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“I have questions. They won’t understand me, what language do they speak?”

“Tis nae that they canna understand ye, tis that they hae taken a vow of silence, and ye are a lady, tis not done. They canna speak tae ye if they wanted tae. They will stitch what needs stitching, give me a draught for m’chill, and let me rest.”

“They’re going to stitch you up?”

“Aye. Ye can see the needle there on the table.”

I swallowed.

“They are well-trained, daena worry, they will hae done this before. Then the Lord and some herbs will do the rest, with prayer.”

I swallowed hard. “Do you know where our first aid kit is?”

“Tis still on Cathbarr — daena worry, mo leannan, the brothers will hae the medicine I need.”

“Will they? I’m not so sure. This is centuries before antibiotics.”

Torin said, “What are anybotics?”

I sighed and smoothed back his hair. “Never mind.”

Once the bleeding slowed to a heavy ooze, the main monk leaned close under the candlelight, inspecting the wounds, and another monk jammed the piece of wood back into Torin’s mouth. The main monk picked up the curved needle and threaded it with a strand of sturdy linen fiber.

He began to sew, piercing the tough outer skin of Torin’s shoulder, pulling the thread taut to bind the severed edges of the muscle layer first, then the skin above it. Each pierce of the needle brought a fresh shudder from Torin. The expression of pain on his face was difficult to watch, but the monk remained steady, tying off each individual knot with tight, square hitches.

When the gash was finally closed into a puckered, red seam, he slathered it heavily with honey, then bound the entire shoulder tightly in clean strips of unbleached linen rag.

Then they did the same with his hip.

I stayed at Torin’s side the whole time, my eyes averted or shut tight as they stitched him up. I couldn’t bear to hear his moans, or watch him in pain. I knew it would probably help him if I left so he could grimace and wince without putting on a brave face, but I couldn’t leave his side. It wasn’t in me. He might be strong enough to bear this much injury, but I was weak as hotel lobby coffee at noon. I clung to him, the only thought running through my mind: Don’t die on me, please don’t leave me.

The monks worked on efficiently, occasionally almost tender in their actions.

I wiped his brow with a cool cloth when the pain made him grimace and let him grip my hand and didn’t complain when he gripped too tight.

Were there pain relievers in the first aid kit, and how would I get to it?

When the worst had been done, his wounds cleaned, his skin stitched, and fresh bandages wrapped tight, the monks lifted him from the table onto a simple stretcher. They lugged him down the corridor in the direction of the small room where I had been dressed.

I stood for a second looking sadly at the table, at the blood and disgusting wrappings there, the medieval stuff that was trying to keep my husband alive, but he wasn’t medieval, he was mine and I was modern. He needed modern medicine.

I turned on my heel and followed him to the room.

They had placed him on the bed, and covered him to his shoulders with a linen sheet.

A monk was grinding something with a mortar and pestle, and another fed him a drink of thin broth. Watching their hand signals, I gathered it would help him sleep.

The monks were about to leave the room, when Dude, who I had forgotten to consider, and I supposed had escaped the saddlebag, walked in like he owned the place. The monks looked shocked. Dude jumped on the bed and rubbed his back against a monk’s knee, then went up on his hind legs to get a monk to scratch behind his ears.

They crowded around Dude, who looked a little like a proud lion and, with the monks around him, a lot like a feline form of a god.

Torin briefly spoke in Gaelic.

The monks smiled, gathering around and petting Dude.

I asked, “They’re okay he’s here? He can stay?”

Torin tugged his ear. “…what?”