Healing Hands

Phaidra, huddled in her thread-bare cloak, rushed down the narrow, twisting streets. The bells of the cathedral rang, calling the faithful to Compline.

She should go. Goodness knows she should pray. There was a chance her prayers would be answered. It had worked for Dariea, after all; her pain had been taken away with the Sisters had prayed for her. But Dariea was the beautiful daughter of a rich merchant while Phaidra was the daughter of a lowly street sweeper. In her bitter moments, when the pain in her hands was almost too great to bare, Phaidra was certain that miracles were the sole province of the rich.

Raucous laughter erupted behind her. Had she taken the wrong street and wandered by the Broken Flask? It would serve her right for having uncharitable thoughts. She lowered her head and quickened her pace, saying a silent prayer that the thugs would not notice her.

“You. Girl. Wait for a moment. I want to talk to you.” The voice was jeering and cruel. Phaidra gasped, the pain in her hands forgotten. How she regretted not going to Compline! She scuttled around a corner.

The earthy smell of horses filled her nostrils. It had to be the stables of the Hawk and the Virgin Inn. Her cousin Lionel worked there as a stable hand; surely he would protect her. Without thinking, Phaidra ducked into the open door.

“Lionel?” she called, her voice quavering in the dusk. The horses turned to look at her, their ears pricked forwards. One of them made a whuffing sound, but otherwise there was no answer. Cursing her ill luck, Phaidra hid within the shadows of an empty stall. Holding her breath out of fear of giving herself away, she strained to hear the thug’s voice or the sound of footsteps.

The horses shuffled, the dull thud of their hooves muted by straw. The bell had ceased tolling. The hay within the stall was soiled but at least the air was warm. Phaidra blew on her aching hands and rubbed them together.

The dim, late afternoon light was rapidly fading. She should leave. The thugs had likely lost interest and moved on, but the nighttime streets weren’t safe for a lone woman.

A figure carrying a lantern strode through the door. The horses shuffled about and whickered softly in greeting.

Lionel! Phaidra raced to the front of the stall to announce herself. The greeting froze on her lips. It wasn’t her cousin who had entered the stable, but a man she had never seen before.

Terrified, Phaidra retreated into the shadows. She huddled into the corner of the stall to make herself as small as possible and threw her cloak over her head.

“Hello?” An unfamiliar male voice rumbled through the darkness. He must be a different stable attendant, mustn’t he? She had not seen Lionel in several weeks. He could have gained a new colleague in that time. It might even be a customer of the stable bent upon retrieving his own horse. Either way, she did not really want to explain her presence to a stranger who might not believe her. Phaidra held her breath and prayed the he did not notice her.

“Who are you? Stand up and show yourself.” There was a note of command in the man’s voice. The horses stamped and huffed.

Phaidra heard the stall door open. Her breath was coming in sobs. If only she had gone to the evening prayers! If only she survived this encounter, she would attend Compline until the Feast of Saints Perpetua and Felicity!

“There you are.”

Phaidra gave a small shriek as her cloak was pulled from her. A bright light blinded her. It must be the lantern he had been carrying. She threw her arm in front of her dazzled eyes. “Please don’t hurt me!”

There was a gasp of surprise then the lantern was withdrawn.

“There, there, girl. I mean you no harm.” His voice was deep and gentle. Phaidra dared to look at him. He was tall and strongly built and his hair was dark and full. His facial features were completely at odd with the rest of him. Thick brows were drawn over heavily lidded eyes. His nose looked as though it had come into close contact with a few too many fists and his overly thin lips were drawn downwards in a forbidding frown.

“Here. Give me your hand. I’ll help you up.”

Phaidra examined him suspiciously. His clothing was of too rich a cut for him to be a stable hand. What was he doing here? With great reluctance she put her hand in his.

She winced in pain when he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. His grip immediately loosened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“All is well,” said Phaidra, clutching her injured hand. She would go to Confession and do penance for the lie tomorrow.

“Why are you hiding in the stable?” he asked.

“I was looking for my cousin, Lionel. He’s the stable hand here.” That, at least, was not a lie even if it wasn’t the complete truth. “Do you know where he is?”

“I believe the Innkeeper has sent him on an errand, which is inconvenient for those of us who would like our horse,” the stranger said.

