Chapter Eighteen #3
Asmara could see some regret in his expression.
“The only decent thing my uncle ever did was save your life,” she said.
“But even then, it wasn’t with altruistic intentions.
Still… for the fact that he did save your life, I cannot hate him completely.
But for what he tried to do tonight – I can never forgive him. ”
Blayth simply kissed her hand again, catching sight of Jestin as the man came away from his table and moved in their direction. Blayth stood up, Asmara’s hand still in his, protectively, as he looked curiously at the things the man was carrying with him.
“What do you have?” he asked.
Jestin had quite a few items which he began sitting down on the table – an empty wooden cup, a half-full wooden cup, a wad of linen rags that he’d torn up for bandages, an earthenware bottle of wine, a slender iron bar that was several inches in length, and a sewing kit with needle and thread.
All of these things ended up on the table beside Asmara as Jestin went to the pot he’d put above the flames, which was now beginning to steam.
Removing the pot, he carefully poured the milky contents into the empty cup he’d brought with him.
“Now,” he said, handing Blayth the cup. “Have your woman drink this. Quickly, now – she must drink it all.”
Blayth eyed the cup. “What is it?”
“Something for the pain.”
Blayth continued to eye the cup. After a moment, he looked up at the priest. “Tell me what is in it. I will not give her an unknown potion.”
Jestin glanced at him. “Poppy,” he said, his annoyance returning. “There is poppy in the goat’s milk. Make her drink it. It will take away her pain.”
Blayth still didn’t like it. He extended the cup back to him.
“Take a sip from it,” he growled. “Prove to me that there is no poison in it.”
Jestin sighed sharply, took the cup, and promptly took a sip. Then he shoved it back at Blayth.
“You came to me for help,” he said. “If you did not want it, then I can just as easily sit by and do nothing.”
He had a point. Trust didn’t come naturally to Blayth, but he had little choice because he needed the help. Moderately convinced that the priest wasn’t out to harm Asmara, he turned and gave her the cup.
“Drink this down,” he said, putting it in her right hand. “He says it will help your pain.”
Asmara had been watching the entire exchange, including the moment when Blayth forced the priest to drink the goat’s milk potion.
She was very touched by the way Blayth was watching out for her and she took the cup and drained it.
The milk was warm and lovely, but she could taste something in it, something bitter.
Licking her lips, she handed him back the cup.
“Why should he have poppy on hand?” she whispered. “Is he a physic also?”
“When the town’s folk need help, they come to me,” the priest said. He’d heard her question. “Either they need my prayers or my potions. Surely that is why you were sent to me, isn’t it?”
Blayth shook his head. “We were not sent to you.”
That seemed to surprise Jestin. “You weren’t?”
“Nay.”
“Then… you simply found me?”
Blayth nodded. “There is no tavern in the village and with the lady being injured, this was the most logical place to come.”
Jestin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Then God must have been speaking to you,” he said. “He has brought you here, to me, because He knew I could help the lady.”
Blayth wasn’t so sure why that seemed like such a miracle that they should have come to the church in their hour of need, so he didn’t reply. He was simply glad that Asmara was receiving care.
In fact, for a man who had reluctantly admitted them into his residence, the priest had moved past that annoyance and was taking charge of Asmara’s care.
He seemed very confident about it. After ensuring she drank the milk with the poppy in it, he approached her with a small dagger and tore away the tunic around the wound.
“Ah,” he said as he inspected the puncture. “It is not too deep, but it must be cleaned. Be still, lady, and this will go quickly.”
Asmara looked at him warily. “What are you going to do?” she demanded. “And why are you doing this? I did not give you permission to touch me.”
Jestin immediately stood up, looking at Blayth and pointing to Asmara. “Then you tend this ungrateful woman,” he said. “I can promise you have not tended nearly as many wounds as I have, but go ahead. Make a mess of her and I will not stop you.”
Frankly, Blayth wasn’t very good tending battle wounds.
He’d seen many, of course, and could make do in rendering basic aid, but the tending of the wounded had always fallen to other men who were more specialized in it.
In spite of his brusque manner, Jestin seemed much more comfortable around potions and needles.
