The grandmother tutted, ’Tis no more than a torn set of bellows. With the arrow out and the hole stopped up the air will go where it must. You will see. Here, child, hold the light closer. That’s right, yes. Now then,’ she looked up at the smithy. ‘When I give the word, ease the arrow from its ill found home. A steady pull, mind. Nothing sudden. But do not stop. Do you understand me?’ When he nodded she went on. ‘We will clean the wound, for Norman arrows are foul things indeed. We shall pack it then. A stitch or two at the sides, but we cannot close it, for that foulness must yet be drawn out, lest it creep in to his soul and snatch it away.’ She shuffled closer.
As Rhiannon watched and they waited for the signal, she fancied the old woman was muttering beneath her breath. A prayer perhaps. Or a spell. Whichever it was it caused the hairs on her arms to raise, as she recognised the shape of the words to be the same as the oneswhich had come to her so strangely when she had summoned the mist.
‘Now!’ Mamgi’s voice was clear and firm this time.
The smithy tightened his hold on the arrow shaft and pulled. He had one hand around the shaft, and another holding pincers that gripped the small area of metal which was all that could be seen of the arrowhead. It was not an easy task. Rhiannon was appalled to see that he had to brace himself against the cot with his foot and use real strength to persuade the arrow to move. It was a mercy that the patient remained unconscious, though even in his limbic state he moaned. The shape of the weapon, and the force with which it had struck, meant that, with a sickening crack, the metal arrowhead split another rib as it was forced back the way it had come, finding his rib cage had shifted to accommodate the unwelcome object. The arrow exacted an even greater toll from its victim upon its release. At last it was out. Rhiannon cleaned the wound and helped Mamgi pack it with soft moss which had been doused in rosemary water.
‘Pack it tighter,cariad,’ Mamgi told her. ‘We must leave no space where evil things might take root.’
Rhiannon had to take a steadying breath as she pushed the moss more firmly into the dark wound. She made herself think of how this man, whom she hadknown but a few hours, had risked his life for her and her friends. She thought of how he had held her safe even while suffering such an injury. She thought about how helpless he now was, because of her. If it was within her gift to heal him, then she would do it. Whatever it took.
That first night, they came close to losing him. The brutal damage threatened to overwhelm his body. Mamgi told her that had he not been young and strong, this was a battle he would have no chance of winning. His vigour gave them reason to be hopeful. They turned him so that he was on his side, propped against bundled fleeces. This enabled them to treat the site of his wound whilst also dribbling medicaments and wine into his mouth.
‘Tiny sips, mind,’ Mamgi warned, ‘else we’ll drown him.’
Rhiannon shuddered at the thought that they might kill him in their attempts to heal him. She held his chin in her hand, the beard growth rough in her palm, tilting his head so that the drops of elixir would seep between his lips. Mamgi had shown her how to prepare the draft many times in the preceding year. It was a potent mix of ingredients gathered from around them. Whinberries from the mountain top, dried and ground to a powder. Wild garlic similarly reduced. Tiny crumbs of thepetals of foxgloves. She knew the wrong proportions could be lethal, as her tutor had also explained how to make an effective poison from the same flowers. All were steeped in birch sap wine to better preserve them and aid digestion. Every two hours she spooned the mixture into Tudor’s mouth, while behind her Mamgi sang, soft and low, her wavering falsetto winding its way around the little room. She did not know the song, nor if the words carried any magic properties, but she was glad of the faltering music. Glad of anything that masked the sound of Tudor’s ragged breath and pitiful moans.
By the morning, when she had hoped to see an improvement, his condition had worsened, sweat beading his brow, and a restlessness replacing the heavy stillness of earlier.
‘Fever,’ Mamgi said simply, tutting and returning to settle on her chair by the fire. ‘You know what to do, child.’
And so Rhiannon continued to nurse her patient, using cloths soaked in cool, fragrant water to sooth him, washing his feverish skin, holding his hand, whispering words of comfort and reassurance even as he moaned and cursed. His eyes were open then, but saw nothing save the visions of his delirium. At one point, he thrashed wildly, so that both she and Mamgi werecompelled to hold him down in order to prevent him rupturing his wound. The interior of the croft smelled of fever, of sweat, of the fetid air of the sickbed, and little could be done to change it.
That second night he was calmer again, and lay quiet. Frighteningly quiet. Rhiannon railed against her own helplessness.
‘Mamgi, is there nothing more we can do for him?’
‘You think I would hold something back when it might aid him?’
‘No, well, that is… I am a witch, am I not? I have spells for growing and nurturing, and I speak to the weather…’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Then can I not use my magic to heal him? He is a good man. He acted out of kindness to help us.’
‘You think that makes him more deserving of your help?’
‘Why would it not? He put himself in danger for others. Surely that is evidence of a worthy man.’
The old woman leaned forwards and picked up the poker with which to prod at the fire. A shower of sparks rose up and disappeared into the darkness of the roughly fashioned chimney. Fresh smoke belched from the hearth. Mamgi spoke while watching the dancing flames.
‘You assume two things that are incorrect,’ she said. ‘The first is that only the good should be helped. Where would that leave most of us? Must we be blameless to be of value? Are you?’ She jerked her head back, indicating their patient. ‘Is he? We do not know of his past, nor his intended future. Just as he did not know of yours when he risked all to save you.’
‘I merely thought that a good person was more worth our efforts… of more value to our community…’
The old woman shrugged, still watching the fire. ‘A good person will do no harm, present no threat. How much better for the community that we save a bad person and turn his face to the light? Have we not then removed a danger? Changed an enemy to a friend?’ Before Rhiannon had time to properly process this idea she continued. ‘The second thing you are wrong about is this man’s reason for doing what he did. You say he acted out of kindness. You do not know that.’
‘What did he have to gain from putting himself between us and those soldiers?’
Mamgi straightened up then. When she turned to look at Rhiannon her face, lit by the pulsing light of the flames, showed a wry amusement. ‘Think you he would have been so ready to sweep me off my feet and clasp me to his heart?’
In the gloom, Rhiannon felt herself blush. She looked again at the fine but broken man on the bed. Was that all there was to his act of bravery? Was he simply a man driven by base desire for a young woman. She did not want to believe so. And yet, in a small, personal and private way, a part of her enjoyed the thought, even though it shamed her at the same time. It made her question her own motives for wanting to save him. Would she have been so diligent had he been old, with rotting teeth, perhaps, and generally less pleasing? She told herself it would have made no difference. But then she remembered poor, loyal Brynach, whom she had left wounded and alone, at the mercy of the king’s men. She had thought of him through those long days and nights, of course, but had she truly cared equally for the fate of both men? She shook away such troubling thoughts and tried to press Mamgi further.
‘You have not answered my question, grandmother. Why can I not use magic to help him heal?’
‘That you ask me such a question is evidence you are not yet grown sufficient to understand the answer.’
‘I beg of you, do not speak to me in riddles. Not now.’
