by Tina Donahue
She didn’t understand. “What do you mean for the most part?”
“One young woman is heavy with child. The events caused the babe to want to come earlier than he should.”
“Has she had the infant?”
“She was still in the birthing process shortly before you arrived.”
Enrique glanced around. “Is the surgeon here?”
“He saw what was needed, did all he could, and said he was returning to the fortaleza. If anyone new required his skills, we could send for him again.”
She suspected the man had done little, hardly knowing any better, blaming his botched treatments on his patients’ poor health or God’s will. “What of the women who usually tend to the ill in this village?”
Tomás lifted his shoulders. “No one came forward to help the worst of the lot. Many of the women are too busy taking care of their own husbands and others in their families to worry about anyone else.”
“May I see the wounded?”
He exchanged a glance with Enrique, seeking his permission to grant what she’d asked. Her cheeks burned at him affording Enrique the right of a husband over her, but she kept her tongue. Neither man meant harm. They were simply behaving as males did in regards to women.
Enrique blew out a sigh but finally nodded. “Show us.”
After a short ride, they reached the community. The area stank of smoke as most villages seemed to, only this stench was far worse. The Moors had set fire to the roofs of several huts. Black smoke and steam billowed upward. The villagers and soldiers worked feverishly to quench the flames, saving as much as they could. Pens that had probably been tidy and well-tended were now in disarray, the animals gone or killed. A pig’s carcass lay to the left, the wound in the animal’s side bloody and gaping. Someone had nearly beheaded a mule. The creature’s body had fallen on a mongrel, also dead.
A lone chicken flapped its wings, running wildly to the left and the right, not seeming to know where to go. Blood drenched its feathers.
Enrique helped her to dismount and held her sack of supplies beneath his arm. She leaned in. “Can you see if the young woman needs help birthing?”
He stared. “Me? Why?”
“I want to help the man who was burned.” She took her sack from him. “I fear he may need my treatment in order to survive. If the young woman is in distress, I will assist her without delay.”
Enrique pushed his fingers through his hair.
“Please?”
He gestured Tomás over. “Will you show Sancha where the man with the burn is and stay with her to make certain nothing untoward happens?”
“Pedro can.” Tomás lifted his hand to a group of men nearby and called. “Pedro. Over here.”
He ran to them. Slightly shorter than Tomás, he had the same dark hair as Enrique, though he had no white forelock, and a charming smile identical to his other brothers’. “Sancha, how good to see you again.” He took her hand. “What brings you here, and with Enrique no less? Has he finally convinced you to allow his courtship?”
Even in the gloom, Enrique’s cheeks darkened with embarrassment. He glared at his brother.
Pedro smiled. “If not, may I offer my interest?”
“Fool.” Tomás pushed Pedro’s hand from hers. “Sancha is here to heal.”
He nodded gravely. “The birthing is over there.” He pointed toward the sound of high shrieks and wails. “Given the mother’s continued agony, I suspect the babe will take his good time in coming.”
She made no move toward the woman. “I need to see the man who was burned.”
He made a face. “Are you certain? He was screaming quite piteously until he swooned. No wonder. His skin hangs from the side of his face in shreds, like pieces of ruined linen. The odor is more than anyone could possibly endure, smelling worse than—”
“Enough.” Enrique’s high color had faded, replaced by an ashy pallor, the same as Tomás’s. “Show her and remain at her side.”
“Of course.” After grabbing a torch, Pedro offered his arm to Sancha, keeping his peace until they were out of earshot. “If you swoon, should I call Enrique or wait until you recover on your own?”
She smiled at his sweet guilelessness and allowing her, rather than anyone else, to make the decision. “I shall do my best not to cause any trouble.”
“You?” He shook his head. “If Enrique gives you a moment’s difficulty, I will beat him to within an inch of his life.”
He’d have to wait for Tomás to run him through first. She wondered if all brothers spoke so casually about harming each other. The worst she and her sisters had done was stop talking after they’d finished screaming. As the eldest, she’d made the least amount of noise. Carmen and Concepcion, the two youngest, were the worst, known to pull each other’s hair and leave bite marks. With them at court, under the Queen’s tutelage, such activities had surely ceased.
Pedro led her past the ruins of huts, gardens, and lives. Many women sat on the ground rocking their children, most weeping softly. Her heart ached. They’d had so little to begin with and now lost everything. “We must do something to help them rebuild.”
“Enrique will see to matters. He always does.”
“Do these raids happen frequently?”
“More so now than in previous years, as the Crown wants Granada. The Moors grow increasingly desperate with each day.”
Before she could feel sorry for those who’d attacked, Pedro brought her to the edge of the forest. Beneath one of the trees, a man sprawled on the ground, in a deep swoon, his face in shadows. Next to him sat a young boy.
“Who are you?” the child asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Soot smudged his face. His clothes were equally filthy, feet unshod, hair uncombed.
“I came here to help.” She took a small loaf of bread from her sack. “Will you take this? You look hungry.”
