Page 31 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

She turned to find one of the villagers—a broad man with wind-chapped cheeks and anxious eyes—hurrying toward her, cap clutched in his hands. He bowed his head quickly, almost awkwardly, before blurting out, “Ye must come. The midwife—Mistress Ruth—she’s taken ill. Can hardly rouse her.”

Claire froze, her pulse quickening. “Ill?” she repeated.

He nodded rapidly. “Laid low since last night. Near insensible, she is. Please.”

Her feet moved before she could think, following as he led her toward a squat stone cottage nestled against the outer curve of the main path through the village.

Moss tufted the thatch, and a thin thread of smoke curled from the crooked chimney.

The door creaked as the man shoved it open, and a wave of cold and stale air rolled out.

On a low cot against the wall, Ruth lay slumped, her robust frame swamped by blankets. Her gray-streaked hair clung damp to her brow, her face waxy with sweat. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, lips parted, a faint rasp in her throat.

Claire was at her side in an instant, one hand pressing against the older woman’s forehead. A dangerous heat blazed beneath her palm.

“She’s burning up,” Claire said quietly, more to herself than to the man hovering near the door. She shifted Ruth gently, checking her pulse, then smoothed the blanket back. No rash. No sign of injury. Just fever, which could be perilous at any time, but here in this century, could prove deadly.

Her nurse’s instincts flared, quick calculations rising even as the realities of this century dragged them back down.

She had no thermometer, no IV fluids, no Tylenol to break the fever.

What she had were plants, water, and whatever rudimentary knowledge she could dredge from the corners of her memory, from what little time she’d spent with Ruth.

“Has anyone else taken sick?” she thought to ask.

The man shook his head. “Nay. Only her.”

Claire exhaled, a thread of relief loosening the tightness in her chest. “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

She stood and crossed to the shelves, scanning the bundles and jars until her eyes lit on what she needed—willow bark, its twisted strips bound with twine. She tugged it free and lifted it to her nose. The scent was sharp, bitter, almost medicinal, but in truth the scent told her nothing.

She carried the bundle to the hearth and spotted an empty kettle hanging nearby.

Lifting it, she gave it a cautious sniff—no rancid tang, nothing that turned her stomach.

Good enough. She set it aside for the moment and crouched to the hearth.

The fire had burned low, was only a bed of embers, so she added a few blocks of peat.

Smoke curled upward as the flames caught again, crackling to life.

Only then did she fill the kettle halfway from Ruth’s small water barrel.

She snapped several pieces of willow bark, and then froze, considering dosage.

She had no idea how much to use—there were no labels, no tidy measuring spoons, no instructions scribbled on a bottle.

Just bitter bark and guesswork. Too little, and it would do nothing.

Too much...she had no clue if it could make them sick, or worse.

She gnawed her lip, forcing herself to breathe, to think.

“Start small,” she muttered under her breath, her modern training kicking in despite the primitive setting.

She pulled out a few strips, leaving the rest to steep.

A weaker brew was safer—she could always add more later, but she couldn’t take it back once swallowed.

She stirred the kettle with the end of a wooden spoon, deciding she’d give only a small cup at first, and then wait, watch, and see.

Behind her, Ruth muttered weakly, her head rolling on the pillow.

Claire turned back, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, rising from the small fire to search for a rag, claimed from a peg on the wall, which she dipped into the water barrel, wrung out and applied to Ruth’s forehead.

She turned to the peasant man. “I need Cory,” she said. “He’s probably in the sick house. Will you send him to me?”

The man nodded and took off, the door swinging closed behind him.

“And Mairi! I need Mairi!” Claire called after him, hoping he heard. Mairi might have a better idea about how much willow bark to use. If not, she would have Cory ask Diarmad.

A minute later, the door creaked open again, and a woman appeared, clutching a small boy by the hand.

The child’s face was flushed, his eyes glazed, his steps dragging as his mother half-pulled him inside.

She begged something in Gaelic, for which Claire needed no translation. The boy was clearly feverish himself.

Claire’s heart sank. It wasn’t just Ruth. The fever was already spreading—the Last Plenty might have been a superspreader event.

