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The fire Athwen and she had built was burning brightly. A number of the companions were busy at the task of getting the camp ready for the night. Meghan watched as Leod made the rounds of the injured, attending to those who needed him and giving direction to others for their care. Save for the aches and pains of being knocked about and dragged off, her own wounds were minor. Her left hand strayed up to touch the scabbed over cut along her neck and the faint beginnings of a spiral the foul Easterling had traced with his knife.
Someone had made willowbark tea and had given her a small cup to take care of the fierce headache pounding behind her eyes. Meghan closed her eyes and rested her head back on the tree she was sitting against.
‘Here!’ Leod directed two of those still on their feet to put one of the wounded near her. ‘I’ve just put a compress of moss and bound it on his shoulder with some strips of cloth. Just put your hand firmly on it, and we’ll keep it from bleeding. Oh, and I’ve given him some wine; so, don’t be surprised if he simply sleeps through your company.’
It was Brand. His face was pale and cool, though a thin film of sweat lay on his brow. She placed her hand as Leod had directed and sat quietly for a while watching the slow even rise and fall of it as he breathed. He moaned a little, eyes closed, and moved restlessly.
‘Quiet, you great ninny! Be still!’ she said without thinking. It was a phrase she often used when tending some injury to her goats. ‘Just sleep and let yourself heal.’ She leaned back against the tree, making herself comfortable. ‘Just rest, sheepman, the lambs are safe from the wolves. Lady is well, and grazing nearby. Leod and the others are getting everyone taken care of who was wounded. The Easterlings have gone. She bent low and whispered near to his ear. ‘Others are tending the little flock of Bregoware and Wulfham for now. It’s all in good hands.’
The willowbark tea had eased her headache somewhat and eased the pain in her muscles and bones, too. Brand had finally quieted again. A sudden thought made her laugh, of how they had teased each other on their choice of flocks. He had managed to make some points on the positive merits of sheep and as she recalled, she had not the time to make her argument.
She tapped her fingers on his bandage and gave his sleeping form an impish grin. ‘You know,’ she began, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. ‘This is probably a very good time for you to just relax and listen carefully as I tell you about how much better it is to raise goats than sheep. And lucky for you, I have many stories to illustrate my points.’ Meghan crossed her legs in front of her and settled into her monologue.
‘I was just a wee girl of five when my father gave me my first kid to raise. She was a lovely little brown-eyed doe, as pretty as you can imagine, and smart as a whip, too . . .’
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