Chapter Eleven
“Do you think it’s plague?” Rurik asked. He feared saying the very word, but he needed to know what they were fighting, or not.
“Nay,” she said shaking her head. “There are no buboes or other signs of plague among them. I fear they ate something bad.”
Sister Margriet, as he now forced himself to think of her, turned and looked at the group of men and one woman, who lay on blankets in the shaded place beneath the only copse of trees he could get them to. They’d left the village and rode out onto the flatlands that typified most of Caithness as it approached the coast. Bogs and marshlands for miles and miles, with nary a hill or rising anywhere.
“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.
“Here now, Sister,” Thora said as she brought the cup to her mouth again. “A wee small drink to help ye feel better.”
“Thora, I would speak to Sister alone,” he said in a growl.
“When she is feeling stronger,” Thora began. “And when she is dressed suitably…”
Her words made Margriet reach up to check her wimple and veil and she found them both missing. Only a kerchief covered her hair.
“Now!” Rurik roared in a voice loud enough to make the roof rattle above them.
Thora was not a stupid woman, so she gathered her bowls and picked up her rags and scooted for the door. “I will be back,” she whispered, not bothering to say it low enough so Rurik did not hear.
Margriet watched as Rurik closed the door and dropped the latch down to secure it. His expression softened as he turned to face her, filling with concern and even a measure of relief, if she read it correctly. He walked to the bedside, pulled over a bench and sat next to her.
“Another thing for me to beg your pardon for,” he said softly. “I did not realize how hard you were working until it was too late.”
“Rurik, please do not…” she began as she tried to sit up once more. This time, he slid his arm behind her to aid her and it made all the difference. And, with a pillow pushed behind her back, she could remain upright. The spinning inside her head slowed with each passing minute and that eased the stomach distress she felt growing. “I did what anyone would have done.”
“But most would not have done so at the cost of their own health.”
Uncomfortable with the personal nature of the topic, she changed it. “Is Sister Elspeth well?”
“She is and so are the rest of the men. All recovered due to your efforts,” he said.
“And you and Sven? You did not become ill?”
“Nay. Thora said that others who ate the venison took ill, so you were correct in thinking that the cause. We were the only three who did not eat it that night.”
So, she’d been right. No plague or contagion. Simply bad food.
“All recovered?” she asked again, just to be reassured. “No one lost to it?”
“Aye, Sister, all are well. Though as you mentioned, several did wish for death just before they improved.” He smiled then and it tugged at her heart. “They will never admit this to you, but some also thought this was God’s punishment for their sins.”
This time, he winked ever so slightly, the merriment lightening his expression and making her smile as well. When she realized which sins they felt guilty of, Margriet looked away from his gaze.
“So, I have been here since yesterday?” She drummed her fingers on the covers.
“Aye. You have slept an entire day, a night and another entire day. ’Tis nigh to moonrise now.” He stood and walked to one of the small windows, which he unlatched, allowing the shutters to open. “Though with the rain, ’tis most difficult to tell.”
Margriet nodded, listening to the rain as it landed on the roof above and poured off, hitting the trees and ground below. The smell of it, fresh and clean, filled the room with each breeze. She breathed it in deeply, enjoying the calm that always followed for her.
“I ask your pardon, for slowing down your journey,” she said.
“Since you are the reason we journey,” he replied as he fastened the shutters closed again, “it seemed ill-advised to continue without you.” Again, he tried levity.
“How long will we stay here?”
“As long as need be for you to feel strong enough to travel again.”
“I will be ready on the morrow, Rurik.”
He laughed then and the sound pierced her soul. His green eyes shone and his face looked lighter of many years and concerns. “Do not rush it, Sister. I will not put you in danger to save a day here or there in our journey.”
Margriet smiled, feeling better not only because she was awake and sitting up, but also because he now talked to her and not at her. “Still…”
Her words were stopped when he reached out and took her hand in his. He closed his fingers around hers and raised them to his lips, pressing a gentle, almost reverent kiss on the top of her hand. She could not breathe in that moment. Sparkles of light danced before her eyes at the heated contact between them.
