The Healers Apprentice (3 page)

She would give him some time to drink the tea before she attempted to sew up his wound, although she knew the tea would help very little. She hoped God would be merciful and he would pass out from the pain, as the little boy yesterday had done.

The prospect of what lay ahead forced Rose toward the window and she looked out, searching the only entrance into the castle. She willed Frau Geruscha to be there, straining her eyes, hoping, agonizing. But Frau Geruscha was nowhere in sight.

Lord Hamlin’s men were talking. “We were closing in on him,” the red haired one said. “He was hiding out in the cave.”

“Had it not been for the boars, we would have caught him,” the blond one answered.

“He must have sent demons into them, the way they came after us.”

So Lord Hamlin had been injured while searching for the evil Moncore. But now was not the time to think about Lord Hamlin’s valiance in trying to rescue his betrothed. Frau Geruscha was not coming. Rose was alone in caring for Lord Hamlin’s leg wound.

Wilhelm held the cup to his lips and watched the healer’s apprentice walk to the window, giving him a clear view of her profile. Her brown hair glowed in the sunlight that poured through the glass. Her nose and chin were small, her cheekbones high, and her lips full and perfect. He recognized her. She was the girl he’d seen on the street with the dog.

He knew about this girl. His father had recently approved Frau Geruscha’s request to have the maiden as her apprentice. If he remembered
correctly, her name was Rose. She was a beauty, a woodcutter’s daughter who ordered his knights around as if they were lackeys. But he’d been betrothed since he was five years old, so he was used to guarding his heart. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be tempted by a woodcutter’s daughter—or a healer’s apprentice—no matter how beautiful.

Her wolfish dog sat in the corner of the room and eyed Wilhelm’s two knights, who were staring at Rose. The dog growled low in his throat, his forelegs pulled in tight, ready to spring at the men if the need arose.

Wilhelm studied Christoff and Georg. With a fair maiden in their midst, he knew his men too well to doubt their thoughts. He suddenly agreed with the dog. He didn’t want them staring at her.

“Christoff, Georg, you may go now.”

They tore their gaze away from Rose. “My lord?”

“Unless you want to watch her sew me up?” He raised his eyebrows.

The men seemed to realize what was coming and practically raced each other to the door. From outside, Christoff called, “We shall wait nearby.”

Wilhelm grinned at their haste. He brought the tea to his lips and drank until he had swallowed some of the leaves and all of the liquid, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

The maiden turned from the window with dread in her face. He hoped the tea worked. The pain in his leg made him clench his teeth, but he bit back a hiss, since the girl looked as though she might cry herself at any moment.

He set the cup on the floor and lay flat, letting his head sink into the prickly, straw-filled pillow. She placed a low stool next to him then rummaged through a basket at the foot of the bed and withdrew black string and a needle.

“So what is that you’re stitching me up with?” He forced his tone to sound calm, hoping to put them both at ease.

One side of her mouth went down as if she were avoiding his gaze. “Catgut, my lord.”

She stared down at the needle and he watched her draw in another big breath. She closed her eyes as she made the sign of the cross. Her lips moved silently, then her long lashes swept up, revealing warm brown eyes that brimmed with determination.

His heart beat faster.

“When Frau Geruscha sews up a wound, she tells the person to
think about something else, to imagine they are in a favored, peaceful place.”

Wilhelm nodded and closed his eyes. He could do that. He wouldn’t think about the needle, the catgut, or his leg.

Her soft fingers, gentle and tentative, touched his bare leg, near the wound. But he couldn’t think about that, either. He’d think of a stream…
Yes
,
with the sun glittering on it…a nice grassy bank and a big tree. The leaves are moving with the breeze…the grass is cool.

There it was, the stab of the needle piercing his flesh. His leg tensed in spite of himself. He forced a moan to the back of his throat. The tea wasn’t working.

I’m floating above the stream
,
watching the water glide over the rocks. The breeze rustles the leaves…birds are singing. The sun is bright and warm…

His eyes watered. He wanted to groan against the fiery pain reopening in his leg. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t see the stream or the tree or the grass anymore.

