Chapter 11
Contagium
“No chance of me convincing ye otherwise, then?”
“Nay, I’m afraid not.”
Freya ran over the last conversation with Kyla in her head, again and again.
“Why does he mean so much to you, Freya?”
That question had taken her by surprise. There was no need to ask who he was.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Are ye sure ye aren’t just chasing after someone who doesn’t care for ye as much as ye care for him?”
The silence that followed had been painful. She heard her own voice echo in her head, small and unsure.
“I don’t know.”
She had considered, several times over, turning back and heading home to the convent.
It was a cold night, with freezing fog hanging over the forest. It curled around the trees, creeping over the frozen ground.
Icy grasses crunched under her boots. Freya knew that if she stayed still for too long, the cold would start creeping up through the thin soles of her boots, turning her feet to ice.
People died on nights like this. Freya, of course, was usually tucked up safely in a warm Keep, in her own bed at least, or perhaps curled up by a roaring fire with a blanket over her lap.
Even back in the convent, notoriously difficult to heat, her bed had been warm and cozy. Leaving had been hard.
She’d half expected that Kyla wouldn’t arrive at their agreed-upon meeting place, but no, she was there, swathed in a cloak, looking miserable. When she’d unlocked the door, fog rolled into the quiet, dark kitchen, along with a gust of ice-cold air.
Kyla had looked at her, sad-eyed and miserable.
“Are ye sure about this?”
The simple answer was, no. No, she wasn’t sure, but she also had no intention of backing out.
Freya’s foot caught on a tree root. She stumbled, but didn’t fall, taking a moment to steady herself and regain her breath. The cold pressed in urgently, biting through her too-thin cloak and through the worn leather of her boots.
Am I lost? No, I’m not lost. Am I nearly there? Can’t remember. It’s just a little further. I’ll see it. I’ll see it, won’t I?
She gritted her teeth and hurried on, head down. Fog billowed around her, and if she glanced back over her shoulder, a swathe had been cut through the mist, meandering behind her, tracing her path. Even as she watched, she saw it close up again, fluid and unstoppable as water.
Just a little further.
She hadn’t seen a soul on her way here—unsurprising, since it was the dead of night—but she lived in fear of running into someone. This was the time of night when dangers abounded, and “proper” women didn’t stir out of doors.
And then, quite abruptly, she found herself in the clearing in front of Brendan’s barn.
Progress.
She stumbled through the woods, and there it was. His house.
It was a cottage, really, low-roofed and squat, trees pressing in around it. She paused, a cold sensation running through her. No lights were on inside—not surprising, considering the late hour—but there was something else, something wrong.
The door. The front door is open.
She took a step towards the house, and a flurry of barking broke out from inside. A rangy gray dog came hurtling out of the open door, ears pressed back and body stiff.
“Argentum,” she gasped, remembering the dog’s name with an effort. “What’s up, lad? Eh?”
The dog paused, ears going up as he recognized her, and his whip-like tail began to wag.
He pranced forward, body wiggling, and pressed up against her legs.
She scratched behind his ears, and he whined happily.
Abruptly, he moved away, taking a few steps towards the house, and glanced back expectantly.
The sense of unease deepened.
“I’m coming, lad,” she promised, sucking in a breath. “Let’s see the damage, eh?”
It was dark inside the house, too dark to see much. Ice and frost had crept in through the front door, making it just as cold as outside. Her footsteps crunched on the icy floor. The fire was dead, of course, the embers stone-cold.
Argentum dived somewhere into the darkness and disappeared. A bark came from the shadows.
“Hold on, boy, I’ve got to get some light,” she called. “Brendan? Brendan, are ye here?”
Something was wrong, to be sure. Without a doubt. He couldn’t possibly have gone to bed and accidentally left the door open. There was no answering shout, but Freya was sure she heard something shift in the darkness.
Let’s hope it’s not an animal. Or worse, a person.
She fumbled around, finally coming across a stubby candle. She lit it, and squinted, eyes adjusting to the bright, flickering light.
At first glance, the room was empty. The cottage was an old croft, made up of one room only.
Half of the room was a kitchen, with counters curving around the wall and a heavy, square kitchen table.
The other half was a little parlor, with the dead hearth and a single chair placed in front of it.
