Chapter One: Ill
Deirdre didn't feel so good. Whatever it was that Much was cooking smelled vile and made her stomach roil in protest. The fact that her husband's arm was draped over her belly didn't help any either. His soft snoring, usually so endearing to her, was grating on her nerves, as was the breath he kept expelling that tickled the hair on the nape of her neck. She really was going to have to kill him. She wondered how long it would take to suffocate him if she put the pillow over his head, and if the noise he made would wake the rest of the gang.
Just then, another breeze blew the scent of the food toward the little bower in the camp where she and Allan slept in relative privacy. She scrambled quickly out from under Allan's arm, waking him in the process as her knee met his groin in her haste to escape. She ran quickly out of the camp, not making it as far as she would have liked before she vomited. Unfortunately, there was nothing left in her stomach and the acid she brought up burned horribly. She collapsed where she was, lying on her side, knees drawn up in misery as her husband limped up to her.
"Mornin' Luv," Allan gasped, cupping himself in pain.
She had been like this for days, but Djaq had found no sign of any illness—no fever, no spots, no coughing—just throwing up every single morning; by afternoon, Deirdre always felt better and by evening, she was laughing and joking and as frisky with her husband as a new wife should be.
She opened one eye to glare balefully at him.
Grimacing, Allan looked at his wife. "Look, I was thinkin' that maybe we should go see a doctor or somethin'."
Deirdre had an innate distrust of doctors in general, handed down from her mother. Kitchen life naturally lent itself to learning about herbs, and Brianna O'Niall, former kitchen girl, had taught her daughter to shun the doctors and their "learning." Deirdre had seen too many people die from being bled by doctors, people who she was certain would have lived had it not been for the doctor's "help".
"Do you love me so little, then, Allan A' Dale?" Deirdre grumbled at him.
Allan lowered his eyebrows in consternation. "What are you on about?"
"You would bring me to a legalized murderer?" Deirdre shut her eyes again as another wave of nausea hit.
Allan looked helplessly down at his wife, then crouched beside her to rub her back.
Deirdre hissed and slapped at his hand. "Don't touch me!"
"Deirdre, I want to 'elp you. I can't stand seein' you this way. Tell me what I can do if I can't bring you to a doctor and I'll do it, I swear!"
Deirdre sat back on her haunches, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and swallowing noisily. She looked up at the face of her husband, at the misery etched there, and felt bad for him. He really did love her, she knew that, but her recent bouts of illness had made her irritable and snappish. She sighed. He was right, they had to do something—he didn't deserve to be treated this way by her.
"An herbalist," she muttered.
"What?"
"If you can find an herbalist, someone who knows about herbs and such. A wise woman or a kitchen girl or a midwife. I'll see them."
Allan's face lit up with his huge grin. Deirdre's breath caught in her throat—when he smiled like that, the smile that went to his eyes and lit them up like torches on a cool night, he was so handsome that she felt lucky to have caught his eye. So what if she could be sitting in Locksley Manor as lady of the house? She would choose Allan and the forest every time over Guy of Gisbourne and a comfortable manor.
She felt her body begin to warm, her breath hitch and was suddenly sorry for telling him not to touch her; at this moment, she wanted nothing so much as his hands all over her. She smiled back at him coyly, letting her eyes drop slowly over his body and back to his face, noting with satisfaction the impact her obvious desire had on him.
Allan's smile faltered as Deirdre looked him up and down like he was a stallion at the sales, her smile knowing. Oh sure, she'd just vomited and probably still had the taste in her mouth, but suddenly that didn't matter to him. Every time Deirdre looked at him like that, he wanted to take her then and there. After their enforced abstinence in the castle, being able to make love to her was freedom—a freedom he enjoyed as often as possible. So he'd avoid kissing her mouth. There were other, quite interesting places, he could kiss on her body and he grew hard just thinking about it.
Seemingly from nowhere, Djaq arrived with a cup of tea. Deirdre took it from her hands, flushing at the thought of what the Saracen woman would have seen if she had arrived in just a few more minutes.
"I thought you could use this." Djaq handed the cup to Deirdre, who sipped hesitantly. "It's good, no? I put the ginger in it, the way you like it, to help calm your stomach." Djaq looked from Deirdre's flushed face to Allan's, realizing too late that she had probably interrupted something. She smiled to herself, thinking that it was difficult to not interrupt Deirdre and Allan showing their affection to one another these days. They were head over heels in love, they had been married properly by a priest and at the prince's behest, and Deirdre's father and family were safe from reprisals for Deirdre's thievery. Sure, that was because her father had been forced to disown her, but Deirdre seemed to feel that Fàelàn O'Niall had not disowned her in his heart and so she was content with her lot. Djaq smiled as Allan cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Well, um, I, ah … I think I'll go get some firewood."
Deirdre brightened immediately. Whenever they wanted to wander off alone, they would "gather firewood." She was feeling a bit better now as the tea took effect and she knew the fresh air would help.
"I think I'll go with you. The walk'll do me good." She held out her hand and Allan took it with a huge grin on his face as he helped her to her feet.
Djaq walked back to camp, where Much was doling out the breakfast.
"Where are Allan and Deirdre?" he asked innocently.
Djaq smiled, coloring a bit as Will looked over at her. "They are … gathering firewood."
Much sighed in exasperation. "But we already have plenty of … oh."
At Robin's huge grin, Much had caught on.
"You know, at the rate that they're … gathering firewood … we'll have enough to heat the whole of Nottinghamshire for the entire winter before long," Much grumbled, redistributing the food.
"Much, leave their food." Robin stopped his former servant. "You know how hungry they are when they come back from their ... excursions," he added, waggling his eyebrows.
Much continued muttering as he handed plates to everyone. "Well, Deirdre can make her own food, since the smell of mine makes her so ill these days," he added grumpily.
The gang laughed, but ate the food quickly, soothing Much's hurt feelings.
