Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (11 page)

Those most likely to live in any event, Elisha thought.

“Then my assistants will show you how to apply my solution.” The physician patted his senior assistant fondly, then swung about to Elisha. “Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir,” Elisha growled.

“Benedict,”—he gestured to the senior assistant— “has recently returned from his own studies at Salerno. If you are alert, perhaps he may impart some of his knowledge.” Lucius gazed vaguely into the distant reaches of the hall. “I understand there is a hearth where Benedict may assemble the ingredients?”

Over his shoulder, Elisha called, “Maeve?”

When she appeared beside him, he said, “Show these men to the kitchen, would you?”

Maeve bobbed a curtsey and said, “Follow me, my lords.” She set off down the aisle, Benedict and another assistant, loaded down with a large jug and a variety of parcels, following more slowly. In profile, Benedict looked a touch pale as he passed the moaning soldiers lying on the dirty floor.

Turning back, Elisha found the physician staring at him, his arched brows drawn down now. “You are an ignorant, arrogant wretch, Barber, and I cannot guarantee your position here if you fail to show the proper deference to myself and my assistants. Need I remind you what may await your return home?”

Chastened, Elisha replied, “No, sir.”

“Good.” He spun on his heel and bade a hasty retreat from the stink and the noise.

When Lucius had gone, the young surgeon fetched a handful of long rods, each tipped with a slightly different shape of forged iron. Elisha had a few years and a few inches on him, but the surgeon succeeded in adopting the physician’s supercilious manner as he swept by into the room full of common soldiers. Sighing, Elisha pointed out the area Maeve had indicated earlier. Surveying the victims of the bombardelles, the surgeon pointed with his bundle. “These four will do. Bring that one first.” So saying, he took off down the aisle, as if he hoped to avoid the importuning cries of those he left behind.

Looking toward the men who hadn’t been seen, Elisha sighed again, and bent to the man in question. “Sorry,” he muttered, getting his arms around him and heaving him up, trying to avoid jostling the bloody side.

“Ach! For the love of God,” the soldier moaned, gripping a handful of Elisha’s shirt, and not a little hair along with it.

Wincing, Elisha carried him the length of the room, into the adjoining kitchen. Here, the two assistants had roused the fire again from banked embers and were mucking about with an enormous pot and a book which presumably held the physician’s recipe. The surgeon thrust his irons into the fire and waited, arms crossed, fingers drumming on his hip.

“While those heat up, can I…?” Elisha pointed back toward the waiting soldiers, but the surgeon snorted.

“The physician specifically said you were to assist me. What will he think of your trying to get out of it so quickly?”

Hands on hips, Elisha replied, “He might think I wanted to do my work.”

“Now how likely does that seem to you, Benedict?” The surgeon raised his eyebrows to the physician’s assistant.

Benedict’s head shot up, and he rounded on the surgeon with one finger pointing like a blade. “You’ve no right to my name, Surgeon, and see you remember it. As for him,” he poked the finger in Elisha’s direction, “he’s got little right to even share this room as far as I’m concerned.”

Shutting his jaw with a snap, the surgeon stared at Benedict’s back for a
long moment, then turned to Elisha, mustering his former air as if he had not been rebuked.

Anyone would think these men were enemies, not allies. Elisha shrugged out of his shirt and draped it over a broken chair, then adjusted his apron.

“What’re you doing?” the surgeon snapped.

Elisha willed himself to calm. “Getting comfortable. Unlike some, I have a lot of work to do.”

“You’ve never done military service, have you?” asked the surgeon, his voice suddenly warming and curious.

Suspicious, Elisha lowered his gaze. “No.”

“Then let me inform you. Insubordination is a crime here. That means insulting anyone above your station. Myself included.” Ticking them off on his fingers, he said, “First offense: flogging. Second offense: branding. Third offense: hanging. Is it clear?”

Elisha swallowed. “Clear, sir. Forgive me.” He settled to the ground beside the wounded man.

