Sherwood Rogue

Chapter Six

Icy wind howled across the opening of the cave as I entered, a shiver slithering across my shoulders and down to my navel.

Backing away from the windbreak, I turned and warmed myself by the fire. Hugh of Lancaster hobbled up from the back of the cave to sit beside me.

"Hugh," I greeted him.

"Kay."

"How is Scarlet?" I tried to mask the concern in my voice.

"Resting. The fever's left him. He should be on his feet in a week or so."

"Good." I sighed. 

It was past the middle of a hard winter. We had retreated to an old haunt—five caves in a  cliffside. We needed protection from the cold and a place for those who had fallen ill with sweating sickness—what I knew as influenza—to get better.

Will had caught it a week ago and had been in bed since. Hugh took care of him and the others, having learned some of the healing craft from the old woman who had taken care of his foot. That, combined with what I knew of the sickness, meant we hadn't lost any men to it . . . yet.

I came to see Scarlet every day. Between that and our talks on cures, Hugh and I had become friends.

"How are the others?" I asked.

"Jack of Nottingham still has the fever. John Ainsley got up and walked about this morning, but the other two and Will are resting."

As if in answer, Kenneth of Richmond broke into a fit of coughing.

Hugh got up to ease him.

"You've done an excellent job, Hugh," I said when he came back.

"I was afraid we'd lose some of them. So far, Luck has been on our side."

"That she has," I agreed.

Hugh was a superstitious one. He believed in all kinds of demons and personalities. I think he liked me because I never said he was foolish to believe in those things. I wasn't particularly superstitious myself, but who knew if some of those personalities were real or not? After all, I still did not have an explanation for my presence in this time.

I went to the back of the cave where the ill men slept. Jack moaned softly in his sleep, delirious. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

Kneeling next to him, I dabbed at his face with a cool cloth.

He woke to my touch, his feverish eyes searching mine as he grasped my hand at the wrist,  holding on with more strength than I would have thought a sick man could manage.

"I'm not dying, am I?" he asked, intense.

I covered his hand with mine. "Not if I can help it."

He sighed and let go. "Kay, I'm trusting you."

"I'm glad." But he had closed his eyes as the fever took him back into delirium. I dabbed his face again and sat a moment, holding his hand to feel his pulse. It was a little fast from the fever, but the rush of blood through his veins felt reassuring against my fingers. He was going to be all right.

I got up and went around the fire. Scarlet lay awake, watching me.

"Good day. I presume it is day, though I don't know for sure."

Huddled in the blankets against the cold, the only part of him visible was his head.

"It's evening," I said quietly, resisting the urge to stroke his hair. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. I'm so tired, Kay. I feel like I've carried a buck the length and breadth of Sherwood. Hugh says the worst is over, though. If it doesn't come back, I'll be up and around soon."