by Jean Gill
The warriors’ eyes burned with the need for more fire, more killing. Dragonetz watched as one, too battle-crazed to feel pain, picked up a brand and ran upstairs to torch the paillasses. His scream as he went up with the straw in a rush of flame went unheard in the general clamour.
Rhys found Maredudd but that only doubled the wildness as they finished off any bodies that moved, ducked under burning spars and encouraged their men to spread out back down the hillside, among the huts, where there were still people and plunder.
There was only one way to stop the madness. Dragonetz raced after the brothers, ignoring all around him. Or trying to. Sticking out of the doorway where a wide-eyed child had stood earlier, were two small bare feet, one closed like a fist, crippled at birth. Now lifeless. The pain of deformity and the joy of living ended.
Dragonetz caught up with Rhys and Maredudd as they linked arms and clashed two cups of beer, or even wine, against each other in loud toast. All that was needed now was to make the army drunk and there would be nothing left of Tenby by the morrow.
Maredudd grinned at Dragonetz. ‘Drink to my brother! He comes of age today!’
Dragonetz was puzzled. This was not the first castle the brothers had taken and certainly not the first time Rhys had killed a man!
‘I,’ declared Rhys, tapping his own breast for emphasis and spilling alcohol down his already red-stained hauberk, ‘I am twenty-one this day.’
Good thought Dragonetz. There might be a way out of this yet! He took the cup offered, swigged a mouthful. ‘Then you should lead the next attack,’ he said.
Rhys’ face showed the remark had hit home. He’d always been Maredudd’s brother, the younger, in their previous victories.
As wild with enthusiasm as any man there, Dragonetz spoke to Maredudd. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let’s follow Lord Rhys to St Clears castle and make a birthday present nobody will ever forget. If we go now, collect our mounts, we can leave at dawn and be upon them before word reaches them of what happened here. You deserve two castles for your coming of age – and your first command. What say you, my Lord?’
Maredudd was in that stage of battle inebriation where Dragonetz could have proposed flying off the cliff and hacking a fleet of marauders to shreds; anything that involved fighting – and of course winning – was irresistibly attractive.
‘My Lord says yes!” he yelled, planting a kiss on his brother’s cheek. ‘Go on then, call your men and lead us!’ he told Rhys.
Cries of To me, to me, were rendered more effective by the addition of, We go to sack St Clears! When men saw Rhys and their comrades running away from the castle and towards the next adventure, they joined in and soon a tidal wave of Welshmen was sweeping through the town and back to their camp in the woods.
Night, bumps in the path and then the solidity of trees calmed some of the battle ardour but not enough to induce sense and sleep. Instead, Rhys allowed enough time for water and a sop of dry bread. Then he ordered them up and away.
St Clears Castle was also one of the old-fashioned kind but a tenth the size of Tenby. The attack was a success beyond the Welshmen’s wildest dreams and their dreams were indeed wild after one sacked castle and a sleepless night. They swarmed the defences and laid about them with the confidence of victors.
Lord Rhys celebrated his twenty-first birthday hacking at the unfortunate victims of his first command. No man could have wished for a more auspicious day.
Until he realised that Maredudd had been wounded.
Chapter 19
The women were like over-tightened lute strings, so close to breaking that one thoughtless word led to blows. A wise traveller kept her mouth closed and worked, while her thoughts galloped alongside an army, ducked arrows and boiling oil. Stay safe she prayed.
The arrival of Deheubarth reinforcements from the north brought some distraction, especially for those women not attached to any one man, Mair among them. She had apparently accepted that her time as Rhys’ woman was over, if her behaviour with the newcomers was any indication. Estela shrugged. She would not judge any woman’s behaviour in a way of life she hoped never to experience.
The night was once more enlivened, and sleep spoiled, by the stifled sounds of coupling. Not that the women would have slept anyway for wondering what took place a day’s ride away. Estela pulled her cloak over her ears and sought comfort in memories.