By midmorning, the healer’s cottage had become a revolving door.

The boy with the fever lay curled beside Ruth, both of them sweating, their shallow breaths echoing in the close little space.

Claire fetched water, wrung cloths, and crushed bits of willow bark to steep.

Her movements were brisk, but her mind hummed with panic.

The door banged again, admitting an older man leaning heavily on his wife, his skin pale and damp.

She rattled off an explanation Claire barely caught—only the word for fire stood out.

Another fever. Soon after, a girl no older than ten was carried in by her father, limp in his arms. Then a soldier stumbled through the doorway, his bearded face perspiring.

By then, Cory had come, wide-eyed but eager. “Water?” he asked straight away, taking in the scene, already reaching for the bucket. She nodded, relief rushing through her, and set him to fetching more.

“Cory,” she called before he slipped back out of the cramped cottage. “Cover your face with a kerchief, and wash your hands—often. All day long. Do you understand?”

The boy blinked, then bobbed his head quickly. “Aye,” he said, and dashed out.

Mairi arrived moments later, her solid frame filling the doorway. Claire moved fast to meet her, blocking the entrance with her arm. “Don’t come in—they all have fevers,” she warned. “Mairi, how much willow do I use to reduce fever?”

Mairi’s sharp eyes darted past her shoulder into the cottage, catching sight of the small, crowded space—Ruth, the boy, the older man’s wife bent over her husband, the limp girl on the bench.

The woman’s lips thinned. “Christ keep us,” she muttered, her voice troubled.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, as if to ward off what she saw.

“The bark?” she repeated, turning back to Claire. “My mam always said a strip the length of a hand for a man, half that for a bairn. Steep it till the water turns bitter as gall. Any more and ye’ll foul the belly.” Her voice carried a rare urgency.

Claire nodded quickly, not immune to the alarm flickering in Mairi’s eyes, who likely was no stranger to fevers, no fool to how swiftly they could race through a household, or an entire village.

“Don’t get too close to him,” Claire advised, turning and waving forward the soldier, “but take him to the hall, put him in a corner for now. Don’t let him go to the sick house and infect the wounded.”

Mairi nodded and stepped back from the threshold, waiting on the soldier.

Claire faced the interior of the cottage again, knowing this was too much, that she had no choice but to split them up.

Cory returned then, just in time, wearing what looked to be simply one of his tunics across his nose and mouth, tied at the back of his head.

She asked him to tell the old man’s wife to take the man home, to employ cool rags, plenty of water, no heavy food.

The woman listened wide-eyed, staring at Claire and not Cory while he translated, as if her word was law.

She pressed a few strips of willow bark in to the woman’s hand, and repeated Mairi’s instructions as well.

The woman nodded dutifully, no questions asked before she took her husband from the cottage.

The trust startled Claire.

Back home—in Philadelphia—patients questioned her, argued with her, swore at her, fought with her, and demanded second opinions.

Here, where she had no license, no sterile gloves, no modern medicine, people obeyed without hesitation.

She had no idea if it were trust or simply desperation, but she had no time to dwell on it.

Before she’d closed the door behind the elderly couple, she was beckoned across the path by a young woman clutching her baby, a child not more than one, pleading in rapid Gaelic.

Claire leaned close, feeling the child’s forehead.

Hot as a coal. She instructed the woman to keep nursing, keep the baby cool, and promised to send bark steeped in water.

From there, it was another cottage. Then another.

By midday she had counted nearly a dozen, all showing the same signs: sudden weakness, burning fever, slick sweat, thirst. Some could still sit upright, blinking blearily at her through the haze. Others were already bedridden, their families hovering anxiously.

She felt wholly inadequate to deal with this.

By the time she returned to the keep in the early afternoon, meaning to change and scrub herself as best she could before checking in at the sick house, her nerves were shot. Coming through the gate, she spotted one of the soldiers she knew by sight and hailed him, asking if he’d seen Diarmad.

The young man gave a short, dismissive laugh. “Diarmad? Ye’ll nae find him. He’s been deep in his cups since the Last Plenty.” He shook his head, his mouth twisting. “When he wakes—if he wakes—he’ll be useless for a day or two yet.”