"Bad food?" Sven asked. "But we all ate at the inn last night and this morning. Why are we three yet spared from this?" Sven shook his head and then met his gaze. "Or will we yet be struck down as they are?"
"Do you think they were poisoned then?" she asked. "If this were contagion, we would be sick or beginning to be, but we are not." She placed her hands on her hips in a challenge to be proven wrong. Before he could offer his thoughts on the matter, she waggled a finger in their faces. "I have seen this before, at the convent, when tainted beef was given as a gift to the community there. Everyone who ate it spent two days wishing they were dead and this appears to be the same."
She'd surprised him with her strength as the crisis happened. One by one, his men and then Sister Elspeth grew ill, first with the stomach ailment and now, the other. Rurik had gotten them off the road, and built a rough shelter while Sister Margriet and Sven tended to the sick. Sven seemed to spend most of his time and efforts tending to one of the sick, but Sister Margriet soon dragged him away to tend to the others.
"Do you think they caught your stomach ailment?" Sven asked. "Though you seemed to have recovered from that."
Sister Margriet choked before she could say a word and Rurik reached out to steady her on her feet before she fell over. "Nay, this is not the same," she finally said.
Rurik had no experience treating the sick or even being sick, so he waited for her to decide their course in this. When she did not, he prodded her on. "What should we do then? Surely, they cannot continue in this manner-" he grimaced at the sounds around him "-for much longer?"
"First, whatever they ate that was tainted must pass through their bodies," she said. Sven now met his glance with a grimace of his own. "The most important thing is to get fluid into them."
"But they keep losing it," Sven pointed out as several of the men did just that.
"I have something that could help settle their stomachs while the rest … moves through." Sister Margriet reached into the pocket of her tunic and took out a small packet.
Rurik felt sick even if he did not have the same ailment as those around them. "What is that?"
"I do not travel well," she began. He and Sven both nodded at her, remembering several times when that was not as complete a description as he would have used. "The cook at the convent gave me these." She opened the packet to reveal some crushed herbs. "If you can get me a pot of water and build a fire to heat it, I could make a potion for them to drink. It could help."
It struck him as a sound plan, so he took the cooking pot and rode off to the stream to get the water she required. When he returned, Sven had a fire blazing and, within a short time, her potion was brewing. Over the next few hours, she moved among the sick, urging, bribing, even threatening one and all to make them drink some of it. And then she began all over again.
Rurik could not help but watch her as she took control, ordering him and Sven to do her bidding as though running a household for her lord and husband. And do her bidding they did, as promptly and thoroughly as they could. She gave orders as easily as a commander on the field of battle, and her methods were as efficient as they were effective. Nothing-not time, not resources, not words-was wasted as they battled to save their band of travelers.
On the second day, she ordered him back to the village to get supplies for them. Her instructions were clear and concise, down to the amount of flour she needed and the size and health of the live chicken she demanded he bring her.
On the third day, most of the men, as well as Sister Elspeth, were on the mend, keeping down the broth Sister Margriet made and not making as many runs into the bushes to relieve their other symptoms. Rurik believed they would be ready to travel soon.
But, it was the fourth day when fear struck deep in his heart, for he sought her out for his next task and found her lying unconscious by the stream where she went to wash out the linens and cloths she used to tend the sick. Without hesitating or even thinking it through, Rurik lifted her into his arms and rode the two hours back to the village. She was still unconscious when he carried her back into the inn and begged Thora to help him. When he finally placed her on the bed in the room up the stairs, he did not want to leave her side.
He tried to tell himself that he worried over the duty of bringing her to her father and that his honor was at stake in her survival of the journey, but his heart would not allow the lie.
Not to himself. Not any longer.
Rurik felt as though the gods of old were playing the worst kind of trick on him, as they'd played on generations before him, for in spite of everything wrong with the very notion of it, he knew he was falling in love with a nun.
Margriet tried to open her eyes, but the sheer exhaustion of these last days kept her from doing so. She felt scandalously lazy, for she knew the brief respite she'd planned had gone on much longer. The strange thing was, the surface beneath her felt like a bed instead of the mossy covering on the riverbank where she lay down. There were so many things yet to be done with the sick ones and she needed to let Rurik know where the rest of her herbs were … and where the clean linens were … and …
Soft voices and murmurings continued around her and, in spite of her intentions to wake, her body dragged her down into sleep once more. She felt the passage of time, but could not react to it. Then, she heard his voice saying her name and knew she needed to answer him.
"Rurik?" she whispered. Her throat was parched and words were difficult to form and force out.
A tiny splash of water on her lips soothed some of the dryness. Then, someone lifted her head and pressed a cup to her lips, urging her to sip. She did, drinking several mouthfuls slowly, until the cup was removed. Laying her head back, she savored the feel and the coolness of it as it moistened her tongue and throat.
"Many thanks," she whispered.
The watered ale must have revived her strength, for she was finally able to force her eyes to open and look around the darkened room. The shutters were closed and it sounded as if rain pelted them outside. A tallow candle sputtered on the table set next to the bed.
Bed? Shutters? Where was she? As she squinted in the dim light, she thought this looked like the chamber where she'd slept at the inn. But, she had fallen asleep on the bank of the river that rolled to the north and east of this village. How did she … ?
"Ah, so yer awake now, Sister?"
"Thora?" Margriet tried to sit up, but her head spun making her so dizzy 'twas not worth the effort.
"Aye, Sister, yer back at my inn. He brought ye here yesterday, carrying on and on until ye were settled in."
"I did not carry on, woman," came the deep voice from the shadows of the room. "I was concerned about Sister when she fell ill."
Margriet turned her head and watched as he approached from the darkness, arms crossed over his chest, sword at his side, all brawn and, from his tone, lots of bite. Still, it was a relief to see him there.
"What happened? I only remember going to the river to launder the linens and closing my eyes for a moment."
Rurik walked toward her and reached out for a moment as though to take her hand. He threw a glance at Thora and then stood where he'd stopped.
"I found you unconscious there a short while later and could not rouse you. I … "
"Brought ye here, as I said," Thora finished, reaching over to tuck the blankets at her side. "Ye will be fine now, ye just needed yer rest."
Margriet felt as though a score of cattle had ridden over her bones. Aching in every place she could feel, she wondered if something else had happened to her.
"Fever?" she asked.
"Nay," both Rurik and Thora said at the same time.
"Puir wee lass," Thora said. She made clucking sounds then, shaking her head as she circled the bed, smoothing here and there, and staying just close enough to make Rurik back away to let her pass. "He had ye doing much too much more than ye should have. Tending all those sick men. Cooking and cleaning up their messes. Much too much."
The animosity between them was like something she could touch. Margriet looked from one to the other and back again, only to see identical expressions glaring at each other. 'Twould be comical if she did not hurt as much as she did. The groan was accidental, but it brought hostilities to a halt.