The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price Page B

something was wrong. Ecky came and held the horse’s head, while Sim took Per’s lance.
    Sweet Milk squinted and felt around the wound, making Per gasp and shift in the saddle. “God’s teeth! It no hurt until—”
    â€œIt’ll hurt plenty,” Sweet Milk said. Even in the poor light he could tell it was the worst he’d feared when he’d seen the blow go home. Not a sidelong slash that would have lifted a flap of flesh, but a straight-on, downward cut that, like as not, had gone to the bone. “It be deep,” he said, while thinking: There’ll be no stitching that. It’ll fester. Jesus, it’ll cripple him. The bleeding was slow—that was something to be thankful for. Black blood dripped to the ground and down Fowl’s flank. Sweet Milk thought of all the miles they had to go before reaching home. The leg would be working all the way.
    Sweet Milk unslung his bedroll from his back and crouched beside Fowl to open it. Inside he had some old rags, for bandages.
    Sim and Hob came up on Fowl’s other side, on horseback. “Here, lad,” Hob said. “That’s who tha’ve to thank.” He held up, by the hair, the head of the man who’d made the wound. Sim was wagging the hand that had struck the blow.
    Per looked at the head. He knew its face, and his shoulders flinched in a shudder. “Jem,” he said. If it hadn’t been for Sweet Milk and Ecky, his own head, hacked from his body, could easily have been dangling from someone’s hand.
    â€œWe’ve got sword—for tha mammy,” Hob said.
    Sweet Milk, as he folded cloth into a pad, shook his head. Like many others, Hob believed that if Isobel washed the sword blade that had cut Per’s leg, and rubbed it with ointment, it would heal the wound. But Hob hadn’t seen how deep the slash was. Sweet Milk pressed the pad against the wound and held it in place. Fowl stood like a rock. “Hold it,” he said to Per, and bound the pad in place with a second strip of cloth, slipping it between Per’s leg and Fowl’s side.
    â€œIf tha’d hit me with that butt end,” he said, looking up at Per, “I’d have had thee off there and knocked seven colors out o’ thee. Tha knows that, don’t tha?”
    Per laughed. Laughter came easily; he felt dizzy and lightheaded, as if drunk.
    â€œTry to keep it still,” Sweet Milk said, and remounted his own horse, which Davy had caught for him. His own bruises were beginning to burn and ache. The metal plates of his jakke had been driven into him in several places. He thought longingly of his safe bed.
    They rode gently back along the valley to rejoin Gobby. Sweet Milk watched Per as they went. There seemed nothing wrong with the boy—except, maybe, he was a bit quiet. Fowl, stepping gently, obediently followed the other horses, so that Per had no need even to kick him on. But the wound was a bad one.
    The other end of the valley was full of the harsh baaing of sheep as Gobby’s men tried to gather them in the dark. Gobby himself came riding to meet them. Before he reached them, Ecky and Sim had called out, angrily, that the May was hurt.
    Per turned his face aside, looking down, as Gobby nudged his horse close to see the bandage on Per’s thigh. The white linen showed, a blur in the dark, but was already blackening. “Badly?” Gobby asked.
    Per said, “Nay.” He wouldn’t have told his uncle of the wound, and wished the others hadn’t.
    Sweet Milk said, “Deep.”
    Gobby said nothing. Per, whose temper had already been rising in expectation of his uncle’s anger, was puzzled by his silence and said to Fowl, “Walk on.” Fowl, on his best behavior, walked forward without a kick.
    â€œWhere art ganning now?” Gobby demanded.
    â€œTo help with sheep.”
    â€œTo help with—!” Gobby said. “Stay there and no move! I wish