Free Daughter of Fire by Carla Simpson

were set to flames, the fires stoked high to give more light and warmth.
    Beyond the tent she heard the sound of blades striking the earth as trenches were dug and the edges of the tent buried all around to seal out drafts of air and seal in the heat. A thick carpet on the earthen floor was rolled and carried outside where it was hung over the entrance, sealing out the cold air.
    She set two more bowls on the braziers. Water was added to one and soon simmered. A white powder was added to the other and the mixture turned golden brown from the heat. She removed the blade from the coals.
    “The flesh decays,” she explained. “In order for the wounds to heal, the dead flesh must be removed. He sleeps now because of the fever, but may still feel the pain. There is a potion I can give to ease his discomfort, but it wears off quickly. It must be saved for his leg.”
    Rorke nodded as he moved to stand at William’s head, prepared to hold him down if necessary. His knights moved to stand at each side.
    At Rorke’s nod she worked quickly, deftly removing the putrefied flesh from wounds that had festered, all the while silently cursing the fool who had ordered that William be bled.
    Barbarians! she thought. Have they no common sense about the way of wounds?
    It was an agonizingly slow and painful process. Each wound needed to be cleaned of debris and filth, the decayed flesh removed. Then she spread each with a salve mixed from one of the bowls and bandaged them with clean linen. He was bound about the waist with several layers of linen to stabilize the broken ribs so that they might heal.
    Time and again, pain roused him from the stupor of fever. Beads of sweat poured off him. His skin took on an even deadlier pallor, but weak as he was he would have been too strong for her and it would have been impossible to continue had Rorke and his men not held him down.
    Three times Vivian called for more water to clean the wounds. Her back and arms ached from the strain of bending over the cot. The heat in the tent added to her tension. Perspiration beaded across her forehead, dampening tendrils of hair that she wiped back with a bloodied hand. When she sagged with exhaustion, she felt Rorke FitzWarren’s encouragement in the touch of a hand or a gently spoken word.
    “Sa se bien, demoiselle. Sa se bien.” It is good.
    Finally, she straightened, pressing a hand into the small of her back where a dull ache had set in from bending over the cot. The lesser wounds had all been cleaned and bandaged. The worst she had saved for last—the badly shattered leg. Into a tankard she poured a portion of the sweet-smelling brew that had been simmering over a brazier.
    “He is weak, but the leg must be mended. He must drink as much of this as possible for the pain.”
    She saw the uneasiness that passed from one man to the other. They understood the need for bandaging wounds. But drinking unknown potions was another matter. She understood their concern. The war to conquer England—everything depended on the man who lay on the cot before them. He must live, and she was a Saxon who had every reason to hate him and wish him dead.
    “If I wanted to do him harm,” she told them logically, “It would be done.”
    Stephen of Valois reached out and seized the tankard. “I will drink from it first,” he declared.”
    She saw the look that passed from him to Rorke FitzWarren. If the potion were poisoned, Stephen would fall from it and she would be put to death.
    She nodded, “You will experience a very pleasant feeling of warmth. Eventually you will not be able to move your arms or legs. The potion blocks out feeling; therefore, it also blocks out the pain.”
    He nodded and took several swallows of the faintly sweet liquid. After a moment, he leaned unsteadily against the cot. His expression was no less fierce than before, but he did not fall to the floor of the tent with death imminent.”
    “Do what must be done, healer.”
    It was a slow,