Countess of Nottingham

Chapter 5

Nottingham Castle was gripped by unprecedented panic and chaos; people wore grave expressions and moved in haste, while young maidservants huddled in corners, whispering and chattering amongst themselves. All of this stemmed from the fact that the Earl of Nottingham—the supreme authority over this vast territory—lay bedridden with severe injuries, his survival hanging in the balance.

A week earlier, the day after his wedding to the King’s cousin, the Earl had set out southward from Nottingham Castle with an entourage of nearly thirty knights and squires.

His objective was to inspect the southern half of his domain. However, upon receiving news from the coast, he decided to alter his course from south to north, prioritizing a visit to Vida—a port town in the southeast. Vida was the largest trading hub in Nottinghamshire and the source of the Nottingham family's greatest wealth; it was also the very place that had been raided by pirates just a fortnight prior.

Yet, after passing two villages and just as they crossed into the lands of Baron Gough, the party was ambushed. Although the knights and squires fought valiantly—allowing over twenty men to break through the encirclement—the Earl of Nottingham sustained grave injuries during the skirmish. This severely hampered their return journey; furthermore, the absence of a friar skilled in medicine among the retinue caused his condition to deteriorate rapidly.

Now, the Earl’s bedchamber was packed tight with people—knights and squires from his party, the steward overseeing affairs, and the Bishop, who had rushed over upon hearing the news to offer his aid.

In an era rife with illiteracy, even the households of great nobles lacked formal educational systems. To acquire knowledge—or to study medicine—one had to go to a monastery. Consequently, a county’s Bishop was often the most skilled healer in the entire region. Yet, none of this put Leah at ease.

Give me a break—even if she hadn't experienced medieval medical practices firsthand, she’d seen them on TV; or, failing that, she could have dug up the information from the memories she’d inherited. You didn't need a brain—even a toe could figure out exactly how the Bishop intended to treat Nottingham: bloodletting.

That’s right—it was the go-to remedy for everything from minor ailments to serious illnesses in the Middle Ages, touted as a cure-all akin to those mythical "miracle pills" that promised to heal any disease or even bring the dead back to life. Nobles, in particular, were staunch believers; they generally held that toxins lurked in the blood, and that the only way to recover from sickness or maintain good health was to undergo a scheduled bloodletting once a year.

Fine—considering Nottingham’s appalling behavior on their wedding night, Leah wouldn't have objected in the slightest to draining that bastard dry. But not now—not while he lay critically wounded, hovering between life and death. Just look at the blood-soaked linen strips being carried out of the room; for heaven's sake, he was already on the verge of dying from blood loss as it was!

They had been married for barely a week; forget an heir—at this rate, there wouldn't even be a dog left to inherit the estate. Leah absolutely refused to stand outside waiting for her husband to breathe his last inside, only to end up a childless widow kicked out of the house—forced to return to her uncle’s, live as a dependent, or get packaged up and sold off all over again.

No—she couldn't just stand by and watch.

"I'm going in!" Amidst the chaotic commotion, no one even noticed the young Countess.

"Oh, enough—everyone shut up!" Leah finally roared, and an instant silence fell over the room. She stared at the wooden door before her and said firmly, "Let me in!"

The guard was a man built like a tower—nearly 1.9 meters tall—and Leah guessed he was likely a knight sworn to Nottingham. He looked down at the Countess—who wasn't short herself, yet seemed tiny standing before him—and said with a troubled expression, "No, I can't. His Lordship gave orders that no one is allowed inside."

No one allowed inside? Don't give me that crap—are the butler and the bishop just a couple of dogs?!

Leah rolled her eyes, having no intention of giving up. The man lying inside held the key to her future—and perhaps even her life. It didn't matter if the guard was a towering brute; even if the mighty Pagoda-Bearing Heavenly King himself were standing there, she would have barged in regardless.

"Move aside," she said, staring unyieldingly at the knight. "The Count is my husband; I have both the right and the obligation to enter." Besides, this was *her* damn bedroom, too.

The knight was in a bind; while he couldn't disobey the Count's orders, he dared not lay a hand on the Countess. It would have been one thing if she had simply stood quietly by the door, but she was clearly poised to force her way in if he didn't get out of the way.

He was agonizing over what to do if she actually resorted to force—should he turn his back or face the attack head-on?—when the door creaked open and the butler stepped out.

"His Lordship asks that you come in, My Lady," he said respectfully.

*Oh, so he's still conscious!* That was the first thought that flashed through Leah's mind. She breathed a sigh of relief; if her husband hadn't lost consciousness from excessive blood loss or infection, his chances of survival were clearly much higher. However, the relief she had just felt vanished, and her heart leapt back into her throat the moment she followed the butler inside. You’ve got to be kidding me—wasn't this supposed to be a fictional medieval setting? When did she end up in Egypt? Damn it—was that man lying on the bed, wrapped up like a mummy, really her husband? Are you sure he didn't just crawl out of a Pharaoh's tomb?!

