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chance to heal.”
    The mother stroked her child’s leg. “Will she live?”
    “I will do everything in my power to help her. Please fetch the water.”
    The woman grabbed a battered pot and spotted Enrique in the darkness. She lifted her eyebrows. He put his finger to his lips, asking for silence. She gave it. So did the two men who followed her outside, pots in hand.
    Hurriedly, Sancha pulled other items from her bag. There was a brass container, wine as she’d had when tending Fernando, a dagger, thread, and a needle.
    Staring at the last items, Enrique stepped closer. His arm hit a broom. The smack of the handle against the packed earthen floor sounded louder than it should have.
    She looked over and gaped at him.
    “I mean no harm.” He held his hands behind his back to prove his words.
    The child squirmed and opened her eyes. “Mamá?”
    Sancha stroked the little girl’s cheek. “Your mamá is fetching water. She should return in a moment.”
    The child’s face reddened with her strained breathing, fat tears sliding down her face. “My leg hurts.”
    “Of course it does.” Sancha smoothed the girl’s hair. “I promise to make it better.”
    No words would console Maria. She cried loudly without end. The moment her mother returned with the water, she put the pot on the table and held the girl to her breast, rocking her.
    Sancha touched the woman’s shoulder. “We need to begin now, before the infection grows worse.”
    “Should we give Maria some wine?” the smaller man asked. “The drink may quiet her some and make what you do less painful for her.”
    “No. Given how weak she is, the wine could do more harm than good.”
    “What did you give Fernando?” Enrique asked.
    Everyone glanced at him.
    Sancha looked away first. “Fernando had already swooned when I tended to his injuries. Nothing I did roused him in the least.”
    After rolling a napkin into a ropelike shape, she handed the item to the mother. “Have Maria bite down on this to help ease the pain.”
    Sancha pushed up her sleeves, washed her hands in the water, and dried them on yet another napkin. She uncorked the wine and vinegar, showing both to the mother. “This is to cleanse your daughter’s wound.”
    The moment the liquids touched her, Maria screamed around the napkin. Immediately, the men held her down. Swiftly, Sancha washed her knife blade in another pot, then ran it through the torch flame. Upon her return, she spoke to the men. “Hold her firmly. She will fight the pain and me.”
    Maria spat the napkin from her mouth and wailed. Sancha hadn’t even touched her as yet. Didn’t matter. Screaming now, the child struggled against her uncles’ hold. Footfalls and voices neared the hut. Enrique stuck his head outside. Women and men stepped back.
    Not only was he a stranger but a noble. “All is well.”
    The child’s ear-piercing shrieks turned to gasping sobs.
    “Tell the same to anyone who asks,” he said. “Especially Maria’s papá.”
    Enrique closed the door. Sancha finally sliced into the child’s wound. Blood and pus spurted out. The girl shrieked louder than before.
    His stomach rolled.
    Sancha mopped up the mess with the napkins. She used so many, the crumpled linens fell off the table. Despite the gore, she never flinched or became ill as he would have. At last, she’d exposed the raw core of the wound and poured vinegar over the dark red flesh.
    The little girl stiffened and swooned.
    “The worst is over.” She looked at each family member in turn. “Do keep holding her should she awake without warning.”
    Weeping, the mother made the sign of the cross over herself.
    Sancha opened the brass vial. The moment she brought the container to the wound, the mother put out her hand. “Wait. What is that?”
    “A mixture of wine, garlic, onion, and cow bile to keep the injury from infecting again.”
    Enrique went to her. “Bile helps against an infection?”
    “Physicians have used this for centuries as