The Healer’s Apprentice
Melanie Dickerson
To Joe, Grace, and Faith.
—M. D.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Dear Reader,
More to the Story
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
Chapter 1
Spring, 1386. Hagenheim. The Harz Mountains, Lower Saxony.
The townspeople of Hagenheim craned their necks as they peered down the cobblestone street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Duke of Hagenheim’s two handsome sons. The topheavy, half-timbered houses hovered above the crowd as if they too were eager to get a peek at Lord Hamlin and Lord Rupert.
Rose shifted her basket from her left hip to her right and wrinkled her nose at the stale smell of sweat from the many bodies pressed close, mingled with the pungent scent of animal dung. Chickens and children skittered about, the clucking and squealing adding to the excited murmurs.
“I’ll wait with you to the count of one hundred, Hildy, then I’m leaving.” Rose couldn’t let Frau Geruscha think her apprentice was a lazy dawdler.
“Are you not curious to see if they’ve changed?” Hildy asked, her green eyes glinting in the sun.
“No doubt the duke’s sons have developed into humble scholars after two years at Heidelberg’s university.” Even as she spoke, she glanced up the street. In spite of wanting Hildy to think her indifferent to the young noblemen, Rose was glad she had a good view.
Rose’s dog, Wolfie, began barking so zealously his front paws lifted off the ground.
“Hist. No barking.” Rose leaned down and rubbed the ruff of fur at the back of his neck.
“Rose!”
Her heart leapt at the horrified tone in Hildy’s voice, and she stood and faced her friend.
“You didn’t even wear your best dress!”
Rose glanced down at her green woolen kirtle. “Oh, Hildy. As if it matters.”
“At least your hair looks beautiful.” Hildy ran her hand down Rose’s loose mane of brown curls, only partially hidden by her linen coif. “How do you ever hope to get a husband if you don’t pay more attention to your clothing?”
Rose scowled. “I don’t hope.”
How many times would she have to explain this to Hildy? When Rose was a little child, Frau Geruscha had taken a liking to her. Now that Rose was grown up, the town healer had chosen Rose to be her apprentice—an honorable life’s work that would prevent Rose from being forced to marry. Frau Geruscha, having grown up in a convent, had not only taught Rose about medicinal herbs, but also how to read Latin—a skill Rose was very proud of. But it was a skill most men would hardly value in a wife.
“You don’t fool me, Rose Roemer. Every girl wants to be married. Besides, look across the street at Mathias.” Hildy pointed with her eyes. “He speaks to you every chance he gets, and he’s quite handsome.”
Rose harrumphed at Hildy’s dreamy tone. “The blacksmith’s son?” With his lecherous grin? “He only wants one thing from me, and it isn’t marriage.”
“How can you be so sure…”
Hildy’s voice trailed off at the crowd’s whispered exclamations as six men on horseback came into view around the bend in the narrow street.
Hildy grabbed her thick blonde braid and draped it over her shoulder then chewed on her lips to redden them. “You should at least try to catch their eye.”
Rose shook her head at Hildy. “You know Lord Hamlin is betrothed—as good as married—and Lord Rupert must marry an heiress.” Rose took hold of her friend’s arm. Someone had to be the voice of reason. “I hate to dampen your excitement, Hildy, but if either of the noble sons takes a single look at us, I’ll be vastly astonished.”
Hildy smirked. “I won’t be.”
The approaching clop-clop of hooves drew Hildy’s gaze back to the street. “Shh. Here they come.” She set her basket of beans, leeks, and onions on the ground behind her and smoothed her skirt.
The throng of people fell silent out of respect for their young lords.
The duke’s elder son, Wilhelm, Earl of Hamlin, led the way down the street on his black horse. His younger brother, Lord Rupert, rode beside him. Two bearded knights on cinnamon-colored horses followed three lengths behind the young men, with two more bringing up the rear.
The knights were simply dressed, but the noble sons were covered from neck to toe in flowing robes. Rose stifled a snort. They were only returning home. Did they think they were on their way to the king’s court?
Yet as he drew nearer, she saw that Lord Hamlin wore not a robe after all, but a plain cloak of dark wool. His bearing and the proud tilt of his head were what made him look so regal.
In contrast to his brother’s outerwear, a fur-trimmed surcoat of lustrous sapphire silk hung over Lord Rupert’s lean frame, with only the toes of his leather boots peeking out. The disparity between the brothers went beyond their clothing. Lord Rupert’s light brown hair was long and curled at the ends, and a blue ribbon gathered it at the nape of his neck. A jaunty glint shone from his pale eyes. Lord Hamlin’s black hair hung over his forehead, and he seemed oblivious to the crowd. He focused his gaze straight ahead, toward Hagenheim Castle, whose towers were visible over the tops of the town’s tallest buildings.
No, she’d say they hadn’t changed at all.
“Willkommen!” Hildy called out. “Welcome back, my lords!” She waved her hand high, as though hailing a messenger.
All eyes turned to Rose and Hildy. A spear of panic went through Rose. She wanted to hide, but it was too late. Lord Hamlin’s eyes darted in their direction, alighted on Rose, and held. His expression changed and his features softened as he looked at her. Then his gaze swept down, taking in her basket and her dress. He quickly faced forward again.