He opened his eyes. The maiden was bending low over his leg. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face, but she sat at an angle and so he had full view of her features. She bit her lower lip, and he thought he saw her chin quiver. Was that a tear glistening on her eyelashes?

The pain was intense, radiating from his leg to his whole body like flames of fire. He wanted to cry out, but he wouldn’t do that to her. No, he wouldn’t make a sound. Instead, he would concentrate on making her think he was asleep. He would relax each muscle in his body, starting with his legs…going up to his stomach…relaxing his arms…now his face. Yes, he was on the stream bank again, watching the leaves of the tree, hearing the water rush along.

Time seemed to stand still as he fought to ignore the pain. Sweat slid from his forehead into his eyebrows, into the corner of his eyes and down his cheeks, but he didn’t move to brush it away. At some point he stopped seeing the stream and tree and opened his eyes again. He saw Rose, her hair glowing in the sunlight, and heard her soothing voice.

“It’s almost over now.”

The pressure near the wound lifted as she removed her hands from his leg. He watched her disappear into the storage room.

Raising his head, he looked at the crisscross of black stitching. The whole area throbbed and burned, but he was relieved to see the wound closed.

Wilhelm collapsed back on the pillow, his thoughts filled with the maiden, Rose. He remembered the compassion emanating from her eyes. And that was the thing that had surprised him. Plenty of people were afraid of him, and he’d received many amorous looks from women, but he wasn’t sure he had ever seen such raw compassion.

He closed his eyes and saw her again as she’d looked standing at the window, and a warm, pleasurable sensation flooded him.

Must be the herbs.

Out of sight of her patient, Rose sobbed silently into her hands. It was over now. She hadn’t mishandled the stitching too badly—she hoped. Thanks be to God, Lord Hamlin must have sunk into unconsciousness halfway through.

She stopped crying and wiped her face with a cloth. She poured some water into a basin and washed her hands, rubbing her cuticles where Lord Hamlin’s blood had dried black.

The sweat had poured off his brow while she worked on his leg. She should get a damp cloth to wipe his face. She poured cool water from the pitcher onto a clean bandage. Her hands shook and the water dribbled onto the floor.

As Rose emerged from the storage room and walked toward Lord Hamlin, she thought his eyelids flickered but hoped he was still unconscious. She hesitated beside his bed. Wipe the face of the duke’s son? If she knew he wouldn’t wake up she would gladly perform that small act of kindness.

His chest rose and fell beneath his fine white shirt and hip-length, sleeveless doublet. Her gaze shifted to his face. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from his masculine features—strong chin, high cheekbones, thick lashes, and well-formed lips. The way his black hair curled and clung to his forehead gave him an endearing look. His arms and chest were well-muscled, possibly from his training in archery and swordplay. And now that she had seen him up close, her curiosity had been assuaged and she could tell Hildy—his eyes were blue, deeper and darker than a woodland pool.

Those eyes flicked open and fastened on her.

Rose inhaled sharply and thrust the cloth toward him.

He stared at it then reached and took it from her. “I thank you.” He wiped the sweat from his face.

Heart pounding, cheeks burning, she scurried back toward the storage room. She prayed he didn’t realize she’d been standing there visually examining him.

At least she hadn’t wiped his face.

When she returned, he had pulled himself into a half-sitting position and regained the color in his cheeks. His bare leg looked vulnerable on the white sheet. The black stitches stood out against his skin. She cringed. They looked like the crooked stitches of a child just learning to sew.

Rose sat on the stool, holding a long strip of clean linen. She tried to ignore Lord Hamlin’s steady gaze.
Saints be praised
,
this is almost over.

She wrapped the bandage around the wound several times with one hand, awkwardly holding his leg up with the other. Finally, she tied a thin strip around it to hold it in place. Relief spread through her. It was done.

“May I get you some water?” She didn’t have any wine to offer him.

“Yes, I thank you.”

She filled a tankard from the pitcher in the storage room and carried it back in to him. As she returned, his eyes focused on her skirt.

“Forgive me. I’ve ruined your dress.”

She looked down and saw a blood stain the size of an apple. She shook her head. “It’s my fault. I forgot to put on my apron.”

“The fault is mine. I’ll see that it is replaced.”

“I pray you not to trouble yourself.”

