Adrienne Basso (30 page)

“Why did Ewan not tell me?” Grace cried.

Alec shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I’m sure he dinnae want to worry ye.”

“I’ve seen this type of illness before, when I was a child,” Lady Moira interjected, her voice quavering. “It strikes swiftly and mercilessly. Most who contract it die within a few days.”

Despite her resolve, tears rose to Grace’s eyes.
Ewan will not die! He will not!
“Burn his clothes, Alec, but dinnae let anyone see ye doing it.”

Alec’s brow deepened with worry, but then he nodded and followed her orders.

“We must have water, the coldest ye can find,” Lady Moira said.

Asking no questions, Grace followed her mother-in-law’s dictates, fetching the water from the well herself. They bathed Ewan together, each woman lost in her own concern.

“We need a healer,” Grace said when they were finished. “Shall I summon the woman who tended my arm?”

“Nay, she cares for those with broken limbs and wounds that need stitching. She will be of little help with fevers,” Lady Moira replied. “Besides, she is a frightful gossip. We need someone we can trust, someone who willnae tell the others of Ewan’s condition.”

“Who?”

A thoughtful frown knitted Lady Moira’s brow. “Deirdre’s grandmother, Agnes, has some skill and can hold her tongue. She nursed many villagers through the winter fevers. I will send fer her.”

When the healer arrived, Grace hovered over Agnes, intently watching everything she did. “’Tis a powerful sickness that has struck down Sir Ewan,” Agnes said as she studied her patient.

“Will he survive?” Lady Moira asked.

The healer shook her head. “’Tis too soon to know.”

“What do we do? How do we help him?” Grace asked, her heart sinking.

“Watch him carefully. Keep his body cool, bathing not only his forehead, but his arms, chest, and legs. ’Tis the best way I know of to fight the fever.” Agnes hesitated, clearing her throat. “If boils form, send fer me immediately, and I will lance them.”

“I’ll not leave him. I shall tend him day and night,” Grace said, brushing her hand lovingly across his brow.

“I will help,” Lady Moira announced. “One needs faith and strength to battle this illness and I thank God that Ewan possesses both.”

The deep resolve in the older woman’s voice gave Grace a beacon of hope. They did not agree on much, but there was no questioning the depth of love Lady Moira held for her son. She would fight as hard as Grace to save Ewan’s life.

Over the next three days and nights Ewan’s condition deteriorated rapidly. He drifted in and out of consciousness, writhing with convulsions as his fever burned stronger. One night, helpless to keep him still and quiet, Grace crawled on top of him, trying to stop the deep tremors.

Ewan refused to allow it. He gripped her shoulders with a force that astonished her and tried to throw her off. Grace cried out, but refused to relent as Ewan ranted incoherently. Gradually, his hold eased and then his arms fell to his side. Though labored, his breaths came in a constant rhythm.

Exhausted herself, Grace collapsed atop him. Her lips moved in silent prayer as the tears flowed. The life seemed to be draining out of him and there was little she could do to stop it. Finding comfort by imitating the cadence of his breathing, Grace soon drifted off to sleep.

She awoke with a start when she heard a strangled sob behind her and turned. Lady Moira stood in the doorway, her face pale with emotion. “He’s getting worse.”

“Nay.” Grace shook her head vehemently. “His will is strong. He fights hard to live and thus he shall.”

Lady Moira wiped the tears from her eyes. “Ye have been with him all day and most of the night. Go lie down fer a few hours. I’ll stay and watch over him.”

Reluctantly, Grace obeyed, though her rest was short and fitful. Another day passed. Ewan’s condition remained the same. He pushed away the broth and water they tried to get down his throat; he thrashed and struck out when they bathed his fevered body.

Every now and again delirium would take control of his mind. His fever-brightened eyes would open, then quickly cloud with confusion before they closed.

He babbled and ranted too, shouting commands as though he were in the midst of a great battle, muttering sweet words of flattery to a nameless female, confessing the pain and humiliations he felt as others taunted him for his illegitimate birth.

Hearing him voice his fears and pain was a window into his soul and Grace found herself near tears at those times. He had suffered greatly, yet refused to be cowed. Her heart ached for his pain, but her admiration for his courage grew by leaps and bounds.

Hour after hour, Grace would sit at his bedside, watching his chest inhale and exhale. She would talk to him, the sound of her own voice helping to ease the loneliness and keep the stranglehold of fear at bay.