He realizes I’m nobody, a peasant girl. Heat spread up Rose’s neck and burned her cheeks.
Lord Rupert’s huge blond warhorse walked toward Rose and Hildy as the crowd suddenly took up Hildy’s cheer. “Willkommen! Welcome back!” The horse came within three feet of the girls and stopped, stamping his hooves on the cobblestone street and sending Wolfie into a wild fit of barking.
Rose threw her arms around Wolfie’s neck to hold him back. Her temples pounded at the sight of the warhorse’s powerful legs.
The younger nobleman swept off his plumed hat, bowing from his saddle. His eyes roved from Hildy to Rose, then he winked. “I thank you, ladies, for your kind welcome.” He grinned and swung his hat back on his head, then spurred his horse into a trot and caught up with the others.
“Did you see that? Did you see it?” Hildy pounded on Rose’s shoulder.
Wolfie calmed as the men rode into the distance. Rose let go of him and stood up, glaring at Hildy. “I can’t believe you called out to them.”
“Lord Rupert actually spoke to us. To us. And did you see how Lord Hamlin looke
d at you?” Hildy clutched her hands to her heart, gazing at the clouds. “Are they not the most handsome men you’ve ever seen? I could hardly breathe!” She turned and smiled at Rose. “I knew they’d like what they saw once they caught sight of you.”
“Would you keep your voice down?” Rose urged Hildy to start walking toward the Marktplatz. She glanced around, afraid the townspeople would overhear their embarrassing conversation. She imagined the miller’s skinny wife, who walked ahead of them, snorting in derision at Hildy’s compliment. The shoemaker’s buxom daughter, striding down the other side of the street, would laugh out loud.
Hildy and her romantic notions of love. She was a candle-maker’s daughter, dreaming about the local nobility as if she had any chance of inspiring a serious thought in them. As a woodcutter’s daughter, Rose held no grand illusions about her own prospects.
Hildy’s chatter faded into the background as Rose wondered at Lord Rupert’s flirtatious wink. But what stuck in her mind was the way Lord Hamlin had looked at her. Thinking of that, her face began to burn once again. She’d encountered her share of leering men and their crude comments, but Lord Hamlin’s look was different. It had made her feel pretty—until he noticed her clothing.
She should have worn her good dress, the crimson one with the bit of white silk at the neck and wrists that Frau Geruscha had given her. Hildy said it brought out the red tint in her chestnut hair. But how could she have known Hildy would draw the attention of both Lord Hamlin and Lord Rupert and that they would look straight at her?
Realizing her train of thought, she snorted. What difference did it make which dress she wore? Everyone knew Lord Hamlin was betrothed to the daughter of the Duke of Marienberg. But betrothed or not, he’d hardly be interested in her. And Lord Rupert, as the younger son, would inherit none of the family’s wealth and so would need to find a rich heiress to marry.
If, as an apprentice, Rose could impress Frau Geruscha with her skill, she would become the next healer—needed, respected. She could avoid the indignity of marrying someone out of desperation.
So she’d never experience love. Most married people didn’t, either.
Rose dipped her quill in the pot of ink and concentrated on scratching out the next sentence of the tale she was writing. Frau Geruscha encouraged her to write her stories, although she said it was probably best if she didn’t tell anyone about them.
Shouts drifted through the open window of the healer’s chambers. From her vantage point in the southwest tower of Hagenheim Castle, Rose peered out, seeking the source of the commotion.
“Make way!”
Two men hastened across the courtyard. They carried a boy between them, using their arms for a seat. A woman ran behind them.
Rose scrambled to hide her parchment, pen, and ink in the small trunk beside her desk. “Frau Geruscha! Someone’s coming!” She snatched up a gray apron that lay nearby and slipped it over her head.
Wolfie adjusted his grip on his bone and growled low in his throat.
“Wolfie, stay.”
The dog’s lips came together, sheathing his fangs, but he focused his eyes on the door.
Frau Geruscha entered the chamber from the storage room, her wimple bobbing like the wings of a great white bird.
The two men carrying the boy burst through the door, the woman following close behind. Rose recognized one man as a farmer who lived near her parents’ home. The boy was his son, perhaps eight years old. He wore ragged brown hose and his torn shirt drooped on his thin frame. Bright red blood covered one of his sleeves. His lips were white, as if all the blood had drained out of his body.
Here was her chance to show Frau Geruscha she was a competent apprentice. She would strive to appear calm and ready to help. She was thankful she had already braided her hair that morning and covered it with a linen cloth, as her mistress had instructed her.
“Frau Geruscha!” Fear and panic lent a high pitch to the woman’s voice. “Our son fell on the plow blade.”
The healer’s wise face wrinkled in concentration as her gaze swept the boy from head to toe. She pointed to a low straw bed against the wall, and the men laid the child on it.
Pain drew the boy’s features tight. Rose longed to comfort him, but she didn’t want to get in Frau Geruscha’s way.
Frau Geruscha sat on the edge of the bed. She showed no emotion as she pulled back his sleeve, revealing the gaping wound.
