Callum could not bear to be responsible for another senseless death.
Chapter Eight
Frida took inthe scene as she rushed down the stone steps. Callum knelt by the fallen boy, his tanned face ashen with shock. Jonah paced back and forth, his gait customarily uneven. The boy lay between them, the narrowness of his shoulders giving away his youth. She reckoned he could be no older than her youngest sister, Esme.
Too young to have a knife stuck in his back.
Breathing deeply, she steeled herself for the horror of what she must face.
“What has happened?” she asked briskly, falling to her knees opposite Callum. Her ankle protested, but she ignored the pain. While the knight framed his reply, she felt for a pulse, relieved when it thrummed steady and strong beneath her fingers. The boy, however, was unconscious.
“My man Gregor threw his knife. It was meant for me.”
The bald statement surprised her, but this was not the time to question it.
“Did he hit his head?”
“I did not see him fall.” Callum dragged a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of blood on his craggy forehead. “Can you save him?”
She did not yet know.
“What is his name?”
“Arlo.” Callum leaned forward, distress writ large over his handsome features. His hands shook as he waved them near the knife handle. “I do not know what to do.”
Frida leaned closer to the boy, breathing in the smell of damp earth and fresh blood. “Arlo?” She tried, speaking close to his ear, but he did not react. “We must get him inside.” She pushed herself awkwardly to her feet, beckoning to two guardsmen who tarried behind her with a long wooden board. Her eyes found Agnes amongst the rapidly growing throng. “We need boiling water and linens.”
“Very good, milady.” The cook scurried back to the kitchens.
’Twould be the second time this day Agnes was called upon to boil water to treat an injury. Though Frida’s own incident paled in comparison to the life-threatening wound before her.
“Carry him to the solar,” she ordered the guards, who were carefully lifting Arlo onto the board.
“The solar?” Callum’s gaze locked with hers. “Thank you, Frida.”
“It will give him the best chance of recovery.”
Jonah was at her side, uncommonly agitated. “What can I do?”
Her eyebrows lifted, but it would be churlish of her to express surprise. “The man who threw the knife. Gregor?” She glanced at Callum for confirmation. “Enquire with the gatekeeper if he was apprehended. He should be punished.”
“Most certainly he should.” With no further prevarication, Jonah began walking haltingly towards the outer gates.
Frida watched him for the briefest of moments. What had transpired to make Jonah so keen to be helpful?
But her brother was not her main concern. Ahead of her lay the greatest test of her abilities she had ever faced.
Frida was naturally skilled with herbs, a gift which her mother always said came from her great grandmother. Backat Wolvesley, for several summers she had worked side by side with the healer, but only treating minor afflictions found within the day-to-day workings of a prosperous castle. A baby with croup. An old woman with an aching back. A farm-worker accidentally cut with an axe.
She had never been near a battlefield in her life. Never treated an injury inflicted with malice. Never before been the one to mark the difference between life and death.
But the boy, Arlo, must be saved. He was too young to die.
And she was the only one who could help him.
This suddenly struck her as ridiculous. At Wolvesley Castle, they had both a healer and an apothecary within the bailey walls. What had she been thinking to set up home so far removed from such support? With meagre staff to top it all.
She clutched her hands together to stop them from trembling. Callum had already rushed ahead of the stretcher-bearers to clear their path. She could not dally out here any longer.