If Ewan dies . . . nay, I willnae allow myself to consider such a thing!

The healer visited often, always trying a new mixture of herbs and medicine that seemed to help initially, but the soothing effects wore off quickly and Ewan was once again thrust into the storm of illness. Lady Moira nursed him as diligently as Grace and the two women bonded over their mutual love for their patient.

Grace changed the bed linens every day and when he was quiet, she shaved the beard on his face and washed his hair. Lady Moira at first objected to this grooming, calling it foolish and nonsensical, but Grace insisted. Having him clean-shaven and neat made Ewan look more like himself—handsome, boyish, and appealing. Seeing him thus gave her comfort—and hope.

Speculation as to why Sir Ewan remained abed took root inside the castle and fear spread throughout the village. Realizing it was impossible to keep Ewan’s illness a secret, Grace admitted to Deirdre that he had caught a chill, yet she was deliberately vague about the severity of his symptoms.

There were two things, however, that gave Grace hope for his recovery. The dreaded boils she checked for every few hours never appeared on Ewan’s body. And no others showed any signs of contracting the disease.

Then, finally, after nine days and as many sleepless nights, Ewan’s fever began to recede. Grace sat on the bed gently stroking his brow, then squealed when he caught her arm and pulled her down beside him. His unfocused gaze rested on her a moment and then he frowned.

“Grace, my love, why are there such dark circles under yer eyes?”

His voice was hoarse and weak, no doubt from all the shouting he had done when the fever had raged so potently. But his voice truly was the most wondrous sound Grace had ever heard. He was alive!

The relief was so overwhelming she burst into sobs. Ewan stirred and she felt his touch on her cheek as he wiped away the tears. Through the blurry moisture, she saw him struggling to sit upright. Her emotions forgotten, Grace rushed to help him, propping several pillows behind him.

His face was ashen against the dark furs, his cheeks sunken. He had lost weight and much of his strength, but none of that mattered.

He had survived. In time, he would fully recover. Her lips moved swiftly in a silent prayer of thanks. Then she opened the chamber door and shouted the news to one and all.

Chapter Seventeen

Ewan was drifting, floating. He struggled to pull himself down to solid ground, away from this dreamlike state. His eyelids fluttered, but he lacked the strength to lift them fully. Pulling them open as far as he was able, he squinted through half-closed eyes as he surveyed his surroundings.

He knew this place. ’Twas his bedchamber. His hand touched the ground beneath him. Soft. A mattress. He was lying in his bed. Alone. Nay, Grace was here. He had seen her, spoken to her. But now she was gone? Or had he dreamt it?

His vision was blurry, his head pounding, his throat felt burnt and raw. Closing his eyes, Ewan searched his memory. Heat. Unbearable heat. He had been on fire, with angry flames engulfing him, surrounding him and scorching his flesh.

Yet through the pain he remembered feeling the gentle touch of cool cloths bathing his body, the sound of soft words of comfort being whispered to him. It had eased his suffering, calmed his agitation. By concentrating on the familiar tone of that female voice, he had been able to escape from the agony that was gripping his entire body.

Grace.
His beloved wife. He called out to her now, shocked at how weak and reedy his voice sounded. Dread cramped his stomach, followed swiftly by pangs of hunger. When had he last eaten? He could not recall.

He tried to collect his thoughts, to revive his memory. More stones had been needed to build the second wall around the keep. He and Alec had journeyed to find a new quarry and upon their return they had discovered the tinker in the woods. Ewan clenched his jaw at the memory of the bodies he had found. The tinker, his wife, their children, all victims of a fearful illness.

Ewan tried turning to his side as a wave of nausea hit, but was barely able to move.
God’s bones, he was weaker than a newborn.

Ewan took a deep breath and tried again to clear his mind, swearing at the confusion that swirled around him. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, outside his chamber. Finally he would get some answers!

Yet while the sounds persisted, no one opened the door. Ewan called out. There was no reply. Bloody hell, his voice was too weak to be heard. He tried again, yet failed to get anyone’s attention. Exhausted by the effort, he struggled to keep his eyes open, but a great weariness overcame him and sleep took control.

Hours later, he woke. This time his head was clearer, though his tongue felt swollen, his stomach queasy, and he badly needed to relieve himself. Ewan cautiously turned his head. All was darkness, then he caught the movement of light in the corner.

