Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) Read Online Free PDF Page A

healer. They were strong and gentle, as if he was well acquainted with death and life. Nay, it could not be. Not this man.
    The scent of freshly spilled blood reminded her of her purpose. She bent to remove the lids of her unmarked crocks and, because of the darkness, sniffed each one. She recognized the sharp smell of marigold. And then the sweet odor of camphor.
    â€œBlankets.” Giles returned, careful to keep his distance.
    She took the wool coverings he offered and was not amused when the knight stepped back. Out of fear? Revulsion? She noticed now that others did the same, suspicion written on their shadowed faces. The same suspicions she always raised when she acted differently from the obedient baron’s daughter they expected. Fie on them! As if she could sit at embroidery all day without going insane. Men did not do it. Why should she?
    â€œDo you wish him covered?” Malcolm’s voice drew her back to the task before her.
    Now that Hugh was free of his armor, she could begin her work. “Aye. First I want him off this cold ground. Spread out one length of wool, and you and I together will lift him onto it.”
    â€œYou and I?” He crooked his brow skeptically.
    â€œHow stupid of me to forget my lack of muscle! I will just have to try all the harder. Now, grab his head. Lift him gently on count of three.”
    â€œLet one of my knights…”
    Elin was used to the foolish beliefs of men. She grabbed Hugh’s ankles firmly, eyeing the stain of blood from his neck to his groin. A mortal wound. Sadness filled her. At least Hugh was unconscious and out of his misery. ’Twas always her patient’s pain that caused her the most sorrow. “One, two, three,” she counted, and lifted.
    As le Farouche hurried to secure Hugh’s head, knights rushed to Elin’s side, obviously doubting her strength. But she lifted Hugh almost as easily as the fierce knight did, and when they laid the injured man on the warm blanket, she saw the approval in Malcolm’s eyes—eyes like night without shadows. Light from the nearby fire chased away the deepest shades of darkness, giving more shape and substance to the knight. Dried blood marked his face in two places, above his brow and on his swollen lower lip. He was injured, but she read in his actions, on his face that he thought only of the one gravely wounded.
    â€œLooks like a deep gash to his abdomen. ’Tis not good.” She probed the wound with careful fingers. Blood rushed from the raw cavity. She scented severed intestines. “Alma, I shall need bandages and a good light.”
    â€œGiles,” Malcolm ordered. “Bring a torch.”
    In seconds a torch on a long handle was impaled in the ground at her side, revealing without remorse the neat and terrible wound. “I need to stop the blood first.”
    â€œThere’s naught you can do.” Worry and regret weighed down le Farouche’s words. “Unless you truly are a sorceress.”
    â€œI have been called worse.” She thanked Alma for theneedle and thread. The old woman hurried away to make ready bandages and to check on the water’s progress. “Take my knife and cut his flesh here. And here.” She pulled at the raw skin at the edges of the wound.
    â€œI’ll not worsen it.”
    â€œThen I will.” She snatched at the knife he held, but his fingers of steel would not release it. “I do not know if I can save him,” Elin confessed. “I have lost men injured far less seriously. But if I cannot bind the entrails and stem the source of blood, there will be certain death.”
    â€œYou cannot be a healer. No one claiming to cure would carve a deeper wound.”
    â€œThen let your friend die. But know this, le Farouche— Sir Hugh’s death will not be on my conscience, but on yours.”

Chapter Three
    H ugh would soon be dead, Malcolm knew, but the maiden’s challenge goaded him.