To her surprise, Baldwin’s hand found hers, squeezing briefly. “Then it will be enough.”
After the others left, Beth slumped against the wall, trembling. What was she thinking? This wasn’t a sterile lab. This was the Middle Ages, where people died from paper cuts. And she was attempting to recreate one of the most important medical discoveries in history with medieval tools and a prayer.
The rain continuedits relentless assault on Glenhaven as the hours stretched into the night. Beth refused to leave Roland’s side, checking his fever every hour, changing the poultice when needed and starting more mold cultures. The room grew quiet, with only the occasional crack of the fire and Roland’s labored breathing breaking the silence.
Eleanor had fallen asleep in a chair nearby, her head at an uncomfortable angle. Baldwin paced like a caged lion, his heavy tread across the floor marking time more reliably than any clock.
“You should rest,” she said softly as he completed his twentieth circuit of the room.
He paused, running a hand through his dark hair. “I cannot. Not while he—” His voice caught. “Roland has been at my side since we were boys. He has saved my life more times than I care to count.”
“And now you’re helpless to save his,” Beth finished, understanding all too well. “That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? The waiting.”
His jaw clenched. “I am a man of action. This... this stillness...” He gestured helplessly.
“Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is wait.” Beth rose and approached him, stopping just short of touching him.
His eyes met hers, vulnerable in a way she’d rarely seen. “Tell me truly. Will your remedy work?”
“I hope so. In my time—” she lowered her voice, “—this mold saves millions of lives. I know how to do it, but I’ve never made it myself. There was never any need.”
Baldwin nodded once, accepting her honesty. “Then we shall pray it does.”
Near dawn, Roland’s fever broke. Beth awoke from her half-slumber to find him looking at her through half-lidded eyes.
“Am I in heaven?” he croaked. “For I see an angel before me.”
Relief washed over her. “If I’m an angel, then you’re definitely dead.”
Eleanor startled awake at the sound of his voice. “Roland!” She rushed to his side, tears streaming down her face.
Baldwin approached more slowly, his expression guarded as if afraid to hope. “How fare you, brother?”
Roland attempted a weak smile. “As if I’ve been trampled by a herd of horses. But I live.” His gaze shifted to Beth. “I thank ye for saving my life.”
Word spread quickly through the castle. By midday, servants were whispering that she had performed a miracle. The wound that had been angry and festering now looked clean, the red streaks receding.
“’Tis witchcraft,” the village healer muttered as she examined Roland’s side. “Rot curing rot. Against nature, it is.”
“Not witchcraft,” Father Gregory corrected gently. “God’s wisdom, revealed through study. Did not Solomon himself speak of the healing properties of plants and herbs?”
Beth kept her silence. Let them believe what they would. The important thing was that Roland would recover.
That evening, as she prepared a fresh poultice, Baldwin found her in the stillroom.
“The household speaks of nothing but your miracle,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice low as Roland slept.
Beth shrugged. “It’s not a miracle. It’s science. In my time, we call it penicillin.”
“Pen-i-cillin,” he repeated slowly, testing the strange word. “Whatever its name, you have saved a good man’s life.” He stepped closer. “A man I love as a brother.”
“He took that blade for me,” Beth said quietly. “I couldn’t let him die.”
Baldwin’s gaze was intense. “You risked much. Had your remedy failed, many would have called for your head.”
“I know.” She met his eyes steadily. “It was worth the risk.”
Later that day, Eleanor found Beth outside enjoying the brisk air, her cloak wrapped around her as Baldwin talked with a guard on the battlements.
