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F rida took in the scene as she rushed down the stone steps.

Callum knelt by the fallen boy, his tanned face ashen with shock.

Jonah paced back and forth, his gait customarily uneven.

The boy lay between them, the narrowness of his shoulders giving away his youth.

She reckoned he could be no older than her youngest sister, Esme.

Too young to have a knife stuck in his back.

Breathing deeply, she steeled herself for the horror of what she must face.

“What has happened?” she asked briskly, falling to her knees opposite Callum. Her ankle protested, but she ignored the pain. While the knight framed his reply, she felt for a pulse, relieved when it thrummed steady and strong beneath her fingers. The boy, however, was unconscious.

“My man Gregor threw his knife. It was meant for me.”

The bald statement surprised her, but this was not the time to question it.

“Did he hit his head?”

“I did not see him fall.” Callum dragged a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of blood on his craggy forehead. “Can you save him?”

She did not yet know.

“What is his name?”

“Arlo.” Callum leaned forward, distress writ large over his handsome features. His hands shook as he waved them near the knife handle. “I do not know what to do.”

Frida leaned closer to the boy, breathing in the smell of damp earth and fresh blood.

“Arlo?” She tried, speaking close to his ear, but he did not react.

“We must get him inside.” She pushed herself awkwardly to her feet, beckoning to two guardsmen who tarried behind her with a long wooden board.

Her eyes found Agnes amongst the rapidly growing throng. “We need boiling water and linens.”

“Very good, milady.” The cook scurried back to the kitchens.

’Twould be the second time this day Agnes was called upon to boil water to treat an injury. Though Frida’s own incident paled in comparison to the life-threatening wound before her.

“Carry him to the solar,” she ordered the guards, who were carefully lifting Arlo onto the board.

“The solar?” Callum’s gaze locked with hers. “Thank you, Frida.”

“It will give him the best chance of recovery.”

Jonah was at her side, uncommonly agitated. “What can I do?”

Her eyebrows lifted, but it would be churlish of her to express surprise. “The man who threw the knife. Gregor?” She glanced at Callum for confirmation. “Enquire with the gatekeeper if he was apprehended. He should be punished.”

“Most certainly he should.” With no further prevarication, Jonah began walking haltingly towards the outer gates.

Frida watched him for the briefest of moments. What had transpired to make Jonah so keen to be helpful?

But her brother was not her main concern. Ahead of her lay the greatest test of her abilities she had ever faced.

Frida was naturally skilled with herbs, a gift which her mother always said came from her great grandmother.

Back at Wolvesley, for several summers she had worked side by side with the healer, but only treating minor afflictions found within the day-to-day workings of a prosperous castle.

A baby with croup. An old woman with an aching back.

A farm-worker accidentally cut with an axe.

She had never been near a battlefield in her life. Never treated an injury inflicted with malice. Never before been the one to mark the difference between life and death.

But the boy, Arlo, must be saved. He was too young to die.

And she was the only one who could help him.

This suddenly struck her as ridiculous. At Wolvesley Castle, they had both a healer and an apothecary within the bailey walls. What had she been thinking to set up home so far removed from such support? With meagre staff to top it all.

She clutched her hands together to stop them from trembling. Callum had already rushed ahead of the stretcher-bearers to clear their path. She could not dally out here any longer.

Walking as steadily as she could, Frida followed the throng back inside the hall.

The cosy welcome of the great hall was jarring, almost unsettling when so much violence had crossed their path.

A small group of servants hovered near the fire, watching her with wide eyes.

The girl called Jennifer stepped forward.

“I would be of assistance, milady. My pa trained as a barber-surgeon. I am well-used to the sight of blood.”

Frida released a breath she had not known she’d been holding. “Thank you, Jennifer. Come with me to the solar. The rest of you should help Agnes in the kitchen. We need a regular supply of hot water. And all the clean linens you can find.”

Glad to have a purpose, the girls scurried away.

Frida led Jennifer to the solar, careful to keep her nerves under wraps.

The guards had pushed back the heavy furniture and made room for the boy on the floor.

Frida frowned when she saw this, she had intended he be laid on the couch.

But perchance they were right not to move him too much. At least the room was warm.

