The tall man cursed beneath his breath.
"The woman means no harm to you," he said.
"It is the fever troubling him," Mary explained.
The sick man was already weak again. He lay on the bed limply and muttering uneasily.
"You'd best hold him so as I can put on the clean rags," she said.
She had a length of old linen, smeared with ointment from a small earthenware jar, in her hands. She laid it over the wound and gently and firmly bound it into place.
"That'll be better," she murmured.
The gaunt man overlooked her, a curious cynical humour in his eyes.
"You're a brave woman," he said.
"I'm not, indeed," she replied; but her eyes met his squarely.