Read Online Daughter of Fire by Carla Simpson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carla Simpson
Ads: Link
only his deeper pain. Finally he nodded and stepped back from the cot but remained close by, his hand at his sword in silent warning.
She slowly rounded the cot, in turn lifting crudely made bandages that had been pressed against the wounds to stanch the flow of blood. In most places the bleeding had stopped, leaving the bandages glued to the wound as the blood dried. At others, the wounds still seeped. She wet them with water from a basin, gently easing them away from the crusted flesh, examining each in turn. There were several, that spoke to his skill and determination as a warrior who fought beside his men, including a deep one at his side, but none by itself threatened his life.
When she moved down the length of cot at the opposite side, Stephen of Valois impatiently blocked her, his expression challenging.
“Enough of this!” he growled. “He lies here dying while you take your time as if you were at market. Get on with it, woman!”
“It is not yet enough,” Vivian told him gently but with an authority of voice few would have dared.
“I must know exactly how badly he is wounded if I am to help him.” Behind her, she sensed a movement.
“Be at ease my friend, “ Rorke FitzWarren told the young man. “Allow her to do what must be done.”
There was a moment of silent challenge between the two men. Then Stephen stepped once more out of her way though he remained close. She moved past him, concentrating on the wounded man who lay before her, fingers moving along each muscle, sinew, and bone, sensing the wounds that were not obvious—broken ribs and several bruises.
When, in good health William was no doubt a robust, powerfully built man. The bones were heavy, and solid. Though sunken from fever and loss of blood, his features were ruddy, his hair a dark russet color. His eyes, she knew, would be brown like his son’s.
Then she lifted the blanket that covered the lower half of his body and discovered the wound at his leg. The leg was laid out straight, but the long bone below the knee was shattered, fragments piercing through the skin. Like the other wounds, a crude bandage had been placed over it but little else had been done and maggots crawled the torn flesh. Though he was her enemy, she was at heart a healer and her hand shook with a mixture of horror and anger that he had been so poorly cared for.
She looked up as Rorke FitzWarren’s hand closed over hers with surprising gentleness. The warm strength in those calloused fingers flowed through the contact of skin on skin, steadying her, reassuring her.
“What must be done?” he asked.
Not an order or more threats, but a simple question as if he would do whatever was needed.
“He is close to death,” she said softly. “The loss of so much blood...” She shook her head and did not say the rest, for it she knew that he understood and it was dangerous to speak out against others.
Those strong fingers gentled at her hand. “What may I do to help you?”
What manner of man was it whose very words caused battle hardened warriors to fear for their lives, yet placed his trust in a simple maid who was his enemy?
“I must have more light and it must be warmer in here. He has a fever that may just as easily take him as the wounds. All drafts must be sealed about the tent. Then I will need more blankets, hot water, fresh bandages, and his garments must be removed.”
He hesitated at the last request, then nodded as he turned and gave orders for the edges of the tent sides to be buried and the opening sealed off. More braziers and fuel were brought along with another basin of water set to simmering at the fire. She laid the blade she had been allowed to keep across the coals that glowed at the brazier.
Rorke cut away William’s tunic, breeches, and boots. Heavy furs were laid over the upper part of his body and uninjured leg as Vivian sprinkled crushed leaves over the simmering basin. A bittersweet fragrance filled the air. Three more braziers
She slowly rounded the cot, in turn lifting crudely made bandages that had been pressed against the wounds to stanch the flow of blood. In most places the bleeding had stopped, leaving the bandages glued to the wound as the blood dried. At others, the wounds still seeped. She wet them with water from a basin, gently easing them away from the crusted flesh, examining each in turn. There were several, that spoke to his skill and determination as a warrior who fought beside his men, including a deep one at his side, but none by itself threatened his life.
When she moved down the length of cot at the opposite side, Stephen of Valois impatiently blocked her, his expression challenging.
“Enough of this!” he growled. “He lies here dying while you take your time as if you were at market. Get on with it, woman!”
“It is not yet enough,” Vivian told him gently but with an authority of voice few would have dared.
“I must know exactly how badly he is wounded if I am to help him.” Behind her, she sensed a movement.
“Be at ease my friend, “ Rorke FitzWarren told the young man. “Allow her to do what must be done.”
There was a moment of silent challenge between the two men. Then Stephen stepped once more out of her way though he remained close. She moved past him, concentrating on the wounded man who lay before her, fingers moving along each muscle, sinew, and bone, sensing the wounds that were not obvious—broken ribs and several bruises.
When, in good health William was no doubt a robust, powerfully built man. The bones were heavy, and solid. Though sunken from fever and loss of blood, his features were ruddy, his hair a dark russet color. His eyes, she knew, would be brown like his son’s.
Then she lifted the blanket that covered the lower half of his body and discovered the wound at his leg. The leg was laid out straight, but the long bone below the knee was shattered, fragments piercing through the skin. Like the other wounds, a crude bandage had been placed over it but little else had been done and maggots crawled the torn flesh. Though he was her enemy, she was at heart a healer and her hand shook with a mixture of horror and anger that he had been so poorly cared for.
She looked up as Rorke FitzWarren’s hand closed over hers with surprising gentleness. The warm strength in those calloused fingers flowed through the contact of skin on skin, steadying her, reassuring her.
“What must be done?” he asked.
Not an order or more threats, but a simple question as if he would do whatever was needed.
“He is close to death,” she said softly. “The loss of so much blood...” She shook her head and did not say the rest, for it she knew that he understood and it was dangerous to speak out against others.
Those strong fingers gentled at her hand. “What may I do to help you?”
What manner of man was it whose very words caused battle hardened warriors to fear for their lives, yet placed his trust in a simple maid who was his enemy?
“I must have more light and it must be warmer in here. He has a fever that may just as easily take him as the wounds. All drafts must be sealed about the tent. Then I will need more blankets, hot water, fresh bandages, and his garments must be removed.”
He hesitated at the last request, then nodded as he turned and gave orders for the edges of the tent sides to be buried and the opening sealed off. More braziers and fuel were brought along with another basin of water set to simmering at the fire. She laid the blade she had been allowed to keep across the coals that glowed at the brazier.
Rorke cut away William’s tunic, breeches, and boots. Heavy furs were laid over the upper part of his body and uninjured leg as Vivian sprinkled crushed leaves over the simmering basin. A bittersweet fragrance filled the air. Three more braziers
Similar Books
