The Cross Legged Knight (5 page)

Lucie’s elderly aunt sat on a stool nearby, clutching
her elbows as if protecting herself from the man’s agony. Phillippa had been confused when Poins was brought into the house, thinking she was back on the manor of Freythorpe Hadden the night the gatehouse had been ablaze. It had taken the maid Kate a long while to convince her that this had been a different fire, involving none of her family, none of her property. But it was clear that Phillippa was still ill at ease. Lucie thought some occupation might calm her.

‘Aunt, would you fetch some cushions and blankets from the chest at the top of the stairs?’

Phillippa responded slowly, moving her fingers as if rediscovering them. Then she rubbed her cheeks, her eyes. ‘What did you say, child?’

Lucie repeated the request.

Phillippa rose and came over, holding her hands close to the fire while she gazed down on Poins. ‘He cannot be cold – it is so warm here.’

‘Yet he shivers, Aunt.’

Phillippa watched until she saw the tremor move through Poins. ‘I see. I shall bring what I can carry.’

Lucie bent to him again and gently pressed the cloth to his soot-streaked forehead, his cheeks, his chin. Except for the blisters on his cheek and forehead his face was untouched. She set the cloth aside, picked up the brandywine and a spoon. Before she tried removing the rest of his clothing she would numb him, if she could. Wheezing and occasionally moaning, Poins did not respond to Lucie’s efforts to get him to drink the brandywine. She kept up a soft patter, using his name, telling him that the brandywine would ease the pain, that he would soon be warm, that the Riverwoman was on her way. Phillippa returned with the blankets and they tucked them around him, lifted his head and gently placed a cushion beneath it. After a while his
shivering ceased and at last he began to suck at the spoon. He seemed quieter by the time Magda Digby arrived.

Even so, Lucie thanked God for the Riverwoman’s presence. With little ado, Magda set her pack down on the small table Lucie had placed nearby, then crouched beside her.

For a long while Magda considered Poins, holding his right hand, touching the elbow, the shoulder. At last she said, ‘Magda will need thy help.’

‘Of course. I thought first we should undress him.’

‘Aye, see what else he suffers.’

Phillippa handed Lucie a pair of scissors. ‘It is no use saving the cloth, the fire has ruined it.’

The poor man whimpered when they pulled the cloth from his left calf, which was already blistering. His right thigh looked worse, but he did not flinch when they pulled the cloth from it.

‘All feeling has been burned from it,’ said Magda. ‘That is not a good sign.’

Elsewhere, he had abrasions and some small blisters, but Lucie was relieved to see no additional life-threatening injuries. The arm was bad enough.

Magda stopped her when she drew near that arm with the scissors. ‘No need.’ She withdrew to the table. From her large leather pack Magda drew out bottles, jars and pouches, arranging them on the table. ‘Fetch Magda wine.’

To Lucie’s surprise, Phillippa rose to respond, taking the ruined clothing with her. From where she knelt Lucie watched as the Riverwoman set a small pot over the fire. Magda noticed her interest and named the ingredients as she slowly mixed them in. ‘Three spoonfuls each of the gall of a barrow swine, hemlock juice, briony, lettuce, poppy, henbane and vinegar.’

Recognizing the ingredients of dwale, a potent mixture Magda used for surgery, Lucie realized that the arm was to be removed. She had been afraid of that – she had never witnessed an amputation, much less helped with one.

Magda told Phillippa to have vinegar and salt ready for afterwards, when they must rub Poins’s temples with the mixture until he woke, for it was important that he not remain long in the deep slumber the dwale would induce, or he might never wake. As Magda brought the mixture to a boil, she asked for a butchering knife or an axe, and a block of wood. Lucie did not want Phillippa handling blades. Asking her aunt to take her place dribbling the brandywine over Poins’s lips, Lucie fetched the butchering knife from the rack on the wall, placed it by Magda, then went out to the garden shed for a block. She wished Owen were here. During his last months as captain of archers, when he was recovering from the terrible wound that cost him the sight in his left eye and the shoulder wound that made it difficult to handle a bow, Owen had helped the old duke’s camp surgeons in Normandy. Surely he had assisted with many amputations. And he was strong. He would have been of more use to Magda. But God had not seen fit to arrange that.

