Laurel of Locksley by Mary Mecham

Author:Mary Mecham [Mecham, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-17T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

During the night, Baron became feverish. He thrashed around under his blankets, and I could feel the waves of heat coming off of his body even from across the tent. I knew that this was the aftereffect of all he did for me, swimming me through the icy water, building a fire, and keeping me warm. He had done all that for me and was now writhing around in agony. I felt beholden to him for saving my life, but also helpless. I had no idea how to treat this sickness. I was no healer.

As much as he had scared me the previous evening with Dorian’s whipping, I couldn’t stand seeing anyone suffer so greatly. I rose and crossed to him. Perspiration poured off his entire body, first beading out hot then quickly turning icy as it touched the cold night air and trickled down his face. I had no medical training beyond how to splint a broken bone. I ripped the thinnest of our blankets into strips and began dabbing Baron’s forehead and neck, removing the sweat as best I could.

There was no doctor among the Sheriff’s camp, no makeshift infirmary at all. A gross oversight, in my opinion. No one seemed to know how to treat Baron, and though they had hailed him as a hero not twelve hours previously, now they deserted him. I sat beside him, the only distraction he had from his suffering.

When I had called attention to Baron’s weakened condition, there had been a brief discussion among the officers about removing me from Baron and getting a new guard, but it seemed that not a single other man in camp was willing to take the risk of being attached to me. They reasoned that I was small enough that I would be unable to move Baron if I tried to escape, and they were right. If Baron couldn’t move, neither could I. So, we were abandoned, left to our own devices. Surrounded by men but still completely alone.

Our time spent together in the cave by the lake had lessened my apprehension about touching Baron. I began stroking his hair, rubbing his arms, telling him he would be alright, and to hold on. I was merely imitating the actions I vaguely remembered my mother doing for me during the times I fell ill as a small child. All that next day, I offered him sips from a dipper of water and continued to monitor his fever. He alternated between groaning in pain and incoherence with frequent hallucinations and would converse with people who weren’t there.

During one of his brief sessions of rational thinking, his hot hand found mine. His hand was rough and calloused from his years of hard training and combat. “Talk to me,” he said weakly.

So I talked. I told him stories about growing up, about the small dog I had owned when I was a young girl, about the time my father had been imprisoned for two months and how Mother had given the guards so much wine they fell into a drunken sleep and she released Father.

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