The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [38]
All at once, he realized that he was weeping, a final blow of shame. He threw the wet brigga onto the grass and sobbed aloud until he heard footsteps rustling through the grass. He wiped his face on his sleeve and looked up to see Nevyn, standing there with his hands on his hips.
‘Oh here, lad. This is a good bit harder on you than I thought it’d be.’
The old man’s sympathy delivered the worst cut of all. Gwairyc wanted to kill him. I’m doing this for the king, he reminded himself. With a sigh, Nevyn sat down next to him in the grass.
‘The lad’s going to live. Do you care one jot?’
‘I don’t. Ye gods, how can you do things like this? With your skill, you could be the king’s own physician or suchlike.’
‘There’s many a man who wants to physic the king. How many want to help folk like these?’
‘Well, and why should they? This lot is hardly better than bondfolk.’
‘I treat bondfolk who need me, too.’
Gwairyc stared at him. Daft and twice daft!
‘I’ll admit to being surprised when you looked so ill,’ Nevyn continued. ‘After all, you’ve ridden to many a battle. You must have seen the dead and dying, the wounds and suchlike.’
‘I don’t understand it, either. You’re right enough about the things I’ve seen.’ Gwairyc thought for a moment. ‘But you expect that, in a battle. You’re used to it. And you don’t let yourself dwell on it, like. This—’ He paused and suddenly saw the answer. ‘In battle, you’re fighting for your clan or your king. So much hangs on the outcome of a war. So all the death and the cuts and suchlike—they’re in a good cause, like. They matter.’
‘And this lad doesn’t matter?’
‘Why would he? Folk like these—one dies, there’s always more. They breed like rabbits.’
Nevyn cocked his head to one side and considered him for a long moment. Although the old man’s face displayed no particular feeling, Gwairyc began to wonder if he’d somehow shamed himself.
‘Well, um, mayhap, they’re more like horses.’ Gwairyc tried again. ‘You appreciate a good one, but if you lose him, you can get another.’
Nevyn blinked a few times, quickly.
‘It’s shameful!’ Gwairyc burst out. ‘I’m noble-born, but now I might as well be a farrier or a stablehand.’
‘Ah. Treating the sick is shameful.’
‘Well, not for you.’
‘But for you it is.’
‘Of course. You’re not a noble-born man.’
‘You’re quite sure of that?’
Gwairyc suddenly remembered the king, pouring the old man ale with his own hands. In a kind of panic he tried to speak but found he could only stammer.
‘It appears you see the flaw in your argument.’ Nevyn smiled in a twisted sort of way, then stood up. ‘You might think about all this a bit. Now, wring the water out of those brigga. Then spread them out flat on the grass to dry. I’m going back to the house.’
Once the brigga were drying, Gwairyc returned to the cow-barn. He unsaddled the pair of riding horses and unloaded the mule. He found a reasonably clean spot in a corner to pile up the gear, then looked over the various stalls. He had no idea if these folk brought the cows in at night or left them out. A skinny youngish man with a weatherbeaten face and cropped brown hair, slick with grease, came into the barn.
‘Be you Nevyn’s apprentice? I’m Myrn. Ligga’s man.’
‘I’m Gwairyc.’
Myrn nodded in what might have been a greeting. ‘I’ll put them horses up for you. My thanks for saving my lad.’
‘That was Nevyn’s work, not mine, truly.’
Myrn nodded again and took a pitch-fork from the floor. Gwairyc hurried out and left the horses to him.
On the morrow, Anno seemed to be recovering, but Nevyn left various packets of herbs for his care just in case. When Ligga tried to offer him her few saved coppers as payment, Nevyn refused. That gesture Gwairyc could understand. Taking coins from folk like these would be as ignoble as stealing a hunting dog’s food.
They left the farm and took up their slow road west again. Mile after mile, village after village, farm