CHAPTER EIGHT
Their arrival at the mountain hideout caused great consternation.
The villagers dropped whatever they were doing, abandoning spinning, weeding and wood chopping, all rushing to see the stranger Rhiannon had brought home to them.
All were anxious for news, and concerned about the missing men.
Bronwen darted forwards from the small crowd that had gathered in the yard of the croft.
‘Where is Dadda?’ she asked before Rhiannon had even dismounted. ‘Where is Dilly?’
Owain shouted, ‘What madness is this? To bring a stranger here!’
‘We will be given away!’ one of the older men warned.
Others echoed the questions. With a shrewd glance, Mamgi took in the wounded soldier, the fine horse, and the look of shock on Rhiannon’s face.
‘What of Brynach, child?’ she asked, her voice more gentle than usual.
‘He took an arrow to the leg,’ she said, addressing the whole company. ‘Talgar is in Norman hands.’ She waited for the gasp of horror and murmured oaths to subside before continuing. ‘Dafydd is on his way with the cart. Now, help me. This man saved my life.’
At once the mood changed from one of suspicion, shock and complaint, to one born of a common cause.
With great care they lifted Tudor from his horse, making sure not to move the arrow still lodged in his back.
When they lowered him to the ground, he slumped to the floor, or would have done had not so many hands held him up.
Rhiannon saw that he had slipped into unconsciousness and was worryingly pale.
‘Carry him into the croft. Mamgi…?’
‘I am with you!’ she told her, hurrying behind on frail, crooked legs, her staff stabbing at the muddy earth with each step.
Owain attempted to take hold of the horse’s reins and narrowly avoided being bitten. It flattened its ears, rolling its eyes, its head low, turning this way and that to ward off any who might try to get close. When it sensed movement behind it the animal swung around, threatening to bite again.
The crowd shrank back.
‘This is a bad tempered creature!’ Owain declared. ‘Best shut the yard gate and leave it be.’
One of the older boys nodded his agreement. ‘Most likely it will be more biddable when it is hungry.’
‘No.’ Rhiannon paused. ‘He needs tending. He should be taken in the barn, watered and fed.’
Owain shook his head. ‘He’s savage, I tell you. I’ll not touch him.’
Others shook their heads in agreement, one or two taking a step back to distance themselves from the agitated horse.
It stood alone then, champing anxiously at its bit, its mouth foaming, steam rising from its sweat-wet flanks as it watched its master being carried away.
Rhiannon felt sorry for the animal. This was not some thick-skinned farm horse, nor a woolly coated mountain pony accustomed to the thin winds and sparse grazing of the hills.
‘Without that horse,’ she declared, ‘I would be dead and our cart would not this very moment be making its way here, unchallenged, loaded with our winter supplies. Is not one of you up to the task of repaying this animal the debt we owe him?’
Feet were shuffled. Owain would not meet Rhiannon’s challenging gaze. Then, quietly, calmly, little Bronwen emerged from the crowd and walked towards the horse. One of the women cried out in alarm, telling her to stop. Even Owain thought to grab the child, but Rhiannon signalled to him.
‘Leave her be!’ she said.
Bronwen approached the animal as if he were merely a foal in the field, or one of the stray lambs she loved to care for.
The horse pricked his ears. It dropped his head to sniff the girl, its nostrils blowing warm breath into her hair, making her giggle.
The animal towered over her, but she was not afraid.
Reaching up, she patted its neck with her tiny hand before taking hold of its rein and pulling gently.
She led the way to the barn, the horse following meekly.
Inside the croft, Rhiannon had the men lay Tudor on the low bed.
Mamgi issued instructions that the fire be stoked, water be boiled, moss be gathered, and the smithy fetch his pliers.
She instructed one of the women to bring her stitching needle and any thread she could find.
Rhiannon knew which remedies to take from their precious stores.
Once extra tallow lights were lit and everything assembled, Mamgi shoo-ed out everyone else save the two of them and the blacksmith.
‘You must pull the arrow back, for it cannot pass through,’ Mamgi told him.
The man shook his head sadly. ‘It will wound him further.’
Mamgi shot him a look. ‘Shall we leave it there till spring then and let the may queen see to it?!’ she snapped. The smithy knew better than to respond to that. He took up his position beside the injured man.
