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They had worked quickly, undressing me and then clothing me in a simple linen shift, pulling a plain woolen dress over it.

It laced snugly in the front and was warm and dry. After that I felt a lot better.

Over it they draped a heavy shawl of soft brown wool, and pinned it at the shoulder. This was a far cry from the luxurious clothes in my kingdom — here I was a medieval peasant, my clothes smelling faintly of herbs and woodsmoke. They pulled and twisted my hair into a damp braid and tucked it up under a linen veil.

As soon as I was decent, I gestured to the door. “Can I go to my husband?”

3

ALEXANDRIA

1308 - THE MONKS SEW HIM UP

Ihurried through a now pitch-dark corridor to a door that was standing ajar. I pushed inside without knocking, and seeing Torin, lying on a narrow table with two flickering candles beside him, I stopped cold.

Oh no.

Three monks had stripped away his wet, bloodied garments.

The air in the stone-walled chamber was thick with the sharp, astringent tang of sour, like a wine, and something sweet, possibly an herb. He was bare, the bandages I had applied were peeled back. One brother cleaned the ugly furrow along his hip, while another examined the jagged sword gash on his shoulder, they were all working in heavy silence.

There were gashes, blood, and his skin was too pale, mottled with bruises.

I thought I might pass out.

He had too many injuries and even more scars, new and old. I hadn’t had a lot of time to see him naked, hadn’t memorized him yet. But here he looked weak and desperately, gravely injured. Please don’t let this image be the last...

A monk was praying near his feet.

The only thing that gave me any solace was that a third monk was preparing a poultice, the sharp scent of herbs filling the room. A poultice was good, that meant they wanted to heal him.

It crossed my mind, if they thought he were going to die, they wouldn’t be doing anything to help him. They would be administering last rites.

He turned his head at my entrance. “…ye are dressed…like a church lass too modest tae speak tae me…”

I tentatively crossed to his bedside through the dim light with my hands out, certain I might trip on something I couldn’t see. “And you, Albannach, look like you lost a fight with a bear. Again. You’re lucky I can barely see you.”

“Aye, tis verra dark.”

I reached for his good hand, threading my fingers through his. His skin was too hot. “Don’t do that, Torin, it’s freaking me out.”

“What…?”

I pouted. “Running a fever.”

“Tis nae so bad —”

His assurances were interrupted when a monk wedged a smooth piece of wood in between his teeth, and another poured what looked like wine directly over his raw, open flesh. Torin convulsed, teeth grinding, moaning. It was unbearable to watch.

He spit out the wood, panting, and somehow gasped out, “I hae had worse, sparrin’ with Max.” He hissed when a brother pressed a cloth to the shoulder wound.

I said, “I don’t believe you. You keep having worse, and keep telling me you’ve had worse, but I know there is a limit. If you and Max had beat each other this much you wouldn’t have survived.”

The eldest of the monks, the one who seemed to be in charge, wordlessly communicated at length with Torin using only hand signals.

I watched, then whispered to Torin, “It looks like he’s saying you’re very badly injured…?”

“Aye, tis what he is saying, and I hae lost blood, mo leannan, but ye ken it already.”