Directly opposite the front door was a curtained sleeping alcove.
The curtain was open, revealing rumpled bedding. Nobody was there.
“Brendan?” she called again, taking a tentative step forward. Again, something shifted, and this time Freya saw an irregular shape curled up behind the kitchen table. Argentum stood beside it, tail wagging.
She hurried over, heart sinking.
Brendan lay on his side, half curled up into a ball. His linen shirt was stained with blood—old blood, she noticed, to her relief—and there was blood dotted about the floor.
She crouched down beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Part of her was afraid it would be cold and stiff, a sign that she was already too late.
“Brendan?” she whispered. “Can ye hear me?”
He stirred, moaning, and rolled onto his back. His eyes flickered open, and she realized at once that things were worse than she’d imagined.
He was delirious. His eyes were glazed and sparkling, his face flushed and sweaty despite the cold of the room.
“Hurts,” he grunted. “Man kicked me, opened it up.”
“What are ye saying, Brendan? What happened? How long have ye been like this?”
“Not enough whiskey.”
“What do ye mean?”
His head lolled back, eyes closing, and she sensed that she’d gotten as much out of him as he was able to give.
Carefully, so as not to spook him, she lifted up the hem of his shirt. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
A ragged cut curved along his stomach. It was shallow, but clearly infected. The wound was beginning to fester, the red, hot swell of infection blooming along the sides of the cut. Fever had set in, then.
Argentum whined, and Freya absently reached out and patted his head.
“I know, lad. I know.”
She sat back on her heels, looking around.
The wound would have to be thoroughly cleaned, of course.
But there were other complications now. He was fevered, and had been lying in an ice-cold house without much food and water for at least a day, possibly more.
She needed water, needed herbs for the infection, needed food for him, needed to get him somewhere comfortable…
I certainly won’t be getting home tonight.
She needed to prioritize.
Bouncing to her feet, Freya tackled the first and possibly most important thing—she closed the door.
The air was still icy inside, but it was a start.
Then, the fire. It took a while to coax flames out of the cold embers and damp wood, but once it caught, it burned fiercely, filling the room with warmth. The frost by the door began to melt.
The next thing to do was to bring Brendan close to that warmth. The house was still deathly cold, and his fever made him heat up and cool down again wildly.
In the end, she was forced to loop her arms under his armpits and haul him across the room, inch by inch. Argentum bounced and barked frantically.
“Ye are not helping,” Freya grunted.
At last, she managed to get Brendan laid out on the fur in front of the fire. She’d entertained hopes of getting him into bed, but there was no way she would be able to lift him. He lay on his back, mumbling under his breath, sweat beading on his brow.
Freya dragged a few blankets from the bed and draped them over him. It seemed to make him more restless, grunting and tossing.
Now for the herbs to try to bring down the infusion. Freya wasn’t thrilled at having to leave Brendan alone again, but there was nothing for it.
“Argentum? Stay,” he instructed. The dog stared at her, cocking his head to one side.
“Stay,” she repeated, and this time he plonked his haunches down on the fur beside Brendan.
“Won’t be long,” she promised, and dived out into the cold night once again.
There was, thankfully, a lantern hanging by the barn door. It wasn’t lit, meaning that Freya had to dart back to the cottage, where she’d left the candle flickering.
The herbs for infection were—if her memory served her correctly—feverfew, chamomile, catmint (if she could find any), lemon balm, and sage. She would make a mixture of the herbs to put on the wound, after she’d cleaned it, and also prepare teas with chamomile and mint to help him sleep.
It was, of course, harder to gather the herbs in the dark, and took longer than she’d have liked.
The moon was beginning its descent by the time Freya returned to the cottage, stopping by the well on her way, pockets stuffed full of savory-smelling herbs, a bucket of ice-cold water slopping against her thigh.
Light blared from the windows, and when she let herself in, a wave of warmth washed over her. Part of Freya had hoped against hope that Brendan would have miraculously recovered, sitting up and smiling at her. She was disappointed. If anything, he had gotten worse.
While she was gone, he’d thrown off the blankets tucked around him and had rolled off the fur onto the cold stone floor. Sweat was pouring off him now, and his skin was gray and waxy. Argentum was whining.
