Dejected and miserable, I went back to the little room.
I’d forced myself to eat a bite of supper and was just clearing away the remains when I heard a noise outside. I thought I heard footsteps — slow, irregular footsteps — and there was a sound as if someone was dragging something heavy along the alley.
At first I took little notice. The dwellings around ours housed workmen engaged on the new cathedral, and when they had money in their pockets some of them were apt to stay too long in the tavern so that their progress home was haphazard, to put it mildly.
The steps grew closer. They paused — I thought whoever it was had reached his own house — then after some time they started again. There were several in quite quick succession, and then there was a heavy, dull thud on my door.
I froze. Who could it be? Was it one of the burly monks? Had they seen me last night and taken note of where I lived so that now, when it was dark and I was all alone, they were taking their chance to come and kill me?
Oh! They had attacked that nun who they’d thought was me. Now they had come for me. .
I stood in the middle of the room, weakened by terror and emitting soft little moans of distress. I was too scared even to reach for my knife.
Then I heard someone whisper my name.
It’s a ruse, I thought, they’re pretending to be someone I know who is calling me outside, and when I go out there they’ll jump me and slit my throat.
Even in my panic I realized how silly that was. If anyone wanted to kill me then surely they would slip inside to do it behind a closed door rather than summoning me out into the alley? As my terror receded I realized something else: it was becoming known that I was a healer, so it was just possible that someone had come to me sick or injured for help.
I gathered my courage, made sure my knife was on my belt and opened the door.
There was a body slumped against it; the thump had been the sound of it falling. I detected the metallic smell of blood and, as instinctively I put out my hands to my patient, I felt it, warm and wet on my skin.
I pushed aside the heavy cloak and got hold of the tunic underneath — my patient, it seemed, was a man — and slowly dragged him inside. The hood had fallen across his face and from beneath it I could hear ragged, uneven breathing. He was still alive then. I got him on to my mattress and tucked his cloak around him — even through it I could feel how cold he was — then knelt to build the fire and blow it up into a good blaze, setting water on to boil as I did so.
Then I lowered the hood, unfastened the neck of the cloak and set about discovering where he was injured and how bad it was. The blood was welling up from where his left arm met his chest and the cut was long and deep. I stifled my groan of despair, for Edild always presses upon me the need to reassure rather than alarm a patient. But in my heart I doubted my ability to save him. He seemed to have been bleeding for some time, and even if I managed to stitch him up and stop the flow now it could well be too late.
I was going over in my head Edild’s lessons in stitching, recalling what I had done for Morcar and mentally checking that I had everything I would need, when my patient spoke.
‘I think,’ he said in a husky voice that was barely audible, ‘that it may look worse than it is.’
I looked up into his face. It was Hrype.
I bathed and stitched for what seemed like most of the night. I had never treated such a grave injury without the steadying presence of my aunt, and I knew in my heart that I was not ready for anything like this. I must have caused him so much pain, and when he managed to unclench his teeth sufficiently to suggest some of the poppy draught I could have kicked myself for not having thought of it straight away.
Once the sedative took effect I managed better. Hrype relaxed, and I think he lost consciousness. A new dread filled me — that I had put too many drops of the draught into the cup of water and he would never wake up — but it made it much easier to force his sliced flesh together and insert the stitches. At long last, the bleeding slowed and eventually stopped. I sat back on my heels and all but wept with relief.
I checked that my patient was warm and then carefully covered him, piling on his cloak, my blanket and two of Sibert’s. Edild had told me that it’s no use tucking up a cold person because the covers merely hold the chill in and that she advocated warming a patient with your own body if that is the only means available. I was quite glad it had not been necessary. I was not sure how I would have felt about snuggling up to Hrype, even if he had been unconscious.
I watched him for some time. He was restless, twisting and turning so much that I had to keep putting the covers back. I put my hand on his forehead and found that he was burning. I did not know what to do.
It is indicative of my state of mind that I did not even think to wonder where Sibert was until, shortly after dawn, the door opened quietly and he slipped inside. I was so glad to see him that I leapt up and threw myself into his arms.
He did not respond and I was instantly cross with myself for not realizing how shocked he must be at the sight of Hrype lying there heavily bandaged and pale with fever. ‘He’s strong and he’s fighting it,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring, ‘but I’m worried because he’s so hot. What should we do, Sibert? Do you think we ought to-?’
‘Don’t ask me, you’re the healer!’ he interrupted angrily. He did not sound like himself. His voice was high and strained.
I stroked his arm, trying to calm him. ‘I wasn’t going to ask for your professional advice,’ I said gently. ‘I just wondered if you thought we should summon the infirmarer from the abbey. This is really beyond my skill and-’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not the monks,’ and even though he was whispering there was no ignoring the emphasis.
‘But-’ I began, then stopped. This dreadful injury to his uncle seemed to have unhinged poor Sibert, and if I insisted on involving the abbey infirmarer it might make matters worse. There was, in any case, an alternative.
I took Sibert’s hand and led him over to his own mattress, where I gently pushed him down and then sat beside him.
‘Very well then,’ I said, keeping my voice level and steady, ‘we won’t ask the monks.’ I felt him slump with relief. ‘But I do need aid from someone, Sibert. I can’t manage this by myself, and I won’t risk your uncle’s life.’
He turned to look at me, and I was horrified by his expression. ‘What must we do?’ he whispered.
‘I will stay here with Hrype,’ I said firmly, ‘and I want you to go for help. You remember the boat you borrowed when you took Morcar off the island?’ He nodded. ‘Well, you must borrow it again. The water’s not quite as high as it was then but it’s not far off. Go back to Aelf Fen and fetch my aunt Edild.’ Just saying her name calmed and reassured me.
‘Your aunt Edild,’ Sibert echoed.
‘Yes, that’s right. Tell her that Hrype has what looks like a deep sword cut and, although I’ve stitched it and the bleeding has stopped, I’m worried because his skin is burning and there must be some bad infection.’
He repeated my instructions back to me, almost word for word. I knew then that, despite his shock, I could trust him. ‘Will she save him?’ he asked, his eyes full of pleading.
‘She will do her very best,’ I said staunchly.
He got up and headed for the door. I noticed that he could not make himself look at Hrype. He stopped, his hand on the latch, and said softly, ‘Should I bring my mother?’
Why should he ask that? I had no idea. In fact, Froya was pretty much the last person I wanted in the little room. She might once have been Hrype’s pupil, and had worked side by side with him as they’d tried to save Edmer, but I guessed she had changed since then, or perhaps life had changed her. I judged her to be easily frightened and someone who would lose her head in a crisis.