Wicked Whispers. Tina Donahue
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“Whoever told you so was misinformed.” Sancha gestured to the wound. “See how red the skin is at the edges, how swollen the center of her injury is? The yellow matter inside causes both. Your daughter’s body is trying to expel the vile liquid. Once removed, the wound will have a chance to heal.”
The mother stroked her child’s leg. “Will she live?”
“I will do everything in my power to help her. Please fetch the water.”
The woman grabbed a battered pot and spotted Enrique in the darkness. She lifted her eyebrows. He put his finger to his lips, asking for silence. She gave it. So did the two men who followed her outside, pots in hand.
Hurriedly, Sancha pulled other items from her bag. There was a brass container, wine as she’d had when tending Fernando, a dagger, thread, and a needle.
Staring at the last items, Enrique stepped closer. His arm hit a broom. The smack of the handle against the packed earthen floor sounded louder than it should have.
She looked over and gaped at him.
“I mean no harm.” He held his hands behind his back to prove his words.
The child squirmed and opened her eyes. “Mamá?”
Sancha stroked the little girl’s cheek. “Your mamá is fetching water. She should return in a moment.”
The child’s face reddened with her strained breathing, fat tears sliding down her face. “My leg hurts.”
“Of course it does.” Sancha smoothed the girl’s hair. “I promise to make it better.”
No words would console Maria. She cried loudly without end. The moment her mother returned with the water, she put the pot on the table and held the girl to her breast, rocking her.
Sancha touched the woman’s shoulder. “We need to begin now, before the infection grows worse.”
“Should we give Maria some wine?” the smaller man asked. “The drink may quiet her some and make what you do less painful for her.”
“No. Given how weak she is, the wine could do more harm than good.”
“What did you give Fernando?” Enrique asked.
Everyone glanced at him.
Sancha looked away first. “Fernando had already swooned when I tended to his injuries. Nothing I did roused him in the least.”
After rolling a napkin into a ropelike shape, she handed the item to the mother. “Have Maria bite down on this to help ease the pain.”
Sancha pushed up her sleeves, washed her hands in the water, and dried them on yet another napkin. She uncorked the wine and vinegar, showing both to the mother. “This is to cleanse your daughter’s wound.”
The moment the liquids touched her, Maria screamed around the napkin. Immediately, the men held her down. Swiftly, Sancha washed her knife blade in another pot, then ran it through the torch flame. Upon her return, she spoke to the men. “Hold her firmly. She will fight the pain and me.”
Maria spat the napkin from her mouth and wailed. Sancha hadn’t even touched her as yet. Didn’t matter. Screaming now, the child struggled against her uncles’ hold. Footfalls and voices neared the hut. Enrique stuck his head outside. Women and men stepped back.
Not only was he a stranger but a noble. “All is well.”
The child’s ear-piercing shrieks turned to gasping sobs.
“Tell the same to anyone who asks,” he said. “Especially Maria’s papá.”
Enrique closed the door. Sancha finally sliced into the child’s wound. Blood and pus spurted out. The girl shrieked louder than before.
His stomach rolled.
Sancha mopped up the mess with the napkins. She used so many, the crumpled linens fell off the table. Despite the gore, she never flinched or became ill as he would have. At last, she’d exposed the raw core of the wound and poured vinegar over the dark red flesh.
The little girl stiffened and swooned.
“The worst is over.” She looked at each family member in turn. “Do keep holding her should she awake without warning.”
Weeping, the mother made the sign of the cross over herself.
Sancha opened the brass vial. The moment she brought the container to the wound, the mother put out her hand. “Wait. What is that?”
“A mixture of wine, garlic, onion, and cow bile to keep the injury from infecting again.”
Enrique went to her. “Bile helps against an infection?”
“Physicians have used this for centuries as I did on Fernando.” She poured the mixture on a fresh napkin and applied it to the wound.
Once the area was fully saturated, she ran the tip of the needle through the fire as she had the dagger and pulled thread through the eye. Then she held the edges of the wound together with one hand while stitching with the other. The same as she’d do when repairing a rip in fabric rather than a child’s skin.
The mother covered her face.
Maria moaned several times but never awakened fully.
He’d never seen anything to match Sancha’s actions and knowledge. She’d performed similar healing with Fernando but Enrique hadn’t witnessed the actual methods. After snipping the thread with her scissors, Sancha washed the wound with more wine and vinegar, then wrapped several napkins around it. “You must keep the area clean.” She gestured to the dressings. “In my experiments—”
“Your what?”
She ignored him. “During those times when I was faced with a similar problem as Maria’s, if the wound became dirty, the infection returned.” She handed the remainder of the napkins and the brass bottle to the woman. “You can care for her during the next days using these.”
“What if she grows worse?”
“Send for me.” Sancha pulled several loaves of bread, a wheel of cheese, and a container of roasted pork from her bag and put each on a shelf to the side. “Make certain your daughter eats as much as she can during the healing period and drinks plenty of water to prevent a fever.”
She put out her hand to Enrique. “Give me any ducats or reals you have.”
Sensing she wasn’t in the mood for questions, he handed his money over.
She gave the coins to the mother, dug into her bag once more and produced even more gold and silver. “Use the coins to purchase whatever food you need for Maria and others in the village. If you eat well, you are less likely to fall ill.”
“I could never accept so much.”
“You can and you will. Señor Don Enrique insists.” She glanced over. “Do you not?”
He lifted his hands. “Of course.”
She fought a smile. The mother wept.
“Do you leave now?” Enrique asked Sancha.
She regarded Maria. “In time. I want to wait and watch. You may go, of course.”
He would stay.
Chapter 3
Sancha tried to concentrate solely on Maria, as she should, but kept failing to do so. With the child quiet for the moment, Enrique’s presence was too potent for her to deny. Each time she glanced over, he regarded her, his gaze thoughtful rather than possessive or filled with disdain.
She bathed Maria’s face to keep her cool. He drew near, watching the child, then her. The moment Sancha sank to her knees and gathered the soiled napkins, Enrique joined her, seeing to the task.
Turned