The Damaged Bride

Chapter 12

Moira came in carrying a bowl of water, rags and a few packets of what Marcus assumed were her healing herbs.

“I am sorry my lord,” she said clutching her burdens to her chest. “O’Flagnery and his men threatened to hurt anyone who tried to interfere. I thought it best to collect these things, and hope you returned soon.”

Marcus slowly led Bridgette to her rooms, eventually lifting her into his arms when she began to grow faint from the pain and effort. Placing her in the same chair he’d ordered her into the night before, he stood back and watched as Moira gently bathed Bridgette’s wounds.

With a grim set to her lips, Moira stood gesturing for Marcus to take over the task.

“I must go clip some fresh comfrey from the kitchen garden and see if we have any honey to treat these wounds. The dried herbs I have with me will be no good on these,” she explained before she left him alone with his wife.

Clumsily, Marcus washed blood from Bridgette’s face, the whole time, she never made a sound, her face a mask of resigned acceptance.

“Did he beat you like that often?” Marcus asked, turning away to rinse the blood covered rag.

“Yes,” Bridgette answered, her voice flat as she sat staring blankly at the wall.

Anger flared in Marcus’ mind at how accustomed Bridgett seemed to be to this type of treatment. He knew Douglas was a horrible brute, but was this beating he had given Bridgette really nothing? What terrible things had she been subjected to?

Thinking back to the night before, he realized that she’d never once cried out in pain, even when he knew he was hurting her. When she’d fallen to the floor it hadn’t dawned that the way she curled up was a much practice maneuver, at the time he’d only thought she was cringing from him.

It seemed ages before Moira returned with her mortar and pestle, a jar of honey and several bunches of fresh earthy smelling herbs, Christine following at her heels. When they were done with their ministrations, Moira stood and looked at him.

“She will be fine my lord. It doesn’t look like there will be any permanent physical damage,” the older woman sighed, looking between Bridgette and Marcus. “Christine and I will tend to her.”

“Good,” Marcus said, nodding his head, inwardly thanking God that he’d returned home when he did. If not, Douglas might have killed the girl… and with her death, the hopes of saving his land were lost too.

Ashamed by his own thoughts Marcus resolved to make it up to Bridgette.

“Moira,” he said, taking the older woman aside, “make sure she has every comfort.”

“Yes my lord,” Moira said, standing and clearing the remains of her work.

After Marcus had left, Moira and Christine began to gently remove Bridgette’s gown. As her under-shift was soiled with blood, Moira saw no recourse but to change it as well. Slowly, they lifted it over Bridgette’s head revealing the young woman’s naked and marred body.

Every inch of her flesh that could be seen showed signs of abuse and torment. Moira could see the marks from a whip across Bridgette’s shoulders, some of them were white and faded to thin lines, but others seemed fresher, only days old. On her arm, she saw marks that could only have been made by being tightly grabbed, and her hip also showed fresh bruising.

Even her arms and legs had not been spared, showing contusions, some yellow and old, others a livid purple.

Meeting Christine’s eyes behind Bridgette’s back Moira saw the young woman was thinking the same thing. How could one body sustain such brutal punishment and still function?

“Ma’am,” Moira said, barely able to get the word past a sizable lump in her throat. “I…”

Before she could continue, Bridgette’s collapsed into her arms, the last of her strength having left her. With Christine’s help, Moira was able to complete the task of regowning the girl and laying her gently onto her bed.

Clicking her tongue in disgrace, not only at the treatment Bridgette had just gone through, but also at the evidence of years of such abuse all over her body, Moira turned to Christine.

“I want you to stay with her for the rest of the day. I will come back and keep watch over her tonight,” Moira told the serving girl. “Keep a kettle of comfrey tea steeping and if she wakes give her some. Make sure to keep her bandages clean, and if she develops fever send for me at once.”

“Yes ma’am,” Christine said, handing the older woman another clean bandage.

“Ma’am,” the young woman ventured further. “Those marks on her back….”

“Yes, child,” Moira nodded, “I saw them.”

“Was she whipped?” Christine asked, her voice catching.

“Over many years I would say,” the older woman replied, her face set in grim resolution.