A kiss, a kindness, and the philosophy of Boethius; all part of the history she shared with Dragonetz. And one small boy. Silent tears trickled as she let herself miss home, as she worried about the future. She moved her hands down the cloak to find the Viking pathfinder brooch she kept pinned there, too precious to store in her saddlebags.
Tracing the runes she knew so well, their criss-crossed paths, she wondered whether she had gone astray, whether she would find herself alone in this alien land. Was it possible that one path continued without Dragonetz? That she would have to live like Mair?
A rough edge caught her finger, led her along a different bumpy line. No, she thought. Never. Dragonetz would always come back and he would always find her there to welcome him. In that she would be like the Welsh women, proud and patient, working by day, and beautiful for their men’s return in the evening. And she would sing and write too!
Most of the reinforcements rode west the next day to join Rhys and the heaviness of waiting loomed over the castle. One day, a week, longer or not at all: nobody knew when the men would return.
Estela found herself seeking work and not needed, so she took to a quiet corner with paper and quill, and returned to her sadly neglected writing. Her readers would want to know all about Gwalia.
The song that was Gwalia raced through her mind: drumming as Dragonetz was beaten in a sack; a piercing whistle as Mair slumped to the ground beneath a dagger that still quivered in the oak door; light strings as a couple ran barefoot across the sands; full percussion for making lafwr bread.
She shook her head to clear the medley and concentrated on what her readers should know. Start at the beginning, with what Wyn had told her. She dipped her quill in the ink and started writing.
The Welcome given by the Welsh
In Gwalia, there is no need to ask for shelter. It is the custom of the Welsh people to host all peaceful travellers. They expect you to enter their home and they will offer water for washing feet. Should you thank them courteously but say you have no need of the water, this means you are continuing on your travels after such refreshments as they can offer. If you accept the water, this means you wish shelter for the night.
The wise traveller is a good guest, accepting what is offered as if it is palatial, whether it be straw in a barn or a royal bed in a castle. For in each case, the host is offering the same gift; he is sharing his home with you. Such a gift deserves appreciation but be wary of offering material goods in return, for hospitality cannot be bought and you cause offence if you imply that it can be.
She must ask the brothers where she could replenish her stock of ink. Perhaps an apothecary could be found in Caerfyrddin which sounded to be more civilised than Llansteffan? If so, there were sure to be Jews there, and they always had ink. A notary would be perfect. Lost in such practicalities, the sound of horses’ hooves interrupted Estela’s musing. The men were back.
Estela abandoned her book in the alcove and rushed down the stairway outdoors, to join all the other castle residents. Shoving, jostling, standing on tiptoes to peer over each other’s shoulders, some women were counting aloud. Not counting numbers in the party surely? This behaviour was new but then, this was the biggest venture the men had attempted since Estela had been here.
With each number, a name. The first name was Maredudd.
Then Estela understood. She saw Rhys with a man slumped in front of him and a riderless pony being led behind them. For every riderless pony, there was a man dead or badly injured and these women knew which horse the men had ridden when they left. Maredudd was wounded.
The list of names continued
and Estela’s heart pounded, thinking she heard ‘Dragonetz’, knowing her imagination was playing tricks and that he wouldn’t even merit a mention. If he did, it would be as The Frank or more affectionately as Long Shadow. But why couldn’t she see him?
The wailing had begun as women realised who was missing. Estela felt the keening jar her very core as she raked the riders. He’d ridden out close to Rhys and Maredudd. Where was he? There was a gap. The last of the riders was inside the castle and no sign of Dragonetz. Men were dismounting, women greeting them – or sobbing.
Through the mêlée Estela still searched. He had to be there somewhere. She’d just missed him. But she knew she could not have missed him if he were there. However he was mounted, Dragonetz stood out for his height, his armour, his natural leadership.
Maybe that’s what got him killed Estela’s dark angel told her. She thought the whole world must hear her heartbeat. The men had almost closed the gate and were reaching for the bar when a voice rang out on the other side. Rhys yelled an order and this time it was not imagined. Estela heard the name Dragonetz. That was the moment she thought he’d died.
