Sherwood Forest: Pestilence

By Laura McVey

When a plague sweeps Nottingham, the outlaws are called upon to help as the town descends into anarchy. Meanwhile, disaster falls on the rebels, and a personal tragedy pulls Cecily's loyalty between the castle and her family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura McVey
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310938917

Laura McVey

Laura McVey is a university graduate with a minor in history, though neither of these things seem to have done her any good yet. She writes stories about heroes and kissing.

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Sherwood Forest: Pestilence

by Laura McVey

Copyright 2014 Laura McVey

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Allan’s head was throbbing.

He’d had headaches before- he’d been ill before- but never like this. He’d long since come to recognize that whatever ways the illness pained him, it would recede within a matter of days, and there was no use in laying about and complaining in the meantime. It was a lesson he’d learned quick and early: when you sang for your supper, you couldn’t afford to give your voice a rest. He’d sang through stomach complaints, sore throats, and chest coughs, suppressing every symptom long enough to please whoever was paying him. He prided himself on it: it was a mark of the highest professionalism that he never allowed his ailments to interfere with the job he had to do. And patrons who knew that their minstrel would never beg off a performance complaining of illness would be far more likely to call him back and pay him double the next time.

So when his head and throat had begun to ache in time while he was performing, he’d thought nothing of it and kept going. Even afterwards, when the headache and sore throat were joined by a spreading weakness in his limbs and a hacking cough, he’d still ignored it, thinking that a solid meal and a good night’s sleep would cure all his ills. When he’d woken up in the morning feeling even worse than he had the night before, he’d still strode forth into Nottingham, hoping for a return performance at the Boar and Yeoman. Halfway through town, however, it had become clear to him that his body simply would not permit him to go any further: his legs threatened to collapse under him with every step he took, and his headache had grown so bad that he could hardly see for the pain. So, instead of walking to the Boar and Yeoman- which was only a few leagues away, but might as well have sat at the top of a mountain for all Allan felt capable of reaching it- he turned and staggered to the closest place he could think of which offered shelter and a place to sleep.

Which was, of course, the Trip to Jerusalem.

As he lurched through the front door, it occured to him briefly to wonder what would happen if Thomas saw him. Throw him out, most likely, but it wouldn’t do him the slightest bit of good; Allan was too ill to walk anywhere else. All ejecting him from the inn would do would be to give him a sickly, vagrant minstrel sitting at his door and warning for potential customers. If Allan had been capable, he might have laughed at the irony.

Fortunately for him, the only person in the main room as he entered was also the only person who would give him shelter without demanding something in return. Bess’ hands flew to her mouth as she saw him. He attempted a smile and a quip to reassure her, but his attempts to contort his mouth into a grin were interrupted by another bout of coughing. With every spasm of his lungs, his chest made a noise like wet paper being ripped in half. He was lucky, he thought, that this illness didn’t seem to involve coughing up blood. Yet.

Allan! Recovering quickly from her shock, Bess ran to help him upright long enough to guide him into a chair. What’s happened? What’s the matter? You look terrible.

Sick, he rasped. He sucked in a breath, trying to get enough air into his lungs to force more words out. Thought it would go away after a few days, but it’s gotten worse. I- He was interrupted, yet again, by a cough. He swallowed and continued. Wouldn’t ask, but I don’t think I can walk any further. Could you-

She’d taken his meaning almost immediately, he saw; she was a perceptive woman, Bess was. She slid a hand under each of his arms. Can you stand long enough to get up the stairs?

S’ppose I’ll have to, he rasped, but when he tried, his legs buckled under him like a newborn colt’s. Bess’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. I can’t carry you up myself. I’ll need help.

Allan was wondering who she could possibly call on for help- not Thomas, surely- when Bess called Alice! and a small red-haired figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. Allan knew her, vaguely; she was a shepherdess, and she was good friends with Bess. What was she doing at the inn in the middle of the morning? Didn’t she have sheep to tend? He blinked, trying to re-orient himself in the room.

Your father won’t like it, Alice was saying. Allan would have congratulated her for stating the obvious, had he not been feeling too weak to talk. Bess made an impatient noise. I don’t care. He’s too sick to be moved. Take one of his arms, will you?

Alice shrugged, and slid one of Allan’s arms over her shoulder. Bess already had hold of the other one, and together they began to drag him towards the stairs. Mind the lute, he rasped.

Mind yourself, Bess retorted. His toes scuffed against the steps with every step, and new waves of agony crashed over his head with every jolt. He wished he could just faint and get it over