its chimney wall shared by both rooms. The sound of Brindi’s quiet whispers rolled through the space above the crackling fire. Kenneth could barely hear Clara’s soft, soothing answers. Deciding to ignore them, he wrapped his cloak around him and stretched out in front of the upended table, his back to the fire and his heart heavy with the knowledge that he’d nearly killed the baby sister of the woman he was sent to guard.
* * *
After bedtime prayers, Clara tied her spare sleeping cap under Brindi’s chin and settled her sister on the pallet. Just before curling under the furs they used for bedding, she peered furtively through the flames to Kenneth’s back. With the exception of her family, never in her life had she had a man sleep in such proximity. And yet, she felt safe. Safer than she would have if they’d used the curtain as a door.
Any manner of beast could have wandered into her home. Bad enough that one of the stray cats had slipped in one morning a week ago and, after having been trapped inside for the whole day, had torn her home to shreds. And there were wild dogs and rodents and who knew what else out there in the night—
Goodness, though, Kenneth had broken down her door, then simply grabbed her table as if ’twere a child’s toy! And before that, he had threatened her sister with his sword. He may be protection against wild beasts, but who would protect Clara and Brindi from him? Mayhap she should have insisted he sleep on the other side of the door.
Nay, she knew the night air was unhealthy. And she’d long ago decided that she would not cause harm to anyone. Her aunt, gone now two years, had been Colchester’s best midwife and healer. She had insisted, when Clara made her decision to become one also, that she pledge to God that she would not harm anyone. Clara took that promise seriously and refused to dissolve it for anyone, even surly Norman soldiers.
She snuggled down against her sister, only now remembering the splinter in her palm. The throbbing heat in it told her it had begun to fester, but ’twas too late tonight to dig it out and cleanse the wound. And she was far too tired and cold to do so.
As with all children, Brindi was warm, and despite the circumstances, Clara was glad she had been found in Colchester and sent to Dunmow. Who knew what Lord Taurin would have done to Brindi had he found her?
She bit her lip. ’Twas an awful situation. And out there, hidden away, closer to Dunmow than Colchester, was Rowena. Clara would have to make sure that Taurin never found her. And never learned she and Brindi were here in Little Dunmow, despite there being only a day’s journey on horseback between the two settlements.
Please, Father, don’t let the guild masters tell Lord Taurin anything!
* * *
Daylight had begun to bleed into the sky when Clara, waking, eased herself back from her sleeping sister. Outside, in the coop, her rooster crowed, boldly announcing the new day.
She turned, sensing heat on her cheek. Surprisingly, a fire blazed in the hearth, its flames dancing around her best kettle, which hissed with steam.
She peered through the hearth to see the table righted and the doorway clear, with early-morning freshness rolling in to mix with the fire’s warmth. But no one was in sight. Where was Kenneth?
Clara rose, slipped past the curtain and stepped outside. Long, dark shadows stretched from the forest behind her house, shading her garden. She spotted Kenneth to her right, easing up the hatch to her chicken coop at the far end of the garden. The hens inside cackled their disapproval.
Though he still wore his clothes from yesterday, they had been brushed and straightened. His dark tunic and lighter leggings fit him well. She could see strong muscles along his back as he reached into the coop.
“Shh, ladies,” he cooed softly. “I just want a few eggs. You can spare them.”
Clara shoved her hands on her hips. “But I cannot!”
The hatch slammed shut and Kenneth spun, his hand dropping to his sword. Clara rolled her eyes. Only a soldier would take his sword to the henhouse for eggs.
“I was going to coddle you some eggs, but your hens are reluctant to move off their nests. I think I’ve upset them.”
“They’re fussy old women. I usually let them set for a while and come back when the sun is above the trees.” She looked up. “The sky is still clear. Was it cold for you last night?”
“I’ve slept in colder spots.”
She was glad to hear that, for all he’d had to keep him warm was his cloak, which was now tossed over his shoulders. Slipping past him, she lifted the hatch and propped it up with her shoulder to ease her hand under the hens’ warm bodies for their eggs. One old bird pecked her in defense, and Clara hastily recoiled. Automatically, she reached out with her left hand and received a sharper peck that time.
“Ouch!” She jumped back quickly, and the hatch slammed shut on her festering hand. She cried out again.
She stepped away, curling her stinging hand and biting her lip. Her palm hurt far more than it should from a simple splinter, and seething with the pain, she marched away from the coop, toward the corner of her hut, where the sun’s rays were reaching into the village and she could get a better look at her wound.
There, she peered down at her hand and sagged. The skin was red, shiny and open. The splinter site angrily announced that the wooden door to the dungeon had been filthy. Such filth had caused her flesh to fester. When she reached down to touch the skin with her finger, it felt smooth and hot.
“Let me see it.” Kenneth came up behind her and took her arm.
She fisted her hand and pulled it closer to her chest. “’Tis nothing but a scratch. The hen startled me, ’tis all.”
Kenneth shook his head. “If there is nothing there, then there is nothing to hide.” He firmly turned her wrist, easing up only when he noticed her grimace. “But if you are injured, you will need to have it cared for.”
“’Tis only a small cut.”
Kenneth tilted his head and raised his brows. “You say you pledged to do no harm, but you’re harming yourself. Therefore your word is about as healthy as that hand.”
Reluctantly, hating his rationale, she opened her fist. Kenneth frowned. “I’ve seen worse, of course, but a wound like this must be cleaned before it can heal.” His tone softened and he met her gaze with dark, unexpectedly warm eyes. “You’re a midwife, Clara. You should know that.”
“Aye, I do! Yesterday, ’twas not so bad, so I decided to wait until the light of day to pick out the wood. It has worsened overnight, unfortunately.”
“And it’s begun to fester. If you ignore it, ’twill cause a red streak up your arm and you will get very sick.”
She looked up at him. He knew a lot about injuries for a soldier. He must have seen plenty of them. “I know about the blood fester. My aunt would have used a leech on it, which are plentiful in Colchester with the Colne River close by. But I have none here. I’ll have to use that water you’ve heated to open the wound and dig out the splinter.”
“Nay, I’ll do it. You’ll probably shake too much. Do you have any salve? Honey would be best, but I fear it’s been in short supply lately and best saved for new cuts that have been cleaned.”
She blew on the hot flesh. “You sound like you have experience. Aye, honey works best before a cut begins to fester. In a copper pot above the hearth is a salve. It smells awful, so I usually mix it with wintergreen, which also helps to cool wounds. That’s in the clay pot beside it.”
He looked around, spying a bench along the low front wall of the hut. “Sit down and I’ll get what I need.”
“My thanks.” She sat. “But you’re a sergeant at arms, not a healer. How do you know of these things?”
“I have had to stitch many a wound. I recently sewed up Lord Adrien’s leg.”
“He fought