When Lucie returned to the kitchen, Magda was mixing the wine into the dwale. She glanced up at Lucie. ‘Canst thou hold him once he has drunk his fill?’ she asked. When Lucie hesitated, Magda said, ‘Thou shouldst not be ashamed to admit thou canst not bear his pain.’

‘It is not that. I have never assisted with such a surgery. But I believe God will give me the strength.’

Magda grunted. ‘The strength comes from thee, not
thy god. Stand at his head. Dame Phillippa, Magda will call thee when she needs thee.’

Phillippa rose and retired to the hall without argument.

‘She was frightened at first,’ said Lucie, ‘thinking we were back at Freythorpe, at the fire.’ It was more than a year since a group of thieves had attacked the manor, set fire to the gatehouse, but Phillippa often wandered in time.

‘Magda has oft seen an alarm sharpen the wits of such as Phillippa.’ She poured some of the mixture into a cup, crouched down by Poins. ‘Thou art ready?’

Lucie nodded.

‘Lift his head now.’

Slipping one hand beneath the back of the man’s head and the other beneath his shoulders, Lucie lifted him. Magda brought the cup to Poins’s lips, helped him drink a goodly amount, and then again. As he began to swoon, she took the hide she had brought and covered him, slipped the block beneath the burned arm. Poins jerked at her touch, then moaned, a more heart-rending moan than what had gone before, and was still. Lucie remembered her pain after the fall. Her bruised hand had ached, her torn arm had burned and could not support her, but worst of all had been the deep, twisting pain in her womb and groin, for she had known it meant an irreparable loss. Was Poins aware he was about to lose his arm, she wondered.

Magda had taken three lengths of rope from her pack. With one she was tying Poins’s legs together below the knees. Lucie marvelled at the strength in the small, elderly woman, the calm silence in which she prepared for a terrible surgery. She moved up to Poins’s waist with the second length of rope, lifted his lower back and drew the rope through, tied his good arm down
against his side. His eyelids fluttered, he muttered something unintelligible, rocking his head from side to side, then lay still again. Donning a leather apron, Magda took the knife in both hands, nodded to Lucie. ‘Hold his head still.’

‘Will I be enough against his strength?’

‘Thou seest how little he moves. Magda has given him much of the drink.’

Her heart pounding against her ribs, Lucie took a deep breath and placed her hands on either side of Poins’s head. Magda knelt down beside the pallet, felt about the upper part of the burned arm, prodding so much that Lucie expected Poins to jerk and cry out, but he merely moaned softly once as he moved the arm. Magda bent close, whispering calming words to him, and smoothing his brow. The muscles in his face relaxed beneath the Riverwoman’s touch. Gently, Magda arranged the arm over the block and tied off his upper arm with the last length of rope, tugging it tight. Lucie shivered and realized she was sweating with fear.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, give me strength to help this suffering man
.

Magda moved back to the table, brought another cup of the dwale, set it beside Lucie. ‘If he cries out, get him to drink more.’

And now she brought the knife. It was large, with a wide, heavy blade suitable for the preparation of meat. Lucie watched Magda’s face as she weighed the knife in one hand, moved it to the other, trying its heft, experimenting with how she might wield it. She saw no emotion, only deep concentration. Suddenly Magda met Lucie’s eyes. ‘Ready.’ She held the knife blade just over the upper arm for a moment, then lifted it with a deep intake of breath and brought it down with great force. Lucie gasped at the sound, and the shudder that
went through Poins. He barely stirred. But sharp though the knife was, and powerful as Magda’s cut had seemed, the arm was not severed. She took aim again, struck once more.

The sickening sound of the bone splintering caused Lucie to cry out, ‘Holy Mother!’

Magda set the knife beside the arm, took a flask of wine from the table, passed it to Lucie. ‘Drink, just a little, so that thou mayest still hold him while Magda seals the wound with the hot metal.’

Magda took up the knife and went to the fire.

Lucie took a cloth, wrapped the severed arm in it, put it aside on the blood-spattered rushes. With another cloth she dabbed at the blood that had splashed on Poins, the bed, the cup and spoon. She set the bloody rag on the wrapped arm and took her place again as Magda returned with the red-hot blade. As the heat touched Poins’s stump he shuddered and cried out.