The old woman used a sharp knife to cut away Tudor’s clothes, tearing them until his back was exposed. Rhiannon stepped forward with cloth and hot water and washed away the blood that coated his skin.
‘The bleeding has stopped,’ she said. ‘But his breathing, it sounds so very painful. How can we mend him, Mamgi?’
The grandmother tutted, ’Tis no more than a torn set of bellows.
With the arrow out and the hole stopped up the air will go where it must. You will see.
Here, child, hold the light closer. That’s right, yes.
Now then,’ she looked up at the smithy. ‘When I give the word, ease the arrow from its ill found home. A steady pull, mind. Nothing sudden. But do not stop. Do you understand me?’ When he nodded she went on.
‘We will clean the wound, for Norman arrows are foul things indeed. We shall pack it then. A stitch or two at the sides, but we cannot close it, for that foulness must yet be drawn out, lest it creep in to his soul and snatch it away.’ She shuffled closer.
As Rhiannon watched and they waited for the signal, she fancied the old woman was muttering beneath her breath.
A prayer perhaps. Or a spell. Whichever it was it caused the hairs on her arms to raise, as she recognised the shape of the words to be the same as the ones which had come to her so strangely when she had summoned the mist.
‘Now!’ Mamgi’s voice was clear and firm this time.
The smithy tightened his hold on the arrow shaft and pulled.
He had one hand around the shaft, and another holding pincers that gripped the small area of metal which was all that could be seen of the arrowhead.
It was not an easy task. Rhiannon was appalled to see that he had to brace himself against the cot with his foot and use real strength to persuade the arrow to move.
It was a mercy that the patient remained unconscious, though even in his limbic state he moaned.
The shape of the weapon, and the force with which it had struck, meant that, with a sickening crack, the metal arrowhead split another rib as it was forced back the way it had come, finding his rib cage had shifted to accommodate the unwelcome object.
The arrow exacted an even greater toll from its victim upon its release.
At last it was out. Rhiannon cleaned the wound and helped Mamgi pack it with soft moss which had been doused in rosemary water.
‘Pack it tighter, cariad,’ Mamgi told her. ‘We must leave no space where evil things might take root.’
Rhiannon had to take a steadying breath as she pushed the moss more firmly into the dark wound.
She made herself think of how this man, whom she had known but a few hours, had risked his life for her and her friends.
She thought of how he had held her safe even while suffering such an injury.
She thought about how helpless he now was, because of her.
If it was within her gift to heal him, then she would do it. Whatever it took.
That first night, they came close to losing him.
The brutal damage threatened to overwhelm his body.
Mamgi told her that had he not been young and strong, this was a battle he would have no chance of winning.
His vigour gave them reason to be hopeful.
They turned him so that he was on his side, propped against bundled fleeces.
This enabled them to treat the site of his wound whilst also dribbling medicaments and wine into his mouth.
‘Tiny sips, mind,’ Mamgi warned, ‘else we’ll drown him.’
Rhiannon shuddered at the thought that they might kill him in their attempts to heal him.
She held his chin in her hand, the beard growth rough in her palm, tilting his head so that the drops of elixir would seep between his lips.
Mamgi had shown her how to prepare the draft many times in the preceding year.
It was a potent mix of ingredients gathered from around them.
Whinberries from the mountain top, dried and ground to a powder.
Wild garlic similarly reduced. Tiny crumbs of the petals of foxgloves.
She knew the wrong proportions could be lethal, as her tutor had also explained how to make an effective poison from the same flowers.
All were steeped in birch sap wine to better preserve them and aid digestion.
Every two hours she spooned the mixture into Tudor’s mouth, while behind her Mamgi sang, soft and low, her wavering falsetto winding its way around the little room.
She did not know the song, nor if the words carried any magic properties, but she was glad of the faltering music.
Glad of anything that masked the sound of Tudor’s ragged breath and pitiful moans.
By the morning, when she had hoped to see an improvement, his condition had worsened, sweat beading his brow, and a restlessness replacing the heavy stillness of earlier.
‘Fever,’ Mamgi said simply, tutting and returning to settle on her chair by the fire. ‘You know what to do, child.’