The room remained exactly as it had been when Leah left: curtains drawn low, the light dim. Aside from Nottingham—who lay on the bed with only his eyes visible—several burly, muscular men stood in the room, bearing various wounds. The air was a pungent cocktail of blood, sweat, horse manure, and the metallic tang of rust—an absolutely nauseating stench.

Leah stood her ground, fighting the urge to bolt out the door, and glanced at the bishop sitting by the bedside. Thank goodness—that religious quack hadn't managed to do anything yet.

Perhaps the bishop was unnerved by the sight of a man hovering between life and death; for once, he displayed "brilliant medical judgment." Seeing Nottingham wrapped up like that, he had practically written the man off as a lost cause. He didn't dare propose any treatment plan, opting instead to sit and pray incessantly. After all, while the Count’s death might not be a disaster, having him die *under the bishop's care* would be a catastrophe—doing nothing was safer than doing something.

Upon seeing Leah, the bishop quietly rose and stepped aside to yield his seat.

Leah stepped forward and, wearing an expression of grief and concern, took Nottingham’s hand in hers.

Hmm, it didn't look like he was going to die anytime soon. Leah rested the middle three fingers of her right hand against his wrist and silently made her assessment. It wasn't that she was actually skilled in Traditional Chinese Medicine; she had simply picked up the basics of pulse-taking from a doctor at her school clinic during a routine checkup—originally just to show off the skill to her classmates. Moreover, she couldn't diagnose a thing from his pulse; she could only judge his condition by the strength of the heartbeat. Nottingham, it seemed, wasn't going to die anytime soon.

Of course, that was only for the moment. If his wounds were left unattended—rotting and bleeding endlessly—he’d likely be meeting his Maker before long. Oh, right—they didn't call Him "God" here; they called Him the God Yamei.

"Undo the bandages." No sooner had the words left Leah’s lips than her husband glared at her, his eyes wide with alarm. *Glare all you want, you jerk. Do you think I actually enjoy the stench of your rotting flesh and blood? I’m only stooping to this—deigning to 'favor'—er, treat you—for the sake of my own future.*

Nottingham’s mouth was tightly bound as well, making it difficult for him to make a sound. The butler stepped forward, leaned his ear close to Nottingham’s lips, and then turned to Leah with a helpless look. "My Lady, look at this..." Clearly, Nottingham objected.

Objection overruled. What right did a mute Count on the verge of kicking the bucket have to defy her? Leah slapped the bed frame and pointed at her husband—who looked like a mummy wrapped in bandages. "Just look at the state of him! Are you trying to ship him off to Egypt or something? Oh, wait—you lot wouldn't even know what Egypt is. But this wrapping method does absolutely nothing for his injuries. Never mind whether you—you *rustic*... er, locals—actually disinfected the wounds; in this weather, wrapping him up like that and piling blankets on top is a recipe for infection caused by sweating. Do you understand what an infection is? It’s when a wound the size of a fingernail festers and spreads because of improper care, eventually leaving a scar the size of a dinner plate!"

Leah spoke with great animation, using her hands to demonstrate how a small circle could expand into a huge one right before everyone's eyes. Seeing their expressions soften slightly, she pressed her advantage: "Untie him first; I need to see where he’s injured and how the wound was dressed. We can re-disinfect and bandage it properly afterward."

In truth, she suspected that Nottingham’s uncontrollable bleeding might be due to an incorrect bandaging technique. She vaguely recalled learning about "proximal" and "distal" points—relative to the heart—in a biology class or something similar back in school. If an artery was severed, you were supposed to bandage the proximal side... but—damn it—which one was the artery again?

Leah, a total amateur, wouldn't dare claim she could actually cure Nottingham, but it was certainly better than just letting the bishop pray while everyone else sat around doing nothing. As for the actual procedure? *Sigh.* She’d have to peel back the layers and see what was underneath before deciding.

This time, the steward didn't ask for Nottingham’s opinion; instead, he consulted with the knights gathered in the room. He then signaled for Leah to step aside, and two attendants began unwinding the bandages—starting from his head—layer by layer.

Leah looked at the man lying before her. He had stubble on his chin and a few scratches on his face, but thankfully, he wasn't disfigured; he also looked considerably younger than she remembered. Well, all things considered, her "convenient" husband wasn't bad-looking.

Leah returned to the bedside, only to find that the bishop had also moved closer at some point, staring at Nottingham with an inscrutable expression. "Excuse me, could you step aside?" she said to the bishop.

Startled out of his thoughts, the bishop glanced at the steward, then retreated to a corner of the room and sat down on a chair.

Leah gazed at her husband, who was stripped to the waist; there were a dozen or so wounds of varying sizes across his body. But the worst injury was on his shoulder; it looked as though he had been struck by a blunt weapon like an axe, leaving the flesh torn wide open. Due to hasty treatment and days of forced marching, the wound had begun to fester, oozing a mixture of purple and yellow pus and blood.

"Can someone give me a hand?" Lia wanted to help Nottingham sit up so she could examine the extent of the injury on his back.

"I'll do it." A bearded man—who had also sustained minor injuries—stepped forward from the group of knights; he had previously been standing unnoticed in the corner.

