of the long, low-ceilinged room by an arrangement of brightly painted folding screens made from hinged frames with reeds woven between top, bottom, and sides.

Within the quarter hour everything was ready, and Tam, Mungo MacDowal, and two other men carried young Henry in, unconscious, and transferred him to the cot. The physician, a kindly eyed young-looking monk, saw to the lad’s comfort and then asked Jessie for hot water and clean cloths with which to wash and bind the boy’s wounds, and Jessie dispatched Marjorie to the kitchen. She then reached out and touched the monk’s shoulder.

“Brother Matthew, I would speak with you.” She turned then to where Will and his men stood watching, attended by her steward Hector. “My friends,” she said quietly, “I can see you have been at great pains to see to this young man’s welfare, but he is here now and will be safe. If you will follow Hector, he will show you where you may refresh yourselves after your journey, and will give you to eat and drink. Sir William, you and I will talk more hereafter … Hector, will you see to our guests?”

As soon as the men had left, Jessie turned back to the monk. “Now, Brother Matthew, tell me what happened and how bad the wound truly is. Will he survive, or have you brought him here to die?”

The monk, who was yet young enough to be awed in the presence of a baroness, shook his head in protest. “No, no, my lady. He should do well now that he is here and may rest. The wound was not fatal, although it should have been. He was stabbed by a dirk, thrust down at him by a man kneeling over him. But the thrust was hasty—I believe the killer was aware of Sir William bearing down on him—and the blade glanced off the bone here.” He touched his own collarbone, then dug one finger down behind it. “The blade, deflected, slid down and backward, slicing through the shoulder muscles and scraping along the lad’s shoulder blade before emerging again. It made a nasty cut, deep and ragged, and it bled copiously, but it was never life-threatening, thanks be to God.” He smiled, uncertainly. “The greatest danger to the lad’s life lay in transporting him here in the wagon, for every bump of each wheel on every stone and unevenness between Lanercost and here cost him dearly, opening his wounds painfully before they could begin to heal.”

“But why did they not tend to him in Lanercost?”

“We did, as best we could, but there was no time, my lady. The King’s army was raiding, striking for Durham, and he dared not wait, lest word of his arrival came before he did. And they had no wish to leave the lad behind, among the English.”

“Hmm. I can understand that … So you came directly here?”

“Aye, my lady. At the King’s bidding. His Grace said this was the safest, closest place. It was hard going, even when we reached the road north, and took us three days. Thus the young man is exhausted and harrowed, and he has lost much blood. But with good food and a sound, stable bed, he should recover quickly enough.”

“How long, think you?”

Brother Matthew made a moue. “I cannot answer that, my lady. It is in God’s hands. A month, perhaps? Perhaps even more. I simply do not know. But he will recover. His wounds appear to be merely superficial but only time will demonstrate the truth or falsity of that. He should regain full use of his arm and shoulder … but he might not. In God’s hands, as I said, though I believe he should do well. My own teacher studied the methods of the ancients, and most particularly of the great healer Galen, who believed that the prime threat to life in such cases lies not in the wounds themselves—unless of course they be fatally inflicted—but in the inflammation and putrefaction that all too often follow afterwards. He therefore urged the wholesomeness of keeping wounds well drained and clean, in order to avoid the dangers of purulence and contamination from ill humors.” He looked down at the squire with a gentle smile. “He must think he is in Heaven now, warm in a soft, unmoving bed after such a long and painful journey. Sleep is God’s own blessed cure for many ailments. Let us pray that this is one of those. Leave him to sleep on.”

“Thank you, Brother Matthew. Marjorie, would you conduct Brother Matthew to where the others are and then come back to me?”

Jessie stood looking down at the sleeping youth for some time after Marjorie and the monk left. Well, young man, another Sinclair? You have your uncle’s look about you, I think, although it’s hard to tell, truly, beneath all that grime. But you have his shoulders, and his hair. Mayhap his eyes will be there, too, once you open them, but they are sunken deep and black with shadows now, and your face is far too white, and gaunt … pain-graven lines already, where none should be in one so young …

She was interrupted by the return of her niece, and waved her to a chair by the fireplace. “I want you to stay here and watch over the young man while I am gone. He is not likely to awaken, but if he does, bid him lie still, tell him where he is, and then come for me at once. Look at me.” She held out her hands, fingers spread to show the black dirt caked beneath her nails. “I must go and make myself presentable to our guests. It will not take me long, but in the meantime I need you to remain here.”

“Of course, Auntie.” The girl did not look at her; her entire attention was taken up by the pallid young man asleep on the cot.

TWO

As she swept back into the main room, refreshed and renewed and looking every inch the chatelaine of a fine house, Jessie Randolph found herself smiling inwardly at the thought that neither of her guests—for only Will Sinclair and Tam were there—even appeared to be aware of her transformation. The stained, much-worn green gown she had been wearing in the garden had been replaced with her finest, of soft, rich handwoven wool in a shade of blue that was almost the color of the night sky, more blue than black, and her hair had been carefully brushed and pinned up, allowing only a few errant curls to fall in ringlets by her ears. Her hands, wrists, and forearms, scrubbed clean to the point of rawness, had been softened and smoothed with a sweet-smelling unguent brought with her from France, and she could still detect a lingering trace of the fragrant oil of cloves and cinnamon that she had dabbed into the hollow of her throat before leaving her chambers.