The Old Steward and the Monk’s Treatment

A short while later, Sir Kovan reappeared.

Accompanying him was a spry old man.

The old man’s head was crowned with silver hair, his skin darkened by age, yet his ancient eyes gleamed with remarkable vitality. Behind him trailed a robust maid.

The maid, broad-shouldered and stout, clearly possessed the formidable physique of an excellent castle aide.

“Good day, Young Master Igor,” the old man greeted, performing a perfunctory bow by bending his back slightly.

“Good day, Old Steward,” Igor replied, dismounting his horse and bowing his head in humility.

This Old Steward was the Count’s most trusted servant.

Despite lacking a noble title, his status as the “Count’s personal beloved attendant” alone demanded Igor’s profound respect.

“Sir Kovan has already informed me of your predicament, but I implore you not to fret unduly. God, in His boundless mercy, will surely protect His faithful. I have every confidence that Young Master Ryan will recover following Paine’s treatment,” the Old Steward offered, a benevolent smile gracing his lips.

As he smiled, the elderly wrinkles on his face smoothed out, lending him an air of profound approachability—a quality that was perhaps one of the reasons he served as the Count’s cherished personal attendant.

A sliver of Igor’s troubled expression receded, allowing a strained smile to surface.

Sir Kovan, finally noticing the absence of two individuals—the blond man and woman—inquired, “And the blond lady?”

Igor’s expression grew awkward. “Miss Noren expressed a desire to explore the castle. Please forgive her impropriety; it is her first visit here.”

Sir Kovan exchanged a knowing glance with the Old Steward, as if confirming an unspoken truth.

He then chuckled, saying, “Let the Du… *cough*… the young lady wander as she pleases! There is no impropriety in that at all!”

The Old Steward interjected, “I shall instruct a maid to remain here and await her return. Should the blond young lady reappear, the maid will escort her to her chambers.”

The Old Steward then cast his gaze upon the four-wheeled covered carriage and the three gentle warhorses—one grey, one white, and one bay.

Turning to the maid beside him, he instructed, “Eva, lead these attendants and stablemen to the open ground beside the stables. There are sheds there for the servants to sleep. As for these three magnificent horses…”

The old man attempted to stroke the grey horse’s mane, but the horse disdainfully tossed its head away, letting out a snort.

Withdrawing his withered fingers, the old man commanded, “Have the stablemaster feed them the finest fodder! Remember: first the hay, then the concentrated feed of beans, barley, and eggs!”

The maid nodded, stepped forward, and took hold of the reins, preparing to lead everyone except Igor away.

“Wait!” Igor suddenly exclaimed. “My brother is still in the carriage!”

Upon hearing this, the Old Steward immediately summoned several footmen, who gently lifted Ryan from the carriage and carried him into the main castle keep.

“Right, Young Master Igor, let us proceed!” Sir Kovan declared.

The three ascended the wooden staircase adjacent to the main keep, disappearing through the narrow door situated ten feet above the ground.

‘Hmm, it feels as though I’ve forgotten something,’ Igor mused.

Just as he was about to pass through the narrow door of the main keep, a thought struck him.

He glanced back down at the courtyard, where people flowed like a ceaseless river, yet he could not pinpoint what he had left behind.

“Young Master Igor!” Sir Kovan’s impatient voice echoed from within the main keep.

“Coming!” Igor called back, then plunged into the main keep, deciding it was not worth fretting over what he couldn’t recall.

With a resounding *bang*, the narrow door of the main keep slammed shut.

In the courtyard, a mottled horse stood quietly, resting on three legs with its eyes closed.

It remained utterly oblivious to its master’s departure, much as its master had been oblivious to its presence.

****

Through a narrow vertical slit in the wall, a dim, pallid light pierced the gloom, barely illuminating the damp, cold stone chamber.

Upon a soft, generously padded bed lay an unconscious casualty.

Three men, their forms half-obscured by the shadows, stood gathered around the bedside, their gazes fixed with pity upon the injured man.

“Knock, knock.” A soft rap sounded at the door.

“Sirs, Monk Paine has arrived,” a young maid, her head wrapped in a white kerchief, announced from the doorway.

“Show him in,” Sir Kovan stated gravely.

He had just examined Ryan’s wound; the arrowhead had been skillfully removed, and the bleeding had ceased.

However, the wound was now festering, and Ryan had developed a fever.

The situation was far from promising.

The young maid bowed and withdrew.

A gaunt, bald man in a black robe entered, followed by a young apprentice carrying a wooden box.

Inside, it held instruments for execution… or rather, surgical tools such as knives and axes.

“I am here,” Paine announced, his voice ancient and hoarse, as if a perpetual phlegm lodged in his throat.

“My brother has been wounded by an arrow. For the sake of our shared faith in the same Lord, I implore you to save him!” Igor pleaded, bowing slightly towards the bald monk.

He had placed all his hopes for his brother’s survival on this Count’s court physician.

“Hmmph,” Paine grunted, a taciturn man by all appearances.

After emitting this muffled sound from his nose, he said no more, proceeding directly to the bedside.

To avoid hindering Paine, everyone present retreated, clearing a path for him.

Paine pulled back the quilt covering Ryan, then carefully unwound the undyed beige linen bandages wrapped around him, revealing the hideous, festering wound.

“It’s festering,” Paine declared, his expression turning grave and serious.

He then laid a hand on Ryan’s chest, finding it alarmingly hot. “And he has a fever.”

“Monk, my brother…” Igor stammered, appearing anxious and helpless, his eyes welling with tears as he pleaded with Paine.

“I will do my best,” Paine carefully articulated, weighing each word.

He could not guarantee Ryan’s complete recovery, for in his view, the ebb and flow of every life was ultimately God’s decision; his healing ministrations were merely God’s deliberation before making His final judgment.

“Scalpel,” Paine instructed his apprentice.

The apprentice deftly set down the wooden box and produced a rusty lancet from within, still bearing the soiled blood from the previous patient.

Paine took the lancet from the apprentice, swiftly cutting open the abscess.

Blood and white pus immediately began to ooze forth.

With the tip of his blade, he skillfully excised the necrotic flesh, then held a wooden bowl beneath the wound to catch the fresh blood gushing out.

When the bowl was half-full of blood, he, with astonishing swiftness, slapped a foul-smelling poultice—a putrid mixture of urine, mud, and human excrement—firmly onto the wound.

The sharp impact jolted Ryan from his stupor, causing him to open his eyes.

His face contorted in agony, and a torrent of incoherent words spilled from his lips.

“Wow, Master is amazing!” the young apprentice joyfully exclaimed, as if a patient’s awakening due to the doctor’s unorthodox methods were a matter of supreme honor.

Igor, witnessing his brother briefly regain consciousness after receiving treatment from the court physician, looked utterly astonished, his mouth agape.

Sir Kovan patted Igor’s shoulder. “Paine’s medical skills are truly remarkable. Most knights and warriors recover after his treatment, and Ryan will certainly be fine!”

“One can only hope so…” Igor muttered, his smile strained and devoid of genuine mirth, the reluctant upturn of his lips betraying a deeper current of hidden emotions.

Sir Kovan, discerning the subtle shift in Igor’s demeanor, saw a glimmer of understanding flash in his eyes.

In an instant, he grasped the underlying reason for Igor’s peculiar attitude.

‘The inheritance of the domain and title, then…’ Sir Kovan murmured to himself.