Page 20 of Castle of Refuge

His heart squeezed in pity as he looked up at Philip. “Those are likely burn scars, not the devil’s markings, and she is very sick. Go and get two of the grooms to carry her into the house.”

“Yes, sir.” Philip hurried away.

Her clothing did not distinguish her as anyone wealthy. Though she was very young, she was not too young to be married. His stomach twisted in pity for her again. He knew what it was like to suffer the visible consequences of a terrible event. A moment of tragedy could mark a person for the rest of their life.

How well he knew.

Two of the grooms came running. They were sturdy fellows who easily picked up the girl and carried her toward the house. Mistress Wattlesbrook stood in the doorway. She would take good care of her, and if God was willing, she would survive her illness.

A cloth bag was on the ground, no doubt belonging to the woman. Edwin picked it up. It was dripping water, as the rain was still falling.

“Shall I put her in Lady Delia’s old room, my lord?” Mistress Wattlesbrook asked.

“Yes, that will be good.”

Edwin took the wet bag and set it on a table by a window. The rain was pouring down, but there was still enough light coming through to see by. He took out each article from the bag—a well-made hairbrush, two outer dresses and one underdress, an embroidered cloth belt, and some tooth powder and a toothbrush. Some of the articles made her seem wealthy, but the dresses were not fit for a woman of means. And at the bottom was a Psalter with a fine leather covering. Was she able to read?

Edwin took out the book and shook off the excess water. If she were to survive, no doubt she would not want this book, the most valuable thing in her bag, to be ruined. Water was the worst enemy of books—except, of course, fire.

He went and found a cloth and wiped and dried the book the best he could. Fortunately, the leather binding and wraparound covering, with its metal clasp, had protected the parchment pages better than he might have thought. Edwin carefully laid it out to dry on a bench beneath the window.

He went to his only sister’s room—she was now married and in her own home—and stopped outside the closed door. He heard a muffled voice inside that sounded like Mistress Wattlesbrook’s. The door opened and a servant girl rushed out. She drew back for a moment, as if startled.

“Pardon me, my lord.” She closed the door and hurried away, no doubt on some errand for Mistress Wattlesbrook.

Edwin wanted to ask the servant how the woman was doing, if she had spoken, but he didn’t want to detain her.

He stood outside the door, listening. After a minute or twohe had heard nothing, so he began walking from one end of the corridor to the other, pacing as he waited.

Becoming accustomed to the way his body felt, one-sided as it was, had been frustratingly slow and difficult as he learned how to keep himself balanced so he would not fall. He practiced holding his one arm close to his body while seeing himself in his mind with one arm, not two. And every time he did, he had to acknowledge that he would never be the capable swordsman and knight he once was. He would never be that strong again.

The servant girl returned, going back inside the room. As she closed the door he tried to peek in but only saw Mistress Wattlesbrook’s back as she leaned over the bed.

He continued to walk up and down the corridor, thinking of the young woman’s face. How had she come to be alone and sick and lying under a tree in the rain? She was obviously traveling somewhere. But why was she alone? And how had she received the scars on her face?

He paced awhile longer until finally the door opened and Mistress Wattlesbrook and the servant girl came out.

His eyes met Mistress Wattlesbrook’s and she sighed. “The poor thing is very sick and chilled to the bone.”

“Did she say who she is?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t even open her eyes except to squint at me. And she just mumbled something about Derbyshire.”

“What else did she say?”

“That was the only word I could make out. Derbyshire. I don’t know if she was coming from there or going there.”

“Do you think she will recover?”

“We won’t know for a while, but she is young and looks strong.”

“And the scar on her ear?”

“Looks like she was burned in a fire.”

“Do you think she could have the Pestilence?”

“I don’t think so.” Mistress Wattlesbrook shook her head. “She doesn’t have the buboes. She does have a cough and a rattling in her chest. We shall see if she improves after she’s slept. I gave her some herbs, and she drank a good amount of my feverfew and liverwort tea, so I think she will wake up feeling better in a few hours. There’s no knowing how long she may have been lying there on the ground.”