I sat back and ate a bite of potato cake while she watched me, a line forming between her slender brows. I couldn’t help the prickle of heat at the back of my neck as her eyes lingered on my mouth.
She glanced around before leaning over the table and asking, “Aren’t you worried someone will recognise you as being a rebelor a sympathiser, when the bond is broken and you return to your position as sheriff?”
I shook my head. “Even if anyone does recognise me, I’ll just say I went undercover inside the organisation to destroy it from within.”
She shook her head. “You are diabolical.”
I winked at her. “As are you, Enchantress.”
We finished our meals in silence, my mind running through old memories from back home. Growing up in a noble household, I hadn’t been short of anything. Except, perhaps, true friendship. My plate had always been piled high and I’d had every opportunity afforded to me; every book, instrument and item of clothing I had desired. But not everyone in our town had been so fortunate. My mother had been a good, charitable woman, and some of her goodness had to have rubbed off on me. Didn’t it?
I might not want to admit it to Morgaine, but I did support the rebels in their plight. Even if I was a large part of the machine that kept the poor villagers poor. If I could achieve both aims at once, to strip Prince John of his power and to help the rebels feed the villagers, then I would gladly do so.
Millie appeared at the side of our table just as we were both clearing our plates. “Eleanor, I have need of your assistance.”
I quirked an eyebrow at Morgaine. What was this about? It all sounded very secretive. Had she told them she was a witch? She nodded discreetly, getting up to follow Millie.
I decided to go too; aside from the map drawing, no chores had been assigned to me yet, so I was at a loose end. Learning more of the layout of the Burrow might come in handy later, if I had to make a quick escape. Or if me and my men returned here to arrest the rebels and torch the place.
“It’s Arthur,” Millie said over her shoulder. Morgaine faltered, almost stumbling, and for a moment I thought shewouldn’t continue. Then she seemed to shake herself and carry on as if nothing had happened.
“What is it?”
Millie paused outside a door, a grave look on her face. “He was injured in the last mission, a flaming arrow to the abdomen. We managed to get it out, but the wound appears to be festering. The thing is,” her expression turned almost sheepish, “when you were found, you had medicinal herbs in your pockets, and we hoped you might be a healer of some sort.” She wrung her hands together in front of her apron.
Morgaine’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s right, I make salves and poultices and sell them at the market.”
Millie’s relief was palpable. She met my eyes then, and it was as though she’d just noticed me. “Oh, Dante. Do you need something? This is the Infirmary.” Her brows pinched in concern. “Are you sick?”
Morgaine turned to look at me and her expression couldn’t have been more disdainful. She probably assumed I wanted to keep an eye on her, in case she tried to escape or rat me out.
I painted on my most charming smile. “No, I just wanted to offer my assistance. My bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, but I can pass Eleanor things or hold Arthur down, if needed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Morgaine said. Then to Millie, “Show me to the patient.”
The first thing that hit me as we stepped inside the treatment room was the smell. A sickly-sweet odour combined with the scent of unwashed bodies. The man on the bed was advanced in years, possibly in his sixth decade. He was shirtless and glistening with sweat, most of his torso was covered by dirty bandages.
“Arthur, this is Eleanor and Dante. They’ve come to clean your wound and change your bandages, alright. Behave yourself,OK?” She patted his leg and he yelped dramatically as though she’d injured him. She just laughed and rolled her eyes.
“They’ll get no trouble from me, Millie. I’m on my best behaviour.” He feigned a salute as he watched her go, leaving us to our work.
“Hold that bucket,” Morgaine told me, and she began to strip the old bandages away, dumping them into the bucket. The smell of putrefaction reached my nostrils as the bucket filled up, and gradually I came to see why. The large wound to the man’s stomach was red and inflamed, weeping pus.
“You’re a pretty one,” Arthur said, and I suppressed a grin. “Isn’t she a pretty thing?” He directed this at me, and I caught the flash of annoyance on Morgaine’s face before she schooled her features.
She leaned down for a closer look at Arthur’s wound, then began to riffle through the selection of dried leaves and bark the rebels kept in jars. She chose a piece of liquorice root. “Here, chew on this.” Then she took a wad of fabric and soaked it in an astringent smelling liquid from a bottle, before dabbing at the burnt skin and making Arthur yell.
“This will hurt, but it’s the only way to clean out the corruption.” Turning to me, she asked, “Can you see if they have any honey?”
I turned to a shelf with a row of bottles containing different coloured fluids. Taking an amber jar of thick, syrupy liquid, I uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff. Sweet and floral. “Here,” I said, handing it to Morgaine, who began to generously spread the honey across Arthur’s wound.
“Help him to sit up please.” She took a roll of linen and began to wrap the fresh bandages around Arthur’s torso as I held him propped in a sitting position.
“Not much of a talker, is she?” He whispered in my ear, loud enough for Morgaine to hear. I chuckled, but watching herwork I felt conflicted. Why didn’t she use her magic to heal the old man? These were simple, common remedies—done with a practiced hand, true, but there was nothing mystical about the treatment Morgaine administered to Arthur. Was she holding back because I was here watching? And, if I hadn’t been here, could she have healed his wound with just a few words and a click of her fingers? Leaving him to suffer seemed like cruelty to me.
She finished the bandages and fastened them with a large pin. Arthur yelped as she pricked him with the sharp end.
I patted the man’s knee. “It’ll hurt less if you keep your comments to yourself.”
