Chapter Two
Her heart broke as she hummed into the injured man’s ear.
Upon entering Anne had not expected to see such a severely injured man.
His face was grossly disfigured, with purple bruises covering it almost entirely.
The poor fellow’s eyes were swollen shut, the top of his head was bandaged, and there was an angry gash that had been stitched shut on the left side of his jaw.
There was little doubt he would remain scarred and perhaps even maimed by the looks of his splinted arm.
“I’ll give him more tincture for the pain,” Camden said, startling her. “There is little else that can be done to aid his pain and healing.”
Anne turned to see that Camden had already turned away and was pouring something into a small wooden bowl.
He moved with graceful efficiency, reaching for this and that from the many shelves that were replete with bottles and sacks of powders and herbs.
Every once in a while he hesitated before choosing, head bent in concentration.
As she watched, she couldn’t help but admire the broadness of his back, and although his hair was disheveled, it fell to his shoulders in a tumble of red waves.
Once he’d gathered what he needed, she watched as he sprinkled a greenish powder into the liquid in the bowl. He then mixed it with quick practiced movements. His eyes met hers for a moment as he neared the sick man’s bed.
“Lift his head,” he instructed, his voice quiet but firm. Carefully as she could, Anne cradled the man’s head. Lifting it just enough so that he could drink.
Camden brought the bowl to the man’s lips and helped him drink. “This will help with the pain. I also have some broth for ye to take. Ye must have something.”
His green gaze lifted to her’s and for an instant Anne found it hard to meet Camden’s eyes.
She’d been at the apothecary many times, getting his advice for what to do when caring for several village elderly, but for some reason today it was as if her nerves were on edge.
Everything felt stark. Vivid. As if she saw things through different eyes.
“Would ye mind helping me?” Camden asked. “Just for a few moments. I cannae wait for Beitris as I am nae sure when she plans to come.”
“Of course,” Anne said, looking past him to where her satchel lay on a chair. She didn’t have any plans for the day, other than cooking some simple meals, which she’d deliver to two elderly women later that day.
When Camden left to go into his living area, she looked to the injured man noting a tear trail from the corner of his swollen eye down his temple. The fat tear plopped onto the bedding.
“The pain will go away soon. I promise.” Unsure what she could do to soothe him, she began talking.
“It is cold out this morning. The village square is quieter than usual. I believe many are hesitant to leave the warmth of their homes. Soon spring will warm the land, and it will become quite lively.”
He was silent, giving her hope she’d distracted him.
“I am nae sure if ye ken old lady Agnes. She lives outside the village. Never well-liked. She has always been cruel and unkind. Now she finds herself alone and too infirm to take care of herself. I visit her often. To bathe her, comb her hair, and bring her a meal,” Anne chuckled.
“She remains unkind, only speaks to tell me what she dislikes. Some days it is the way I comb her hair, other times, she finds displeasure in the food.”
The man murmured something that sounded as if he did ken the elderly woman, or at least that’s what Anne thought. She continued telling him about the old woman until Camden reappeared.
Together they fed the man, who she learned was called Brae. She was familiar with who he was but refrained from saying anything to Camden.
“Ye dinnae have to remain,” Camden said when they’d finished feeding Brae, and she had wiped his face carefully.
Anne shook her head. Gathering the soup bowl and spoon she took water from the bucket by the door and cleaned them, then tossed the dirty water out the door. When she placed the cleaned items on a nearby surface, she felt Camden watching her.
For whatever reason, she became nervous; her hands trembled slightly. She’d not had a proper meal, and it was already late morning. That had to be why.
“I best go,” she said and motioned to the door.
Understanding spread on Camden’s face. “I will walk ye out. He took her satchel and carried it out the door. Anne walked past him, noting how much taller and broader he was than her. For such a large man, he moved with grace, was gentle with his patients, and from what she’d heard he rarely had a cross word with anyone.
As she walked past him, once again something strange happened, a shiver ran down her spine. She turned to look up at him, and he gave her a quizzical look.
