IBWHK 06

~Chapter 6~

“…W-What?!”

Startled, I yanked my hands out of the basin at lightning speed.

Washing one’s hands before entering the infirmary had always been an absolute rule drilled into me by the elderly friar.
“The sick are weak; cleanliness is salvation. To touch a patient with filthy hands is to harm him.”
He had repeated it so often that it had carved itself into my body and soul—until washing up before any task became pure reflex.

“My Lady… are you perhaps accustomed to volunteer work?”

“W-What nonsense! Of course not!”

…Sir.

“It’s common sense, that’s all! You’ve heard of common sense, haven’t you?!”

…Sir.

To cover my slip, I raised my voice and kicked the basin for good measure.
I couldn’t bring myself to truly bully someone who was practically a grandfather figure, so I compensated by shouting while silently adding honorifics in my head.

Whew, that was close.

Trying to look unfazed, I demanded a properly boiled towel. Using a dirty cloth would only undo all that washing.

Baron Comte, who had half-drawn his own handkerchief, hurriedly shoved it back into his coat.
Abbot Filio, seeing this, offered a sterilized towel instead.

“This way, My Lady.”
“Hmm…”

I stepped inside—and stopped short.

Having grown used to the splendor of the duchess’s bedchamber, the humble infirmary struck me with its contrast.

It’s so small, so worn…

Yet it was spotless. Not a cobweb or speck of dust in sight.
Still, the exposed beams and crumbling pillars whispered that cleanliness alone could not keep this place standing.

I turned away from that creeping urge to fix things.

“It’s nearly mealtime for the patients,” said Filio gently. “Would you care to assist?”
“Of course.”

He had wisely assigned me the simplest task.

So I went from bed to bed, handing out bowls of thin soup and chunks of hard bread—while Baron Comte, sweating bullets, pushed the serving tray behind me.

Most patients accepted the food with indifferent nods or muttered thanks.

There are more people than I thought. But it should be over soon enough.

The outer wall had only a handful of infirmaries, always overflowing with the poor and injured.

Before long, no one paid us any attention. Relieved, I turned to the next cot—only for its occupant to thrash violently at the sight of me.

“You filthy harlot from the capital! Lay one finger on me and I’ll kill you!”
“All right, all right, I won’t touch you. Just taking the—”
“Pah!”

He spat before anyone could stop him.
His aim was off, though—the glob struck Baron Comte square in the face.

“…”

The air froze.

Every gaze in the ward turned toward us, brimming with tension.

How will she react?

Technically, the one assaulted was Comte.
But the insult had been meant for me—the Duchess, the “whore of the capital.”

It gave the baron the perfect excuse to explode.

“Is no one here?! Drag that wretch outside and take his head!”
“Try it, you pompous pig! Because of that woman, your Duke—!”
“Why are you all standing around?! Bring soldiers! I’ll have every one of you whipped!”

He wasn’t even pretending to defend my honor anymore. The two of them were soon rolling on the floor, clawing and shouting.
No one interfered; only when the baron started screaming for soldiers did a few volunteers half-heartedly step in.

I covered my mouth to hide a grin.

So this is why people love watching fights.

If the spit had hit me, I’d have been furious—but seeing that pompous fool get what he deserved was immensely satisfying.

Still, I forced myself back to work.
No matter how entertaining, hunger and pain were crueller torments. I knew that too well—from the dungeon.

“Here you go.”
“Uh… th-thank you.”

I handed a plate to the next patient, who stared at me nervously.
When he hesitated, I pressed the bread into his hands myself before moving on.

Between patients, I washed my hands repeatedly—muttering under my breath about how “disgusting” it was to touch commoners, just to keep up appearances.

By the time I finished feeding everyone, the brawl was over.

The victor was the patient—a one-armed carpenter—who had managed to thrash a perfectly healthy noble half to death.

I patted the defeated baron’s shoulder kindly.

“You fought well, Baron.”
“Wh-What? But My Lady, for your honor we must—!”
“There’s no honor in striking the sick. Let it go.”

In truth, I felt nothing but satisfaction. No need to say that aloud.

From the murmurs that rippled through the ward, it seemed my reaction had surprised them.

“What’s with her?”
“Who knows. Maybe she’s just tired.”

Their words had changed.
No longer “that harlot from the capital,” but that woman.

Perhaps my choice to keep feeding the patients instead of joining the fight had earned a sliver of sympathy.
Food, after all, was universal.

Then the doors burst open.

“H-Help! Please, someone help!”
“What is it, Joseph?”

A breathless novice stumbled in—the abbot’s young assistant.

“A collapse! The west mine has collapsed!”
“What?!”

Mine collapses were nightmares. Casualties were always high; clinics like this one would be overrun.

But that’s not supposed to happen yet.

I remembered clearly—the disaster was meant to occur two weeks from now.

At that time, Elicia had forbidden the townsfolk from entering the mountains during her winter hunt.
When the ban was lifted, the collapse struck, and people called it divine punishment—retribution upon the cursed duchess who’d brought ruin to Lombard.

I had heard it a thousand times.

Now it was happening early.

“Clear these beds!”
“Fetch herbs and bandages—quickly!”
“Patients incoming! Please, someone assist!”

The first wave of miners arrived before we could even prepare.

They were covered in black dust, their wounds impossible to distinguish, some already unconscious.
And there were many, many wagons still coming.

“Over here! He’s not breathing!”
“We need help outside!”

The infirmary and the yard beyond became chaos incarnate.

Those with minor injuries were redirected elsewhere, but the gravely wounded filled every space.

Now, rank meant nothing. Every available pair of hands mattered.

And I, unfortunately, knew exactly what to do.

No matter how much I wished to avoid trouble, I couldn’t watch people die before my eyes.

“Start triage!” I barked. “Unconscious patients first! Bring them inside regardless of visible wounds. Anyone awake—send them to other clinics!”
“Y-Yes, ma’am!”

For a moment they only blinked in shock—then hurried to obey.

I turned to young Joseph and pressed a ring into his hand—the imperial signet.

“Run to the inner wall and summon every physician you can. Show this. If they hesitate, tell them I’ll personally ensure they regret it.”

Only one person in Lombard had the right to bear that crest.
They wouldn’t dare refuse.

Finally… something satisfying.

In the original timeline, none of the inner-wall physicians had come.
Even when miners’ families knelt outside their clinics all night, no one answered.
They had deemed these people beneath their care—unworthy of noble medicine.

Joseph, understanding the weight of the ring, clutched it to his chest and ran.

“Baron, stop gawking. Wash your hands and compress the wounds—stop the bleeding first. Don’t touch anything else.”
“B-But, My Lady! I’m a noble, how can I—”
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“N-Nothing! As you command!”

The moment I picked up a stick, the baron dropped to his knees.

That, at least, was one useful quality.

I grabbed the cleanest cloths available and pressed them to open wounds.
It wasn’t ideal, but the monks were too few, and the injured far too many.