A forbidden contact.
Margriet tried to remember her feelings for Finn, the man she knew she loved, the man who fathered her child, but when Rurik gazed at her in this way, she could not. Every word or promise she brought to mind rang false now as she stared at him. In a twist of luck, she spied the nun’s habit on the nearby chair and it broke the spell between them.
“Nothing can happen between us, Rurik,” she said, drawing her hand, however reluctantly, from his.
“Because of your vows?” he asked, leaning back away from her. “Do you think they will stand in defiance of your father’s choice?”
“It matters not, I fear.” Margriet shifted up in the bed to face him. “If these vows do not stand,” Margriet said, referring to those she’d made with Finn and not anything to do with religious ones, “would my father choose you for me?” The expression gave her the answer before he could say any words. But she needed to know, since he likely knew more about her father and his bent in this than she did. “Would you be his choice?”
Rurik wanted to deny it and to admit that Gunnar would be proud to unite their families in a marriage between them, but such a match would be impossible. When Erengisl was counselor to Maolise and rose in power and married the old earl’s daughter, he came as almost an equal in wealth and lands and power. Though absolutely faithful to Erengisl, Gunnar held no such place among the powerful families of Norway and Sweden.
And although it would be honor for Gunnar to join his daughter to a son of Erengisl, his father had other plans and would forbid such a match. For his promise to Rurik for coming home and taking his place there was marriage to a woman of the royal house of Denmark. Gunnar’s daughter was not high enough for Erengisl’s son.
“No, I would not be his choice,” he said quietly, allowing her to think all the wrong reasons for Gunnar’s refusal. It mattered not why; it only mattered that the answer was no.
She seemed to need to push the point, for she asked it again. “So, if my vows dissolved on the morrow, there could be no match between us?”
He met her gaze then and made the declaration that would keep them apart, not only for the rest of this journey, but for the rest of their lives. “No match is possible between us, Margriet.”
“So, it is clear then between us?”
It was a dismissal and Rurik wished with everything in him that giving her up and forgetting his desire and feelings for her were that simple. If he could only think it is wrong so it does not exist, he could walk away and worry not about her safety or her well-being or her future, married off in a bargain to a man she’d never met. But, for only the second time in his life, his
heart did not believe it.
He stood then and walked to the window, opening it and listening to the storm outside. Why did this happen now and why in this manner?
His love for Nara had grown slowly, day by day, from physical attraction to something deeper and less explosive. Oh, there was passion between them and lovemaking to fill their nights and many of their days, too.
But this—this was completely different. Was it only passion then? Lust and not love? He glanced over at her and knew she’d done nothing to entice him. If he liked her, it was because of what he saw in the woman beneath the habit.
She was kind to his men, not just when they were ill, but also as she spoke to them and taught them a new tongue. She was intelligent. From her use of strategy along the journey to her command of the situation when the sickness overtook them, she could organize and plan and implement as well as any man he’d known. She had backbone, for she’d stood up to him countless times during their short acquaintance and did not accept things simply because he said so.
And she had courage.
Courage enough to defend a convent against a party of warriors with only an aging shepherd and a few arrows as weapons.
Courage enough to admit the truth between them and confront it when he would rather ignore it.
He inhaled the smell of the storm and closed the shutters once more. Facing her, he nodded.
“Aye, ’tis clear between us, Sister,” he said.
He saw the tear drop from the corner of one eye and run down her cheek, and wanted desperately to go to her. But, her courage demanded at least the same from him. So, without saying another word, he nodded and left the room.
The storm outside called to him and he ignored Sven’s words as he passed him at the bottom of the stairs. Sister Elspeth would stay with Sister Margriet now that she was awake and, once the traveling party had regained their strength, they would leave for the north. Rurik strode to the door of the inn and opened it, walking out into the torrents of water and wind.
Mayhap he would be cleansed of his sins by the power of the storm? Mayhap the rains would wash away the desire that even now pulsed through him for her and sluice away the ache that built stronger with each breath he took for not having her in his life?
Surrender to the Highlander Page 11
