Krysty stayed to watch and help, while Doc relaxed on the deck, enjoying a burst of bright, watery sunshine.
“A wound of honor, my dear fellow,” he said.
“Honor!” Ryan bit his lip to avoid yelping as Mildred bathed the wound with cold river water, making sure there was no residue of cloth or dirt left by the ball’s passage that might remain and putrefy.
“A strange thing, honor,” the old man mused. “I do believe that it has caused almost as much sorrow, despair and death as religion.”
“I have the feeling that you’re building up to one of your interminable anecdotes, Doc,” Mildred said, bending low over Ryan’s thigh, examining her work with close attention. “Go ahead. Take his mind off the bandaging.”
“I am minded of the time of the Crusades in Europe,” Doc went on, as serene as ever.
“That the knights against the infidel?” Ryan asked. “Saw a bit of an old vid about that once. Years ago.”
“Correct.”
Doc watched the bandaging. “You have good hands, Dr. Wyeth.”
“Thank you, Doc.”
“The story about honor?” Ryan prompted, concentrating on not yelling at the pain from the wound. Despite all of Mildred’s efforts, it was like having a red hot needle drawn through the tender flesh of his thigh. Krysty was holding his hand tightly.
“Ah, yes. During the Crusades an alarming number of young men of good families died. Some from the swords and arrows of the blaspheming Turks, far more from dysentery and typhoid. Back home in England, it was vital that the daughters of the wealthy and famous married well. It was a source of deep shame to the fathers if they did not. But there were no longer enough young men of standing to go around.”
“I thought they became nuns,” Mildred interrupted.
“Some. But only a limited number. So some fathers came up with what were called ‘marriages of honor’ or ‘marriages of heraldry.’ Dreadful things.”
The afternoon was wearing on, and the Tennessee River flowed placidly toward the south.
“The father of a distinguished family would discover the name and rank of a young man who had died fighting for the true cross against the scimitar. Then he would announce that his daughter would wed him.”
“Though he was dead? How could they do that?” Ryan was becoming intrigued by the bizarre tale.
Doc shook his head sadly. “Of course they couldn’t do it. But they did. The daughter and two or three of her attendants would be taken to an isolated part of the castle and there walled in together. The shield that bore that coat of arms of the dead ‘husband’ was placed against the barred door. A priest would recite the marriage ceremony, and then everyone went away.”
“Leaving them to starve?” Krysty had become involved in listening to the story.
“Indeed, yes. A bleak and miserable passing for the poor souls. After a sufficient time had passed, the father would come back with the same priest. This time it would be the funeral service. The daughter, legally wed, was removed and buried in the local church, with full honor and dignity. And everyone concerned was happy ever after.”
His tale was followed by a long silence, broken only by the river chuckling against the bound timbers of the raft.
“That is appalling, Doc.” Mildred finished tying a knot in the length of torn material she’d used as a bandage. “That is simply dreadful.”
“Is it true, Doc?” Krysty asked.
The old man ran his fingers through the mane of silver gray hair. “True? I believe so. But what is truth, my dear lady? Why, I am minded of an extraordinary tale set at the time that Kubla Khan had decreed his stately pleasure dome.”
“No, thanks, Doc,” Ryan said, lying back with his eye closed, breathing deeply and slowly to overcome the belated shock that was seeping through his body.
“But it involves a sled carried by Custer on his expedition along the Rosebud.”
“No,” Mildred said firmly. “Now, Ryan needs some quality rest. Everyone off the raft for an hour or so. Maybe find some fruit if we all look around.”
“Careful,” Ryan stated, puzzled that his voice was barely a whisper.