Page 41 of Lord of Mistrust

“Because those remedies are all we have at present. I would trust a hedgewitch a hundred times more than I would trust any physician. The cures of the former were used by our ancestors. They would have been forgotten by now if there was no efficacy in them. Can you find some charcoal for me, or get some embers going in the chafing dish?” She pushed her hair back under her coif and realized her forehead felt damp. She was working herself into a frenzy in her desperation to help Robert. If only Whiteley had come to her sooner!

“Once you have the chafing dish alight, take it upstairs and cast a few lavender leaves on it. Not too many—you don’t want to quench the heat. That should help improve the air—and if it smokes too much, put it by the window.”

She could barely wait for the water to boil. As soon as the first bubbles appeared, she poured water over the feverfew leaves and, remembering how bitter the taste would be, added honey. As soon as she was satisfied with the tisane’s strength, she strained it and hurried back up to Robert’s chamber.

She glanced at Whiteley. “Can you prop him up? I need him to drink this.”

He obliged, hefting the half-conscious Robert up onto his pillows. The invalid groaned and shook his head in annoyance, but Chloe settled herself alongside him and held the beaker to his lips. “This will taste a little bitter, Robert, but it will help break the fever. Drink as much as you can, I pray.”

She raised the cup to his lips, trying to still the tremor in her hand. His eyes opened wider and, for a moment, she thought she saw recognition in them, and the hint of a smile on his lips. He sipped dutifully until the cup was empty.

She sucked in a breath. That had been the easy part. She now had his arm to attend to. As she reached toward the stained and stinking bandage, Whiteley caught at her wrist.

“I’ll do it, Mistress. ’Tis no sight for a lady. I shall follow whatever instruction you care to give.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m no milk-and-water maid, sir. Particularly not after my recent adventures. I have no intention of fainting. Will you go down to the kitchen and fetch up the hot water and a clean cloth, if you can find one?”

Whiteley dutifully retreated downstairs again, and Chloe was left alone with Robert. Not sure why, she held his hand for a moment and found she could draw strength from its warmth. Summoning up her courage, she cut away the bandage on his upper arm. He moaned a little as the cloth stuck, so she waited until Whiteley returned with the warm water, then set about soaking the rest of the bandage away.

She worked with slow deliberation, shutting her nose to the smell of decaying flesh until the wound was as clean as she could make it. Then she took up the rotten pear and, choking down her revulsion, tapped the wriggling maggots out of it and into Robert’s wound.

Then she sat back, at a loss. Should she cover the injury? Would the maggots be happy there, or would they try and crawl away? Her medical book had assumed that its readers already had a store of relevant knowledge.

“Oh, sir, I don’t know what to do now!” Her voice was hoarse, and she felt herself sway. Whiteley caught and held her until her cheeks began to redden, and she pushed away.

“You’re too kind. I’ll recover myself directly.” She glanced at Robert’s crawling, open wound, and winced.

“I think it best to cover it, so that the creatures are encouraged to stay, but lightly, so as not to damage them while they are about their work. I can do that—my stomach is stronger than yours, my hand more stable.”

Chloe glanced down and saw how much her hands were shaking. “I thank you, sir. But pray, be gentle.”

Relieved, she walked to the window and stole some more deep breaths. The air in the room smelled heavy and rich, far healthier than before. She forced her body to a state of calm, then slowly and deliberately cleansed her hands.

“Done. I’ll tidy up in here, then arouse one of the servants to watch over Robert while I take you home.” Whiteley collected the dirtied cloths and bandages and put them in the basket.

“When does the doctor call again?” Chloe was pleased her voice had lost its nervous edge.

“He said he’d be here on the morrow at about eleven of the clock.”

“I’ll move heaven and earth to be here, that I may speak with him. That sawbones must be dissuaded from removing Robert’s arm. If you can bear it, Master Whiteley, could you change his dressing in the meantime? And mayhap someone could give him a gentle wash and change his bedding.”

“Of course. I’ll clean him up. But remember, Mistress, that the doctor’s a capable and experienced man. If he firmly believes that taking off the arm will save Robert’s life, ’tis not our place to argue with him.”

Her jaw tightened. “I understand that, but I remain to be convinced. I beg of you, sir, let no decision be made before I arrive.”

Whiteley gave her a solemn bow. “You have my word.”

She turned and bent to place a light kiss on Robert’s brow. In a voice too soft to be heard by Whiteley, she whispered, “You mustn’t die, Robert. I know not how I shall live without you, my love.”

Then, dashing away a tear, she left the chamber.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Robert’s arm stung like the devil. It felt as if he’d been branded like a common criminal, but he resisted the urge to touch the sore spot, lying still and attempting to will the pain away.

The past week was a blur. He knew Whiteley had been into his bedchamber several times and had been aware of the familiar face of his housekeeper, Goody Chandler. There had been some dark-clad, dark-capped men who he must assume were physicians. They were definitely there in a healing capacity, as he usually felt better for their visits.

There had been another presence, too, one he had felt rather than seen, as fleeting and as beautiful as an angel in a dream. Had it been real or not? No matter—he’d been feverish, and all manner of visions visited those whose bodies burned with sickness.