Kit just nodded “Well, the English army lost the battle at Orleans, rather badly. This fellow’s a Welsh archer, a longbowman. Like the English, he thought Joan was a witch. The Burgundians caught her a couple of years after Orleans and turned her over to the English. They burned her.”
Margo shut her eyes. “I … I fell through the gate when it opened. I didn’t have any equipment, I don’t know when it was…” She started to cry.
”Hang in there, Margo. I’m taking you to Rachel Eisenstein. They’re not serious cuts, I promise.”
”Good,” she whispered
Kit tightened his arms around her and shoved open the infirmary door with the point of his shoulder.
”Rachel! Emergency!”
The station doctor appeared at a run. “What happened?”
”Medieval warhorse raked Margo with a spiked bit. Slashes to arm and thigh. Unexpected gate into a fifteenth-century battle.”
They eased her onto an examining table and Rachel Eisenstein stripped off Margo’s ruined clothes. “It isn’t as bad as it feels,” Rachel told her gently, swabbing out the long slices. She gave Margo a local anesthetic and cleaned the wounds, then stitched them up. She finished off with bandages.
”Your medical records indicate no allergies to penicillin,” Rachel said, consulting a computer screen. “That’s correct?”
”Yes,” Margo said in a small voice. “That’s right. I’m not.”
The doctor injected antibiotics and anti-tetanus and gave her a prescription for oral capsules as well. “When you’re wounded with a down-time weapon that’s been only God knows where and in God knows what, we take no chances.”