“I feel…” Anne felt silly; her mouth had acted independently of her mind.
“I feel a need to tell ye,” she improvised.
“I ken of Brae and his family. They are the ones who live past the hills to the east. Ye ken the ones whose father was killed by the raiders. He is the youngest son of that family. I would say perhaps ten and eight or nine.”
Camden nodded. “Oh, aye. Strange that he came here. It would nae be an easy walk with his injuries.”
With nothing more to be said, Anne made to leave, stopping when his hand touched her upper arm. Again, the ridiculous shiver.
“Thank ye for yer help. Ye have a gift for soothing Anne.” His voice was deep with a hoarse edge to it. She’d always liked the sound of it, but for whatever reason this time, she wanted to ask him to keep talking.
Instead she shrugged and took her satchel. “I am glad to be able to help with him. I pray he recovers soon.”
As she walked away, Anne sensed he watched her, but it was probably her imagination.
Later that day, stale air greeted her when she walked into the dim interior of the old woman Agnes’s cottage.
Every window covering was firmly shut, allowing barely a trickle of light inside.
The old woman sat in front of the hearth, wrapped in a blanket.
Even the logs burning in the fire gave very little light as she burned only small ones.
It was smoky, stale, and smelled of the old woman’s unwashed body and whatever food she’d allowed to spoil on the table.
Anne left the door open behind her earning an annoyed glare from the old woman. Thankfully she remained silent as she glowered at the basket Anne carried. “Later than usual this day,” the woman grumbled. “What do ye have there?”
“I brought ye bread and some pottage to eat. I will fetch water from the well and—”
“I dinnae wish for pottage. I would prefer something else,” Agnes complained. “Ye can leave it, I will feed it to the pigs.”
Agnes didn’t own pigs but had apparently forgotten. And despite her constant complaints, always ate what Anne brought.
Agnes ate the pottage along with a cup of water, her eyes following Anne as she moved about the cottage.
Anne fetched some water and washed up the dirty dishes and clothes. After hanging the scant items of clothing to dry, she swept the floor and shook out the rug.
Finally when the water was boiling, she added it to a large wooden bucket and washed the woman.
“Ye are perfectly able to wash and comb yer hair,” Anne admonished the old woman as she brushed tangles from the woman’s wet hair. “Now let’s get ye outside so the breeze and sun can dry yer hair.”
“I prefer to sit near the fire. It will be just as good,” Agnes grumbled. “I will catch me death outside.”
Without speaking Anne grabbed a chair, dragged it outside, then taking Agnes by both arms, helped her to stand, and walked her through the door.
“I do require yer help in preparing the garden for planting,” Anne explained briskly before Agnes could demand to go back inside. In truth she would have preferred to leave Agnes indoors and not have to endure her company, but the woman needed fresh air and a bit of sunshine.
Agnes accepted the small trowel Anne handed her, though she did so with the reluctance of someone convinced the effort was entirely unnecessary.
Anne, undeterred, dragged the heavy clay pot from beside the door and set it within easy reach of the old woman’s chair.
The soil inside was dark and rich and freshly turned.
From her satchel, Anne withdrew several delicate seedlings, their tiny green leaves trembling with promise. She placed them gently on Agnes’s lap.
“Ye can plant these whilst I see about the fresh linens,” Anne said, already turning toward the cottage.
She didnae wait for an answer since Agnes rarely gave one that wasn’t edged with complaint.
Once inside, she stripped the bed and replaced the faded, threadbare linens with fresh ones she’d carried with her and cleaned out the chamber pot thoroughly.
When she returned outside, Agnes sat hunched over the pot, her thin fingers pressing awkwardly at the soil. Anne offered her arm. “Come, let us get ye inside.”
“I wish ye would leave me be,” Agnes grumbled as Anne helped her to her feet. “I am tired of ye and yer meddling.”
Yet her sharp, narrowed eyes swept over the cottage the moment they stepped inside. Taking in the quiet transformation. The brightness. The cleanliness. The fresh air.