Lia nodded to him, signaling him to help Nottingham up. Moving him inevitably aggravated the wound; Lia saw her husband’s brows furrow tightly in pain, yet he didn't let out a single groan. *Well,* she thought, *at least he’s got some grit.*

The injury on his back was exactly as she had feared—far more severely decayed than the wound on the front. "This rotting flesh has to be cut away."

"What did you say?" The reaction was as intense as Lia had anticipated; one young knight even jumped up and glared at her, seemingly forgetting that she was their Lady.

"That’s right—I said cut it away!" Lia did not waver in her resolve despite their strong objections; it was *her* husband who was injured like this—surely she cared more about whether he lived or died than they did? "Look here—the wound itself isn't actually that deep; had it been treated promptly, there would have been no threat to life. But now—here, here, and here—it’s all infected; the flesh is rotting away, do you understand? And it will keep rotting until there’s nothing left. If it were just an arm or a leg, we could simply chop it off as a last resort. But this wound runs from the shoulder all the way down the back, right over the heart. Can you imagine the consequences if the rot continues? Surely you know what the heart signifies and where it’s located?"

Of course, they knew. Aside from the bishop and the steward, everyone in the room was among the finest knights and squires in all of Nottingham. Combat—or to be precise, killing—was the primary lesson of their lives. No one understood better than they did the significance of striking an opponent's heart, or exactly where that organ lay.

And as Lia had said, the wound hadn't originally looked this gruesome. During the journey back to Nottingham from the Goff estate, it had festered bit by bit, the decay accelerating as time went on. The scenario the Countess described was entirely possible.

Lia surveyed the room—taking in the furrowed brows of everyone present, including her husband lying on the bed—and couldn't help but curl her lip. These locals treated bloodletting as a life-saving measure, yet they recoiled in fear at the thought of cutting away dead flesh.

The first to speak was the man who had stepped forward earlier to "lend a hand." He fixed his gaze on Lia and asked, "So, what do you propose we do?"

All eyes were upon her, Nottingham’s included. Lia licked her lips; she wasn't entirely confident—she didn't even have fifty-fifty odds. But she knew what had to be done; she had to at least try. "First, cut away the rotting flesh; have the kitchen prepare alcohol and bring in a brazier. I’m not entirely certain, but... it would probably be best to have some saltwater and sugar water ready, too..."

Upon hearing her express uncertainty, the expressions of those present began to shift again. Yet, the man who had asked for her help nodded firmly at her. "We’ll do exactly as you say."

With no further objections, a knight—dagger in hand—walked toward Nottingham, who lay on the bed.

"Hey, hey, hey—what are you doing?" Leah cried out in alarm.

The knight paused, looking puzzled. "Didn't you say we needed to cut away the flesh?"

*Good grief.* Were you really planning to just hack away with that big blade? Who knows how many people it’s stabbed, what objects it’s sliced, or what filth it’s touched? Using it without sterilization—were you trying to hasten his death?

Under Leah’s furious glare and shouting, the knight sheepishly waited for the kitchen to gather the necessary supplies. He thoroughly soaked the blade—first in saltwater, then in alcohol—and held it over the fire until the metal glowed a faint red, only then applying it to the putrid wound.

"Ngh..." Leah lowered her head, intending to turn away, but someone gripped her shoulders from behind.

"Watch him," came a voice right beside her ear—the same man who had spoken earlier. His voice was low and gravelly, yet carried an authority that compelled obedience. "This was your idea, so you must watch him—watch the process through to the end."

Unable to break free, Leah was forced to stare as chunks of black, foul-smelling, rotting flesh were sliced ​​from Nottingham's shoulder. Fortunately, while the man wouldn't let her leave, he didn't force her to keep her eyes open. She barely managed to endure the entire ordeal; before the stench of decay rising from his chest could reach her throat, Lia broke free and rushed out of the bedroom, retching violently.

The butler directed the attendants to clean and disinfect the area exactly as Lia had instructed; they then quickly dried fine linen cloths—soaked in alcohol and brine—over a fire to re-bandage the wound. Before that, they had applied a local herbal remedy to Nottingham—it seemed the natives had discovered many effective, albeit unscientifically proven, folk methods during their long history of warfare.

The cook brought in large bowls of salt water and sugar water as ordered—a trick Lia had picked up from a TV drama. Though she wasn't sure if it would actually help, she figured it was better than nothing and had the attendants force-feed the mixture to Nottingham. *Sigh*, let's just pretend it’s saline solution and glucose.

Having done all she could, Lia pulled up a chair beside the bed and began to pray silently. She appealed to gods both local and from her homeland, begging them to spare her from becoming a young widow.

As for Nottingham, after the grueling ordeal—enduring pain, terror, and a stomach distended by sugar and salt water—he finally drifted into a heavy, groggy sleep.

The butler gestured for everyone to leave so the Count could rest. When he looked at her with a hesitant, questioning gaze, Lia firmly declared that she intended to stay. The butler fell silent for a moment, then sighed and led the Bishop and the others away.