CHAPTER EIGHT #2
And so Rhiannon continued to nurse her patient, using cloths soaked in cool, fragrant water to sooth him, washing his feverish skin, holding his hand, whispering words of comfort and reassurance even as he moaned and cursed.
His eyes were open then, but saw nothing save the visions of his delirium.
At one point, he thrashed wildly, so that both she and Mamgi were compelled to hold him down in order to prevent him rupturing his wound.
The interior of the croft smelled of fever, of sweat, of the fetid air of the sickbed, and little could be done to change it.
That second night he was calmer again, and lay quiet. Frighteningly quiet. Rhiannon railed against her own helplessness.
‘Mamgi, is there nothing more we can do for him?’
‘You think I would hold something back when it might aid him?’
‘No, well, that is… I am a witch, am I not? I have spells for growing and nurturing, and I speak to the weather…’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Then can I not use my magic to heal him? He is a good man. He acted out of kindness to help us.’
‘You think that makes him more deserving of your help?’
‘Why would it not? He put himself in danger for others. Surely that is evidence of a worthy man.’
The old woman leaned forwards and picked up the poker with which to prod at the fire. A shower of sparks rose up and disappeared into the darkness of the roughly fashioned chimney. Fresh smoke belched from the hearth. Mamgi spoke while watching the dancing flames.
‘You assume two things that are incorrect,’ she said.
‘The first is that only the good should be helped. Where would that leave most of us? Must we be blameless to be of value? Are you?’ She jerked her head back, indicating their patient.
‘Is he? We do not know of his past, nor his intended future. Just as he did not know of yours when he risked all to save you.’
‘I merely thought that a good person was more worth our efforts… of more value to our community…’
The old woman shrugged, still watching the fire.
‘A good person will do no harm, present no threat. How much better for the community that we save a bad person and turn his face to the light? Have we not then removed a danger? Changed an enemy to a friend?’ Before Rhiannon had time to properly process this idea she continued.
‘The second thing you are wrong about is this man’s reason for doing what he did.
You say he acted out of kindness. You do not know that. ’
‘What did he have to gain from putting himself between us and those soldiers?’
Mamgi straightened up then. When she turned to look at Rhiannon her face, lit by the pulsing light of the flames, showed a wry amusement. ‘Think you he would have been so ready to sweep me off my feet and clasp me to his heart?’
In the gloom, Rhiannon felt herself blush.
She looked again at the fine but broken man on the bed.
Was that all there was to his act of bravery?
Was he simply a man driven by base desire for a young woman.
She did not want to believe so. And yet, in a small, personal and private way, a part of her enjoyed the thought, even though it shamed her at the same time.
It made her question her own motives for wanting to save him.
Would she have been so diligent had he been old, with rotting teeth, perhaps, and generally less pleasing?
She told herself it would have made no difference.
But then she remembered poor, loyal Brynach, whom she had left wounded and alone, at the mercy of the king’s men.
She had thought of him through those long days and nights, of course, but had she truly cared equally for the fate of both men?
She shook away such troubling thoughts and tried to press Mamgi further.
‘You have not answered my question, grandmother. Why can I not use magic to help him heal?’
‘That you ask me such a question is evidence you are not yet grown sufficient to understand the answer.’
‘I beg of you, do not speak to me in riddles. Not now.’
‘Think on the instructions I have given and you will find the wisdom you ask for. Or have I wasted my breath these long months?’
‘You have told me to listen to the beat of my heart, to heed the song of my soul, to follow where I am led by those things I cannot see.’
‘Ah! You remember.’
‘And still I feel no wiser!’
‘Did I not tell you that the ways of the White Shadow witches can not be learned in mere months? Did I not counsel patience?’
‘I have used up every crumb of patience I possess!’
‘Then you must find more!'
‘But my progress is woefully slow! Yes, I can chivvy the rain to fall to water our meagre crops. I can push away the icy snow that would stop our hearts in our sleep. I can bring forth bounty in our corn and beets and flowers. What I cannot do is take away this man’s fever, mend his broken bones, or snatch him back from death’s claws!
