36. Baron
BARON
Little John and I took a long walk. He tried to give me fatherly advice, but I only half-listened.
I was sure it was very good advice too, full of patience, wisdom, and whatever else wiser men like Little John were supposed to say when younger men like me behaved irrationally. Peter was his son, not me.
Peter was the one Little John should have been advising.
He should have been telling Peter to allow Laurel to decide who she wanted to be with and to stop intervening where he wasn’t wanted.
He should’ve been going on to Peter about letting go of what was and looking toward the future instead of back at the past. Peter was the one he should have told not to dump people into water troughs, no matter how tempting it was.
I stayed for the entire discussion out of respect for Little John, not because I wanted to hear any of it. He spoke of restraint, patience, pride, and the fact that loving a woman didn’t mean I had the right to make her decisions for her.
I already knew that. But most of his words were blocked out by my own thoughts about Laurel.
Was she recovering? Had the fever broken?
Was Peter touching her again with that smug, proprietary look on his face?
I had come to Sherwood to see Laurel, not to listen to Little John prattle on about how to handle relationships like a man.
Finally, finally, when we returned to the hut, Little John clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder and left me with one last meaningful look that I barely saw as I made a beeline for the door, but the thin healer woman came around the corner and held up a hand to stop me.
“How’s Laurel?” I asked. Sybil’s mouth settled into a firm line. She glanced toward the hut door. It was shut. Something cold clutched its icy fingers around my heart. “Please tell me.”
Her expression softened with pity. “Laurel has blood poisoning.”
“But it can be cured, can’t it?”
Sybil shook her head. “She probably has a few days left,” she said. “It spreads quickly. Once it reaches this point, it only gets worse.”
I stared at her. A few days? That was it? Then what, Laurel was just going to die?
“No.” The word came out flat. It was impossible. “No, that’s not right. Can’t you do something?”
“I can give her something for the pain to keep her comfortable toward the end,” Sybil said quietly. “But that’s all I know how to do.”
“Well, who does know how to help her?” My voice rose before I could stop it. Sybil flinched and retreated half a step. I realized I had moved closer and was towering over her. I forced myself to stop. I really needed to stop intimidating people.
“Maybe the village physician,” Sybil said. “Maybe. But he refuses to treat people from Sherwood Forest. I doubt he would even see her.”
“So you’re just giving up?” I asked. Rage surged through me, hot and desperate. “You are not even going to try?”
Sybil’s neck tensed. The moment I said it, I knew it was unfair. She had likely done everything she could. But Laurel was inside that hut, dying, and this woman seemed far too ready to accept it.
“Maybe none of the rest of you care enough to keep fighting,” I said, “but I do.”
I pushed open the hut door and found Laurel on the ground.
For one awful second, I couldn’t move. She was curled beside the straw tick, blankets twisted around her legs, one hand limp against the packed dirt floor. Her face was puffy and red, and tear tracks marked her cheeks.
I hurried to her side and lifted her gently back onto the lumpy bed. Her head lolled against my arm, and I cradled her as carefully as I could, afraid that one wrong movement would hurt her even worse.
Her eyes fluttered open. When she saw me, she let out a shaky breath. “I’m dying,” she whispered.
“No.” I laid her down and tucked the blanket around her. “I won’t let that happen.”
Her eyes were glassy with fever. “Sybil said…”
“Sybil isn’t the only person all of in England who’s medical opinion counts.” My voice sounded forceful. “I’m taking you to the village physician. He’s going to treat you.”
“He doesn’t like me,” Laurel murmured. “He won’t help.”
“Let him try to tell me no. I’ll take you to Prince John’s personal physician if I have to. I won’t let you die.
Her chin trembled as she whispered, “Thank you.”
I moved at once.
I hurriedly collected what we would need for the journey, got directions to the village, and bullied Sybil into giving me medicine for Laurel.
Several people tried to talk me out of the plan.
Sybil warned me that moving Laurel might hasten her death.
Little John told me I needed to accept what couldn’t be changed.
Peter told me he wouldn’t allow me to move his patient.
The last person to approach me was James.
When I saw him coming, I prepared a cutting remark about how I didn’t need one more person telling me I was wrong, but James didn’t try to stop me.
He simply handed me a leather pouch of coins. “Good luck, Baron,” he said. I looked down at the pouch, then back at him. “I would’ve done the same thing if it could have saved my wife,” he said, then vanished as quickly as he had come.
For a moment, I could not speak. Then I tucked the pouch away and went back for Laurel.
Transporting her in her weakened condition was difficult. James had brought her in on a cart, but it had since been disassembled for repairs. Laurel could not sit a horse. She was too weak, too feverish, and barely conscious.
So I carried her. I set out in the afternoon and walked late into the night.
It took longer than I expected, burdened as I was with our supplies and Laurel, and as much as I wished I could run, I couldn’t move quickly.
Every stumble and uneven patch of ground, every adjustment of my grip made Laurel moan in pain, and each sound cut through me as if I was the one experiencing the pain.
Laurel drifted in and out of consciousness against my chest. Sometimes she muttered things I couldn’t understand. Sometimes she shivered despite the warmth of the night. Once, she whispered my name.
“I’m here,” I told her. “I’ve got you.”
By the time I reached the village, the sun was already rising toward midmorning, and my arms and back burned with exhaustion. I pounded on the first door I came to. A woman opened it, took one look at me holding Laurel, and went pale.
“I need the doctor,” I said.