Rolling his head, the wounded soldier said, “I’d give him a mind, you’ll not be the first he’s reported.”

With an ironic smile, Elisha said, “I thought the last barber was shot by one of these bombardelles.”

“Why’d ye think he was on the field?”

Back home, physicians and master surgeons often made diagnoses and ordered treatments that were carried out by barbers. They disdained their lesser partners, but never before had the power to kill them. Losing his smile, Elisha leaned over the soldier and started to tear away the fabric around the injury. “I expect you know this’ll hurt like the devil.”

“Worse than the shot?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”
If you live so long,
he did not add. From the look in the man’s eyes, he didn’t have to. The shot had cut through just below the man’s ribs, tearing a wicked furrow in the flesh. Given a choice, Elisha might have packed the wound with wadding or created a tent dressing to keep out the grime. It looked no more poisoned than any other wound, aside from the threads that clung to it from his ruined tunic. Elisha plucked these with a pincer as he awaited his orders.

The lower ceiling of the kitchen gave the room a closed in feeling, with one wall
dominated by an open hearth where the two assistants worked. An old table stained with blood took up the center of the room, surrounded by an assortment of chairs scavenged from here or there. Hooks held a few iron and brass pots, as well as a couple of ladles that were clearly recent additions. Heaped wood filled the far end, much of it showing the decorative carving of church pews and rood screens.

“Ready,” said the surgeon. He donned a long leather glove. “Hold him still.”

With the soldier’s head in his lap, Elisha wrapped his arms through the soldier’s, pinning them.

“Lord bless me,” the man muttered, then the surgeon applied his iron, scorching the flesh with a terrible sizzle. The scent took Elisha right back to the witch’s stake.

Every muscle in the soldier’s body tautened and strained against Elisha’s grasp. The soldier screamed until his throat went hoarse, then the surgeon returned with another iron, jabbing it to the wound, and the man fainted dead away. Shutting his eyes, Elisha relaxed his arms and took a deep breath.

“Barber! Roll him over, let me be sure I got the back.”

Gently, Elisha did as he was told, cradling the soldier’s head. After a parting burn, the surgeon waved them off, turning his back to plunge the iron into a bucket of water, then back into the fire.

Carefully, Elisha gathered the soldier and carried him back to the room, the dark head lolling over his arm, the legs dangling loose. Laying him back on the ground, Elisha checked the pulse at his throat to satisfy himself. Then he helped up the next man, who had taken a shot to the arm. As he passed toward the kitchen, he realized that the moaning, cursing, and praying had gone silent. Those who were able turned their heads to watch them go by, crossing themselves, prayer still evident in the furtive movements of their lips.

By the time Elisha returned for the third man, the fourth one lay still, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his chest. Checking his pulse, looking into his wide eyes, Elisha wondered if the shot had killed him, or if the dread of the treatment had finished him off.

T
hankfully,
Elisha had little part in the second round of treatments. Benedict barely trusted him to restrain the soldiers and instead insisted that he carefully watch the procedure, which entailed wound-cleaning, probing for shot—which he noted the surgeon had neglected to do—and then dousing the poor patient with boiling oil. This they did in the main room rather than transport the victims to the kitchen, so all could watch them writhe in agony and hear the screams without the baffle of even a wall between. Well satisfied, Benedict rose from the last weeping soldier and nodded sharply to Elisha.

“Dress the wounds,” he directed. “We’ll keep a pot of the solution by the fire for the next clearing of the injured.” With a smile, he wiped his hands on a cloth and discarded it on the ground, then led his lesser counterpart away.

Dismayed, Elisha bowed as they went by, then immediately dropped beside the last victim. Brushing blond hair back from the man’s eyes, he murmured, “I’m sorry. I’ll do what I may.”

The soldier slapped his hand away, his teeth bared in a rictus of pain.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s that to you?”

“I’m trying to do my best for you, what little that is, and a bit of courtesy from anyone today would go a long way for me.”

