Page 71 of The Knucker King

“The bandage is lined with calendula flowers. The wound must be wrapped tightly to stem the bleeding and help with the swelling,” she explained as she performed the action. “I will leave more with you to change if the blood saturates it before I return.”

Benjamin mumbled something for the first time, and John lowered his ear to the man’s pale lips. “I cannot make out what he is saying.”

“The fact that he is saying anything at all is a good sign.” Avice nodded before returning to her task.

“A good sign of what?” George asked, his eyes following the circular motion of the winding bandage.

“That he will live,” she replied before tying off the final layer and stuffing it with absorbent wool. “With diligent care, Mister Benjamin may survive.” She reached out to check his breath and pulse. “I will leave you some items to aid him.”

“You mean you will not be staying in the village for his aftercare?” Father Peter interjected.

The gale rattled the wooden shutters and howled down the chimney, as if to answer for her. The image of Trewoofe flashed across her mind. If she had to make the choice of nursing him, or the man on the table before her… it would be her Knucker – every time.

“I have much to attend to and other patients. If he should live, I will check on Mister Benjamin soon, but otherwise… no. I will return to my home before the night comes.”

“I would compel you to stay,” the priest said, taking a step towards to her.

Bramble flickered into common sight, and the men jumped back with a collective gasp. His hackles were raised, and a savage snarl ripped from him as he took a step towards Peter.

“As I said, I will not be staying. I have much to attend to.” She turned her back to the blustering priest. “I will leave you willow bark powder,” she continued, eyes on George. “That is for pain, mix a pinch with any liquid and get him to drink it.” She rifled through her bag. “These…” – she held up another small vial – “are yarrow flowers, it helps to slow any bleeding. Boil them to make tea.”

The courier nodded along like he understood Avice’s rapid instructions. She placed all the items neatly on a slip of space on the bloodied table, next to Benjamin’s leg. Again, the wind banged the shutters and roared down the chimney, nearly snuffing out the fire with its frigid touch.

She watched as the priest pinched his face in the direction of the fireplace. “Goodwife Margaret!” he bellowed. The maid scuttled in; her covered head pointed down to the floor. “Get that fire going again, or we will catch our death in here.”

She nodded and dashed for the bellows that hung neatly by the mantel, crouched beside the ashes, and began the task. Avice bit the inside of her cheek, restraining herself from telling Father Peter to use a little word called please.

With a final check on Benjamin’s breathing and pulse, confirming he was still alive, the midwife gathered her belongings. She tugged on her gloves and cloak and waited expectantly for some offer of payment or token. It was customary that some offering would be made in exchange for her services. She had not asked at the two previous births, due to the nature of them. This time however, with two such wealthy men in the room, she did not think it was egregious to expect something.

When no such offer was made, a silence settled between them, so quiet you could hear a needle drop. She scanned the room and settled on a bolt of purple linen propped in the corner. Once he was awake, Trewoofe would need clothing. She could not have him in her home without a stitch on him. Avice knew she would not be able to concentrate on anything otherwise.

She nodded towards it. “That cloth. It will be the trade for my services and the supplies I have left you.”

Father Peter scoffed. “You cannot—”

Bramble’s claws tapped loudly on the wood as she made her way over to the roll of fabric. He did not have to make a noise, but Avice knew it was because he was reminding the men of his presence and of his protection over her.

The priest snapped his mouth shut, his fingers drifting to the place on his arm where Bramble had bit him a few days prior.

Avice hefted the fabric and turned to John. “Now, I believe that I was offered an escort home. It would be much appreciated. I do believe a storm is coming.”

27

Chapter 27

Avice

The howling wind tore at Avice’s cloak, and a steady shower of snow fell from the darkened clouds. She hid her face behind John’s shoulder to protect her chapped scars, grateful for the bolt of cloth that divided them on Epona’s back. The midwife did not want to be anywhere near the fisherman right now.

His lack of words in her defence had cut her deeply, leaving a wound that would not quickly heal. How many times had John seen her work miracles with her treatments? How long had she kept his secrets? How many times had she watched Nell when he needed her to? How one-sided was their friendship that the one time she needed him he instead sealed his mouth?

She seethed. Can I trust anyone? She squinted down at her familiar, who loped alongside the trotting mare. Besides Bramble, Ashling… and Trewoofe. Her heart warmed at the thought that his condition may have improved when she returned. He may even be awake.

The gale roared and tossed a flurry of snow at them, slowing down their mount. Avice felt sorry for the mare and thought that having two riders on her back in this storm was particularly cruel. They were nearly at her cottage, so in a combination of anger and pity, she decided to walk the rest of the way.

“STOP!” she yelled into John’s ear.

He threw her a confused look over his shoulder but tugged at the reins to bring the horse to a stop. Avice tossed down the bolt of linen. It billowed in the wind for a moment before landing in the snow with a soft thump. She fell off Epona, landing onto her rear with a painful thud. Avice hauled herself up and gathered the cloth. She began to stomp away as she heard John slip from the mare and call after her.