surprise, Phillippa rose to respond, taking the ruined clothing with her. From where she knelt Lucie watched as the Riverwoman set a small pot over the fire. Magda noticed her interest and named the ingredients as she slowly mixed them in. ‘Three spoonfuls each of the gall of a barrow swine, hemlock juice, briony, lettuce, poppy, henbane and vinegar.’
Recognizing the ingredients of dwale, a potent mixture Magda used for surgery, Lucie realized that the arm was to be removed. She had been afraid of that – she had never witnessed an amputation, much less helped with one.
Magda told Phillippa to have vinegar and salt ready for afterwards, when they must rub Poins’s temples with the mixture until he woke, for it was important that he not remain long in the deep slumber the dwale would induce, or he might never wake. As Magda brought the mixture to a boil, she asked for a butchering knife or an axe, and a block of wood. Lucie did not want Phillippa handling blades. Asking her aunt to take her place dribbling the brandywine over Poins’s lips, Lucie fetched the butchering knife from the rack on the wall, placed it by Magda, then went out to the garden shed for a block. She wished Owen were here. During his last months as captain of archers, when he was recovering from the terrible wound that cost him the sight in his left eye and the shoulder wound that made it difficult to handle a bow, Owen had helped the old duke’s camp surgeons in Normandy. Surely he had assisted with many amputations. And he was strong. He would have been of more use to Magda. But God had not seen fit to arrange that.
When Lucie returned to the kitchen, Magda was mixing the wine into the dwale. She glanced up at Lucie. ‘Canst thou hold him once he has drunk his fill?’ she asked. When Lucie hesitated, Magda said, ‘Thou shouldst not be ashamed to admit thou canst not bear his pain.’
‘It is not that. I have never assisted with such a surgery. But I believe God will give me the strength.’
Magda grunted. ‘The strength comes from thee, notthy god. Stand at his head. Dame Phillippa, Magda will call thee when she needs thee.’
Phillippa rose and retired to the hall without argument.
‘She was frightened at first,’ said Lucie, ‘thinking we were back at Freythorpe, at the fire.’ It was more than a year since a group of thieves had attacked the manor, set fire to the gatehouse, but Phillippa often wandered in time.
‘Magda has oft seen an alarm sharpen the wits of such as Phillippa.’ She poured some of the mixture into a cup, crouched down by Poins. ‘Thou art ready?’
Lucie nodded.
‘Lift his head now.’
Slipping one hand beneath the back of the man’s head and the other beneath his shoulders, Lucie lifted him. Magda brought the cup to Poins’s lips, helped him drink a goodly amount, and then again. As he began to swoon, she took the hide she had brought and covered him, slipped the block beneath the burned arm. Poins jerked at her touch, then moaned, a more heart-rending moan than what had gone before, and was still. Lucie remembered her pain after the fall. Her bruised hand had ached, her torn arm had burned and could not support her, but worst of all had been the deep, twisting pain in her womb and groin, for she had known it meant an irreparable loss. Was Poins aware he was about to lose his arm, she wondered.
Magda had taken three lengths of rope from her pack. With one she was tying Poins’s legs together below the knees. Lucie marvelled at the strength in the small, elderly woman, the calm silence in which she prepared for a terrible surgery. She moved up to Poins’s waist with the second length of rope, lifted his lower back and drew the rope through, tied his good arm downagainst his side. His eyelids fluttered, he muttered something unintelligible, rocking his head from side to side, then lay still again. Donning a leather apron, Magda took the knife in both hands, nodded to Lucie. ‘Hold his head
Johnny Shaw, Matthew Funk, Gary Phillips, Christopher Blair, Cameron Ashley