Then the gate swung open, and a weary pony stumbled through towards rest and water. Just as weary was the knight on her back, who held a swaying figure in front of him. Not Dragonetz but John Halfpenny was the man wounded. Estela rushed towards them and helped lift the Englishman down before he lost consciousness. Dragonetz looked little better but gave her his lopsided smile, said ‘I think you’ll be needed,’ and went over to see how Maredudd fared.
THE MEN ARGUED. RHYS was hoarse with panic. He’d already ordered a cart to take his limp, bleeding brother a day’s journey up-river to the nearest physician, in Caerfyrddin. He didn’t mind John Halfpenny lying beside Maredudd in the cart. They were the only two Deheubarth men with more than grazes. Apart from those who were dead, of course, whose burial would be ensured by the new occupants of Tenby and St Clears. May the Lord forgive their sins, and lack of last rites, to those who’d died fighting for justice.
Rhys no longer minded anything. He shouted at everyone within earshot, blamed every man he could see and name for not watching over Maredudd. His fists smacked each other for want of a better target and he shook as he shifted from one foot to another like a caged bear.
Dragonetz had to shout to be heard. Again, he said, ‘Estela is the best physician I know, trained by–’ What did these men know of Arabs or their medicine? How should he convey all that Malik was? ‘Trained by the King of Aragon’s doctor.’
It was no use. Rhys was locked into his own anguish, desperate to take action, any action, not listening. If he had his way, there was every chance Maredudd would bleed to death on the journey, as if he hadn’t been jolted enough by the ride back here.
Men looked down and stood still, not wanting to attract their Lord’s attention but not wanting to leave him either. Dragonetz saw only one way to break the impasse and acted. He moved closer to Maredudd, who was lying on a mattress, ready to be lifted into the cart.
Dragonetz crouched beside him, took the limp hand and leaned over so his ear covered Maredudd’s mouth. He was silent, listening, making sure Rhys was watching himDragonetz’ quiet words rang out in the sudden silence. ‘I’ll tell him,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’
Tears streaked Rhys’ face as he pushed Dragonetz aside to kneel by his brother. ‘Maredudd!’
‘He’s gone again,’ whispered Dragonetz. ‘It was but a moment. But he will be back with us. Estela?’
She took the chance to look at Maredudd’s leg. Something metal was sticking out amid a bloody mash.
‘He will be back with us,’ she echoed, ‘but only if I’m allowed to do my work.’
The storm had broken and Rhys knelt there silent, holding his brother’s hand.
ESTELA FETCHED MALIK’S surgical instruments as well as her medicine box. She thought about adapting the speech she’d made at Malik’s bedside, to impress Rhys, but one look at his stricken face told her not to bother. The tableau was unchanged: Rhys kneeling by his brother, men as still as if at funeral rites.
The grave must wait. There would be no funeral rites. Not if she could help it!
She knelt beside Rhys and examined the wounded thigh. ‘I will need to tie the leg to stop the blood, remove whatever that metal is, and stitch the wound before I let the blood flow again.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Rhys said. ‘You are right. There is no time to get him to Caerfyrddin. I’ve seen this type of injury before. It will kill him. One of my men will saw off the leg and give him a chance. Get a torch,’ he ordered one of the men. ‘We’ll burn the stump.’
‘No!’ Estela wasn’t just upset; she was fighting mad. She put down her medical instruments, open, to show the gleaming scalpel and needles. She drew her dagger, waving it as she spoke. ‘It will indeed kill him because you are not doctors! Do I have to throw this again to show you what I can do? I might as well throw it at him,’ she waved it at Maredudd, ‘and give him a kind death as leave him in your hands!’
Dragonetz caught her flailing wrist and she let him take the dagger. She’d made her point.
Rhys looked up at her. ‘You think you have the power?’
‘It’s not power, it’s science!’ She calmed a little, remembering the dignity of her calling. ‘And yes, I know I can.’ Probably.
