I break down a gate to make a stretcher. One of the fellows helps me lift the injured man on – he screams – and we walk him to the farm. Folk are looking at me a bit oddly, but not saying much. Blackthorn’s not being talkative either. Still, when we get there she gives more orders, and folk run about fetching what she needs. I stay close, but I make sure I’m not in her way. This fellow, the one with the broken leg, is the farmer, Fergus, and the woman who was making all the noise is his wife.

The splint Blackthorn made comes off and she puts on a better one. I get another job: holding the leg in position while she binds the thing right so the bone will mend straight. Fergus’s wife gives him some strong drink beforehand, which helps a bit, but not enough to keep him still while we get everything lined up the way it should be. A couple of fellows help. Fergus’s screams run right through me. It’s hard to hold firm, keep my eyes open, swallow down the dark.

‘All right?’ mutters Blackthorn, sparing me a glance as she wraps her bandage around leg and splint. Some tricky twists and ties there; not sure how she’s doing it, but I can see it’s tight and strong. Seems like she hasn’t forgotten much.

‘Mm.’ Has to be all right. It’s not me lying there wondering if my leg will ever be good enough to let me farm again. And she needs me; that helps.

‘Good. Well done, Fergus, nearly there.’ My guess is, that’s the hard part for her, saying words of comfort, being gentle. The other part, ordering folk around, taking charge, fixing things, that seems to come easy enough.

When the leg’s done she gets Fergus sitting up and puts a strapping around his chest. Rib broken, she thinks. Settles him to rest, propped on pillows. Tells the woman how to make up a draught for the pain, and how long to leave the splint on for. Orders Fergus not to do any work until then, if he wants to be able to use his leg again. Says it all in a rush, as if she doesn’t want to give them time for questions.