The General's Apothecary Apprentice

Chapter 11

The faint scrape of footsteps outside drew her gaze. Yolanda, the baker’s wife, appeared in the doorway, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"Good morning, Genevieve," Yolanda said, offering a warm smile. "I heard the General’s camp is drilling again. He must be… impressive."

Genevieve’s hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their work. Her mind flashing briefly to the mysterious parchment. "The men are doing their duty. That is all."

Yolanda leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice. "But surely, someone as clever as you would notice… qualities in him."

Genevieve straightened, her tone firm but polite. "I only see him when necessary. I am a healer. That is what matters."

Yolanda’s expression faltered slightly, and she nodded, hiding her disappointment. "Of course, of course. I did not mean to pry."

As Yolanda stepped away, Genevieve let out a quiet sigh. People seem to only call me for either treatment or the General now. At least it is better than being unseen, she thought, straightening the apron over her gown and walking towards the General’s shed.

The warrior's flag flapped lightly in the breeze, carrying with it the sharp tang of sweat, horses, and the ever-present scent of the soldiers’ iron and leather.

Inside, the General sat upright on a cot, one arm wrapped in a rough linen bandage. His dark eyes followed her as she approached, assessing every careful step.

“You’re late again,” he said, his voice low but edged with amusement.

“I am on time for the wounded,” Genevieve replied evenly, ignoring the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Wounded or not,” he countered, “I insist we walk before the dressing. The air will do me good.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “Before treatment? You want to make your fever worse?”

“Perhaps,” he said, grinning faintly. “Or perhaps I want to see if you will argue with me.”

“Clever,” she said, looping her arm lightly through his. “I usually only argue with those who pay me, General.”

He chuckled. “Consider this a fee in the form of endurance.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Then I suppose I am very well paid today.”

They stepped outside, the camp bustling around them. Soldiers shouted, horses neighed, and the rhythmic clatter of boots on hard ground filled the air.

The wind tugged at her gown, and Genevieve held it close, her golden-brown eyes scanning the horizon while keeping one wary glance on the General.

Meanwhile, in a shaded corner, Scholar Silas raised his eyebrows sharply at the scene.

Harrald, seated in a large wooden tub, drinking with a pair of entertainers, looked up when one of the men brought him news of the General’s insistence.

“What?” Harrald barked, spilling part of his drink. “He dares to walk before his damned treatment and... With my, my lady?”

“Indeed,” said the messenger carefully, “but you should not approach. He is… formidable. He could kill us in a single breath.”

Harrald’s face turned red, and he threw the empty cup to the ground. The clatter startled the entertainers, but he dared not move closer. Between him and the General stood a solid foot of height and an undeniable wall of muscle and a higher position of authority.

Back at home, Avana leaned against the doorway of the study, her eyes wide as she recounted the news to her father. “Father, Genevieve is walking with the General. Before her treatment.”

Tristan bristled, rising immediately. “What? I will—”

“Father,” Avana interrupted, placing a hand on his arm, “please. Do not cause a scene. Trust the daughter you raised. A hundred scoldings will not help.”

He froze, his chest heaving slightly. “But he is—”

“Father, why do you want Genevieve to marry a man as loose as Harrald anyway?” she asked bluntly.

Tristan hesitated, sighing heavily. “Because he is secure. She will always have food, good meals. He will not prevent her from being a healer. Her skills and connections will give him respect and standing in the community. He is the only man I trust to keep her safe and allow her to fulfill her oath. Lewanda believed it. Before she died, she tried to match them together. I will ensure they marry, to honor her memory and Genevieve’s future.”

Avana pressed her lips together, considering his words. “I understand, Father. But even so, he must learn not to frighten her.”

Tristan’s eyes softened. “Genevieve is strong, Avana. Stronger than any man I have ever known. That is why I trust her.”

Meanwhile, Genevieve had matched the General’s pace, keeping her wit sharp.

“You seem far too cheerful for someone who cannot even sit still,” she teased.

“I prefer to enjoy the small freedoms while I have them,” he said. “Soon I will be back in armor, back to orders and drills. Tell me, do all healers mock their patients so freely?”

“Only the ones worth their salt,” she said with a small smirk. “Besides, I mock because I care. It is far more dangerous to ignore a man who insists on walking before treatment.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “And here I thought I was the teacher. Perhaps you are the wiser one.”

Genevieve tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Do not mistake wit for wisdom, General. You would find that distinction costly.”

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the camp. Soldiers paused to watch the unusual pair, whispers spreading like wildfire. Genevieve kept her steps measured, steady, her mind already running through the dressing she would soon perform, but her lips curved faintly in amusement at the General’s stubborn insistence.