‘You gave him his life,’ Connor said. ‘It was enough.’
Life. Her mind shuddered with the terror of the pox. ‘We have to go to him. A boy has already died from the pox. They played together.’
Connor understood her need. ‘Gather your supplies and I’ll prepare the horse. We’ll ride.’
She had forgotten her basket at Maive’s, but she used a bundle of cloth to collect more herbs. She gathered a vial of spikenard oil, fresh garlic bulbs and ragwort. Within moments, she raced outside. Connor helped her atop the mare and mounted behind her. As they rode back to the cottages, she leaned into his strong arms.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, though from the wind he could not hear her. To have him at her side meant everything. She drew strength from him, and for a moment she closed her eyes, wishing he could be with her always. She ached, knowing that he would leave.
When she stopped at Maive’s hut, the woman was sleeping. Aileen wiped Maive’s feverish brow once more, then lifted Padraig’s body into her arms. She carried the still form behind the hut, and Connor dismounted to help her. Though she believed the demons of sickness had already left Padraig, she did not want his body near his mother. Gently, she covered the boy with thebratonce more. Later they would bury him.
‘We must go to Whelon,’ she urged. She collected her basket, adding the cloth bundle of herbs. Connor lifted her up again, and within moments they rode across the fields toward the dwelling of Whelon’s foster-parents.
Connor leaned forward, his mouth at her ear. ‘You’ll save him, Aileen. Do not fear.’
His words of confidence could not quite convince her. Though she had faith in her healing abilities, the pox was a sickness more powerful than any she had ever faced. In her mind, she centred her focus upon the old healer Kyna’s words:Not everyone dies.
She had to hold fast to that hope, to believe that she could cure Whelon. Perhaps it was not too late.
Smoke rose from the chimney, offering the frail chance that someone was caring for the boy. Aileen knocked upon the door, hardly waiting for the call to enter before she opened it.
The hut was empty, save Whelon. There was no trace of his foster-parents Brenda and Laegaire, nor his foster-siblings. Though a fire burned in the hearth, they had abandoned him.
If Seamus knew that his son was left alone, his wrath would be unthinkable.
Aileen pulled back the layers of blankets from Whelon. His small face was flushed with heat. Upon his cheeks, lesions had begun to form. In her mind, she remembered Padraig’s limp body, his eyes staring in death.
She needed to tell Seamus, to let him know. But then her fears returned. What if Seamus found out about Padraig? He might not let her treat Whelon. And Riona…Her heart ached to think of the mother’s grief.
She couldn’t let him die, no matter what.
‘Aileen?’ Connor’s voice broke through her fear, and he gestured toward the basket of herbs. ‘Shall I boil water for you?’
His question snapped her back into reality. Whelon needed her. And she must do whatever was necessary to fight for his life.
‘Yes. I’ll need it later to make a willow bark drink for him.’
Aileen unlaced the boy’s tunic and ordered Connor, ‘Sponge his body with water to bring down the fever. I’m going to treat the rash.’
Aileen selected the vial of spikenard oil. The intense perfume of the root filled the air as she poured a small amount over her fingers.
She rubbed his skin with the oil, hoping it would cure the rash. Silently, she murmured a healing chant, one to drive away the demons of sickness. She massaged the oil into his skin, down his torso, and even upon the stump of his leg. He shivered as though attacked by unseen enemies.
When the willow bark had finished steeping, Connor held Whelon’s head upright while Aileen eased the drink down.
Hours passed as she continued giving him the brew, then easing the oils into his rash. And still his fever rose hotter. She stared at the door, then at Connor. ‘I cannot believe they left him here alone.’ Though she had never called Brenda and Laegaire her friends, the callous act of abandoning a child enraged her. Their fear of the illness had overcome any affection they had felt toward Whelon.
‘They might have gone to fetch help. Or the priest,’ he said. But both of them knew the truth. The couple had thought of no one but themselves.
‘We have to tell Seamus,’ Connor said.
‘I know.’ She poured more of the oil into her palm. ‘But let it be after I’ve done what I can for him.’
Connor helped her make more willow bark brew, silently offering his support. Only an hour ago, he’d gone at her bequest to check on Maive. The woman held on to life, and he’d brought her more brew, along with some of the spikenard oil. He had also found another woman to look after Maive.
Not everyone dies, Aileen reminded herself. Maive’s survival offered a grain of hope. And still Whelon’s fever did not break. It seemed that more and more lesions erupted on his skin, no matter what she did.
When night slipped across the horizon and only the light from the fire cast a glow upon them, Connor put his hand upon her shoulder. ‘Are you not afraid the illness might strike you?’
