Page 88 of Bold Angel
“You were with William at Hastings?” Caryn asked.
“That is correct, my lady. It was my good fortune to be attending the injured on the field at Senlac. When your husband’s courageous efforts saved the life of the king, I was there to save the life of your husband.”
Thinking of Ral injured and bloody made something twist in Caryn’s chest.
“You are interested in the art of healing?” he asked.
“My wife is interested in learning,” Ral put in. “The subject seems to be of little consequence.”
“My mother worked with herbs and healing,” Caryn said. “I had no such notion until your last visit. Since then, I have been looking forward to the chance to gain a bit of knowledge.”
She had gone to the priest after Ral had returned to her bed, hoping the study would prove a distraction from her fears. “Already I have spoken to the priest. Father Burton acts as physician to those of us at Braxston. He has given me several texts to read in Latin and French.”
A sleek dark brow arched up. “A learned woman. It is nearly as unusual in your country as it is in mine.”
Caryn flushed. “I hope you do not find it offensive.”
“Quite the opposite. It should make my task far more interesting.” He steepled his long dark fingers in front of him. “As to the text you have been reading… the best of your physicians come from the south of France. Even so, they are no match for our Arab healers.”
“’Tis not idle words, Cara.” Ral turned his hand over and laced his fingers through hers, stirring an unwelcome wave of heat. “I know of at least a dozen good knights who would be dead but for Hassan.”
“Then I will learn my lessons well,” she said, “for ’twould please me greatly to help the people of my village.”
***
And so together, they did. As soon as word reached Braxston village that a great physician was among them, people began arriving at the keep. Old women, sick men, the weak, the blind, the crippled.
Ral had a storeroom cleared and turned into a medicinal. He furnished it with worktables and benches, and Hassan and Caryn used it to care for their patients, though the daily regimen turned out to be far different from what she had expected.
Where the priest prescribed violent purges, bloodletting, and amputations, often convinced the illness was some sort of devine punishment, Hassan’s treatments were less severe and most times more effective. A poultice for an abscessed leg, an ointment of docks mixed with lanolin for skin complaints; coltsfoot with honey for coughs; pepper and sulphur for itching; horseradish with tallow for muscle strains and bruises.
Hassan’s odd prescriptions didn’t sit well with the priest, who was certain the heathen’s cures were the work of the devil. When Hassan recommended a changeof diet for a woman with a lung condition, Father Burton flew into a rage.
“I cannot believe such a thing,” he said. “Why, in France, the head would be shaved, the skull opened up, and the brain removed. ’Tis highly unlikely a change in diet will correct the problem.”
Hassan grinned. “It is also highly unlikely that the patient would survive such a surgery.”
Caryn grinned, too. She found she liked the exotic, dark-skinned man, and in time she came to admire him. Each day they worked together, she learned more, fascinated by the healing power Hassan found in the simplest of herbs.
Wormwood stimulated the appetite—particularly good for the old and infirm. Mandrake root helped skin infections, or induced the patient to sleep. While the priest prescribed a concoction using the heads of seven fat bats for a spleen infection, a tincture of crickets and ox dung beetles for gallstones, Hassan gathered and worked his herbs, ofttimes heating them in a furnace, or pounding them in a stone mortar.
He showed Caryn his techniques, explaining each one thoroughly, and as always she learned quickly. Though she accepted his skills without question, the rivalry between Hassan and Father Burton grew worse each day. It wouldn’t end, she knew, till the Arab was gone, and she had much to learn before then.
She glanced up at the sound of her name.
“Lady Caryn!” Nelda called out. “You must bring the healer and come quickly!” The tall thin woman stood at the door to the infirmary, her hands shaking, her narrow face pale.
“What is it, Nelda? What’s happened?”
“’Tis the young girl, Edmee. Her time is here and the babe will not come. ’Tis breached, Isolda says. She has been unable to turn it, and poor Edmee grows weak. Please, milady, I beg you to come.”
“I mustfind Hassan.”
He sat beside Ral in the great hall, leaning back against the stone wall with a casual grace. At Caryn’s worried expression, both men came to their feet.
“What is it?” Ral asked, his eyes like steel and suddenly concerned.
“A woman in the village. There is trouble with the birth. They ask if Hassan will help.”
