Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones Book 2)

by Dianne Duvall

  A dozen rough, scarred hands flew into motion.

  The priest’s eyes widened as he was shouldered aside and layers of clothing and armor began to fall away.

  Beth looked around at the men towering over her, unable to locate the face she sought. “Where’s Kirk?”

  “Who?”

  “Captain Kirk.” What was his name again? “The, uh… the, um…” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “The steward.”

  Adam turned his head. “Edward!”

  “I am here, my lady.” Edward’s somber face appeared as the men to her right parted.

  “You’re the go-to guy, right?”

  His forehead twisted into a confused pucker. “What?”

  “The go-to guy. You’re the one everyone goes to when they need something?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Good. I need boiling water and clean cloths for bandages.” How could she prevent infection? The little tube of antibiotic ointment in her first aid kit wouldn’t cover this. Since she had been drinking well water, she didn’t know what kind of alcohol they drank or what proof it was, so she had no idea if it could be used as an antiseptic. And she could have sworn she had read somewhere that alcohol might not be the best choice to sterilize a wound because it killed good cells along with the bad. “Honey,” she blurted. Hadn’t she seen on the news that honey could be just as effective as antibiotic ointment when applied to wounds? “I need lots of honey.”

  Air whooshed out of her lungs in a rush as the men’s shirts and braies were cut away. “Hhho boy,” she said shakily, surveying the deep gashes on their limbs and torsos. “I’m going to need a needle and some thread. Soak both in boiling water for me, Edward. And I’ll need a basin of hot water to wash my hands in, along with clean cloths to dry them.”

  “Aye, my lady.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Beth glanced at the men across from her. “Tear their shirts up and use them as padding. Apply pressure to the worst wounds and keep it there to staunch the bleeding until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?” Adam asked as she turned away.

  “I need some things from my backpack. It will only take a minute.”

  The throng of concerned soldiers parted swiftly for her this time.

  Beth hurried up to her chamber. Her backpack was on the chest by the window. Setting the charger down beside it, she took the backpack to the bed, unzipped it, held it upside down, and shook it violently until it vomited all of its contents onto the blankets.

  Marcus appeared in the doorway. “My lady?”

  “Here,” she said. “Hold this.”

  Leaping to her side, he obediently held out his arms as she began thrusting items toward him.

  The travel-sized first aid kit was first (as if anything it contained could seal the kind of lacerations she’d just seen). Then a bottle of ibuprofen. A small box of butterfly closures. What was left of her antibacterial hand wipes. Her bar of deodorant soap.

  What else? What else? What else?

  There was nothing else. Help was supposed to be a brief 911 phone call away.

  “Okay,” she announced. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  The basin of water and cloth towels Beth had requested awaited her when she returned to the great hall. All eyes followed her as she approached the table.

  No pressure, she thought hysterically.

  A young woman, blond and pretty, about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, sobbed over Winston.

  “Are you his wife?” Beth asked her.

  She nodded, sniffling. “Aye, my lady.”

  “Can you sew?”

  Her red-rimmed, blue eyes widened, then flew to the wounds three soldiers applied pressure to on Winston’s shoulder, arm, and thigh. “Y-you do not wish me to…?”

  “Can you sew?”

  Reluctantly she nodded. “Aye, my lady.”

  “Then pull yourself together. I need your help.”

  Adam moved to Beth’s side.

  “Where’s the midwife?” she asked him.

  “Attending a birth. She will come as soon as she is able.”

  Crap. That meant this was all on her shoulders, because—even though she’d had no medical training—she still probably had more knowledge of wound care than the men in this room.

  Beth motioned for Winston’s wife to follow her to the basin of water. “What’s your name?”

  “Mary.”

  “Okay, Mary, I want you to watch me and do everything I do. All right?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “First, we’re going to wash our hands and forearms.” Extending her arms before her, Beth glared at the long sleeves that trailed to the floor. “Adam, these sleeves have to go. Would you please remove them?”

  A dagger appeared in his hand. “Where shall I cut them?”

  “At the shoulder, please.”

  She suffered not even a scratch as he trimmed the material away.

  “Much better. Thank you.”

  Taking her bar of deodorant soap from Marcus, Beth worked up a good lather and scoured her hands and arms up to her elbows. Mary did the same as soon as another man cut her sleeves away, too.

  Beth frowned down at the basin of dirty, soapy water that resulted. “Edward, would you—?”

  “Right here, my lady.” Anticipating her request, he set a second basin of hot water down beside the first.

  “Thank you. Mary, let’s do it one more time just to be safe.”

  Several men continued to apply pressure to the more severe wounds while the two women finished.

  “Now wipe your hands with one of these.” Beth handed her one of the antibacterial hand wipes, then used another on her own hands.

  Drawing in a deep, fortifying breath, she tried to ignore the metallic scent of blood combined with the pungent odor of sweat. “Mary, you work on Miles. I’ll tend Winston.”

