A Tale of Two Maidens by Anne Echols

Author:Anne Echols
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

When the mid-day meal was done, Etienne carried the wounded men into their tents to rest. He and Hersende worked together quietly, and I couldn’t tell if they were still angry at each other. I didn’t understand married people at all.

Hersende and I set to work at the trestle, which was shaded by an awning. Even in the heat of the day, she never grew sluggish as I did. She bustled about, pouring brightly-colored liquids into glass vials and filling clay crocks with nasty-smelling pastes. She told me the name of each concoction and dictated the recipe. I copied them down and wrote labels that would later be glued to their containers. It was so hot that I had to keep wiping sweat from my hands to stop the ink from smearing. On a scrap of parchment, I struggled to figure out the spelling of a remedy called ‘sal armouiac’.

“Don’t trouble yourself so,” Hersende chided, wiping her sweaty brow. “Just make your letters large and easy to read.“

“What is this ‘sal armouiac’ used for?” I asked.

“It keeps pus-filled wounds open and draining,” she replied, reaching for another crock containing a bright yellow paste. “When you are done with that label, make this one next. It’s called ‘onguent des apôtres’.”

“I have noticed that men stop moaning when you put that ointment on their burns.”

She gave me a rare smile. “It got its name because it has one ingredient for each of the Apostles. I am pleased that you are learning some things about barbering.”

“Who taught you your craft, Madame?” I asked.

“I will tell you the story, if you keep working,” she replied, handing me a clump of fresh herbs. “Remember, laziness is the worst of the vices. Cut this mint.”

I took out my knife, but she yanked it out of my hand. “By God’s ear, don’t ever let that rusty blade touch my medicines. Here, use mine.”

She handed me a small knife with a sharp clean blade and I started to chop the mint. “Too big,” she instructed.

I cut it more finely. She grunted her approval before going on to her next task, spooning out goose fat into a small crock.

“My mother was a potter who died soon after my birth,” she began, mixing in a bitter-smelling herb, “and my father was famous for his barbering skill. He wanted me to become a potter like her but I had no desire to do so.”

She paused to put chopped mint into the crock of goose fat. “When he wasn’t looking, I would steal scraps of bandages so that I could pretend to heal my dolls. As I grew older, I practiced real cures on cats and dogs and beggars in the market.”

I tried to imagine Hersende as a child healer but it was impossible.

“One Sunday in the spring, the mayor’s servant knocked at our door. His master had terrible stomach cramps and Father hastened to his bedside. Not an hour later, a rich man came to our house carrying a boy wrapped in a blanket.

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