‘So be it.’ Rhys crossed himself and stood up. His tone suggested he’d consigned his brother to the tomb but he rallied enough to glare at Estela. ‘And if he dies–’
‘I know, you’ll burn me alive and geld Dragonetz. Save your threats for those who heed them! I have work to do.’ She turned her back on Rhys, told two men, ‘Carry Lord Maredudd to somewhere quiet, not up stairs, where I can tend him away from the others. Put the Englishman on a paillasse and take him there too.’ She thought a minute and added ‘Please,’ in Welsh.
Rhys translated her needs, as she gave a list, and then the courtyard turned from the stillness of an altarpiece to purposeful bustle. There was barely time to let Dragonetz know she was glad to see him alive, before she swept off to tend to her patients, wishing she had not presented quite such an optimistic picture of their chances.
THE TWO PATIENTS WERE on their bloodied mattresses in an alcove near enough to the kitchen that Estela could get freshly boiled water. If only she had some poppy tea but, for Dragonetz’ sake she never carried any and there was no substitute in the castle. There wasn’t even strong alcohol. The best painkiller available was wine. And nature’s solution to pain. The men would lose consciousness when she hurt them beyond endurance, which would not take long.
When she stripped Maredudd’s tattered clothing off his leg, bits of flesh came with the fabric and his involuntary groans made Halfpenny reach for the bucket, sickened by the prospect of what was in store.
Under the cynical gaze of Rhys, Estela used one of her precious bars of soap to wash the leg, which had started bleeding again but would not be fatal until the metal was pulled out – or left in to infect his whole body. There was time to attend to Halfpenny first.
The moneyer had a slash in his shoulder.
‘Sword wound,’ he confirmed.
Estela explained to Rhys that Maredudd would be no worse for waiting and that removing the metal would be the most dangerous work so she would ease Halfpenny first. She did not tell Rhys that it would also be better for Halfpenny if he did not listen to Maredudd’s surgery before his own. She had to use simpler language so Rhys understood their wounds, as he had no understanding of anatomy or surgery.
Then she made Halfpenny sit and removed his jerkin. It too was stuck to the wound, which opened up again. She bathed it carefully, prodding to observe better whether there was any dirt. He reached for the wine while she was still washing the shoulder and he drank a flagon in one swing of his good arm.
Estela was satisfied this wound was clean and she told Halfpenny to drink all he could, then lie down and bite on a gag of cloth.
Sh
e laid Malik’s instruments out on the wrapper of clean linen she kept for that purpose. She heard her mentor’s words in her mind, as clearly as if he were beside her in the room, telling her what steps to take, reminding her of the dangers. She didn’t need to be reminded of the danger of infection, not when she’d seen Malik himself brought so close to death by a rose thorn. The memory shot through her, a sudden anxiety. He recovered she reminded herself and we’ll discuss every detail of this surgery when we see each other again.
As he’d always done, she shut her eyes and made silent prayer, entrusting her hands and work to a higher being. Inshallah.
Then she threaded a long sharp needle with linen filament. She swung the needle in a candle flame to disinfect it, rubbed goose grease along the thread for lubrication, and punctured the good skin at the side of the wound. She ignored the twitches her patient made and held the shoulder steady for the needle’s exit on the other side of the wound.
‘Eight and it will be over,’ she told him. ‘One,’ she began, preparing him for each onslaught with a quiet count.
When she reached ‘eight’ she’d made four stitches in the wound, knotting each one and cutting the thread with her dagger.
When Estela had finished, she looked at her work. The ooze of blood between the stitches was browning already, with no pus, and the sides were cleanly matched. The stitches were evenly placed, not too far apart or the wound would gape, nor too close together or they might rip the good skin. Malik would be pleased with her. He would appreciate the finer details.
Maredudd blinked, showed enough wakefulness to be plied with wine, but most of it spilled. If he lost consciousness again, so much the better.
Her other patient would require more skill and more damage, and Estela gave Rhys the chance to leave the room. He wouldn’t. He insisted on being one of the men she needed to hold Maredudd to the mattress, to hold him still while he struggled and bit on the gag, till the chamber filled with his stifled screams. Dragonetz knelt the other side of the wounded man, who lay pinioned on the mattress.
