Willa waved away his apology. “I've heard far worse from my sisters.”
On his other side, she took his hand, and with his other, he gripped the cover on the bed, bunching the fabric in his fist and readying himself for intense pain.
“I'll have to chip the rust away and try to work these hinges free, but if this helmet is as old as I suspect it to be, the metal should be weak.”
He nodded in recognition of the warning.
When Mr. Lewis took out a small chisel and hammer, he slammed his eyes closed, clenching his teeth as a gentletap tap tapshook the helmet, jarring his head. He felt a small trickle of blood, and behind his tightly closed eyelids, stars danced.
Mr. Lewis moved to the other side and repeated the torture.
The smithy waved a pair of pliers in front of his vision, and then bent close, doing something he could not see but could certainly feel. More blood trickled out of his wound, a metallic smell filling the cage of the helmet.
His vision grew blurry. His ears clouded, and he thought he might be on the verge of passing out.
“That is all I can do.” Mr. Lewis inched the face shield up. Fresh air rushed the bottom half of his face as he swallowed down his gorge. The wound now a throbbing ball of fire at the side of his head.
“You're bleeding again.” Willa wiped his face, jaw, and neck.
“You've a nasty split on your lip, but it looks to be healing already,” the smithy said. “I wish I could do more, but the dent won’t let the shield go any higher. I’d have to hammer it out and well, I can't do that with your head in it. If there's anything else I can do for you?”
“You've done quite enough, you have our thanks,” Willa said. She handed him a few coins, and he nodded his thanks and left them.
His head pulsed with agony. “I need something to drink,” he said. “Something strong.”
“I can go ask the innkeeper what he has.”
“Whiskey or bourbon or brandy, lots of it.”
She leaned over him and nodded. “I'll be right back.” She slipped from the bed. As the door clicked behind her, he closed his eyes and gave into the urge of his subconscious and passed out.
Chapter 13
Willa returned to the room and found him lying very still. When she shook his shoulder, he jerked.
“Were you asleep?”
“I don't know.”
“Before I give you this pungent concoction, I want you to take some broth. Do you think you can manage?”
He nodded. Willa set the glass down. She'd sniffed it on her way up the stairs, and the fragrant odor of alcohol mixed with whatever the innkeeper had recommended to help with the pain had singed the hairs in her nostrils.
She was half afraid if he drank this, he might never wake up again or at the very least delay their trip to the larger village of Swinton for a few days. But if that was what was needed, so be it. Lord Knightly, or whoever he was, had enough coin to support their stay here. She already swore to herself that she would pay him back whatever they had to use. It would be the first thing she did once they reached London and returned home.
The very next thing would be to summon a doctor if they weren't able to find one before then.
“I can feed myself,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded again.
She wondered if it hurt every time he did that. It was such a simple motion, done without thought. But after what Mr. Lewis had said about swelling, and how Lord Knightly had said he felt like the helmet was fused to him, she wondered if every movement hurt, and her heart ached for him.
He sat himself up in the bed, and she handed him the cup and spoon. He started slowly at first, and then he sipped directly from the cup, finishing the last drop.
“I think I’ll want something more than this in a little while,” he said.
