The old woman mixed the sea water with some powders from the bags, opened his lids and spooned the concoction intohis eyes, then waited, counting in Welsh, “Un,dau,tri,pedwar…deg,” before she put more liquid in again. The ritual continued a few more times then she set down the bowl and spoon and stood back, watching him closely as if she were waiting for something.
After a few tense moments she laughed out loud and pointed at him.“There ‘tis. See? The poultice and bindings are good. His breathing is becoming deeper.”
Glenna studied the deeper rise and fall of his chest, watched the golden cross around his neck move as he inhaled deeper than before, and she felt her own relief. He took another deep breath and the cross on the chain fell to the side, revealing a bright red mark near his throat. Like the sword imprint on his palm, this was a burn mark from the cross, which must have grown too hot from the heat of the fire. He'll have a scar, she thought.
He murmured something she did not hear.
“Look there,” Gladdys said with a slight cackle. “He’s calling for his mum.”
“There’s no shame in calling for one’s mother,” Glenna defended quickly, her gaze meeting the woman’s.
“If ye had one,” Gladdys said sharply.
“Aye.” Glenna’s voice drifted off. “If you have one.” She looked away.
Gladdys placed her hand on her shoulder and said kindly, “Fret ye not, girl. Trust old Gladdys. All will be well, but it will take some time for ye.” Then she picked up the pitcher and stuck her finger in it, stared at her finger glistening from the water, then looked inside the ewer for a moment. She looked up. “I believe ‘tis cold enough,” she said and dumped the water on his head.
Lyall reared up,coughing and choking. Eyes wide open but seeing only blurred light and shadow. He drew a large breath of air and pain shot from his chest like an arrow down throughhis body, and he groaned loudly, bent double, and a blasphemous curse left his lips. His ribs had been broken many times at tourneys and at the tilt field. The pain was all too familiar. His eyes teared from it, which did not help; they felt full of sand, and he shook his head…his wet head…and his hair slapped and stuck to his cheek. Disoriented, he instinctively reached for his weapon, but his sword belt was gone. He squinted at the smaller blurred figures, women, standing nearby.
The brittle stench of smoke and burnt wood, a smell and taste from his youth he would never forget, was lodged in his nose and on his dry tongue. Light-headed, he raised his hand to his brow, which was hurting, then slid it to the back of his neck, where the skin felt sore, as if burned by the hot sun. What was this? He was a man, not a lad of ten. Where in the bloody hell was he?
A gentle hand touched him, followed by the shadow of a woman, her hair long and flowing brushed against his arm. “You are in Steering, my lord. In a tavern. You were thrown from your horse.”
All came flooding back to him. “Glenna?”
“Aye.”
“Yer wife,” a woman with a musical voice said.
“My what?” Lyall swung his legs over the side and tried to stand. The room swam and he gripped the table till his knuckles felt white.
“My lord, husband,” Glenna said quickly, taking his hand in hers and nearly squeezing all the blood from it. Her other hand pushed hard on his shoulder. “Lie back down, my love,” she said through gritted teeth. “You hit your head and your sense is meandering. Fret not. I am here with you.”
He followed her lead, stayed silent and let her push him back down, curious to see how this played out. His sight was still off and he was weaponless. “Where is my sword? Bring it to me.”
“You must rest,” she insisted, starting to turn away.
He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her down closeenough to whisper in her ear, “Afraid I might use it on you…wife?”
“No more afraid than you were of my bow and arrows. You need no weapon,” she hissed back at him. “There is no one here now but the healer. You are safe.”
“That I am lying here on my back and half blinded is proof I am not safe with you nearby,” he said.
“Step back, milady,” said the melodic voice. A strange, full-haired shadow of light and dark loomed over him. “Let me put more mixture into his eyes.”
He released Glenna’s wrist and she scurried back away. “My eyes? What mixture?” he asked the shadow.
“To wash away the ash and soot and soothe your poor eyes.”
“The hay cart fire,” he said flatly, remembering, and he eased back down and let the healer minister her medicine.
“ ‘Twill clear your vision, my lord.”
So he blinked and let her add more.
“Can you see yet?”
“Soon. Try again,” he said encouraging her as she added more liquid to his eyes. It was working. She repeated the process and each time he blinked his vision became clearer, then slowly the shadow above him took sharp form.