From the slit of his eye, the soldier studied him, blinking back the tears. “William, of Fells.”

Elisha smiled. “William. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. How about a drink?”

“Ale, if ye’ve got it,” William said, trying a grin, despite the sweat trickling along his lips.

“Only the best for His Majesty’s troops, I’m sure.” Patting the man’s shoulder, Elisha rose to find the room strangely silent. Mordecai, the head surgeon, stood in the aisle, his arms held behind him, regarding Elisha from under his bushy brows. Immediately, Elisha dropped his gaze, bowing his head. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Came to view those my assistant cauterized.” For a moment, the surgeon continued to regard him, pursing his lips. “As for you, carry on.” He turned away about his own work, the books and tablets hanging from his belt, swaying as he stooped.

Fetching one of the buckets, Elisha gave each man a long drink, sending Ruari to collect the few bandages they had. He bound them up as best he could, with little help from the men themselves, starting to hum as he did so. Anything to block their pain.

“Eh, Barber?”

Elisha started at a touch on his shoulder and turned to find Ruari’s cheerful face. “Which lot do you reckon screamed the louder? Surely they got the better cure.”

With a weak smile, Elisha wiped his hands on his knees and drooped. “I need to get out of here,” he muttered.

“Don’t we all. The girls’ll be through with supper soon.”

Even as he said it, a pair of young women, their hair tucked up beneath caps, struggled down the aisle with an enormous stewpot carried on staves between them. A few small boys followed with towers of wooden bowls and a spoon each. They deftly scooped out servings and distributed them, returning again to collect the bowls with a melancholy efficiency so they could be used by another. Maeve came away from the men she was tending to assist with the meal. Catching on to the routine, Elisha followed after, supporting the men who could barely sit to drink their soup, and steadying the bowls of those yet weak.

By the time he and Maeve sat with their own portions, the pottage had gone cold. Still, they ate eagerly enough. The beans and barley tasted delicious, and Elisha realized he’d had nothing else since dawn. Outside the battle rumbled on, with periodic blasts from the bombards and the occasional
blare of trumpets. Leaning back from his empty bowl, Elisha muffled a yawn.

Tilting her head, Maeve nodded at him. “Best get some rest now—you’ll get none in a few hours when they’ve called the hold.”

“But I’ve not yet seen all the men,” he protested, trying to convince himself as much as the woman.

“Ach! I’ll do for them for a while. Go on.”

Grateful, he pushed himself up and retrieved his shirt from the kitchen, where he washed away the worst of the blood. He shrugged the shirt over his damp skin as he made his way out to the officer’s infirmary. The physician and his avid assistants clustered around a stout man in a fine bed. While they spoke in low murmurs, a lovely whore poured the officer a draught of ale, cooing over him as he drank. Turning away, Elisha found the surgeon Mordecai staring at him again, and ducked his head in acknowledgement. Quickly, the man shuffled out one of his charts and turned his eyes to it as Elisha passed.

Returning to the little room he had chosen, Elisha wrapped himself in his blankets and settled against the wall. He couldn’t sleep through the shaking of the building, but he might at least sit still and keep his own counsel awhile.

Even so, he woke a few hours later, when the small windows showed dusk in the sky, and no bombards split the air. Instead, an unearthly wailing drifted on the breeze. Chilled, Elisha rose and crossed to the window. In the failing light, he saw the ruin of the battlefield, littered with still forms and writhing masses he knew to be men. A few picked their way among them, searching out the wounded, and Elisha realized what Maeve had meant when she warned him of the hold.

Shaking the sleep from his limbs, he hurried back to the hospital. Already, a stream of soldiers waited outside, some carrying the fallen, others cradling injuries of their own. Apparently word had gotten out, for he’d barely left the tower when soldiers surrounded him, each begging for his attention. Behind them, the two lesser surgeons stood at the door of the hospital waving some few men inside while they shunted others off to wait along the wall until it was their turn.