He snatched the loaf and pushed it beneath his grimy shirt.
“Is he your father or brother?” She gestured to the man.
“Cousin. Will he die?”
She wanted to assure the child everything would be all right, but lies wouldn’t help. In the world in which he lived, hard reality was a constant with no sweet tales of fairies who showered children with sweets or knights who made everyone happy and rich. Those bedtime stories were for noble offspring who eventually learned boys would go to war and die, while the girls would wed men they neither knew nor loved in order to secure estates.
It seemed no one in this world had hope for constant happiness, though she’d try to ease this boy’s burden. “I will do all I can for him.”
Pedro brought the torch closer. She held back a gasp. Despite his horrifying description, the man’s injury was far worse. His right cheek appeared to have melted away, his ear gone, neck blistered, parts of the exposed flesh raw and oozing a clear fluid or colored a dark brown, the skin charred.
As Pedro had said, the stench was horrific. Nothing smelled like burned flesh, not even death.
She sank to her knees, grateful the man was oblivious to pain at this point. There would be more than enough once he woke. She cleaned the wound with vinegar, wishing she’d brought maggots to eat away the ruined flesh. Thankfully, she did have pieces of linen to work with but needed more materials. She looked around hopelessly for the additional items.
Pedro leaned down. “What do you need?”
“Honey and animal fat.” She couldn’t recall if she’d need both, not having studied burn treatment fully. Being thorough couldn’t hurt. “As quickly as possible.”
“For the wound?”
“Sí.” Honey would keep the burns from infecting, animal grease would also serve as a deterrent, while linen would provide a clean cover to aid healing.
Pedro used several rocks to keep the torch from toppling over and ran to the first intact hut.
Tomás strode up, glancing over at his brother. “Where is he off to?”
“To b
ring me honey and fat, though it should be fresh. Did you see the dead pig near the village entrance?”
“No, but I can look for the thing, then haul the carcass here if you want.”
She smiled at how gracious he was. “I need several pieces of its fat, sliced thin. Not the entire pig, mind you.”
“The fat shall be yours in a moment.”
“I have the honey!” Pedro shouted. He ran to her, a cup in his hand.
“Well done.” She beamed at him beaming at her. Tomás clamped Pedro on the shoulder, then took off for the fat.
The boy inched closer, eyes wide at what she did.
By the time Tomás returned, she’d already poured honey on the burn, covering the wound completely. She melted the fat with the lit torch. Once the substance had cooled, she applied the grease, then laid numerous pieces of linen over everything, at last tying two of the longest strips together. These she wound around the man’s head, to beneath his chin, then tied the ends to keep the dressing in place.
She turned to the boy. “Is your cousin’s mamá around?”
“Dead.”
“Does he have a wife or someone to care for him?”
“Only me and Papá.”
“You must tell your father to check your cousin’s wound tomorrow to see how he heals.” After wiping her hands, she gave the child several pieces of fresh linen, along with the remaining fat and honey. “Your papá needs to keep your cousin’s wound clean, changing the linen, using new honey and fat. Can you tell him so for me?”
The boy shrugged.
She glanced at Tomás.
He smiled. “Pedro will have a word with the man, won’t you?”
“Of course. Whatever Sancha needs. What a remarkable treatment. Did the nuns teach you this?”
Rather than tell the truth, she nodded instead, protecting everyone with a lie.
“Off you go.” Tomás waved Pedro and the boy away. “Find the man’s uncle. Sancha is needed elsewhere.”
On her feet, she looked over. Enrique strode toward them, a bundle in his arms, the newborn’s cries reedy. What a night to begin life.
“Here.” He practically shoved the infant at her.
She took the child. “Does the mother know you have her baby?”
Tomás laughed. Enrique shot him a look. “Of course. No women were around to see to the infant’s health. They have their own children and families to tend to. When the girl asked me if her child was sound, I had no idea what to say. Is he?”
Sancha lifted the threadbare blanket. The newborn was pink as dawn, face scrunched and red from shrieking, tiny fingers tightened into fists, arms flailing. “She is. A girl, you know.”
Enrique stared at the man on the ground. “Will he be all right?”
“I hope so, though nothing is ever assured.”
“Sancha was magnificent,” Tomás said. “You should have been here. Our surgeon too. The old fool would have learned something.”
Not if Enrique could help it. He seemed to have aged greatly tonight.
She touched his hand. “Everything went well. And will.”
“Even though nothing is ever assured?” The sadness and longing on his face begged an answer.
Tomás made a dismissive sound to his brother and gave her a smile. “No cause for concern. None of my soldiers knows of your healing nor will they. I kept them well away from you and busy with other matters. Enrique and I also spoke to the village elders, warning them not to mention your visit tonight. They promised no one would say a word. Enrique was quite the brute.”
She could imagine and gave him a grateful smile.
His expression remained haunted. “Take care, please. I never want to lose you.”