“Oh. Well, if he isn’t here, I’ll just be going,” said Phaidra. The stranger was making her nervous.

“How long have your hands hurt?”

Phaidra gaped at him. Had she fallen in with a warlock? His blunt features were impassive in the lamplight. It would be dangerous to anger him, but it was even more dangerous to associate with him.

“They don’t hurt,” she said, clasping her hands together as she stepped away from him.
“Give me you hand, child,” he said.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done so by now,” he added to her reluctance.

Trembling and very much against her better judgement, Phaidra offered the stranger both hands.

“You’re cold. That won’t help,” he said.

She shrugged helplessly. Of course she was cold; it was nearly winter. At the same time she noted how warm his hands were in comparison to her own.

Taking her right hand, he began to gently rub the palm of her hand. Phaidra had been expecting it to hurt, but the pain receded beneath his ministrations. Closing her eyes, she marvelled at how his callused fingers could be so gentle.

She lost track of time standing in the near darkness as the stranger dropped her right hand and captured the left. A tingling warmth spread from her fingers up her arms.

He stopped all too soon, releasing her hand. She felt cold, both inside and out, at the loss of his touch.

“There. How are you feeling?” he asked.

“So much better. Thank-you, lord,” she said in gratitude. Phaidra opened her eyes. The stranger slumped against the wall, his face pale in the lantern’s light. Looking at him again, Phaidra realized he wasn’t as ugly as she had initially believed.

What was she thinking? Being alone with this man could be enough to ruin her reputation, and her reputation was all that she had.

Then why was she in no hurry to leave?

“Thank-you. I should be going,” she said, reluctantly.

“I shall accompany you home,” he said, straightening. The note of command had returned to his voice.

“But..” she began.

“Do not argue with me, child. The night streets are not safe for a woman. As your cousin is not available, I shall see you home.”

There was little she could do but wait as he secured a saddle and bridle on a bay horse with a white blaze.

“Come along,” he said as he led the horse out of the stable.

The night air was cold and dark. Phaidra pulled her tattered cloak tightly around her and regretted leaving the comparative warmth of the stable.

The stranger swung easily into the saddle. Phaidra took tight hold of the bridle.

“There’s not need for that. Give me your hand. You shall ride with me.”

Phaidra stared up at her benefactor. If he had seemed imposing before, now he was downright frightening; an immense, dark figure silhouetted against the thin ribbon of stars in the night sky.

“You need not trouble yourself. I can make my own way,” she said.

Harsh laughter exploded from the Broken Flask.

“There is no time for this. Give me your hand,” he growled.

Phaidra’s first reaction was to flee into the shadows, but the prospect of being chased through the dark streets by the formidable man on his horse was too much for her. He bent down, grasped her hand and swung her up behind him.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“In St. Brig’s parish, just around the corner from Elias, the butcher,” said Phaidra after taking some time to consider.

The man sighed. “I trust you will recognize the place in the dark?” he asked.

“Yes?” said Phaidra, without much confidence.

The horse’s hooves clopped on the cobbles when they entered the main street. They rode without speaking and without being challenged.

“Thank-you,” she said, at last working up the courage to speak.

“I could not allow you to walk home unescorted.” He sounded irritated. Phaidra shrank back from him. It would likely not be wise to annoy him further, but she had to express her gratitude.

“I meant thank-you for healing my hands,” she said.

“I did not heal your hands,” he said, shaking his head.

“But they no longer hurt,” she insisted, flexing her fingers. It was the first time since the summer fair that she could do so without pain.

“That will only help for a small time. I am sorry.” He sounded genuinely unhappy.

“Then thank-you for the little time you have given me.”

He responded with a grunt which Phaidra interpreted as the end of the conversation.


She was beginning to worry that she would not find her way when the church bells rang out. The familiar, brassy tone of St. Brig’s was closer than she had guessed.

“It’s to the right,” she said.

He said nothing but turned the horse up a wide cross street. Phaidra was beginning to lose confidence again when the street widened into a square. The familiar, white façade of St. Brig’s glowed in the moonlight.

“It’s just over there,” she said.

“Thank-you,” she said when the horse came to a halt. “May I ask your name?”

“Why would you want to know that?” he asked.

“So I can remember you in my prayers,” she said as she slid off the horse.

He turned the horse away from her.

“Athanasius,” he said before he rode away.