  Mary wrung her clean hands. “But, my lady—”

  “Trust me. It’s for the best.” If Winston didn’t pull through, Beth didn’t want Mary to have any reason to blame herself. “Which wound is the worst?” Beth asked the men staunching the bleeding.

  The man beside her removed wadded up linen from Winston’s thigh and stepped back.

  Beth’s stomach lurched. Holy crap, that’s deep. “I’ll have to clean it, then stitch it. Mary, you do the same for Miles. More water, please, Edward.”

  Beth bent over the man’s thigh. “Light. We need more light, too.”

  Torches appeared in several hands, bestowing ample illumination.

  It was all too horrible. Thank goodness she hadn’t eaten anything earlier. If she had, it would have come right back up as she pried apart the ragged edges and began removing bits of cloth and broken metal links from Winston’s flesh. “Make sure you get it all, Mary. Every bit of it. Every little speck.”

  “Aye, my lady.” She sounded as shaken and nervous as Beth felt.

  Winston awoke with a moan and began to thrash about with amazing strength, considering.

  “Hold him down,” Beth ordered.

  Rough hands gripped his limbs to still his movements.

  Mary turned and reached toward her husband’s face.

  “Mary, don’t touch him,” Beth cautioned.

  The blonde hastily jerked her hands back without making contact.

  “Keep working on Miles. You can comfort Winston when you’re finished.”

  Mary hesitated, clearly wanting to abandon her gory ministrations in favor of sitting and holding her husband’s hand.

  Someone moved to Beth’s side.

  When she looked up, she found stony, silent Adam glaring at the other woman.

  Mary cast one last longin
g look at Winston, who seemed ignorant of all around him save the pain, then returned to her ministrations.

  Unlike Winston, Miles neither moved nor made a sound while Mary tended the worst of his wounds.

  Mary’s gaze met Beth’s.

  That couldn’t be a good sign.

  “Stitch it,” Beth told her, “then move on to the next.” She glanced around. “Where’s Marcus?”

  “Here, my lady.” He peered around Adam, her things still clutched in his arms.

  “Set that stuff on the table.”

  He hurriedly obeyed.

  “Now open the bottle of ibuprofen. That one there.” She had to tell him how since plastic pill bottles with childproof caps were foreign to him. Ibuprofen was a pain reliever, a fever reducer, and an anti-inflammatory. With these wounds, Beth assumed the men would need all three.

  “Shake out two caplets.” She glanced around. “Would someone please bring me some water for him to drink?”

  Winston looked up at her through glazed eyes. “You are Lord Robert’s woman,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Yes. I mean, aye. You have suffered some serious injuries, Winston. But I’m going to do everything I can to help you. All right?”

  He nodded weakly.

  “Good. Marcus is going to put some things in your mouth. I want you to swallow them with the water he gives you next. Don’t chew them. Just swallow.”

  He did, then lost consciousness again.

  Thank goodness. She didn’t think she could poke a needle through his skin with him awake and watching.

  “Okay. I’m ready for the honey, a needle and thread, Edward.”

  Edward diligently produced them.

  “I can do this,” Beth whispered to herself.

  “Aye, my lady,” Adam said with confidence. “You can.”

  Time blurred as she painstakingly stitched Winston’s thigh, then moved on to the next wound.

  Clean. Apply honey. Stitch. Then move on to the next.

  Clean. Apply honey. Then stitch.

  Once the more serious injuries were taken care of, she treated the rest of his abrasions the same way without sewing them.

  She applied antibiotic ointment to every minor cut and scrape, rapidly depleting her small supply. She would’ve applied it to the harsher wounds, too, but the ointment’s directions advised against applying it to open wounds.

  Bandages followed. The larger wounds she bound with clean cloth torn into fairly neat strips. The smaller wounds she covered with either butterfly closures or adhesive bandages.

  The odd tubes of ointment, plastic containers, and adhesive strips all sparked curiosity in her audience. Thankfully, the men were either too smart or too courteous to interrupt her work.

  Adam’s quiet, protective presence was no doubt responsible for that. Though she supposed concern for their friends could’ve kept them silent as well.

  When at last she and Mary had done all they could, Beth stepped back.

  Miles had not roused once. Considering all of the crud she had dug out of Winston’s mangled flesh, she feared infection and fever were unavoidable and thought she should try to get some ibuprofen into the other man as well. Antibiotics would have been far better. Unfortunately, Fosterly lacked both a qualified physician and a twenty-four-hour pharmacy.

  Beth used a mortar and pestle Maude produced to crush two caplets into a powder. After mixing it with water, she raised Miles’s head a bit and dribbled several bitter drops between his lips.

  No response.

  Mary reached down and massaged his throat until—miracle of miracles—he swallowed.

  Beth smiled. “It worked. Do it again.”

  Together they coaxed him into swallowing it all.

  Stepping back, Beth stared down at the two fallen men.

  “Now what, my lady?” Marcus voiced the question that hovered on the tips of all tongues.

