sense of their words. By shouting louder than they I managed to quiet my informers. I searched for a face I knew and saw Hubert Shillside’s adolescent son. He was a stolid youth, and perhaps lacked imagination. But in this matter I did not seek invention, but fact.
“William…what has happened here?”
The crowd was restive, and one or two would have answered for the youth, but I silenced them and bid the lad continue.
“There was an argument…many heard.” Heads nodded in agreement. “Philip accused Edmund of something.”
Then it was that I recognized the bloody figure over whom I knelt: Philip, the town baker. And standing before his forge, his arms pinioned to his side, was Edmund, the smith. The smith’s eyes were wide in fright, or amazement, at what he had done. He made no move to escape the grasp of those who clutched his arms.
“Philip picked up Edmund’s hammer, as he’d laid it down when the dispute began,” William continued. “But he swung wide, not bein’ accustomed to swingin’ hammers. Edmund swung back with a piece of hot iron in his tongs. Philip ducked but the edge caught ’im by the throat…an’ there he lays.”
“What was their dispute about?” I asked.
“Dunno,” William offered. “Wasn’t close enough t’hear plain. Just saw when Philip swung the hammer.”
The matter in dispute was of little importance at the moment. I did not press the matter, but rather concerned myself with Philip’s seeping neck. The man began to moan, but in his mouth I saw no blood. I was relieved. If the stroke had penetrated his throat he must die, for the bleeding would continue no matter what I did for his external wound.
I kept the sopping apron pressed close against the laceration and wondered when the runner would return with my instruments. The lad arrived soon enough, and I saw from the corner of my eye the mob part to allow him through. Alice had followed, and pressed in behind him.
I called for a bystander to take my place at the wound while I readied the instruments I would need. The crowd hesitated, and in that moment Alice knelt at my side. “Wha…what must I do?” she stammered.
“Keep this cloth pressed tight against the wound until I tell you to release it. Then be ready to apply it again should I need it.”
She nodded understanding and did not hesitate but took the red, sodden apron in both hands and forced it against the cut.
I opened my kit and prepared needle and thread. As I worked I asked the curious who hovered above me for an egg. A crone lurched wordlessly off down the High Street in response.
I would have liked to repair the torn vein first but knew of no way to do that without releasing a great flow of blood once again. So with needle and thread in my right hand, I held my left above the wound and told Alice to release the apron.
When she did, blood flowed again from the torn flesh, but not so much as before. A clot was beginning to form at the edge of the cut.
I gripped the lips of the wound with the fingers of my left hand. As I did so Philip groaned and twisted in pain. I spoke rather more sharply than I ought, I fear, and told him to be still, else I could not patch his cut. I should be more generous in such situations, but sometimes I lack sympathy for those who need my care because of their own foolishness. Certainly if Philip had not first picked up the hammer he would not now be producing a stream of blood in the street.
One hand was not enough to close the wound. As I pinched one end shut the other opened and poured forth more blood. I needed a third hand. Alice saw my dilemma and provided the extra appendage. She reached red fingers past my hand and pinched the other end of the laceration closed. No words passed between us, but she smiled, then looked back to her work.
With two sets of fingers closing the wound I could work quickly, and in but a few moments was able to stitch shut the laceration. Alice used her free hand to squeeze blood from
“William…what has happened here?”
The crowd was restive, and one or two would have answered for the youth, but I silenced them and bid the lad continue.
“There was an argument…many heard.” Heads nodded in agreement. “Philip accused Edmund of something.”
Then it was that I recognized the bloody figure over whom I knelt: Philip, the town baker. And standing before his forge, his arms pinioned to his side, was Edmund, the smith. The smith’s eyes were wide in fright, or amazement, at what he had done. He made no move to escape the grasp of those who clutched his arms.
“Philip picked up Edmund’s hammer, as he’d laid it down when the dispute began,” William continued. “But he swung wide, not bein’ accustomed to swingin’ hammers. Edmund swung back with a piece of hot iron in his tongs. Philip ducked but the edge caught ’im by the throat…an’ there he lays.”
“What was their dispute about?” I asked.
“Dunno,” William offered. “Wasn’t close enough t’hear plain. Just saw when Philip swung the hammer.”
The matter in dispute was of little importance at the moment. I did not press the matter, but rather concerned myself with Philip’s seeping neck. The man began to moan, but in his mouth I saw no blood. I was relieved. If the stroke had penetrated his throat he must die, for the bleeding would continue no matter what I did for his external wound.
I kept the sopping apron pressed close against the laceration and wondered when the runner would return with my instruments. The lad arrived soon enough, and I saw from the corner of my eye the mob part to allow him through. Alice had followed, and pressed in behind him.
I called for a bystander to take my place at the wound while I readied the instruments I would need. The crowd hesitated, and in that moment Alice knelt at my side. “Wha…what must I do?” she stammered.
“Keep this cloth pressed tight against the wound until I tell you to release it. Then be ready to apply it again should I need it.”
She nodded understanding and did not hesitate but took the red, sodden apron in both hands and forced it against the cut.
I opened my kit and prepared needle and thread. As I worked I asked the curious who hovered above me for an egg. A crone lurched wordlessly off down the High Street in response.
I would have liked to repair the torn vein first but knew of no way to do that without releasing a great flow of blood once again. So with needle and thread in my right hand, I held my left above the wound and told Alice to release the apron.
When she did, blood flowed again from the torn flesh, but not so much as before. A clot was beginning to form at the edge of the cut.
I gripped the lips of the wound with the fingers of my left hand. As I did so Philip groaned and twisted in pain. I spoke rather more sharply than I ought, I fear, and told him to be still, else I could not patch his cut. I should be more generous in such situations, but sometimes I lack sympathy for those who need my care because of their own foolishness. Certainly if Philip had not first picked up the hammer he would not now be producing a stream of blood in the street.
One hand was not enough to close the wound. As I pinched one end shut the other opened and poured forth more blood. I needed a third hand. Alice saw my dilemma and provided the extra appendage. She reached red fingers past my hand and pinched the other end of the laceration closed. No words passed between us, but she smiled, then looked back to her work.
With two sets of fingers closing the wound I could work quickly, and in but a few moments was able to stitch shut the laceration. Alice used her free hand to squeeze blood from
Similar Books
