The kitchen smelled of cold wood-ash, dried thyme hanging from the rafters, and the sharp vinegar that Elin poured into a cracked stoneware bowl to wash the grease from Bren’s skin.
The conscript sat on a three-legged milking stool beside the bread oven, his knees pressed together, his teeth chattering with a rhythmic, hollow rattle. Jon knelt before him on the scrubbed flagstones, two peeled willow laths balanced across his knees alongside a roll of unbleached linen bandage. With steady, practiced fingers, Jon aligned the two splints on either side of Bren’s forearm. The fractured radius and ulna grated beneath the bruised meat with a muffled crunch that made the boy gasp and throw his head back against the chimney breast.
“Steady, lad,” Jon said quietly, his voice low and soothing, the tone of a host soothing a colicky mule. “Keep the fingers curled. Don’t fight the linen. If the wrap is loose, the bone sets crooked and you’ll never hold a plow again.”
Cael leaned against the heavy oak prep table four paces away. He had unbuckled his sword belt, laying the gold-chased scabbard across a flour bin, but his mail remained fastened to the throat. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed and casual, yet his blue eyes never shifted from the boy’s twitching mouth.