Freya got to work. She rolled him back onto the fur rug, and sponged the sweat from his face and neck, pausing to dribble a few drops of water into his slack mouth. She rinsed off the wound as well as she could, dabbing at packed-on dirt until the gash was red and clean, oozing more blood.
Then for the herbal infusion. Ground up and made into a paste—it felt like time was running out while she worked—it had to be carefully placed over the open wound.
Brendan groaned and bucked as she applied it.
“I know, lad, I know it hurts,” Freya whispered. “Just bear with me, eh?”
Once the poultice was on, she applied a bandage, tying it around his waist. It would be good to change his shirt, dirty and crusted with blood as it was, but she had no idea where to find his fresh clothes, and getting the shirt on and off him would be an ordeal.
Besides, jostling his wound now would do no good.
Now what?
Freya sat back on her heels, watching him sleep. Although, it didn’t seem much like sleep, or rest of any kind. Brendan breathed out heavily, brow furrowed, jerking and muttering under his breath. The sheen was back on his forehead.
“I helped in the infirmary, ye know,” she found herself saying.
Argentum cocked his head at her. “Da let me. He said it was becoming of a lady to know how to nurse. He put a stop to it when I started to get too interested. He imagined I would mop a few fevered brows, and float around prettily while noble warriors looked up at me like some sort of angel. Nursing’s not like that.
It’s bloody and dirty and sickening. I watched men die.
They don’t die nicely, either. They die screaming or crying, begging for help.
It hurts. You decide that ye will learn how to help them, so the next man who begs for the pain to stop can get his last wish because ye know that catmint will make him sleep and dull the pain.
Or he’ll lose his leg but keep his life because ye know that lemon balm and lamb’s ear can stop infection setting in. ”
She cleared her throat, not quite able to believe she was talking to herself so openly.
First sign of madness, Da said. Talking to yersel’.
“I miss it,” Freya said, after a long pause. “I liked being able to help. I felt useful. I can’t imagine ye can relate to that. Men like ye, ye must be useful to just about everyone.”
Brendan sucked in a ragged breath, his eyes moving behind his closed lids.
“Freya,” he breathed.
She sat bolt upright, leaning forward. “Aye, Brendan, I’m here. I’m here.”
His brow furrowed, and he mumbled a string of gibberish.
He’s still feverish, she thought, feeling foolish. Of course, he doesn’t know I’m here. Why would he?
“Blood,” he breathed. “So much of it. Fire will burn it up, and the men, too. I tried my best, I really did. Wasn’t good enough, was it?”
She banked up the fire, and carefully spooned more water into Brendan’s mouth.
His throat worked without her having to massage it down, and that was good.
He was getting some moisture, at least, although a good amount of the water trickled out of the corner of his mouth, streaking across his cheeks.
After a moment’s thought, she retrieved a pillow from his bed, tucking it under his head.
“There,” she murmured. “More comfy for ye, eh?”
She had no idea what time it was. There was no sign of even the grayish pre-dawn light just yet.
This was the dark hour before dawn, when the world was at its darkest and coldest. If the old wives’ tales were to be believed, this was when the veil between living and dead, the real world and the world of spirits, was at its thinnest. Sometimes, things came through.
Sometimes, people could stumble through themselves, and find themselves lost.
It was hard to say what came through the veil. Spirits and ghosts, certainly, but also ideas. Feelings. Traces, although nobody could say what of.
Or so the stories went, of course.
It was an appropriate time for a fever to reach its highest. Shivering, Freya tucked the blanket around her shoulders. Brendan was shivering now too, although the fire was warm and brisk. Argentum curled up between Brendan and the fire, tucking himself into the space between his arm and his torso.
Slowly, carefully, Freya lay down on her side, close enough to feel the way Brendan’s body shivered.
“Come on, man,” she whispered. “All ye have been through, and ye are going to die from an infected cut? Surely not. Stories don’t end this way.”
This isn’t a story, though.
That was what her father had told her, the day he packed her into a locked carriage and sent her off to Laird Grahame, like someone might send off a package of goods or money.
This isn’t a story, lass. Ye are a grown woman. Time to act like one. Do yer duty, can’t ye, or what is the point of ye?
The words still stung. She rested her cheek on Brendan’s shoulder, wrapped her arm across his chest, closed her eyes and tried to sleep.