“I shall have it replaced.”

Her face grew hot.
I’m arguing with Lord Hamlin.
She curtsied. “As you wish, my lord.”

Rose handed him the water and began cleaning up, relieved to have something to do. She picked up his cup of tea and the pan of bloody water and carried them into the storage room, emptying them in the refuse bucket. When she returned, he was drinking the last of the water from the tankard. He set it on the floor, his expression gentle.

“I am most indebted to you, Rose.”

He knew her name.

She swallowed and shook her head. “I apologize that Frau Geruscha wasn’t here. She’s the experienced one.” Her voice trailed off at the last sentence. She wasn’t eager to let him know that his was the first wound she’d ever treated.

At times such as this Rose wondered why Frau Geruscha had chosen her to be her apprentice. Rose had always been a favorite with the healer, who had often visited Rose’s family when Rose was a child, teaching her to read and write. But Rose suddenly wondered why she’d never thought to ask her parents why Frau Geruscha—obviously an influential woman at Hagenheim Castle, a woman educated in a convent—had paid so much attention to her, a poor woodcutter’s daughter.

Lord Hamlin sat calmly studying her. She remembered the proud tilt of his head and the disdainful way he’d looked away from her the day he and his brother returned from Heidelberg. There was no evidence of that arrogance now. But as the son of the Duke of Hagenheim, he possessed more wealth and power than anyone else in the region. If truth be told, more than King Wenceslas himself.

She felt uncomfortable beneath his gaze. If the townspeople thought of her as lacking social status, how much more lowly would she appear to Lord Hamlin?

“You will want to return to your room.” She jumped to her feet.

Lord Hamlin raised his eyebrows, but before he could reply, she bolted to the door. She spotted Sir Georg and Sir Christoff in front of the blacksmith shop in the castle courtyard and motioned them in. The two knights entered the room and advanced to where Lord Hamlin lay. They each hooked an arm around his shoulders, hoisted him up, and started for the door.

Lord Hamlin looked over his shoulder. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that paralyzed her.

She should curtsy at least. She bobbed a quick one as he disappeared out the door.

The morning after tending Lord Hamlin’s wound, Rose went to the kitchen to break her fast. When she returned, a stack of fabric lay on the desk by the window where she often sat. On top was a folded note with
Rose
written on the outside. She unfolded the parchment and read.

Please accept these fabrics as a replacement for the dress I ruined. My sister
,
Lady Osanna
,
chose them for you.
It was signed,
Lord Hamlin.

Lord Hamlin wrote a note to me?
Hildy would die of raptures when she heard. But what did the gift truly mean? That he pitied her? That
she was obviously in need? Her dress
was
ugly, the material coarse and plain. Rose’s cheeks tingled in embarrassment.

She put the note aside, unable to resist examining the fabrics. One was a luxurious gold silk. Beneath it was a smaller amount of matching gold-and-red brocade. She let her fingertips glide over the smooth cloth and intricate stitching.

The next was a burgundy velvet, its texture soft and rich. These materials were very fine and would make the most exquisite dresses, by far, that Rose had ever owned. But when would she ever have need of such clothes?

The last one was a bolt of plain blue linen that would make the sort of dress more fitting for a working maiden like herself. At least she would get some use from
that.
The rest of the fabric was appropriate only for a lady—Lady Osanna, for example.

Her thoughts drifted to Lord Hamlin, his deep voice saying her name, his blue eyes and perfect teeth and lips as he glanced at her over his shoulder.

Abruptly, she turned away from the fabric. She folded the note and stuffed it into her apron pocket.
Dreaming about Lord Hamlin. I’m as bad as Hildy.

The southwest tower window was before her. She watched dark clouds roll toward their walled town. The wind raced ahead of them, causing the people in the Marktplatz to gather their goods and pack them away into sacks and barrels before the rain came.

With his injured leg, Lord Hamlin and his knights would not be riding out today, as they’d done so often before Lord Hamlin went away two years ago, to hunt for the man who stood between him and his betrothed. If it were not for Moncore, Lord Hamlin would be married. The lady was of age by now. Rose was ashamed to admit, even to herself, that she felt a twinge of jealousy toward her.