‘He was there. I saw him.’ Whelon’s eyes held disbelief. ‘Where did they go?’
Aileen knelt to take a closer look. She did not doubt Whelon’s word, for the boy had never told an untruth before. And if it were indeed the pox, the men had reason to flee.
‘Wait.’ Connor gestured in the distance. ‘Do you smell that?’
She followed him, running past the rows of tents until they were a goodly distance away. The acrid scent of burning flesh made her want to gag. It did not take long to find the source. Within a makeshift stone hearth, far from the grounds of theaenach, lay the charred remains of a body.
Aileen made the sign of the cross, silently praying for the man’s soul. She held her distance, but the blackened skin gave no evidence of the pox.
‘Tell me what sores you saw,’ she said gently.
Whelon tore his gaze away from the body. His face was pale, stricken with fear. He was no stranger to death; none were. But his mouth trembled.
‘He had sores on his arms, the size of small berries. His cheeks were red, and I heard him cough.’
Aileen recalled the man she had seen earlier. Though the severe cough harboured the signs of a serious illness, she had not seen any pox sores. Perhaps Whelon had been mistaken.
‘What do you think?’ Connor asked.
She shook her head. ‘Without seeing the sores, I don’t know. Many illnesses appear similar. It might not be what we think it is.’
Please, let it not be. She had heard stories of entire villages who had fallen prey to the pox. The few survivors were scarred for the remainder of their lives.
‘What should we do?’ the boy asked.
Aileen draped her arm around Whelon’s shoulders. ‘You should go home to your foster-father. He’ll box your ears for making him worry so.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Get some rest.’
‘What of the man?’ Whelon wanted to know. ‘We can’t just leave him there.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Connor said softly. Aileen met his gaze and was grateful for his offer. Soon the folk would rise from their tents and might discover the death. The storytellers had long gone, and their intent to hide the body was clear. They would not be looking for their companion.
‘Thank you,’ she said, reaching out to touch his arm.
His steady grey eyes flared for a moment, then cooled. ‘You should get some rest yourself.’ He pulled away, and Aileen remembered suddenly that she’d asked him to leave.
Her head swam with muddled thoughts. Though she knew she had made the right decision, telling him to go, she didn’t like the way he was looking at her now. A cold distance had fallen, an invisible shield she could not break through.
She helped Whelon mount the mare once again. The boy leaned against the mane, his small body drooping with weariness. She turned back to watch Connor, even as his figure grew smaller in the distance. She wanted to keep her promise of helping him heal. There were ways to mend the torn muscles, to speed his progress toward fighting again. It would take many weeks yet, but perhaps he would let her try.
Her mind conjured up different splints to help adjust his motion, exercises Kyna had taught her would rebuild torn muscles. She would heal Connor MacEgan’s wounds fully. And she’d not weaken to temptation, no matter what happened.
In the meantime, she prayed that they would be spared from the demons of sickness.
Another sennight passed, and Connor tested the weight of the sword with his right hand. Aileen had forced him to wear splints at night, keeping pressure on the joints. He had made no further advances toward her, and she did not mention the night she’d turned him away.
His wrist ached with the effort of holding the sword, but he kept his pain silent. It did not escape her notice.
‘Try the other hand,’ she urged.
Connor switched hands, and took a few practice swings. Aileen stood nearby, but her presence distracted him. She wore an overdress the colour of moss, theléinebeneath it a lighter shade of green. Her hair was bound by a single braid crossing above her forehead like a crown. The dark curls spilled across her shoulders, and, as always, she smelled of the rich herbs she tended.
His desire for her hadn’t weakened. If anything, he wanted her more. He slashed the sword, moving his wrist against an imaginary enemy. A white-hot aching tormented his wrist, but he forced himself to continue.
‘Enough,’ Aileen bid him, and he sheathed the sword. ‘Let me see your fingers.’
He held them out, and she stood near, pulling on each of the joints. ‘These need to be splinted again.’
Her thumbs stroked his knuckles, massaging the soreness. His breath caught at the tender gesture. ‘How does that feel?’ She pulled gently at each of his fingers, her skin cool against his callused palms.
