Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,87
it’s a real mess we have here,” she muttered under her breath.
“The bones?” he managed between gritted teeth.
“Aye … I cast them this morning, and they were quite adamant.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. The woman wasn’t making any sense—although it probably had more to do with his fever-addled brain.
However, he didn’t answer her. Quite frankly, he lacked the energy to do so. He wanted Gavina back in here at his side, to interlace his fingers through hers one last time before oblivion took him.
He needed for this woman to get on with things.
But instead, this witch, in her blue kirtle, smelling of dried herbs and summer, was digging through her basket. She produced a small clay pestle and mortar and proceeded to add herbs and powders to the mortar.
Draco watched her mash them. She was frowning in concentration now, and there was something about the woman that made him uneasy—as it had back when they’d visited her hovel in Stonehaven.
Now, just like then, the hair on his arms prickled.
Nessa wasn’t what she appeared—this woman’s young and pretty appearance perhaps fooled many. Yet Draco sensed she wielded real power.
She finished mixing the herbs before adding a few drops of something from a clay bottle. And then, as Draco continued to observe her, Nessa’s eyelids fluttered closed. Flexing her fingers over the mortar, she murmured a few words.
Draco’s skin prickled once more. Ancient words.
Suddenly, he was back in that bandruì’s hut, watching her paint a sickle on Maximus’s forehead with crow’s blood.
This woman was truly a witch. Not just a wise woman who dabbled in ancient arts—but a real witch. Energy vibrated off her.
“Who are you?” he asked as she picked up the mortar and turned to him. It was the same question he’d asked her in her hovel. And now, just as then, she didn’t answer him directly. “Someone who’s about to save yer life,” she replied, her full mouth lifting at the corners.
“But—”
“Lie still, man. Save yer strength.” The firmness in her voice warned him from pressing further.
Sinking back against the pillows, Draco took a shallow breath, and then another. He hated feeling this weak.
“Fortunately for ye, the power of the Mead Moon still dominates,” Nessa murmured. “The tides are high, and healing energy is at its strongest.”
Draco listened, not understanding half of what she’d just uttered. She mentioned the Mead Moon when he and Gavina had visited her in Stonehaven; clearly, the moon’s cycles were linked to Nessa’s power.
Pouring some vinegar onto a piece of linen, Nessa leaned over him and cleaned his wounds.
Draco sucked in a breath, biting down to prevent himself from crying out.
Oblivious to his pain, Nessa reached into the mortar, took a handful of the paste she’d just mixed, and then spread it over his wounds, pushing it into the holes.
Draco arched off the bed, letting out a howl of agony.
The door to the bed-chamber flew open, and Gavina appeared. “Draco!” she gasped, her gaze snapping to the wise woman. “What are ye doing to him?”
“Attempting to help him,” Nessa replied, not glancing Gavina’s way, her tone clipped. “Now … please leave us alone.”
Gavina placed her hands upon her hips, scowling. She didn’t intend to go anywhere.
“It’s fine, Gavina,” Draco gasped, collapsing back onto the bed. “Do as she says.”
He closed his eyes then, gritting his teeth as the agony subsided. An instant later, the door thudded shut.
“You could have warned me,” he said weakly, “before you did that.”
“Better I didn’t,” Nessa replied. “Ye were never going to enjoy it.”
Draco opened his eyes to see that she was now spreading the rest of the ointment upon his wounds. Heat suffused his side, and then it started to burn.
Draco growled a curse. “What have you treated me with, woman? It feels like my insides are on fire.”
“Best ye don’t know.” Nessa stretched a hand over his flank, her fingers flexing once more. “Folk get squeamish about such things … quiet now … I’m almost done.”
Draco clenched his jaw, tensing as the ointment burned into his flesh. He was now riding a wave of pain—agony pulsing in time with his heartbeat, with each ragged breath. Sweat ran down his face and neck. He wasn’t sure how much more he could endure before he wailed like a babe.
Ignoring his suffering, the witch closed her eyes and started to murmur.
Words slipped from her tongue, rising and falling in the bed-chamber. Draco paid them little mind now though; he was fighting his own battle.