“Ewan?” He felt a cool, steady hand on his brow. “Here, drink this.” A goblet was placed to his lips. The liquid was sweet and soothing as it slid down his parched throat, though his tongue still felt rough and oversized.

He opened his eyes fully, wincing at the light that now filled the chamber. The shadow of a woman stood beside his bed. He tried to see her face, but the light hurt his eyes.

“Grace?”

“Oh, Ewan, my love, I’m here.”

My love? Am I once again dreaming?

“What’s wrong with me? I feel as though I’ve been trampled by a column of horses.”

“Ye have been ill with a dreadful fever. But it has passed and ye are recovering.”

“How long have I been in bed?”

“Nine days.”

Ewan swore. “Has anyone else taken ill?”

“No one. We have all been spared from this dreadful scourge.” Upon hearing that no others had suffered, a surge of relief spread through Ewan’s veins, bolstering his pitiful strength. “Did Alec tell ye about the tinker and his family?”

“He did. We have all said prayers fer the souls of the departed. Nay, Ewan, do not try to rise.” Grace placed her hand upon his shoulder and pushed him back against the pillows. “Save yer strength so ye can stay awake and eat something.”

He nearly smiled. She sounded so unlike herself—arrogant and in command. “Dearest wife, I must rise from this bed to answer nature’s call. I implore ye to either help me or get out of my way.”

Lips pursed, Grace stepped to the side. Ewan rose shakily from the bed, every limb in his body protesting the movement. Grace immediately placed her arm around his waist. As much as he would have liked to straighten and stand on his own, he knew that was impossible.

Slowly, Grace guided him to the chamber pot, and when he was finished she helped him back. Ewan leaned heavily on her, grateful for the support. After but a few steps, the muscles in his legs trembled so badly he feared they would crumble.

Ewan’s chest heaved with exertion once he returned to the bed. Grace quickly plumped several pillows and helped ease him into a sitting position. He let his eyes drift closed.

“Ye need a full week of rest and lots of good, rich food inside ye before ye can leave this bed,” Grace cautioned. “If not, ye’ll be falling down and knocking yer thick skull upon the ground.”

“Aye.” He licked his dry lips and opened his eyes. She was right. His body was ravaged by the effects of the sickness and needed time to heal.

He saw Grace nearly wilt in relief at his compliance. Caring for him so diligently, nursing him through such a brutal illness had taken its toll on her strength. He felt guilty for causing her such worry, yet grateful for her devotion, uncertain if he would have survived without her tender care.

A moment later, his mother bustled into the chamber, carrying a tray of food. She passed it over to Grace, then drew near. Lady Moira stood beside his bed, hands on her hips, her stare never wavering.

“I see that ye have decided to rejoin the living,” she said gruffly. “’Tis past time.”

Then, to Ewan’s utter shock, he saw her eyes moisten with tears.

“I dinnae mean to be such a bother,” he remarked softly.

She wiped her eyes, then smiled. “Ye were far more than a mere bother, my son. Ye were a royal pain in the arse.”

“Milady,” Grace exclaimed. “Can ye not at least wait until Ewan has eaten some of the hot food ye brought before starting to scold him?”

“As his wife, ’tis ye who should be blistering his ears fer the fright he gave us all,” Lady Moira replied. “Day and night she nursed ye, Ewan, barely eating, hardly sleeping, refusing to leave yer side. I was expecting her to drop at any moment, but apparently she’s a lot stronger than she looks.”

“Ye helped, too,” Grace said in a low voice.

“Aye, I did my part. But ye did the yeoman’s work.”

Ewan shook his head in confusion. His wife and mother working together in harmony? Had his fever returned? Was he hallucinating such a miraculous occurrence?

“We both worked tirelessly,” Grace insisted.

“And have each more than earned a rest. I’m fer bed,” Lady Moira proclaimed. She turned to leave, thought better of it, then bent down and gave him a swift kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see ye on the morrow.”

Still in shock over the sight of his mother’s softened features and quivering voice, Ewan gazed at his wife. She looked exhausted. Her face was pale, further accenting the dark circles beneath her eyes. Apparently his mother had not exaggerated Grace’s devotion and determination to make him well. She had given much of herself to aid him. ’Twas both a humbling and heartwarming realization.