Hospital of Santa Clara, Coimbra

Jenny's automatic reflex was to smile politely, but he wasn't even watching. She didn't feel like smiling anyway. "Older or younger?"

"Just a bit younger," Newbury replied. "Pretty enough too, I guess. The other footmen was always sayin' it, anyway."

"Footmen?"

He looked at the house that had lately done duty as Captain Vickery's billet and thought they might be able to get in through the window on the left corner, just there.

"Servant lads," he explained. "Workin' heart of a great house, footmen. Used to be one myself, see."

"I do know what a footman is, Joe." She gave him a look. "Just didn't know you was one. Right, this was Vick's, and I think that side was Strohmeier." She peered in through the window. "Doesn't look like anyone's touched it since. I think we're in luck."

"Could probably get in without no trouble." Newbury found it convenient to use the obstacle of getting into the house as a means to distract himself from other thoughts.

He tried the window and was relieved to find it wasn't locked. Breaking the glass wasn't something he was too keen to do, just for a sheltered place to sleep.

When he had worked open the window and crawled through to the room, he was welcomed by Jenny standing in the doorway. "Back door was unlocked too," she said with a smile. "Tea? I'll get some water if you'll start a fire. Footman."

Getting in the window wasn't easy, for he had to drop his rifle through the window first before clambering awkwardly through himself. The edge of the window caught on his jacket, which tugged against the bandage on his side and he completed his entry to the house in a cursing, undignified tumble.

Jenny's declaration about the back door made him feel stupid but he didn't move right away when she mentioned starting a fire for tea. Dammit but his ribs still hurt. Newbury waited until the worst of the pain had subsided before picking himself up off the floor where he'd landed.

"Fire. Right," he grumbled, glad at least that task would be easy. All he needed was wood for burning and there was some of that piled up near the fireplace. At least that was something he could do right.

Jenny felt a twinge of guilt for laughing at him when she realized he was in pain. "Oh, Joe, you're still hurt! You should have said. From now on, you must leave the window climbing to me." She knelt down and helped with the fire but did not fuss over him. "Is it your side?"

It wasn't as though saying anything would have made a different. Newbury used his sword-bayonet to prod at the logs on the fire and shrugged carefully.

"Just an unexpected ache," he said. "Maybe pulled a stitch out or something, ain't nothing bad."

She began digging through her pack for her little kettle. "Poor dear. Were you shot at, then? Stabbed?"

"Only a crease across me ribs. Some Frog got lucky for a second."

She half smothered a smile at his description. "A crease, is it? We call those tucks when they have stitches. Pin-tucks if they're small. And after that second, I suppose it was your turn to get lucky? Or one of your friends?"

Crease, tuck, what did it matter what you called it? Newbury shrugged again and hissed quietly. "Aye. He got more'n a crease in return. Served him right, sneaky bastard."

Jenny pretended not to notice the hiss of pain, but instead smiled amiably. "Then well done. I'm glad you returned in one piece - and pin-tucks, you know, are very fashionable just now. The girls back home will be so impressed." She opened the door to head out to the stable yard. "I'll just get some water. Back in a moment."

Pin-tucks. Sounded like another silly womanish fad instead of something to do with stitches in wounds. Newbury sat down against the wall near the fireplace and wished he'd brought his pack. Having something to use as a pillow wouldn't go amiss, and of course he knew he'd miss his blanket too.

And, dammit, it felt like there was warmth trickling down his side. He probably had pulled a stitch. At least Jenny had gone outside. Newbury unbuttoned his jacket and peeled it off with some difficulty. Pulling up his shirt was easier. Turned out his fear was partially founded. The wound had started bleeding again but he couldn't tell if any of the stitches were out.

Where was a sawbones when you actually needed one?

"You're bleeding." Jenny had returned and was standing in the door with her water pot. "I was going to wash... some things. You want me to take your shirt too?"

Oh for - Newbury looked at the stain on his shirt and shrugged. He had nothing to replace the shirt with and he was not about to sit around without one.

"It'll bear up," he said. There were better uses for the water, anyway.

Jenny hung the kettle on its hook over the fire. "Suit yourself," she said mildly. She told herself that she wasn't going to be his nursemaid. But then, if he really was hurt... "Is it bad?"

That question made him pause a moment. "Dunno. I didn't look when the sawbones bandaged it up last."

The admission made him feel stupid. Grimacing, Newbury lifted the hem of his shirt again and poked at the bandage. "Guess it's all right," he said after fighting back a curse at the sharp stab of pain. It didn't seem to be bleeding much, at least.

"Well I'm certainly no medico, and no nurse neither. But if it's a stitch you've pulled, stitching is something I can do. Though I've never sewed a living man into his own skin before." She found the articles that she needed to wash and thanked heaven for a washtub she found in an otherwise empty cupboard. "Do you have any soap?"

"But..." She wasn't honestly suggesting that she should stitch him up, was she?

"Soap. For washing." She held up the garments by way of explanation.

Oh. Okay. Newbury sank back against the wall, his relief evident. "Oh."

She still looked at him inquiringly.