Looking at the pus-infested wound, she said, “I truly do not know. How long has the fever been this bad?”
“Three days.”
“God’s mercy.”
Thorpe lost his color. The hopelessness in her manner said all he needed to hear. Praying, he moved closer to the bed and watched her. First she forced liquid down Rolfe’s throat, succeeding in getting him to swallow. Thorpe felt respect well up in him. Then she began crushing leaves to pack onto the wound along with some foul-smelling stuff. Water was set to boil and she began mixing together the contents of several bottles.
When she brought a little knife out of her basket, Thorpe gripped her wrist. “What is that for?” he demanded.
She eyed the large man. “His wound will have to be opened so I can search for what is causing this fever. Would you like to do it?” she asked him pointedly. Thorpe shook his head and let go of her wrist.
Leonie cleaned the knife, then very carefully removed the leaves she had packed against the wound. Using the knife, she started to probe inside the wound, cleaning it. There was complete silence for several long moments, and then she let out a horrified cry.
“Death is too good for that leech.” Leonie glared at Thorpe in a way that made him feel wholly to blame for Rolfe’s condition. “He removed the arrow, but he left inside a piece of Rolfe’s chain mail that the arrow carried with it!”
She extracted it slowly and carefully, then resumed cleaning the wound. When clear blood finally began to ooze from it, she sighed gratefully. With the wound now clean, she covered it with her concoction.
At last she sat back and looked at Thorpe, her expression no longer anxious. “The blood must beallowed to seep from the wound until his fever abates, so we know the illness has left it. I will not sew the wound until then. He will be weakened more by this, but I dare not stop the bleeding until I am certain the wound is clean. I have tonics to aid him in fighting the fever, and to restore his strength.” Thorpe nodded and she went on. “I will give him something for the pain too.” When he remained silent, she asked, “Will you let me stay and watch his progress and do what needs doing?”
“He is out of danger?” he asked softly.
“I believe so, yes.”
“Then stay, my lady.”
“If he wakes enough to realize I am here, he may not like it.”
“Then he will not like it,” Thorpe said stubbornly, too grateful to care what Rolfe would think.
“Very well.” She sighed. “But I ask you not to tell him what I’ve done.”
“Why not?”
“I do not want him upset while he recovers. Let him think the leech healed him as he should have done.”
“I would not lie to Rolfe.”
“You do not have to lie. Just say nothing about it. I will try to leave before he awakes.”
Late the next day she was bandaging the wound after pulling its jagged edges together, when Rolfe’s eyes opened and locked with hers. The fever had ravaged him, and there was a heavy growth of beard covering his face. He looked terrible, and his eyes grew dark with anger when he saw her.
Leonie said not a word, but finished what she was doing and left the room. Thorpe, sleeping in a chairby the hearth, woke when he heard the door closing. He approached the bed.
“So, you are back with us?”
“Where have I been?” The voice was very weak.
Thorpe smiled at his old friend.
“You came very close to dying.”
Rolfe eyed him skeptically. “From a little arrow hole?”
“That little hole was stinking with disease. You had a very bad fever.”
“Never mind that. What was she doing in here? Is this how you guard my back, by letting in the very one responsible—”
“Easy, Rolfe.” Thorpe cut him short. “I do not think her guilty of this. I am sure she is not.”
