Chapter Eleven #3
“Don’t mind him,” Sister Joan said. “He misses the sun and is going mad from being stuck in a cell. That can play havoc with a man’s mind, I think.”
“I’m glad you and Sister Rebecca are all right,” Bronwyn said.
“We are. My sister spends much of her time in the chapel at prayer, with the priests and the archbishop. She is happier in their company.”
“Have you heard anything about your fellow sisters? Did any others escape?”
The nun shook her head. “There is little information on that. But from what I gather, no one else made it out alive.” She crossed herself. “We will have to rebuild or seek to join another order. Once the fighting stops.”
Bronwyn left the sister to her mission and went to visit Theobold. He stood by the bars, waiting for her. “Bronwyn, my master is sick. He needs tending.”
“What’s wrong?” She peered through the bars past his shoulder, but it was too dark to see.
“He got cut during the fighting. A gash on his side. When we were taken prisoner, he never saw a surgeon or got to clean his wounds. I worry they’ll fester.”
Bronwyn’s forehead wrinkled. “I’ll see if I can get a physician.”
“Be quick. He’s not eaten anything since yesterday.” He looked over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “You’re all right? You didn’t get hurt?”
“No. I’m fine. You?”
“Same. Just a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious.”
He clasped her hand and squeezed it. She ran.
Bronwyn darted out of the jail and up the stone stairs until she reached the ground floor of the castle.
She didn’t know where there was an infirmary, or any physicians or nurses to be found.
She stopped a servant and asked but got lost, and after asking a few more servants for directions, she found the castle infirmary.
The room wasn’t a big space, but it had some beds for the wounded and sick, and a few monks or priests walked around.
Bronwyn went in and approached the first person who looked at her. It was an older man in ordinary clothes, not a monk or priest. “Excuse me, but there’s a prisoner who’s injured, and he needs help.”
“Not interested in prisoners.” He motioned with his hand for her to leave.
“But please, it’s—” she started.
“Not interested. Clear off,” he said.
She frowned. “But it’s—”
“Are you hard of hearing? Clear off, I said. Go on, now, or I’ll take a switch to you.” The older man made a shooing motion with his hands.
Bronwyn gritted her teeth and backed up. Her face turned pink with embarrassment as the other men in the room began to watch and smile at the exchange. She turned and went to quit the room, when she was just a few feet out of the room and a young man said, “Oi.”
She turned around, her blonde braids flying over her shoulder. “What?” It was rude, but she didn’t care. She felt humiliated.
“What’s wrong with the prisoner?”
“Why do you care?”
He looked affronted for a moment. “I’m a physician. I can help. Who is he?”
“You are?”
The young man looked about age twelve. He was one of those people gifted with youth, which Bronwyn supposed wouldn’t work so well in his favor when trying to be taken seriously. He was comely enough, in a linen shirt and trousers, but no weapon at his belt, just a bag. “Do you want help or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.” He started walking. “I know the way.”
They walked together in silence, which Bronwyn couldn’t bear. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I didn’t mean to judge. You look so young.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. So who is the patient?”
“Sir Robert of Gloucester.”
The young man whistled. “Right. Take me to him.”
Together, they went down to the jail cells. The youth approached the guards at the entrance and said, “One of the prisoners is ill. I’m a physician. I need you to unlock his cell.”
“On whose authority?” one of the guards asked.
“It’ll be the queen’s if you let him die. Show me to Sir Robert of Gloucester’s cell,” the youth demanded.
The other guard looked at Bronwyn, who nodded. They’d seen her often enough. The guards took a set of iron keys and went inside the corridor, unlocking the door. Before he opened it, he said, “Here, now, look. You, up against the wall.” It was an order.
Theobold met his eyes and backed up against the wall.
The guard opened the cell and, in an instant, had a spear pointed at Theobold’s throat. “You make one move and it’ll be the last thing you do. Understand?”
“Mm-hmm,” Theobold said.
The other guard stood back and guarded the open cell door. “Go on.”
The youth entered the cell. “Girl, bring us a torch. It’s too dark for me to see.”
Bronwyn fetched a torch hanging from one of the small sconces in the stone wall and entered the cell. It wasn’t very big, and with four men inside it already, the space was fairly cramped. She held the torch and approached the youth.
“Here, bring it here. Stand above me so I can see what I’m doing,” the youth said.
“You’re a doctor?” Theobold asked.