  She sighed. “Now, we wait.”

  Wait for fevers to rise? Wait for them to slip into comas? Wait for death to claim them?

  No, she tried to deny. Wait for them to heal. To recover.

  Was that really likely though? Beth wasn’t a doctor. She wasn’t a nurse. She didn’t know how injuries this severe should be treated. Everything she had done had been wrought by instinct and desperation. What if she had done something wrong?

  Idiot!

  She had marched forward and barked orders as if she had actually known what the hell she was doing. What if she had skipped some crucial step? What if she had given them too much ibuprofen? Or not enough? Or maybe she shouldn’t have given them any at all. What if the honey she had used contaminated the wounds instead of speeding their healing?

  These men’s lives were in her hands. Why hadn’t she waited for the damned midwife? Or waited for Robert to return. Hadn’t he mentioned something about knowing healing herbs?

  What if these men died?

  Beth would never know if it was because of something she had done wrong or something she was supposed to have done, but hadn’t or if they had simply lost too much blood.

  “My lady?”

  She met Mary’s anxious gaze. “Aye?”

  “May I sit with Winston now?”

  “Of course, Mary. Thank you for helping me. You did very well.”

  The woman nodded and bobbed a curtsy.

  “Adam?” Beth said.

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “You might want to clear the hall. Either that or stay and watch over Miles and Winston. All these men have been very nice.” She motioned to her substantial masculine audience. “But I have a feeling they’ll start picking at the Band-Aids and butterfly closures as soon as I turn my back.”

  And they would. All were fascinated by the bright white strips that held some of the cuts on their friends’ faces closed and by the flesh-colored strips that covered the others. Clearly they wanted to test them and find out what kept them from falling off.

  Adam must have known he would have a battle on his hands, for he instantly and none-too-gently began to herd the men out of the hall.

  Beth gathered together what was left of her first aid supplies and carried them to her chamber. The contents of her backpack were strewn across the bed. It wouldn’t do to have one of the servants see any of it. Even Marcus shouldn’t have seen it, but she couldn’t do anything about that. So she stuffed everything except the soap back into her pack and hid it in one of the two trunks the room boasted.

  Restless, she paced to the window and looked out over the bailey. Or tried to. The glass wasn’t crystal clear here, but thick and warped. She could see enough, though, to know the sun would set soon. Bright oranges and pinks painted the clouds rolling in from the north.

  Beth hadn’t realized how long it had taken her to patch up the injured men. Had Mary not assisted her, she would have been working on them long into the night.

  If they hadn’t died first.

  Her stomach performed a queasy somersault. Her insides began to tremble, as did her hands now that she wasn’t using them.

  There had been so much blood.

  She had never seen so much blood. Not even the day she had been shot.

  Crossing to the basin of water on the table near the hearth, she grabbed the soap and began to viciously scour her hands.

  She could still feel it. The blood. Could still see it, trapped beneath her fingernails. She scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed and rinsed while the fear she had held at bay clawed at her in an attempt to gain purchase.

  Her breath hitched. Tears blurred her vision. Furiously dashing them away, she grabbed the soft cloth some diligent servant had provided and dried her hands. No dirt. No specks or streaks of crimson. Just freckled pink skin rubbed raw by her efforts.

  Th
is was the second time in two weeks that her hands had grown slick with warm blood. She doubted any soap on the planet would make them feel clean again.

  Clenching them into fists, she closed her eyes.

  “Robert.” His name emerged a ragged whisper.

  Where was he? Would he return in even worse condition than the two men below? Would she have to toil over his mangled body, too?

  She couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do that to her. She couldn’t lose him, too. She had lost Josh. And her father. And her mother. She’d lost everyone really. And not just to death. Everyone she knew and loved was beyond reach of this foreign time and place. If she lost Robert, too…

  A sob caught in her throat.

  He had been so good to her, giving and giving, asking nothing in return. Nothing except the truth of who she was. And she had withheld that from him.

  She had been afraid to tell him where she came from. Or rather when. Afraid and ashamed. Because, while she should have been wholly mourning Josh, a part of her was falling for the handsome, unbelievably thoughtful man who let her seek solace in his arms each night and offered her comfort without making any demands regarding the desire she roused in him.

  Who else would do that?

  Spinning around, Beth left the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Down the corridor, past Robert’s chamber Beth strode, descending the stairs and exiting through the donjon’s heavy double doors. She stood at the top of the steps for many long minutes, breathing deeply of the cool, fresh air and looking out across the bailey.

  That was one difference she hadn’t noticed immediately upon awakening in the clearing. The air here was so fresh. So fragrant. So clean.

  There was no air pollution. No daily ozone warnings. No health-threatening haze blanketing the land like milky fog each morning, leading meteorologists to warn people with asthma and other lung ailments to remain indoors or advise parents to keep children inside.

  As long as one avoided close contact with the moat and didn’t stand downwind of the stables, the air here smelled wonderful.