“No!” The boy screamed and shrank away from her. He held his arm against his chest and drew his knees up like a shield.
Rose turned her head. O God, don’t let me get sick. She had to prove herself.
Frau Geruscha glanced back at Rose. “Fetch me some water from the kettle and a roll of bandages.”
Rose scurried to the fireplace and grabbed a pottery bowl. Using a cloth to hold the lip of the iron kettle, she tipped it to one side and poured hot water into the shallow vessel. She carried it back to Frau Geruscha then dashed to the storage room to get the bandages.
“Don’t touch it!”
Rose tried to force the boy’s terrified voice from her mind. When she returned, Frau Geruscha was washing the blood from the wound. Rose held out the roll of fabric.
Her hand shook. She had to get control of herself before her mistress noticed.
Frau Geruscha took a section of the clean linen and used it to soak up the blood and water around the wound. “Rose, get him some henbane and wormwood tea.” She turned to the parents. “The herbs will help ease his pain.”
Biting her lip, Rose ran into the adjoining storage room again. She should have guessed Frau Geruscha would want that tea. She should have already gone for it instead of standing there with her mouth open. So far she wasn’t proving herself very competent.
Shelves of dried herbs lined the walls. She grabbed the flasks labeled henbane and wormwood and scooped a spoonful of each into a metal cup, then used a dipper to ladle in steaming water from the kettle.
She hurried back and placed the cup in the mother’s outstretched hands. The woman held it to her son’s lips.
Frau Geruscha made the sign of the cross and laid her hand on the boy’s arm. She then closed her eyes. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, we ask you, God, to heal this boy’s wound in the name of Jesus and by the power of his blood. Amen.”
The smell of blood, warm and stifling, mingled with the odor of sweat. The bowl of water was now bright red, and Rose caught another whiff of the familiar, sickening smell.
Frau Geruscha opened her eyes and crossed herself again. She reached into her box of supplies and held up a needle. The tiny metal object glinted in the morning light.
The boy locked wide eyes on the needle and screamed, “No! No! No!” His father moved to hold him down.
Rose fled into the storeroom, her bare feet noiseless on the stone floor. She leaned against the wall and sucked in deep breaths. Her head seemed to float off her shoulders, as light as a fluff of wool, while her face tingled and spots danced before her eyes.
How childish. Rose pressed her face into her hands and stifled a groan. Had Frau Geruscha seen her flee the room? She must get back in there and overcome this squeamishness.
She drew in another deep breath. The earthy odor of the herbs that hung from the rafters was stuffy, but at least it didn’t trouble her stomach like the smell of blood. Rose focused on the sights around her—the rushes strewn over the stone floor…low shelves packed with flasks of dried herbs…the rough stone wall poking her back. The screaming drifted away.
The tingling sensation gradually left her face and she breathed more normally.
She entered the room again, stepping carefully so as not to rustle the rushes on the floor and draw attention to herself. The boy’s eyes were closed and his lips were the same ash gray as his face. He must have lost consciousness, since he didn’t even wince as the needle pierced his skin.
Frau Geruscha quickly finished stitching the wound. After she tied the last knot and
clipped the string of catgut, she wound the remainder of the bandage around his arm and tied a thin strip of cloth around it to hold it in place.
Finally, the people left, carrying the limp boy with them.
Rose hurried to clean up the water spills and the bloody linen. Her stomach lurched at every whiff of the metallic odor, but she had to pretend it didn’t bother her, to hope her mistress didn’t notice how it affected her.
“Are you well?” Frau Geruscha’s gray eyes narrowed, studying Rose. “You looked pale when you ran into the storage room.”
So her mistress had noticed. “I am very well.”
How could she be so pathetic? She had to find a way to prepare herself for the next time she must face the blood, screams, and smells.
Ravenous after his long journey from Heidelberg, Wilhelm attacked the roasted pheasant on his trencher. A page, a lad of less than ten years, leaned over his shoulder to refill his goblet. The boy lost his balance and teetered forward. Wilhelm grabbed him around his middle and righted him, but the goblet overturned onto the table.
The boy’s face flushed red. “Lord Hamlin, forgive me. I—”
“No harm done.” Wilhelm gave the boy an encouraging smile.
With a quick bow, the boy refilled Wilhelm’s goblet and moved on to the next cup.
The Great Hall looked exactly as Wilhelm remembered it. Flags bearing the family colors of green, gold, and red jutted out from the gray stone walls on wooden poles, and several hung like banners on either side of the large mural painted on the wall. His father still spoke sternly, and his mother still clucked over him and his brother, continually admonishing Rupert to proper, gentlemanly behavior. At that moment she was reprimanding him for pinching the serving wench.
If she only knew. While they were supposed to be educating themselves in Heidelberg under the finest teachers in the Holy Roman Empire, Rupert had spent more time carousing than studying. And as Rupert misbehaved, Wilhelm had continued sending out spies in search of Moncore.
His younger sister, Osanna, smiled at him from across the table. Wilhelm smiled back and winked. She’d grown up in the two years he had been away. He missed the freckle-faced maiden who used to trail behind him, begging him to teach her to hunt or fish or shoot arrows.