‘Go out now,’ Magda told her. ‘He will be still. Magda will fetch Dame Phillippa, then join thee in the garden.’

‘I should take the arm.’

‘Magda will see to it. Go without, thou hast need of air.’ She nodded at Lucie. ‘Wipe thy chin.’

Lucie did so, her hand coming away with blood. She did feel faint. Crossing the rush floor seemed a long journey. The house felt as if it was tilting, righting itself, then tilting the other way. When she reached the door she fumbled with the latch, her hands trembling, her vision still uncertain. At last she felt it slide up. Pushing the door wide, she stumbled out into the night, doubled over and retched.

Someone guided her to a bench under the stars. A moment later, Magda placed a cup in Lucie’s hands.
She sipped, and though the first taste of the brandywine made her cough, she sipped yet again. As Lucie set the cup down, she noticed a man standing beside Magda, pale of hair and wearing the archbishop’s livery. She remembered the strong hands guiding her. ‘What are you doing here, Alfred?’

‘The captain sent me. Colin watches on Davygate.’

‘Why? What does Owen fear?’

‘That Poins might be a witness someone might wish to silence.’

‘For a fire?’ Magda said.

‘The Bishop of Winchester has many enemies.’ Alfred bowed to Lucie. ‘With your leave, Mistress Wilton.’

‘Keep your watch, Alfred. The captain must have his reasons.’

Magda joined Lucie on the bench and helped herself to some of the brandywine. When she moved, her gown seemed to glimmer in the darkness and when she faced Lucie her eyes reflected what little light there was. ‘Thou art made of strong stock, Lucie Wilton. Thou hast some of thy warrior father in thee.’

‘I could not do what you have just done.’

‘Magda thought of the healing she was making possible, not the horror of the act. Thou couldst do the same, in time.’

‘I count myself fortunate to be an apothecary, not a healer.’

‘Thou art taking on the work of a healer with Poins.’

‘The most difficult part is done.’

Magda shook her head. ‘He may die, he may heal slowly, his master may say a one-armed servant is of no use to him. There is much ahead and thou hast taken him in at a difficult time for thee.’

‘I am much recovered.’

‘Art thou?’

‘You know that I am.’

‘In body, mayhap, but thou art battling a darkness. Magda sees it. It draws thee down.’

Lucie glanced over at Alfred, who stood beneath the eaves at the corner of the house with head cocked, one leg before the other, as if ready to pounce.

‘He is not listening to women’s talk,’ Magda said. ‘He hath his ears pricked for trouble. Thy husband inspires fast loyalty in his men.’

Lucie did not wish to be reminded of all she had to be thankful for. It made her troubled state harder to forgive in herself, which pulled her down yet further. This was her terrible sin – that she knew she had no cause to feel this way, that God had showered blessings on her. When she had sought guidance from Archdeacon Jehannes, he had offered comfort, saying that it was much like a crisis of faith, which most priests experienced at least once in their lives, and that prayer was the best cure. But prayer had not helped Lucie. ‘I have not spoken of this with Owen.’

‘Thou thinkst he cannot see?’

‘Is it so plain?’

‘To thy husband it must be. Why hast thou not spoken to him of this?’

‘He watches me as it is, has Jasper staying close by me. If he knew the thoughts I have he would not leave my side. I thought work would help. Archdeacon Jehannes suggested it. And prayer.’

Magda sniffed. ‘A priest? What does a priest know of a mother’s mourning?’

‘Such despair is sinful. I was afraid for my soul.’

Magda handed Lucie the cup. ‘If thou didst not mourn, they would call thee unnatural.’

‘What if I cannot bear another child?’

Magda grunted in understanding. ‘Eventually thou shalt cease to bear, aye, and whether it be after two or twenty babes, thou shalt mourn the passing of that part of thy life. But that time has not yet come for thee.’ She bent to reach a twig of rosemary, broke off a piece, pressed it between her hands, slowly rubbed. ‘Thou shouldst do likewise. Thy patient should not smell his blood on thee.’