Chapter 26 #2
George met her face. “Mister Jonathan came to alert me. We brought Ben back together and then came straight to you.”
She made a quick observation of the courier.
He was well-dressed, but practical. His thick cloak was made for the road, and his boots were heeled for the stirrups of his saddle.
Like his mare, George was sturdy. He emanated authority.
Avice knew he was an authority, being a member of the village’s Moot.
She dropped her gaze to the trembling man on the table as she peeled back the final blanket.
Not much disturbed Avice, but John had not been exaggerating when he said, ‘it damn near took his arm off.’ She assessed the man and his injury.
Benjamin’s arm was attached by a mere scrap of muscle and skin, blood seeping from the wound.
She had observed in past that the cold could slow the rate of bleeding, and in the case of her patient, it had been to his benefit.
By Nature’s blessing, he still took shallow breaths, she pressed her fingers to his throat and a pulse still thrummed there.
“Well?” George barked, drawing her attention. “Can anything be done?”
Avice tutted at his interruption. “I am not finished with my examination.”
John looked back and forth beneath the two. “Let her—”
Father Peter stepped forward. “Mind your tongue when you speak to a member of the Moot council,” he scolded, shooting Avice a piercing gaze. “Answer Mister George’s question.”
She clutched her pendant, and scratched Bramble’s ear.
He remained unseen, ready to corporealize the moment she needed him.
She looked at John pleadingly, silently begging him to intercede on her behalf.
The fisherman had seen her work wonders in the past, surely he would vouch for her methods now.
He did not. Instead, he snapped his mouth shut with a click.
Her heart sunk at the lack of defence from her best – human – friend. “The arm will have to come off.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I will cauterise the wound, so he does not die from loss of blood.”
George sharpened his gaze. “Have you done that before?”
She saw no point in lying at her inexperience in the procedure. “No. With limb injuries in the past, I have managed to save it.”
“And you cannot now?”
Avice ground her teeth. “I could sew it back on,” she explained slowly, “but the arm here” – she pointed to the hanging part, from the elbow down – “is already dead. If I sew it back on, it will take the rest of him with it.”
“With prayer and discipline, the arm could be restored,” Father Peter interjected with a severe nod.
Avice bit her tongue and turned to George, waiting for his answer. Ultimately, being the only relative present, the decision would be his.
His gaze swept between the priest and the midwife, then rested on her for an excruciatingly long time. She squeezed her pendant tightly, the feel of the cool stone soothing her galloping heart.
“Do what you must.”
Avice burst into a flurry of activity. She pulled her herbing knife from her belt and retrieved her needle, thread, and wool from the medical satchel on her hip.
She studied the room, looking for something that could be heated to cauterise the stump.
Her eyes settled on the black pokers that hung neatly by the fireplace, glinting in the flickering light. She pointed to them.
“Someone, heat up one of those. It needs to be red,” Avice ordered. She rounded on John. “You, hold him down. I doubt he will feel anything in this state, but better to be prepared.”
John’s throat bobbed as he gripped Benjamin’s narrow shoulders. He met her eye and gave a nod. Avice confirmed that someone had placed a poker in the roaring fire before flexing her knife in her palm.
Clenching her jaw, she sliced through the remaining flesh that connected the upper arm to the lower.
She frowned as Benjamin made no noise or indication that he felt the cut, besides the reflexive twitch of this surrounding flesh.
She quickly pressed the wool to the stump to stifle the oozing scarlet.
Avice snapped up her head. “Poker!”
George, who was waiting by the fire, retrieved it.
He marched over to her and handed over the cool handle.
She tossed the bloodied wool to the side and thrust the poker onto the wound.
The sizzling set her teeth on edge, and the reek of burning flesh had her wrinkling her nose.
Only when the iron had dulled from its glowing red to its original black did she remove it from the wound.
Avice shoved the poker back at George and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
The room was sweltering, and her clothes plastered to her skin.
She blew away the strands of loosened hair that stuck to her face, before brandishing her needle and thread.
She quickly threw a looping stitch through any areas of the wound that still wept.
She studied the cauterised skin for any spots that she may have missed.
The wound was raw and the surrounding tissue vivid and pink.
The remaining stump no longer had a cold stillness, the warmth to the flesh had returned.
She hoped that the procedure had been done quickly enough.
With bloodied hands she rifled through her medical satchel. Pulling out a wooden bottle and a scrap of linen.
Father Peter scowled. “What is that?”