Dungarob Keep, Summer 1300
A kerchief over her hair, Lady Maeve MacKai worked her pestle, skillfully crushing the herbs within the mortar to a fine powder. She poured the powder from the mortar into a widemouthed vial. Setting the mortar aside, she added at soupcon of oil stirring until she’d achieved a paste of the consistency she needed. She capped the vial with oiled cloth held in place with a cork the size of the vial’s mouth. Stepping up on the stool she used as a seat, she reached for a bunch of coriander hanging from the rafter of her herb room.
“Ah-choo.”
Startled she grabbed for the rafter. The stool toppled. She missed and thudded to the floor beside the stool. A finger’s width of air separated her nose from the hard packed dirt.
“I’m sorry, sister, you know how troublesome your herbs are to my nose.”
Maeve knew no such thing. What was her youngest sister up to now? rolled over to see Artis’ cover the lower half of her face with her hands. But above the makeshift mask her eyes danced with laughter.
Maeve cast a glare her sisters way then extended a hand. “Help me up, or you’ll live to regret laughing at me.”
Artist complied. “I truly am sorry Maeve, but you flailed about as you fell, looking very like a fledging hawk on its first flight.”
Finally, upright, Maeve shook out her skirts, smoothed her apron, and straightened her kerchief. “What has you creeping up on me now?”
Agile Artis was already halfway up the short set of stairs connecting the herb room to the rest of the Dungarob Keep kitchens.
“He’s here and needs your help. You must hurry.”
“He, who?” Maeve lifted her skirts and set her foot on the first stair, but Artis was already gone. Shaking her head, Maeve decided to go to her bedchamber, wash her face and hands and change into a fresh gown. The one she wore was old, stained, and patched over many times. She used it only when making her fisiks. As the keep’s only healer, she was responsible not just for tending the sick but creating the items needed to tend them with.
She’d reached the top of the stairs leading from the great hall to the kitchens and was crossing the hall to the opposite set of steps that would take her to her private chamber. The huge doors leading from the hall to the inner bailey crashed open, stopping her in mid-stride to see what was the cause of such an action.
“Carry to the fire. You men set up a trestle table on which to lay him. Someone find Maeve.” Her brother, Baron Raeb MacKai spat orders as he helped to carry in an obviously wounded man.
“I am here brother.”
“Thank the saints. He needs you Maeve, now more than ever.”
If she’d had time, she might have lost patience with the fact that no one told her who the wounded man was. Instead, she hurried to the table. “MacEth fetch my bag of fisiks from the herb room. Linden send for two bowls of clean water, one cold, one hot. Raeb remove this man’s clothing, so I can see how greatly he is wounded.” Men scattered at her orders as quickly as if she herself was Baron and Laird. When she acted in her role as the keep’s fisicyeen, none dared say her nay.
As the crowd around the wounded man thinned, she stepped up to the table. With his dirk, Raeb swiftly sliced away the man’s clothes. Maeve, leaned over the man’s head her hand moving to remove the large and bloody swath of bandages covering his head and the near side of his face. She hesitated only a fraction of a moment when she noticed blood darkening the wheaten color of the man’s hair. Many Scots had blond hair, though more of her acquaintance had black or brown.
She took away the bandages, dropping them to the floor and looked into familiar green eyes.
“Dougal.”
“Aye lass. I’ll be well soon, now that you are here.” Those eyes closed, and she knew he’d lost consciousness.
She held her hand out to her side. Someone placed a clean damp cloth in it. Tenderly, though she knew he’d feel no pain in his current state, she cleaned the gash that extended from forehead to jaw, narrowly missing an eye. “This will have to be stitched, but I must apply fisyks first, and before that, I must examine the rest of his injuries to determine exactly which herbs to use.”
Dougal, whom she’d loved for as long as she could remember. Please God do not take him from me now that he has returned.
I still don’t have a title for Maeve and Dougal’s story. Be assured as soon as I do I’ll announce it in my FB group, Rue’s Crew.
Now for the Mumbles: I hope it is obvious from this article’s title and the italicized words in the WIP snippet that today’s word is Fisyck. Maeve is the healer of her clan’s keep and as such is trained in the use and creation of various fisycks, or medicines. She is also the person who fisycks, or treats, all sick and injured persons at the keep. The MED gives the following meanings for fisyck or phisyck.
“Medical science or theory; a book dealing with medical science or theory; (b) art (craft) of ~, ~ medicinal, phisikes lore, medical science; doctour (lord, maister) of ~, a doctor of medicine, professor of medicine, medical authority; (c) medical treatment; the practice of medicine as distinct from surgery [some quots. here may belong under (e)]; (d) a healthful regimen; rules or advice for maintaining health; (e) a healing potion, remedy, or medicine; also ; (f) a physician; coll.physicians, the medical profession; . . . .”
Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of my WIP snippet.
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