AETHELFREDA’S PERSONAL PHYSICIAN WAS a monk wise in herbs and healing. Even so, Sydney refused his aid, until Aethelfreda ordered her to let Hrodgar look at the wound. Hrodgar took her behind a cart and she stripped off her gunna and rolled up the sleeve of the undershirt, which was stiff with dried blood. “It’s just a scratch,” she assured him. In truth, she barely felt the wound at all, now. During the night it had throbbed although it had not started bleeding again.
Hrodgar peered at the wound. “It does appear to be a simple scratch, which is remarkable, given how much blood you have spilled.”
Sydney turned her arm and peered down at the wound. The edges were pushed together and were a pasty white color, as if the wound was several days old. There was no redness or inflammation, which had been her greatest fear.
“They are saying you are the one who gutted the Powys giant,” Hrodgar said as he turned her arm this way and that, so the light would fall on the wound better.
“I barely nicked him, I’m sure,” she said. “I was too busy running away to take notice.”
“You must be a fierce fighter if the champion of Mathrafel could only reach through your guard enough to deliver a simple slice.” He dropped her arm. “You are right, the wound is minor and already healing well. I would not disturb it any further.”
He gave her a nod and left her to dress again. She fingered the neat tear in the sleeve of the gunna. The sword had been sharp and by rights should have cut a much deeper wound that it had. There was something strange about the way it was healing so well in the septic conditions of tenth century England.
And now Aethelfreda was convinced she was a lucky charm and would not move without Sydney by her side. How could she desert the army and escape back into Powys if the Lady wanted her always in sight?
With a sigh, she dressed again, wincing as she moved. Another day on horseback. That was what was really going to kill her.
* * * * *
Rafe let himself “wake” in slow stages, approximating the stages of sleeping and waking that a wounded human would go through. He would have to find a way to cut open his flesh just before a physician inspected it, so that a suitably gory wound would be seen.
“This one is just coming round, sir!” came a young, piping voice just above him.
“Let him be. He’ll wake on his own and then I will deal with him,” was the answer.
Rafe caught his breath. The voice had been Alex’s. He fought not to open his eyes and look around immediately, because he had to maintain the illusion of a weakened and groggy human.
Then a hand picked up his wrist and held it, the fingers over where his pulse should be.
“What’s this one’s name?” the voice that was Alex’s asked.
“Rhys, sir. He’s the King’s scribe.”
“Rhys. Wake up,” Alex said.
Rafe let his eyes open.
Alex was watching him.
Rafe battled to hide his shock. He scrambled to put it together. Nothing made sense. He was still in Powys. The smell and the sounds told him that much. Alex was crouched beside him, which meant Rafe was lying on a floor. There was a roof overhead that looked familiar. Were they back in Powys already? Had he been unconscious that long? The blow Sydney had given him had been deep and effective. Had it been bad enough to keep him out of it for the day or more it would have taken to get back here?
And Alex…. Alex.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered, so quietly it was almost sub-vocalized.
“Shhh….” Alex also whispered. Then he got to his feet. He was wearing the robes of a lord or a prince. They were rich garments, speaking of a man who was well compensated for his work. A boy was standing beside him with a small wooden chest in his arms. Those would be the tools of Alex’s trade.
“This man is not ill enough to be kept with the others,” he told the boy. “Have him put in a proper bed to sleep and recover.”
The boy frowned. “A bed, my lord?”
“Not in one of the dormitories, either. He needs peace.” He glanced at Rafe and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I hear tell that he tackled the Lady of Mercia’s personal champion before she tried to run him through.”
“Aye, he did and all,” the boy said, excitement threading his voice, lifting it higher. “They say she is taller than Tegid himself and she gutted him and all, too.”
“I had the pleasure of stitching Tegid up. She didn’t gut him, but she did slice rather close to parts without which a man wouldn’t be a man.”
Rafe held back his laughter.
“So find the scribe a bed and some peace and quiet to recover in, there’s a lad,” Alex said. “He’s a hero.”
“My lord, there’s no bed to be had that is quiet, like you say.”
“Then give him mine,” Alex said shortly. “God knows I will not be using it for days yet, with all these war wounds to see to.”
Rafe closed his eyes and pretended to be sleeping, so when the porters came and carried him to the peaceful bed Alex had prescribed, he looked in need of it.
He had a thousand questions. And a thousand more after that. Yet there was a deep relief in knowing that Alex was here with him in this time.
Now they only needed to find the monk copying Nennius, have the pages inserted, then grab Sydney and go home.
Everything was going to be just fine.