State of Grace (Resurrection) (31 page)

I didn’t have long, but I hoped it would be enough time for me to gain some semblance of control.

Gingerly, moving like I had been in a car accident (and I felt like I had, too), I manoeuvred my sore and stiff body out of bed and lurched across the hall into the bathroom I shared with Ianto. My
parents had their own en-suite.

Splashing my face with cold water helped, and I looked longingly at the shower but I didn’t think I had the strength to stand up in it for long enough to get clean.

Curious, I pulled the old knee-length tee that I wore to bed up over my chest and gasped. My stomach was a rainbow of blue, purple and yellow from Godfrey’s punch. There was even some green in there. There were also two distinct, though mostly healed, puncture wounds on my breast. I touched them, marvelling at their reality on my skin, then I hitched the t-shirt higher. My shoulders also bore bruises where Godfrey had held me down, but they weren’t nearly as bad as my stomach. I inspected my face carefully: my cheek was swollen and there was a faint hint of bruising, and I remembered the slap. I felt around the back of my head, and sure enough, found a lump where my head had hit the wall. It was tender to the touch.

It was good my mother hadn’t seen any of this. I don’t know how
I could have explained it away, not when I couldn’t explain it to myself. Don’t worry about the bruises, Mum, I was attacked by a man from nine hundred years ago when I foolishly time-travelled. Oh, and the bites were made by my vampire lover. She would have me committed. Damn! I think I should have myself committed. Against my better judgement and everything I had believed and understood of the world around me, I couldn’t escape the conviction that what I had experienced had been real. Bring out the straightjacket and get my padded cell ready, I was going to need it!

I finally turned my attention to the other pain I had to deal with, the pain I didn’t want to face
, but knew I had to because this ache would not heal as quickly as my fading bruises would. Roman. I had been ripped from his side without warning, and although both of us knew exactly what had happened and that I had no control over the when or where of things, it didn’t stop me from feeling I had abandoned him. I had no idea what Roman felt towards me, apart from a sense of responsibility that was perfectly understandable to me but was clearly baffling to him. He had no idea why he felt obligated to protect me. It was acutely human of him, and obviously went against his vampire nature. It definitely baffled him,
I
baffled him, and I could tell he didn’t like it. It must have been centuries since he felt like this towards a human, though I could see that he had a strong bond with Viktor.

Viktor:
he was an enigma to me. He had argued to keep me alive, yet was incredibly distant emotionally, and their relationship intrigued me; part brother, part friend, part mentor, I was sure their ties ran deeper than I could imagine, if only because they were two vampires in a world of humans. And vampire they most certainly were, in spite of my tendency to project human thoughts and feelings on to them (they looked too much like one of us for me not to) and the differences in the way they thought and reacted were sharply inhuman.

But, for me, Roman
wasn’t just vampire, he was a man, too. And that is what was hurting. I had related to him on a level I had never related to any other man. I couldn’t deny I was very attracted to him (what woman wouldn’t be, given what he was), but it went beyond that. Way beyond. What I felt for Roman was deeper than the love I had once felt for Joe. I was in up to my neck and I didn’t know if I would ever see him again. That hurt.

I dragged myself back to bed, silent tears coursing down my cheeks, and curled into a tight ball of misery, my knees drawn up to my chest and my arms wrapped tightly around them. I was falling apart.

‘The coffee will take a few minutes. Are you hungry? Can I get you any – Oh, Grace. Oh, my love.’

My mother hurried to my side and lay on the bed, curling herself
around me. Her love undid me. Sobs wracked me as desolation took hold. I was powerless to damn the tide of emotion and it swept me away. The tsunami raging through me would run its course and I would simply have to let it.

After long moments I came back to myself, my body unclenching, the sobs subsiding to hiccups. I was aware of my mother, her arms holding me as if she coul
d never bear to let me go, as if, by the strength of her love, she could heal me. She was crying too, and it broke my heart anew.

She thought I was upset because of the tumour and all that it meant; I could hardly tell her the truth. And I felt so
very guilty for making her pain worse. My death would be horrific enough for her and dad: I didn’t need to let them think I wasn’t coping with dying. I needed them to believe that I had accepted it and was at peace. At least that might make it a little easier for them to bear. And in one moment of self-pity I had destroyed all that I had achieved so far.

Tears filled my eyes again, but this time I held them back. I would
not
do this to my mother. I couldn’t do anything else for her: she would never help me pick out my wedding dress, she would never hold my baby in her arms, she would never let me care for her when she grew old. But I could try to make my dying as peaceful as I could for her. I didn’t need to make her suffer any more than she already was.

I turned towards her and wrapped my own arms around her slight frame. She was thinner and more delicate than
I remembered and I knew it was because of me. My illness was already taking a toll on her. I wished I had a magic wand to wave all her hurt away. My mother, my beautiful, capable, generous, loving mother did not deserve this. No mother did. They said nothing was worse than the loss of a child, and, seeing her ravaged face, her hazel eyes brimful of agony, I could believe it. At least, for me, when I was gone I was gone. My pain, both mental and physical, would be over. Hers would be with her until she, too, died. I hoped time would help and Ianto would fill her life with love and grandchildren.

We lay together for a long time, comforted by each other’s closeness. I vowed to hug her and hold her as often as I could during the time I had left. I wanted to try to fill our remaining time with memories of how much I loved her, something to help sustain her during the inescapable dark times ahead.

Eventually real life intruded, as it always does, and the moment was lost. Ianto, home for on
ce, shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Mam, Grace’s coffee machine is making a funny noise.’

