Naughty Temptations

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Even before he said, “Ranulf is worse. They need you there,” she knew from his expression the news wasn’t good.

She blinked as they rushed out into the mid-afternoon sun. Guilt washed over her that she’d been dallying with Henrik while Ranulf’s condition deteriorated. But she couldn’t have prevented it happening even had she been there. Still she hurried back to his bedside.

Ranulf’s fever was definitely up, and he shifted restlessly on the mat. With the help of the Norse woman and Henrik, Fianna got more of the infusion into him, and for a while it seemed to help him rest. Just an hour or so after that, though, he was tossing and turning again, muttering and waving his arms. A touch on his face confirmed that the fever continued to rise.

It took the three of them holding onto him to keep Ranulf from twisting so much he tore open the wound. Occasionally he would cry out or shout out long strings of words, presumably in his own Norse tongue. Henrik knelt beside her and put his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

Through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, his condition deteriorated. The fever worsened. His periods of delirium became more frequent and more violent. They sponged him off and struggled to keep him cool, but sweat still gathered on his temples and chest. The beating of his heart raced, and his breathing became faster and more shallow.

Whenever she could, she tried to get him to swallow more of the infusion. Fianna didn’t know how much of it could be safely given in any time period, but she thought it better to risk giving him too much than not enough. If he were dying anyway, she’d do all she knew to fight it.

She changed the dressing on his injured shoulder again. The wound was still draining, but there appeared to be no great increase of inflammation. For the rest of the time she could do naught but try to cool him when he was too hot, warm him when he shivered with chills, and keep him from injuring himself when he flailed around in delirium.

Henrik stayed with her for the rest of the day, save when he went out to get fresh cloths, more water, or food. He brought her tea and cider and water for drinking. As darkness fell, he lit candles around the room. When she winced after kneeling too long in one position, he helped her shift and rubbed her shoulders and neck to relieve her tension. But his gaze went often to his brother and anguish pulled his expression into hard, pain-wracked lines.

Ranulf’s ravings grew more noisy and his flailings more violent as the night went on. His temperature kept climbing despite her efforts to keep it down.

During one particularly restless interval, it took the two of them together to keep him from throwing himself off the mat. When Ranulf calmed again, Henrik turned to her and asked, “Should I get my father? Is this the end?”

Fianna debated and finally said, “Nay. Not yet.” She sighed and added, “It may not be long, though.”

Henrik looked dubious but accepted her word.

Riga, the woman who’d stayed with Ranulf the previous night, came in and asked if they would need her again. Through Henrik, Fianna told her that they would stay with him themselves.

For several more hours they worked over Ranulf, bathing him, holding him, feeding him as much of the infusion as they could get into him. She prayed again for his recovery, fearful that only a miracle could save him. Late that night, or perhaps it was in the early morning as Fianna had long since lost track of time, he had a prolonged spell of violent thrashing around that included screams and angry outbursts of hoarse yells. Henrik declined to translate his words.

They wrestled with him for what seemed a very long time, when he suddenly went limp in their arms and stopped moving completely. Henrik’s eyes widened and his face went white. He looked up at Fianna.