She pointed me toward one of the larger buildings, and I walked there as quickly as I could. When I reached the door, I kicked it to avoid adjusting Laurel’s position again.
A plump man with greying hair sprouting in a half circle around the back of his head answered quickly. His gaze dropped to Laurel, and recognition flashed across his face then his expression hardened.
“I don’t serve members of the Merry Men,” he said haughtily, and began to close the door.
I jammed my foot into the threshold. “I’m not asking permission,” I growled. I shouldered my way inside and laid Laurel on one of the beds.
The physician stared at me, mouth open. “Didn’t you hear me?” His voice had a singsong quality, though at the moment it came out closer to a squeak. “I don’t treat people from Sherwood Forest. Get out.”
I crossed the room in two long strides then fluidly grabbed him by the front of his tunic, lifted him bodily into the air, and pinned him against the wall. His eyes bulged. His mouth flapped open and closed, and his feet pedaled helplessly above the floor.
“You will treat this woman to the best of your ability,” I snarled, “or I will make you regret refusing.” So much for resolving not to intimidate people.
His eyes darted toward Laurel and back to me.
“I’m the Sheriff of Nottingham,” I spat. “You will treat her immediately, or I’ll have you arrested here and now. And you will speak of this to no one. Understood?”
His head bobbed up and down. I set him back on the ground, and he scuttled toward Laurel.
Laurel stirred as he approached, her eyes barely opening. The physician tried to get her to move her arms and legs, but she could only manage the faintest twitch when asked. Her face was flushed with fever, and sweat dampened her hairline.
The physician inspected her, gently prodding here and there. “Hmm,” he said, then cleared his throat. “There is an infection,” he said, slipping back into his singsong voice, “but that’s easily remedied.”
Relief swept through me so quickly my knees nearly weakened. An easy remedy. Sybil had been wrong, after all. She hadn’t known what she was talking about. She had been ready to let Laurel die because she didn’t know enough to save her. I caught Laurel’s eye and nodded encouragingly.
“Can you do it now?” Laurel asked. Her voice was parched, and every word seemed to cost her an immense effort.
“Why, certainly. Certainly, I can,” the physician answered. Then, with a quick glance at me, he added, “my dear lady.”
He scurried to a corner and picked up a large kit.
The tension began to drain from my shoulders and neck.
It would all be over soon. Laurel would be fine.
She would recover, and she would call me a mother hen, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life being mocked by her if it meant she was alive to do it.
“Now don’t look, my dear,” the physician said in a calm, comforting tone. “Don’t look.”
Laurel turned her head away but I watched as the physician opened his kit. Inside were scalpels, tubes, and a large jar full of leeches. The physician took hold of a scalpel in one hand and reached for Laurel’s arm with the other.
“Wait just a minute,” I thundered, knocking the scalpel from his hand.
Unfortunately, it was not only the scalpel that went flying. The physician did too. I hadn’t intended to strike with that much force, but he crumpled to the ground all the same. The scalpel skittered across the stone floor with a sharp metallic ringing.
“Sir,” the physician shouted from where he lay spread across the floor. “I must ask you to restrain yourself.”
“What do you think you were doing?” I roared.
“It is customary to bleed the infection out of the patient.”
“She’ll die if you do that.” How could anyone think losing more blood would help her? Only days ago, Laurel had nearly died because she had lost too much already. She had no blood to spare. Couldn’t the fool see how pale she was? Couldn’t he see how little strength she had left?
“No, she’ll die if we don’t get the infection out,” the physician retorted. His singsong tone vanished, replaced by something harsher and uglier. “This is why I hate treating people from Sherwood Forest. All of you want help, but none of you like my methods.”
I pointed at him, and he curled into a protective ball. “Do not take blood from her,” I warned. His eyes darted around the room as if looking for a way to escape.
“Baron.” Laurel’s weak voice came from behind me. I dropped beside her at once and clutched her hot hand. The fever Sybil had predicted was raging so Laurel’s skin burned against mine.
“Maybe he knows best,” she whispered.
“No.”
“Baron…”
“There has to be another way.”
Her eyes looked glassy. “I don’t think there is. I don’t have long.”
I turned back to the physician, still cowering on the ground. “What other options are there?”
“None,” he squeaked. “I don’t know any other way.”
I cursed and kicked a stool. It toppled across the floor with a clatter, but the sound did nothing to relieve the pressure building inside me.
I refused to accept that answer. I would not let Laurel die from infection, and I would not let this fool bleed her into a grave.
This could not be the end. There had to be another answer. There had to.
“But…” the physician said hesitantly.
I snapped my gaze to him. “But what?”
He licked his lips. “There are rumors of someone else who might be able to…” His voice died.
Laurel did not have time for this idiotic man to speak slowly. “Well?” I demanded.
The physician glanced toward the windows, as if afraid the villagers might have their ears pressed to the glass. I stepped toward him and he quailed.
“It isn’t a physician,” he said quickly.
“Who is it?”
“Some people say there’s an old woman.” He lowered his voice. “They claim she can heal people without bleeding. Potions and herbs, mostly. But I don’t feel that I can in good conscience recommend…”
I crossed the room and scooped Laurel into my arms. She had faded into unconsciousness again. “Where do I find this woman?”
The physician licked his lips again. “There’s a path in the woods. Follow it until you see the cottage with the crooked tree out front.”
He pointed the way and I was out the door in a flash, hurrying toward the woods with Laurel in my arms. Behind me, the physician called, “You didn’t hear it from me.”