“Yes.” The youth examined the form of Sir Robert of Gloucester, who lay motionless on the straw floor. Mice scampered and danced around their feet, squeaking. “What happened?”
“He was injured in battle, then taken prisoner,” Theobold said. “We thought little of it, but he never got a chance to look after his wounds, and now I think one is festering. It’s on his leg.”
The youth rolled up the knight’s right trouser leg, which bore a dark, sodden patch. He moved quickly, touching a hand to Sir Robert’s forehead. “He’s got a fever. He’s burning up.”
“What do we do?” Bronwyn asked.
“We have to move him. He can’t stay here. It’s too filthy.” The youth turned to the guard manning the door. “I need you to bring some men. We need to bring him to the infirmary, and he can’t walk in this state.”
The guard shook his head. “I can’t leave the jail until another comes to relieve me.”
The youth’s mouth set in a frown.
“I’ll carry him. He’s my master,” Theobold said.
“And see you run away? Not on my watch,” the guard pinning Theobold back said.
“We can’t leave him here. He’ll likely die. And he’s too valuable.” The youth let out a noisy breath of exasperation, rose, and said, “Stay here, all of you. I’ll be back.”
Bronwyn took the torch and followed him out of the cell. The guards locked the cell door.
The light from the torch played golden shadows on Theobold’s face, flickering in the darkness. He looked thinner. Paler. It disturbed her.
Theobold said, “I have to go with him. He’s my lord. I have to look after him. No one else will.”
Bronwyn shook her head. “He’ll be better off in the infirmary.”
Theobold bit his lips, licking away a drop of blood.
He crossed his arms and waited as the youth returned with two men and a stretcher, which was a strong sheet of linen tied between two poles.
It proved to be hard work, but they managed to lift Sir Robert onto the stretcher and carried him out of the cell. The youth said, “Girl, come with me.”
Theobold stood, mutely watching as Bronwyn replaced the torch in the wall sconce. She went to Theobold and said quietly, “I’ll watch over him as best I can.”
Bronwyn followed the man back to the infirmary.
They lifted Sir Robert from the stretcher to one of the beds, in a far corner of the room.
The older man from before looked on in disapproval, and the monks in the space watched.
There was no noise as all observed the arrival of a most interesting patient.
Once he was situated, the older man who had initially shooed Bronwyn away now approached. “What do we have here?”
“Sir Robert of Gloucester, Master Reynold,” the younger physician said. “He is important. We need him alive. But he’s sick with a fever. One of his wounds is infected.”
“That explains the smell. Let’s see.” The older physician motioned the men back and rolled up the trouser leg to examine the wound. It smelled. “Strip him. We need to see what other wounds he has.”
Bronwyn moved away.
“Girl, help us. We’ll need to wash him.”
“I… I’m a cook. I work in the kitchens,” she said. She did not want to spend her hours bathing a man. She blushed at the thought. And besides, Master Christopher would have her head if she was gone too long.
“Fine. Bring up some food for the patients shortly. Warm broth and stale ale, nothing else. You hear?” The older man narrowed his eyes.
“Yes.” She turned and left.
Back in the kitchens, she relayed the order to Master Christopher, who threw his arms in the air and ordered her to make the broth.
“They’re sick and probably going to die, anyway, so there’s no point in feeding them well,” he said.
“Use whatever scraps you like. Nothing expensive. They’ll have what we can spare, which isn’t much.
Whatever’s left can go to the prisoners. ”
Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. He was in a foul mood, and she saw little point in arguing with him.
A few hours later, she’d managed to scrounge up some vegetables for a plain broth and was stirring it when there was a polite cough at her shoulder. She glanced over to look, and it was the young physician from before.
“Hello,” he said, “is that broth for the patients?”
“Yes.” She dipped a wooden spoon into the pot and held it out for him to taste.
He leaned forward and sipped, then touched his lips. “It’s hot.”
She smiled. “It’s supposed to be.”
“Yes, well.” He coughed and tugged at his collar. “I’m John Tynsdale. Junior physician to Master Reynold. And you are?”
“Bronwyn Blakenhale.”
“What do you do?”
“I cook, I clean, and I bake,” she said simply, returning to the broth. There was of course, more to her than that, but it was all she was willing to tell him at the moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you were a doctor.”
“It’s easily done. I look half my age. Would you believe I’m two and twenty?”
They shared a smile.
“How is Sir Robert doing?” she asked.