He dimly heard Ó Banníon’s terms, his vision swimming. Sounds mingled, and the pain of his injuries intensified.
Then he saw nothing more.
Chapter 22
Aileen raced to Connor’s side. Blood seeped from his arms, but what concerned her most was the brutal heat of his skin. A film of perspiration lined his brow, and she understood suddenly that he was fighting another battle with the invisible demons of illness.
She cradled his head in her lap. ‘I need to tend his wounds. Help me bring him to a chamber.’
‘I’ll send for our healer Illona,’ Flynn offered. He gave the orders, and Aileen fought back the fear rising inside. She did not know if she had the proper herbs with her.
As the men carried Connor’s body, she followed. To Rhiannon, she said, ‘I need your help,a iníon. Can you bring me elder flowers, marigold roots and some clean linen?’
‘Is it the pox?’ Rhiannon asked, her face mirroring Aileen’s fear.
By the blessed saints, she had not thought of that. Mentally she counted the days. A black terror invaded her senses. Sweet Belisama, it was possible. The harsh fever was identical to Whelon’s.
‘Go and fetch what I need,’ Aileen ordered her daughter. ‘Make haste!’
Her hands shook. She berated herself for not noticing the flush on his skin, the way he moved as if in a daze. The memory of death undermined her confidence. She hadn’t saved Whelon or Padraig. Their deaths suffused her with guilt. What if she could not save Connor? Even the thought threatened to tear her heart asunder. She needed him. He was the missing part of her, the man she’d always dreamed of.
She could not let him die. He had fought his battle against insurmountable odds and won. Now she had to do the same.
As they laid him down upon the pallet, Aileen unlaced his tunic and drew it over his head. Her hands moved across his fevered skin, searching for all wounds. Minor cuts, bruises, a rib that might be broken. She memorised every injury, searching his skin for any sign of the pox.
For now, there was no sign of a rash. But she could not breathe easily until he had healed. The pox often did not appear for several days. She could only watch and pray.
Then she noticed the swelling upon his right wrist. Just as before, the angry skin rose with a purple tinge.The pain he must have suffered. She would need splints for the broken wrist.
How had he managed to finish the battle? No man could have won this sword fight, not with a damaged right hand. But somehow he had.
Aileen leaned forward. ‘I know you cannot hear me,’ she whispered, ‘but I won’t let you die. Not now, after everything else. And when you awaken, we’ll heal your wrist, just as we did before.’ She smoothed his hair, wishing for some sign that he had heard her. But there was nothing.
When Rhiannon arrived with the linen, Aileen washed Connor’s skin, treating the cuts upon his shoulder and arms. One slash was deeper than she’d thought, and Aileen sent her daughter to fetch a needle and thread along with the splints.
Though her fingers moved through his skin with the detached air of experience, Aileen felt each stab of the needle. He had not regained consciousness, his body so still. Sweat lined his brow, his muscles were stiff.
She was aware of so many people watching, perhaps even their own healer Illona. But she didn’t care what they thought of her skills. All that mattered was Connor. She touched a hand to his cheek.
During the battle, she’d offered to give him up if it meant letting him live. Even the thought of Deirdre touching him made her hair stand on end.
But he’d said no. He had turned Deirdre away, his eyes locked upon Aileen. In that fragile moment, she sensed that she meant something to him. Even though he’d never said the words, she wanted so much to believe that he loved her.
By the gods, she would not give him up now.
‘Do you want the splints now?’ Rhiannon interrupted.
She nodded, and started to wrap his wrist.
‘I can help,’ Rhiannon offered. ‘I’ve done it before.’ At her daughter’s fervent plea, Aileen resisted the urge to refuse.
‘Go on, then. I’ll watch you.’ Though she still felt the desire to take over and do it herself, Aileen forced her hands to remain at her sides.
Rhiannon held the splints in place, wrapping them firmly with the bandages. Watching her with her father sent a gathering of tears in Aileen’s throat. She choked back the feelings. ‘You did well.’
The small smile on Rhiannon’s face at the words of praise bound them together. They would fight off the demons of illness together. Of a sudden, Aileen rose to her feet and turned to the folk watching. ‘Where is your healer Illona?’
‘Here I am.’ The older woman stepped forward. They stood eye to eye, each judging the other.