My mother kissed my forehead, then the tip of my nose and gently stroked my cheek.

‘I love you,
Grace. I always have, right from the first moment I held you. I always will. No matter where you are.’

She hugged
me fiercely, then she was gone.

The coffee revived me, as did the soft boiled eggs and soldi
ers she insisted I ate. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten – did the vision of food count? Could the food I had eaten during my time ‘away’ actually sustain me, and if so was my body on twenty-first century time, or had I eaten a meal with my family earlier on in the interminably long night? Eating gave me a little strength, but not much, and by the following morning I realised why I ached so much more than my yellowing bruises suggested I should. I had the flu.

I spent over a week drifting in and out of sleep, my temperature spiking until the paracetamol brought it down, only for it to rise again when the tablets’ efficacy wore off.

My mother nursed me throughout, but I was adamant I used the bathroom without her help. I even managed a hot soak in the bath between bouts of shivering.

By the time I felt well again (although as weak as a kitten), all evidence of my visions had disappeared. It was as if I had never experienced them. As I had lain in my sick bed I had plenty of time to think and to remember, and, unlike dreams, my memories gained clarity and depth the more
I thought about them. They didn’t fade at all: they became more vivid if anything.

I played eac
h scene in my mind, many times: from the first moment I saw him, high on Fan Y Big, to our last glorious lovemaking. I wanted to forget nothing. If I never had another vision, then at least I could keep what I already had.

As I sat on the squashy cream sofa (silly colour to have in a farmhouse, but my moth
er had set her heart on a cream and gold living room), the fire roaring in the hearth in spite of the central heating, I watched the flames dreamily, recalling other fires and what had occurred in front of them. I was coming to the end of my convalescence, strength and well-being flowing back into my body, if not my mind. But my heart was still an open sore and the only thing that would heal it was the touch of Roman’s hand. It didn’t matter to me he would not, could not perhaps, feel the same way about me. I didn’t need him to love me, or need me, or even to want me, although all three of the above would be nice. I just needed to see him again, to look at his gloriously beautiful face, to stare into his deep, deep eyes, to hear his voice and to smell his unique scent. I needed to know he was real. And I couldn’t ever know that, not for certain.

The fragrance
from the burning oak logs swirled through the room, evoking the memories again, and as I let them flood through me I smiled ruefully: trust me to fall in love with a (probably) imaginary man who lived nine hundred years ago and was a vampire to boot. The man might be a vision but the love I felt was real.

  The tv held nothing but Christmas films and
enough adverts for toys to drive small children into an ecstasy of demanding excitement. I was sick of it. Christmas was still a good three weeks away, but if I heard another ‘Jingle Bells’ I was likely to cancel the celebration altogether, in spite of it probably (almost certainly) being my last one on this earth. I was sick of the thought of turkey already. I had never noticed the extended hype that preceded the holiday season before, possibly because I had always been too busy. It was bound to have been there, but it had just never pinged on my radar. I was a frantic twenty-four-hours-to-Christmas-day-I-must-buy-presents-now type of girl. And, to be honest, many presents had been picked up en route back home, from a variety of duty free shops at a plethora of different airports. That’s when I actually managed to make it home for Christmas at all – Christmas is a busy time for pilots.

I was determined to spend more time and thought on presents this year. Although more or less recover
ed, I couldn’t face a trip to Cardiff. Too many people, all cross and grumpy, too many Christmas carols, and let’s not forget to mention all the overpriced, unwanted tat.

I was going to do all mine on the internet, from the
comfort of my own sofa, and buy things that actually meant something. The only problem was I had no idea what it was I was going to buy. Googling things at random, I explored various sites, trying to find the elusive ‘something’ that would jump out at me and demand to be bought, but apart from a handbag which was so adorable that I simply had to have it (for me), and a pair of the thickest socks you had ever seen (again for me, because my feet so often got cold), I bought nothing.

My mind was on autopilot and before I knew what I was doing my fingers typed in ‘Brecon’ and ‘Rom
an’. Not surprisingly there was a plethora of information about Roman-occupied Britain and the remains of Roman villas, but that wasn’t what I was searching for.  In earnest now, I tried ‘Brecon’, ‘castle’ and ‘Bernard’, and got more hits than I knew what to do with.

Wiki
pedia was always a good place to start, so I clicked on it and gasped at what popped up. The man had actually existed! I read avidly; he had been born in 1050 and had died in 1125, a scant four years after I knew him. There was a mention of Sibyl and Mahel too. It looked like Lady Nest really had gone to King Henry 1 and in front of the king she had claimed Mahel was not really Bernard’s son. The woman must have hated Mahel for what he had done to her lover, William I recalled, although nowhere could I find a mention of who he actually was. Henry had married Sibyl off in 1121 to Miles of Gloucester and had given the man most of Bernard’s lands and wealth as Sibyl’s dowry. Reading between the lines I guessed Henry had been looking for an excuse to make Lord Brychan less effectual, perhaps less of a threat. What other reason would there for the king to condone Lady Nest’s infidelity? Poor Bernard. Although he hadn’t treated me particularly well, I still felt sorry for him. After what he had been through with his wife, and knowing how Middle Ages society regarded women, it was little wonder he reacted to me in the way he had. I couldn’t believe that Sibyl (via her husband) had become such a wealthy and powerful woman. She had been such a bitch. And Mahel, Bernard’s heir, had received nothing. That must have been hard for Lord Brychan.