“Close the windows,” Agnes snapped. “I’ll catch me death.”
Anne bit back a smile. “Ye dinnae tire of me,” she said gently. “One day ye’ll admit it.”
Agnes huffed in reply, though she didnae resist when Anne guided her back to her chair near the hearth.
“I will close them before I leave,” Anne promised, her voice patient and calm.
She never let Agnes’s harsh words wound her.
Anne had long ago understood that bitterness often grew where loneliness had taken root.
Agnes had never married, never borne children.
Her only sister had passed years ago, though Agnes still spoke of her as if she lingered just beyond sight.
Anne never corrected her. Some comforts—however fragile—were meant to remain undisturbed.
When at last everything was in order, Anne wrapped food carefully in cloth and set it within easy reach for the next day. Agnes had already begun to doze in her chair, her sharp tongue finally silenced by sleep, her frail body softened by warmth and quiet.
Anne paused at the door, watching the rise and fall of the old woman’s chest, then stepped quietly outside, pulling the door closed behind her.
Later that day, crossing the village square on her way home, Anne was considering whether she should get another loaf of bread.
Earlier she had visited Florie, another elderly woman in the village, but she had only remained there briefly as the woman entertained a friend and seemed to be doing well.
She’d left both women chatting and eating the meal she’d brought.
Just then a woman called Moyra came into view.
With a curvy body, almond-shaped eyes, and plump lips, Moyra constantly caught men’s attention.
The only men in the square were two hammering on the side of the building.
Both stopped what they were doing and followed Moyra’s progression.
Her hips swaying side to side, shoulders moving in rhythm, arms swinging, and a small smile on her upturned lips.
Anne resisted the urge to reach up and smooth her hair. Unlike Moyra, who wore her hair loose down her back, Anne’s was pinned up into a serviceable bun. After a day of caring for others, she was sure many a stray strand of hair surrounded her face now.
A moment later, her friend Effie appeared. Wearing a man’s tunic and britches, Effie Macrae led a mule. She was a lively sort, well-liked in the village. The opposite of Anne, Effie never hesitated in speaking her mind.
“Effie,” Moyra said, her gaze sweeping over the younger lass. “Ye young women dinnae care about their appearance?”
Effie shrugged not seeming bothered by Moyra’s comment and talked to Anne. “I am looking for yer brother Anne. My mule Sperry is in need of shoeing.”
Not liking being ignored, Moyra circled Effie. “Returning from a day plowing a field?” Moyra asked, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Or perhaps shucking out stalls?”
Effie met the woman’s gaze. “Ye should be with care in how ye walk. The way ye swing yer hips, could leave ye abed for days with an ailing back.”
The woman gave Effie a bland look. “It is my natural way of walkin’, I dinnae trot like a horse like some women.” Her gaze roamed over Anne, her meaning clear.
“I am going to see my Camden. I have nae seen him out today have ye?”
“Yer Camden?” Effie said, her eyes wide. “He is nae yers.”
Moyra gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He will be. Already on the brink of courting me.”
It was a struggle, but Anne kept from asking Moyra if it was indeed true.
It had nothing to do with her, and she certainly had no claim on Camden.
At the same time, it was difficult to imagine Camden married to Moyra Collins.
They seemed to be opposite in every way, but then again, it was easy to see why he’d be attracted to her. Moyra was a beautiful woman.
Somehow she managed to keep her lips pressed together while she silently prayed Effie could ask Moyra more questions.
Unfortunately all Effie did was to narrow her eyes at Moyra and shrug as Moyra turned away, seeming unconcerned by their presence.
“Poor Camden,” Effie said shaking her head. “I hope he is nae daft enough to truly court her.”
Both tracked Moyra’s progress as she walked toward the apothecary, her movements swift and with purpose.
Anne considered that perhaps she could go and see how Brae was, but then she realized it was not the sick man she worried about.
“Come on then,” Effie said, breaking her revelry. “I need to find yer brother. For a brawny blacksmith, he is hard to find.”