Chapter 8
Enrique stood at Sancha’s side, watching, protecting while she treated those in need until well past dawn. He saw her weariness. Her movements painfully slow, speech halting at times. At last, she seemed to realize she couldn’t tend to every person and finally instructed the women on how to cleanse and treat wounds to avoid infection.
Through it all, he worried what the peasants might say concerning her healing. They appeared grateful now for her help, but what of tomorrow and the next days? Favorable opinion could turn to distrust, envy, and hatred in an instant. The peasants might come to blame him for the raid because he hadn’t offered enough protection against the Moors. None of them would care how impossible he’d find the task with so much land to cover and enemy plans unknown. If the peasants weren’t able to take out their frustrations and anger on him, their noble lord, they could make her a convenient target.
Repeatedly, he checked the peasants’ worn faces, trying to discern their concerns and suspicions, hoping to ward off trouble. As he’d said to Sancha, he couldn’t lose her.
“Here you are.” Tomás joined him. “Still worried, I see.”
He ignored his brother’s mocking tone to watch Sancha teach three young women how to stitch a wound using thread and needle. Her students looked repulsed, yet desperate for anything to heal their men, giving Sancha their rapt attention.
Tomás leaned toward him. “Everything will be fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Not at all. Given your scowl and sour attitude, I worried greatly about bothering you, but decided to do so anyway.”
“Lucky me.” He spoke as quietly as Tomás had. “Wait till you fall in love and everything changes. Trust me, I intend to be there to hound you and make your life even more miserable.”
“After watching you succumb to your feelings for Sancha, and Fernando to his with Isabella, I have no plan to join either of you in losing my heart to any woman.”
Enrique smiled. “As though you have a choice.” He sobered. “Men become fools when the right woman enters the scene. Your day will come.”
“You sound pleased at my future downfall.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Tell you what. Before I face a woman as beauteous as Sancha and Isabella, one as devoted and loving, soft yet strong, brave, willing to stand at my side—”
“Do you have a point? If so, get to it.”
Tomás grinned. “Be grateful for what you have and let the future take care of itself. Enjoy Sancha. If you can.”
If he could? Tomás’s eyes would have popped out if he’d known about her swimming lesson and their time on the blanket. How she pleasured him and the numerous times he’d delighted her before this scene had called them here.
The village was quieter now, many asleep, not seeing the destruction in full light. Ruined huts, animals and crops destroyed, personal items strewn across the road from peasants and soldiers trying to save what they could before fire consumed everything.
Wisps of smoke still rose from various areas charred beyond recognition. Children avoided those spots, playing beneath the brilliant blue sky and heavy sun. What had happened last night had nothing to do with them. Their future would take care of itself.
Enrique wished he could be as untroubled as they were and as resigned to fate as Tomás. Life and love would certainly be easier.
Finished with her lesson and treatments, Sancha stared at something in the distance, her lids heavy.
Children’s excited shouts caught her attention and his. At last, his guards and the soldiers had returned with food from the castle, along with chickens, goats, cattle, and pigs from his estate. With the guards’ help, rebuilding the huts would be an easy matter, the community soon returned to normal.
Tomás strode to his men, voice and hands raised, directing them.
Sancha joined Enrique, her clothes dirtied with blood, hair in disarray, soot on her cheeks from when she’d pushed stray tendrils aside.
Never had he seen her more beautiful.
She leaned against him, smiling at men delivering bread, cheese, oranges, and meat, small children chasing chickens and pigs, acquainting the animals with their new home. “What a good man you are to do this.”
; Her praise made him smile. “You seem tired.”
She’d pressed her face against his sleeve to quiet her yawn. Her warm breath caused his heart to turn over, igniting his passion.
She shook her head. “I have never been better.”
He slipped his arm around her waist to keep her from dropping to the ground. She’d already slumped against him, fast asleep.
Pedro ran up. “Is Sancha all right?”
“Tired.” He swept her into his arms. She curled into him as though they’d done this many times in the past, her head on his shoulder, hand on his chest. “Bring her sack to my horse.”
“Are you taking her to her castle?”
He was bringing her to his home, or rather theirs. He wouldn’t consider her ever leaving his side.
At his gelding, she woke long enough to protest. “Why are we here? I need to check on my patients.”
“If they need you, their families will send word. Time for you to rest.”
“I have never been…ah, been…” She inhaled deeply and frowned.
“You have never been better. Which will be true once you sleep.”
He helped her to mount and joined her quickly before she fell off his horse. Her head hung between her shoulders, hands dangling loosely at her sides. He eased her into him, arm around her waist, and motioned his guards to accompany them.
With Sancha asleep, he had to keep his gelding at a slower pace to avoid disturbing her or risk having her fall from the saddle. She was dead weight against him, arms flopping, feet bumping his ankles. What should have been trying delighted him. He couldn’t stop smiling at having her close and finally relaxed, for the most part.
Halfway to the castle, she awoke. “Where are we?”
“Numerous leagues from home.”
“Why?”
“Because we have yet to arrive there.”
