Sister Caliste was standing right beside Josse. ‘What should we do, Sir Josse?’ she asked in a calm voice. ‘I have never extracted an arrow before, although I did once deal with a spear wound.’
‘The problem is in getting the arrowhead out,’ he replied. ‘Too often men wrest at the shaft in panic and it breaks away. Then you have to probe around to make a path through the swollen tissue until you get to the arrowhead.’
He knelt down and heard the swish of Sister Caliste’s wide skirts as she did the same. He put a careful hand on to the arrow and Kathnir moved slightly. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. ‘He is far down in unconsciousness,’ Josse whispered. ‘Awake, even that small touch on the arrow would have hurt like fury.’
She was leaning forward, a small knife in her hand. ‘We should cut away his garments,’ she said. ‘It may be that the arrow has not penetrated deeply.’ She did so, and then laid back the cloth to expose the embedded arrow. They both looked. ‘Oh,’ she said.
It was no minor wound that they were dealing with. Josse said, ‘Sister, have you any tool with which to hold the sides of the wound apart?’
She opened her pouch and looked. ‘Yes,’ she replied, holding up an instrument like a pair of tongs, about the length of her hand and formed of a U-shaped band of metal whose two blades had narrow, slightly flattened ends. ‘If I hold the two blades tightly against each side of the arrow shaft and push them inside the wound, I can lever them apart when I reach the arrowhead so that perhaps we shall be able to see how it is lying. If I then open the pincers along the wide side of the arrowhead, you will have an unimpeded channel through which to pull it out.’
It sounded appalling. But he could think of no better idea and she, after all, was the healer. ‘Very well,’ he said. He swallowed nervously.
She leaned down over the exposed shoulder and chest and very carefully inserted the ends of the pincers into the wound. Concentrating hard, she applied pressure and kept the two blades firmly placed against the shaft. Slowly they followed the arrow inside Kathnir’s flesh. Still he made neither sound nor movement; I am afraid, Josse thought, we are wasting our time. He watched to see if Kathnir was still breathing; the rise and fall of his chest was all but imperceptible.
He’s dying, Josse thought.
Sister Caliste gave a soft exclamation: ‘I can feel the arrowhead,’ she said. Very carefully she opened the blades of the pincers and began to move them around the arrow shaft. She frowned, then her face cleared. ‘Yes! I’ve got the shoulders.’ She changed her grip and pulled the pincers apart. There was a squelching sound and a great deal of blood flowed out.
Josse stared into the wound. He could see all the arrow and its head. The pincers were holding the wound open where the arrowhead flared out, giving it a clear and unimpeded route out of Kathnir’s flesh. Clutching the shaft as close to the arrowhead as he could, he tensed his arms and shoulders and tugged. The arrow resisted at first but then suddenly yielded and he fell over backwards with it in his hand.
He stared at it. He had seen one just like it not very long ago…
‘Sir Josse!’
He crouched beside her. The blood was flowing out of Kathnir like a flood, pulsing lazily with each beat of his heart.
Sister Caliste had grabbed a wad of linen from her pouch and was pressing it hard to the wound. It seemed she was stopping the flow for, after quickly soaking the cloth, it appeared to slow down. She removed the cloth.
The blood had stopped.
She put her fingers to Kathnir’s throat, just below his ear. Then she crouched down, her cheek to his slightly open mouth. She stayed like that for some time.
Then she straightened up and said, ‘He’s dead. I’m sorry.’ Respectfully and as if this were still a living, sentient man, she removed her pincers, wiped them on the cloth and put them back in her pouch.
Akhbir had maintained his stone-still, silent pose. Now, starting slowly and quickly escalating, a moan rose up out of him. He threw himself down beside Kathnir’s body, his arms around the shoulders and his face against the deathly pale cheek.
Josse caught Sister Caliste by the hand. Squeezing it gently, he whispered, ‘Best leave him be, Sister. We’ll step away and presently he’ll come and find us.’
She wiped her eyes, nodded and allowed Josse to lead her outside into the chilly sunshine.
Akhbir came out to them quite a long time later. They had left the courtyard and were seated by the fire in the kitchen. Ella, shy with strangers, had made herself scarce and she and Will could be heard from their own little room off the kitchen exchanging the occasional remark in low, awed voices.
Akhbir bowed very formally to them both in turn and said, ‘You try. I thank you. I am grateful.’
‘I am sorry we could not save him,’ Josse said.
The ghost of a smile crossed Akhbir’s thin face. ‘He say no use. When arrow go in he say he feel something very bad, very deep. He say leave me, bury me here but I put him on horse and come here.’ His face crumpled. ‘I do my best. But no good.’
There was so much that Josse wanted to ask. So much that, he was sure, Akhbir could tell him. But the man was grieving and in shock; he needed food, drink and rest. Josse stepped towards him and put an arm across his narrow shoulders. Akhbir flinched, then relaxed.
‘We will look after you,’ Josse said. ‘Tell us what you want to do with the body and we will carry out your wishes. Then we will give you food and drink and a place to sleep.’
Akhbir was crying now. Covering his face with his hands, he said, ‘You are good people. I stay for now.’
Sister Caliste went to stand on his other side and together she and Josse escorted him slowly back along the passage and into the hall.
They buried Kathnir in a corner of the orchard at New Winnowlands that caught the westering sun; before the last of the light fell below the horizon, he was in his grave. Josse, Will and a couple of labourers who had helped Akhbir dig the grave and bear out the body stayed with bowed heads for a little while and then they crept away and left Akhbir to his grief.
Josse insisted that Sister Caliste accept his bed and he had Ella make it up with fresh linen. He set out shakedown beds for himself and Akhbir in the hall. A long time after he had settled down for the night, he heard Akhbir come in. He had neither eaten nor drunk, although food and drink had been offered. He had stayed out there alone in the cold night beside his companion’s grave.
As he lay down, Josse could hear him sobbing.
Josse and Sister Caliste returned to Hawkenlye the next morning and Akhbir borrowed Will’s horse and rode with them. He was silent, deathly pale and the flesh around his dark eyes looked bruised. Sister Caliste, watching him anxiously, asked Josse in a whisper if he had accepted anything to eat. Josse shook his head.
As they covered the miles to the Abbey, he wondered what on earth they were going to do with the poor man.
On arrival, his half-hearted suggestion that he take Akhbir to the Abbess so that she and Josse could ask him a few questions was met with a shake of the head from Sister Caliste. ‘I am sorry to contradict you, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘but Akhbir is not fit to answer questions, no matter how gently put. I fear he is very near collapse.’
‘Is he ill?’ Josse asked. He was quite relieved that Sister Caliste was being so decisive; asking delicate questions of a man so obviously in shock was not a prospect he relished.
‘I do not think so,’ Sister Caliste answered. ‘He has neither eaten nor drunk, you tell me, and he has suffered the terrible strain of seeing his companion wounded and trying, unsuccessfully, to save his life. He needs to rest in a quiet and safe place. Once he is himself again, then you may speak to him.’