But she did not want an audience.

“I thank you all for your help,” she declared. “Can everyone please leave us now, except Jennifer. And Callum,” she added, noting his entreating gaze.

In truth she would prefer Callum to go. His very presence unsettled her, which was the last thing she needed when every moment and every decision carried so much import. But she could see in his eyes how much the boy’s welfare meant to him.

His concern did him credit, she decided. It touched her heart, which had started opening to him e’en before this.

The guards shuffled out and moments later, two young housemaids rushed in with their arms full of linens. Agnes followed them, panting slightly, with a large basin of hot water.

“There is more coming,” she said, answering Frida’s unvoiced question.

Frida knelt on the rug by Arlo’s side. His breathing had become shallow. There was no time to waste. She glanced up to Jennifer.

“Can you hold him still?”

“Aye.” The girl placed her hands on Arlo’s shoulders, well clear of the knife. Her calm certainty helped steady Frida’s nerves.

Frida did not want to do this, but she had no choice.

Breathing deeply, she grasped the handle of the knife and pulled.

The blade came free easily, followed by a sickening spurt of blood, which Frida hastily suppressed with a wad of folded linens, passed to her by Jennifer.

Her first attempt to staunch the blood failed, as did the second.

She could not apply enough pressure, partially because of her injured left arm.

Steadying her rising panic, Frida swathed her right hand with a clean cloth and jammed the heel of it into the boy’s wound, pressing down with all her strength.

Opposite her, Callum muttered something that may have been a prayer.

She met his anxious gaze over Arlo’s prone body and smiled with what she hoped was reassurance.

“I do not believe the blade came into contact with the boy’s shoulder blade.”

“That is good?”

“Aye, that is good.” Long moments passed and the bleeding at last began to lessen. She turned her head to Jennifer. “We shall need honey, strong thread and a sharp needle.”

“I’ll go at once, milady.”

“Can you save him?” Callum asked again.

“I shall try,” she promised. They were momentarily alone in the quiet chamber.

A log cracked in the fire and the boy stirred, moaning slightly.

Frida put the back of her hand to his smooth cheek, registering his coolness.

“Can you cover him with a rug?” She nodded to the soft, hand-stitched rug laid over the chair behind Callum.

He reached for it. “It will be ruined.” He paused. “Shall I fetch a rough one from the loft where we slept?”

“Nay. Do not be foolish.” She shook her head, her hair swinging below her shoulders. “A rug has no value next to a life. Besides, I imagine Arlo is comforted by your presence here.”

Callum snorted, even as he folded the rug over the boy’s legs and torso with the greatest of care. “I do not deserve his esteem.”

“How so?”

“’Tis my fault he is like this. I should have kept him safe.”

Her eyebrows raised with surprise. “But you were not the one to throw the knife.”

A look of anguish passed over his face, making Frida all the more confused. But all he said was, “I should have known what Gregor was capable of.”

Frida’s legs were growing cramped on the floor. Her back burned through proximity to the fire and her efforts to staunch Arlo’s bleeding had brought perspiration out on her brow. “We can never know what lies ahead,” she said, steadily. She knew that more than most.

But Callum was right, she thought. He should have known the nature of the man who rode beside him.

He looked down, before she could properly confirm if his dark eyes were glassy with tears. “If he dies, I shall ne’er forgive myself.”

“Because of Gregor?” A slight nod of his head confirmed it. “Was there a quarrel between you?”

“I only met him a sennight since.”

Not a proper answer.

Frida frowned. “That is not what I asked.”

When he met her eyes, his gaze was steady. “I did not trust him, nor did I trust his temper. But the man I serve holds Gregor in high esteem.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Arlo, I have known for many summers. I promised him my protection.”

She dared release some of the pressure on the boy’s shoulders, easing the tension in her own body in the process. The bleeding had all but stopped. “Should we send word to his parents?”

“He has none.” Callum’s voice was gruff. “They were killed in a raid at midsummer.”

She stifled a gasp of dismay. “A Scottish raid?”

He lowered his eyes. “The Scots were involved, aye.”

“These are troubled times. I fear for my brother Tristan every day he is gone from Wolvesley.”