Beth’s stomach knotted. She knew exactly what this was, sepsis. Without antibiotics, Roland would be dead within days. Maybe hours.
The stillroom had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, Roland’s prone form lying on the wide oak table that normally held Beth’s experimental apparatus. The room smelled of sweat, blood, and the pungent herbal poultices the village healer had applied throughout the night. Outside, rainlashed against the narrow windows, as if the heavens themselves mourned.
Baldwin stood at the foot of the table, his face a mask of stone. Only his eyes betrayed him. Stormy gray, filled with a grief he refused to voice. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table.
“Fetch the leeches,” the healer instructed a serving girl. “We must draw out the bad blood before it poisons his heart.”
“No.” Beth’s voice cut through the room. All eyes turned to her. “That won’t help him.”
Baldwin’s gaze locked with hers, questioning, desperate. In that moment, she saw not the formidable lord of Glenhaven, but a man terrified of losing his closest friend.
Eleanor burst through the door, her face pale and tear-streaked. She grabbed Beth’s arm. “Roland is like a brother to me. I cannot bear to lose him.”
Beth hesitated, thinking of the moldy bread she’d been nurturing for a se’nnight. The greenish-blue fuzz had grown exactly as she’d hoped, but she hadn’t tested it yet. What if it didn’t work?
“I might have something,” she said carefully. “But I cannot promise?—”
“Anything is better than watching him die,” Eleanor whispered.
Baldwin’s eyes narrowed. “What manner of remedy do you speak of?”
“In my time—” Beth caught herself. “In my studies, I learned of a healing substance that grows on bread. I’ve been cultivating it, but I haven’t had a chance to test it properly.”
The healer hrumphed. “Rot to cure rot? ’Tis madness!”
Father Gregory’s brows furrowed. “And yet, did not our Lord turn water to wine? Perhaps this is God’s will working through her hands.”
Baldwin studied her face, searching for certainty. “You believe this will save him?”
“I believe it’s his best chance,” she answered honestly.
Eleanor clutched Beth’s hands. “Please. Try.”
Baldwin held Beth’s gaze for one heartbeat, two. Then he nodded. “What do you require?”
Relief flooded through her. “I’ll need clean cloth, honey, and warm water.”
“See to it,” Baldwin thundered, and the healer scurried off, muttering under her breath.
As the others prepared, Beth gathered her supplies from the table in the far corner of the stillroom. The small wooden box sat on the windowsill, exactly where she’d left it. Inside, three pieces of bread bloomed with the precious mold. Her heart wrenched inside her chest. Would it be enough? Would it even work?
When she returned, Roland lay still, his face ashen. The wound in his side had festered, angry red streaks spreading outward. Death’s fingers, reaching for his heart.
Eleanor stood by his head, gently stroking his hair. “He took that blade protecting you,” she said, without accusation. “Said a knight must always shield a lady.”
“I won’t let him die.” She crossed her fingers, hoping this would work.
She worked quickly, grinding the moldy bread into a paste, mixing it with honey. The others watched in silence as she cleaned the wound with warm water, then applied the mixture and bound it with clean linen.
“Now we wait,” she said, wiping her hands.
Baldwin stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “How long?”
“I don’t know. Hours. Perhaps a day.”
His eyes softened fractionally. “Such uncertainty from one usually so certain.”
“This is medieval England, not a laboratory,” she whispered. “I’m doing the best I can.”
