to get herself out of the castle when the people turned on the nobility. She was clever enough to get herself and my father away and hide and build a life, right here in this farmhouse. Good to know you’re a clever girl too.”
Papa gave me a garden and it was there that I went, running my hands through my plants, cataloguing them and choosing the ones I’d need to help me. Comfrey to stop the bleeding. Guinea pepper would be better but I had not yet managed to make it take in my garden, and I didn’t want to waste time running to the apothecary for some. Agrimony and comfrey should suffice in its place, yarrow as well, to be sure. Lavender, chamomile and prunella to purify the wound.
With my arms full of leaves I ran back to the house. My brother stood in the kitchen, tapping his foot on the floor as he glared at the kettle.
“Is it not done yet?” I asked.
“Mother has some,” he said. “This is the second lot.”
From upstairs we heard a shout of pain and both winced.
“He won’t be able to work for a while, will he?” Lief said.
“No, he’ll need to rest until it’s healed.”
“You’ll need to help me, then.”
“What do you mean by that?” I put the leaves on the table, moving around the kitchen for oats, muslin and more clean bowls.
“I mean no gallivanting off to the village to gossip about boys when there’s work to be done here.”
“My work is in the village, at the apothecary, remember?”
“You’ll need to take some time away, then, won’t you?”
“You’re not my father, Lief.”
“No, I’m not. Our father is upstairs bleeding because you were too lazy to put the tools away.”
I stilled, turning to look at him. “He never asked me to.”
He met my gaze, his eyes glittering with anger. “First, you shouldn’t need to be asked. And second, he tried to ask you this morning but you pretended not to hear.”
“I didn’t hear!” I protested, guilt prickling at me, though technically it was true, I hadn’t heard, because I’d been rushing to get to the village. “Are you saying this is my fault?”
“Here.” He slammed the copper kettle on to the scarred wooden table. “I’m going to check on him. Family first, Errin. Remember that.”
He left me standing there, numb, before I remembered I had a job to do. I ground up the comfrey and the agrimony and the yarrow, mixed it with oats to make a poultice, adding hot water and a little milk to bind it. I wrapped the whole thing in muslin, wringing it out and then racing up the stairs with it.
The room smelt of fresh blood when I returned, and Mama stepped aside for me while I examined the wound. Now clean, it was deeper than I’d thought. He must have fallen with most of his weight on it.
“How much brandy has he had?” I asked Mama, and she nodded to the bottle. A third of it was gone. “Hold this inside the wound. It will be messy but it will stop the bleeding. Once it’s stopped, we can clean it again, then it’ll need stitching.”
Mama nodded and took the poultice. Papa cried out again when she pressed it into the wound and Lief picked up the bottle and held it to his mouth.
“I’ll go and mix the next part,” I said, and Lief nodded tersely.
Back in the kitchen I set the kettle to boil again, adding the lavender, chamomile and prunella to my mortar and grinding it all together. I poured in a little water, and when it became a paste, I added a glob of pig grease to make my salve. Pig grease is best for using on men.
My father had passed out by this point, either from the pain or the brandy or a combination of the two, and it made my job much easier. When Mama pulled the poultice away, the flow of the blood had slowed, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I need you to help me now,” I said to my mother. “I need you to pull the skin together so I can stitch it.”
Though she turned a faint green colour, she nodded, and I threaded the needle she had brought me. But no sooner had I pierced the skin for the first stitch than she had run from the room, her hand to her mouth.
“Lief?” I asked, and he came, sitting on the other side of the bed.