’ She had not meant to shout, nor to rise to her feet so pointedly.
She bit her lip against saying more, regretting speaking out of turn to the woman who mattered more to her than anyone else living.
She lowered her eyes. ‘Forgive me, Mamgi. Weariness makes me harsh when I should be grateful. I know that you would do anything in your power to aid me.’
She sat on the edge of Tudor’s bed in thoughtful silence. After a short while, Mamgi spoke again.
‘You cannot wish yourself other than you are. You cannot wish time and the experience it will bring to happen sooner than it will. Yet know this, child: there is more magic in your presence, in your touch, in your heart’s song, than there is in a whole coven of those who might call themselves witches.
Now, your guardian angel requires more remedy.
The choice to stop or no is for him to take, not your. ’
She did as she was bidden, tending her patient with the utmost care, administering more tincture, cleaning his wound, cooling his brow, through yet another night, the hours of which seemed to have stretched beyond all natural shape.
Her own weariness overcame her long before dawn, and she fell into a dreamless sleep, seated beside the low bed but slumped onto it.
When she at last awoke, with the weak sunrise falling through the gaps in the window shutters, she still held Tudor’s hand in hers.
With a shock she registered how cold it was.
Frightened, she touched his cheek, and then his lips.
Relief coursed through her. He was not dead, but fever free.
‘Mamgi, look!’ She glanced over her shoulder but the old woman continued sleeping in her chair, her head nodding forwards, snoring softly.
She turned back to Tudor and was startled to see his eyes open.
Eyes that now sought to focus in the low light and make sense of his surroundings.
He stared at her face, as if trying to remember, trying to bring his thoughts to order.
Rhiannon waited, willing him to summon the strength to speak, wanting to be sure his recovery was real.
He shifted slightly, wincing at the pain in his back but uttering no cry. Instead, at last, he spoke.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, his voice hoarse and robbed of power but still deep, ‘did those lambs of yours enjoy their dancing lessons?’
The mountain community adjusted with surprising ease to accommodate their new member.
It had been another two days before Tudor had been strong enough to step out of the croft.
Even then he could only walk short distances before fatigue over came him and he was forced to rest again.
The villagers watched his progress at first with wariness, but soon with interest and a shared desire to see him mend well.
This shift, this acceptance, had been helped in no small part by the return of Dafydd and the cart of supplies.
While Tudor jousted with death, Dafydd was welcomed as a hero, a description he immediately rebuffed, insisting it was the stranger to whom they owed so much.
He sat by the fire in the barn each evening recounting again and again, the events that had taken place in Talgar, weaving a detailed tapestry of words so that the others might see the truth.
It was here he, and Rhiannon in the brief moments she stepped outside the croft, answered questions as best they could regarding Tudor.
Where had he come from? They could not say.
In whose employ did he serve? This, too, was unknowable, though some were quick to point out he was riding straight for the Great House.
But had he known that the family of the Welsh Prince no longer resided there?
It was impossible to say. And what of the fine chain mail that had undoubtedly saved his life?
No ordinary Welsh soldier or sell sword owned such a thing, and the smithy declared the workmanship Norman.
Had it been a gift? A payment? At first, Rhiannon had thought all these unknowable facts would cause the community to reject him.
Their very lives depended upon being able to trust each other.
How could they trust this man whose own story was not given to them?
But then, as Dafydd and she told of his selflessness, his heroism, and the possible price he had paid for that benevolence, the company began to change their opinion.
What did it matter what he had been or done before?
Had he not proved himself now to be an ally?
Were they not in his debt and honour bound to afford him the protection he had given so willingly to some of their own?
Besides, with Brynach gone they were even more in need of a soldier.
Who could say what battles lay ahead, now that Talgar had fallen to the Norman king?
If the stranger survived his wounds and could be tended back to good health, he would surely be an asset to them.