Blayth was confident in many things, but healing wasn’t one of them.
“Were you once a physic?” he asked. “Is that why you have potions and know so much about healing?”
Jestin lifted his skinny shoulders. “I read,” he said.
“I read a great deal. I have treatises and books and documents from all over our world that tell of many things, so I have learned much. You have seen my collection of treasures; there is a good deal of information in these treasures and I have memorized it all. When anyone is wounded in the village, they come to me because they know I can heal them. That is why I asked if you had been sent.”
Blayth shook his head. “As I told you, no one sent us,” he said. “If you have knowledge on healing, then I would ask you to tend the lady. She will be still for you, I swear it. But know that I shall be watching everything you do and if I am not satisfied, you will not live to see the dawn.”
Jestin gave him an expression that suggested he wasn’t intimidated by the threat. “You will be satisfied,” he said. “And then you and your ungrateful wife will leave me and never return.”
It seemed like a fair deal, so Blayth nodded and Jestin returned to his position over Asmara. She didn’t seem thrilled by it, but she had little choice. She turned her head and closed her eyes as Blayth came up beside her, taking her good hand and holding it tightly as Jestin went to work.
Asmara did a good deal of grunting and wincing as Jestin picked bits of cloth from her wound, carefully, and periodically cleansing it with the wine.
That seemed to hurt the most and she gasped whenever he poured the alcohol into the wound.
Blayth held her hand tightly and had his arm around her shoulders, preventing her from moving around too much, as Jestin cleansed and picked.
He took the iron stick-like implement and used the flat end of it to scrape out whatever debris he hadn’t been able to pick away.
It had been excruciating for Asmara, who had her face buried in Blayth’s chest.
The cleansing and scraping seemed to go on for quite some time.
Blayth was torn between anger that Jestin was causing Asmara pain, and gratitude that he was being so thorough.
When the priest had finished picking and washing and scraping, he finally took a bone needle and fine silk thread and put six quick stitches in Asmara’s shoulder.
She yelped a little, for it was clearly painful, but that was the extent of her visible pain.
When it was finally over, Jestin took the bandages he’d made and wrapped her shoulder up in them.
The last step was to hand Blayth another cup that was half-full of a dark liquid that smelled horrific.
He wanted Asmara to drink it, which she did, choking it down miserably because it tasted so badly.
When Blayth handed the empty cup back to Jestin, the priest pointed towards the doorway to the second chamber.
“In there,” he said quietly, gathering his things. “There is a bed in there. Put her there to rest.”
Blayth obeyed. Asmara was exhausted and in pain, and the poppy potion had made her extremely sleepy.
Bending over, he swept her into his arms and carried her into the second chamber, which was far more cluttered than the first, but there was, indeed, a small cot shoved against the wall.
A cat was sleeping on it and he swept the cat away with his foot, depositing Asmara onto the straw mattress.
She was nearly asleep when he pulled the rough woolen blanket over her.
“Sleep now,” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead. “I shall be nearby should you need me.”
Asmara didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed and she was asleep already. Pain, exhaustion, and the poppy had seen to that. Blayth’s gaze lingered on her a moment before wandering out into the main chamber.
Jestin was wiping out cups and cleaning the iron implement with wine as he emerged and headed over to the blazing fire.
Now that Asmara was tended, he hoped to get some sleep before the night was through but, upon reflection, he thought that was a ridiculous hope.
He’d be awake all night in case Asmara needed him.
He and the surly priest were about to keep each other company.
“I will pay you for your services before we leave,” he said. “I am grateful for your assistance.”
Jestin snorted as he wiped the iron implement. “As if I had a choice,” he said. “You burst in without invitation.”
Blayth couldn’t disagree. “You are fortunate that is all I did, considering you called the lady fire-tongued.”
“Well… she is.”
“She most certainly is, but that is not for you to say.”
Jestin continued to snort as he put his things away. “I will grant you the husband’s privilege of insulting your wife, but I will not apologize for what I said,” he replied. “She said you were attacked. Where did this happen?”
“Gwendraith,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, after all. “And before you ask me why we came so far before seeking help, we feared that we were followed.”
“Were you?”
“I do not believe so.”