As she did so, Rowena was infinitely conscious of the fact that Hagar had removed the man’s wet and bedraggled clothing, for it lay in a filthy heap upon the floor at the foot of her bed. The sounds of her wetting and wringing out her cloth could not be mistaken, nor could the soft but incoherent sounds he made as he stirred restlessly from time to time.
Rowena did not allow herself to even glance toward the bed again, though she was not certain why. As she had told herself earlier, she had examined and treated more than one man, despite her somewhat tender years. It had been her mother who had taught her about plants and their medicinal properties. Yet she had soon confessed that Rowena’s natural aptitude far surpassed her own abilities.
Fascinated as she was with trying new and varied combinations of plants, Rowena had taken what her mother had taught her and expanded her knowledge by trial and error, as well as by searching out every other healer in the surrounding countryside.
Rowena’s knowledge and skill had grown until she was often called upon to minister to those in nearby villages. She took great satisfaction putting her life to some use in the community that had taken in a bastard child and her English mother, making them their own when they had had no one.
After what seemed a very long time, Hagar said, “You can get a better look at him with all that muck washed away.” She stepped back, the bowl of water held before her, murmuring, “What a pity,” as Rowena drew near.
The man was so pale without that covering of sand and dirt that his tenuous hold on life was obvious. As Rowena stopped beside the bed, it seemed as if his incoherent muttering had grown louder, though she still could make out none of what he was saying. Again she felt a sense of regret. At the same time she could not help acknowledging that the face was undeniably a strong one, the features quite pleasingly formed.
She remembered the expression in his eyes when he had opened them on the shore. Rowena realized that those eyes would soften that broad forehead, proud nose, high cheekbones and lean jaw. His face would be a compelling mixture of strength and gentleness.
Hagar distracted her from these thoughts, saying, “I’ll warrant there’s a broken heart that will never mend, should he die.”
“Rosalind.”
The name flitted through Rowena’s mind and she did not know she had said it aloud until Hagar replied, “What say ye?”
Rowena shrugged. “Just a name he said.”
The older woman frowned. “Ye spoke with him?”
Rowena did not look at Hagar as she recalled how the concern and compassion in his gaze as he’d spoke that name had moved her. “Nay, he came ’round only long enough to say that one thing. You see how he has been since.”
The older woman moved to the door with the bowl. “I’ve heard naught of a Rosalind.”
Rowena answered softly, “Nor I. He seemed so…If I could I would find her and bring her to him, for there was such a look to him when he said it. Her presence might help him to come through this alive.”
Hagar’s gaze was kind but measuring. “Aye, love will do such things.” She went outside to empty the bowl.
Quickly Rowena returned to the hearth, where the medications she was preparing would soon be ready. In one bowl she had mixed rue with wine she obtained from a monastery some miles away, for any pain he might be having in his head. She had also made another concoction of the mandrake to further aid in relieving any pain, as well as aid in sleeping, though the man had not fully regained consciousness thus far. Lastly she had prepared another bowl with a mixture of rue and vinegar, beside which she’d laid a scrap of clean white cloth.
Hagar, who had now returned, said, “You will bathe his head in rue?”
Rowena nodded. “’Twill perhaps help him to regain his wits.”
The older woman nodded in turn.
When Rowena was ready she moved to the bed and, trying not to show that she felt strangely self-conscious about touching this man, put her arm under his head and tipped the first bowl to his lips. To her relief he took it easily enough, swallowing whilst not fully rousing.
When the second bowl was empty, and Rowena had rubbed the rue and vinegar across his wide brow, Hagar said, “Now all we can do is pray.”
Rowena sighed. “Aye. Though I will continue to give the medicaments.”
Hagar answered softly, “May God’s own hands be with ye, lass.”
Rowena bowed her head humbly. “I pray that it be so.”
The older woman sounded weary as she sighed and said, “I mun go home and get the meal ready for my Sean now, if you’ve no more need of me.”
Rowena nodded quickly, feeling guilty for keeping the older woman from her work for so long. Hagar’s son was Rowena’s closest friend and had been since the day Rowena had first wandered down the forest path to their cottage. Of late Sean had seemed somewhat agitated and demanding, wanting her to take long walks and such when she was quite busy. He was wont to talk endlessly of a lass named Berta, whom he had met while delivering fish to a village farther inland. Rowena had no quarrel with his preoccupation, only his insistence that she hear his every thought. But she loved Sean wholly, and he would be hungry from his morning’s work. “I will keep you no longer. Thank you so very much for all you have done.”
The older woman shrugged as she moved to the door, her face filled with affection and approval. “I’ve done no more than yersel, my lass. You’ve a good heart in ye. If ye have need of me I will come.”
Rowena felt a rush of both happiness and self-consciousness. She whispered, “I love you as well.”
Hagar smiled, flushing with pleasure, and nodded, closing the door behind her. Her cottage was just a short distance away and close to the main path through the village. It would be no great effort to fetch Hagar if she was needed, but Rowena was determined to manage on her own.
No more than an hour had passed when Rowena was given cause to put her skills to the test. The man in the bed had begun muttering to himself again. By the time a new batch of potions was ready he had grown far louder, tossing and turning as she moved toward the bed to give them to him.
When Rowena reached out to put her arm around his neck to lift him up, he shocked her by grabbing hold of her wrist and rearing up in the bed, those blue eyes flying wide. The bowl fell, spilling the contents upon the coverlet, even as fear raced through her.
Her terror grew as the man cried, “Ashcroft…must find Rosalind….” He shook his head violently. “Dragon dead…the babe dead…not dead…”
Ashcroft, for the love of heaven—the stranger knew of Ashcroft and clearly connected it to this unknown Rosalind. But the references to dragons and dead babes were utterly incomprehensible. Desperately Rowena forced herself to break free from the terror that gripped her. Yet it took all her strength to pull her arm away from his.
Just as suddenly as he had risen up the sick man fell back upon the bed. His eyes were closed now, but the ravings continued, as did his thrashing about. With shaking fingers, Rowena grabbed the bowl and clutched it to her, backing away from the bed.
Calm, she told herself over and over again, she must be calm. Breathing as evenly as she could, she moved to the table to refill the bowl.
And all the while she could hear him repeating the same disjointed phrases. Her chest ached as she realized that he had obviously gone mad, as the other women had feared. It was such a pity for one so strong and virile to be brought so low.
How much of his mind might return when, and if, he recovered, she could not say. All she could do was attempt to keep him quiet, not only for his sake, but for hers.
By