The Reckoning - 3 (76 page)

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^live with? She'd know it was a lie, for them both, a lie. Turning back ^1 to
Elizabeth, he made himself ask. "How did she take it?" I Elizabeth began to fuss with the baby's blanket, for she could not [""" fear to watch his face as she told him. "She does not know yet, Llewelyn. After the babe was born, she began to bleed ..."
In two strides, he was at her side. "She bled? But you did stop it? She will recover? Elizabeth, tell me!"
Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears. "She is in a bad way, Llewelyn," she said softly, "very bad . . ." She swayed suddenly, sick with fatigue and grief and remorse, for it haunted her now, remembering how she'd hoped Ellen might bear a daughter. Someone grasped her arm, led her toward a bench, and she sank down upon it gratefully, for she'd begun to tremble. She braced herself, then, to tell him the rest, the worst. But when she looked up, Llewelyn was gone.
JULIANA was huddled in the window-seat, weeping bitterly, oblivious of
Caitlin's ineffective attempts at consolation. The mid wives were both preoccupied with the woman in the bed, and neither one looked up until
Llewelyn let the door slam shut. The smell of blood was still so strong that he almost gagged. The rushes were soaked, and so were several crumpled towels.
Llewelyn was no stranger to bloodshed, but this blood was different, it was
Ellen's. "Jesus God," he whispered, and then Caitlin was at his side. She'd meant to offer comfort, but she began to cry, and he was the one to reassure her. He held her close for a moment, neither one speaking, kept his arm around her shoulders as they approached the bed.
What he saw so far exceeded his worst fears that he was momen-, tarily rendered speechless. Ellen's eyes appeared badly bruised, so sunken and shadowed were they. Her face had a waxen pallor that terrified him, for he'd seen that odd, ashen shade in too many coffins. Even her coppery red-blonde hair had lost it lustre; it lay limp and lifeless upon the pillow. So did her hand; her skin was cold, her fingers inert, unrnoving in his. When he said her name, there was no response, not even a flicker of her lashes. He slid his fingers along her wrist, searching feverishly until he found a weak, rapid pulse. Only then did he straighten up, turn to face the waiting women.
"She's not come to her senses yet?"
Dame Blodwen slowly shook her head. "No, my lord, and we've n°i been able to bring her around. We've put a burned feather under er nose, rubbed her wrists with vinegar, to no avail."
Gwynora moved around the bed. "At least she is still breathing," stle said bluntly, saw his face change, and drew a sharp, dismayed

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breath. "I am indeed sorry, my lord, but I assumed Lady Elizabeth Would have told you all."
"She said that Ellen bled after the birth. There is more?"
"We almost lost her, my lord . . . twice. The first time she flooded we were able to stop it, praise God, by massaging her belly until her womb tightened up again, and by getting her to swallow powdered root of dragonwort mixed with blackthorn. We'd prepared it beforehand . . . just in case. That is when she fainted, and no surprise, after what the poor lass had been through. But we had to get the afterbirth out, else she'd die for certes. And when we did, she bled again. The second time it was harder to stop. Nothing helped until we bled her at the ankle. But her strength bled away, too, my lord. I felt Death hovering right over our shoulders, never thought we'd be able to stave him off, and that is God's truth."
Llewelyn looked down at his wife, then back at Gwynora. "Will she live?" he asked at last, very low.
"She is in God's Hands, my lord. If only she were not so weak . . ." But as her eyes met Llewelyn's, Gwynora found she had to give him more than that, at least a hint of hope. "She might recover, my lord, as long as childbed fever does not set in . . ." She hesitated, not sure how much she should tell him.
"That is an infection of the womb, my lord, which oft-times afflicts women who've just given birth or miscarried of a baby"
"He understands," Caitlin interrupted hastily, for she knew what Gwynora did not, that Llewelyn had watched his favorite aunt die of childbed fever, another Elen. Her uncle had gone so pale that she was once again fighting back tears. "Uncle Llewelyn ... I am going to fetch some servants, put them to cleaning up the bl cleaning up the chamber. That way it will be neat and tidy when Aunt Ellen wakes up."
Llewelyn said nothing, and she began to wonder if he'd even heard her. But just as she reached the door, he said, "Tell them to bring flowers from her garden. Roses . . . Ellen loves roses."
LLEWELYN was dozing in a chair by his wife's bed. He jerked upright at sound of the closing door, then swiftly leaned over the bed, and Elizabeth flinched, for she knew he was reassuring himself that Ellen still breathed. "How does she?" she asked quietly.
"She awakened briefly after midnight, and then again near dawn I am not sure if she knew me, though, for she soon slept againLlewelyn straightened up and winced, for his muscles were aching a cramped, his body starved for sleep. "In the past hour or so, sn ^ become more restless, tossing and turning. I think that is a good sig11-

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Optimism came as naturally to Elizabeth as breathing, and she agreed readily with Llewelyn that Ellen's increasing restiveness was very hopeful. He asked then what time it was, and she told him it was midmorning, apologizing for having been gone so long. "But I had to check on my lads, make sure their poor nurse was not going mad, trying to keep them out of mischief. And I wanted to look in on the baby. She's still uncommonly quiet for a newborn, but the wet-nurse says she has a right healthy appetite." She paused, waiting for
Llewelyn to ask about his daughter. But he did not, and she sighed, watching as he moved his chair closer to the bed. He'd not left Ellen's side for the past twelve hours, sometimes talking softly to her, sometimes just holding her hand, but never more than an arm's length away. Elizabeth sighed again, and bent down to capture Ellen's dog, who sneaked into the room at every chance.
"Let her stay," Llewelyn said, then half-turned in his seat, for the door was opening again. Coming from morning sun into the shuttered sick-room, Caitlin and Hugh had to grope their way into the candlelit dimness. Hugh was carrying a tray; it had occurred to Caitlin that Llewelyn had eaten virtually nothing for the past two days. But as they came forward into the chamber, a sudden murmuring drew them all toward the bed.
"Llewelyn ..."
"I'm here, cariad, right here."
Ellen's lashes flickered, giving Llewelyn a brief glimpse of glazed greenish eyes, pupils shrunk to slits. "I'm so cold," she whispered. "Why am I so cold?"
Llewelyn sat on the edge of the bed, gathered her into his arms. She was already beginning to tremble, and he reached hastily for the blanket at the foot of the bed. "Fetch the midwives," he said, with enough urgency in his voice to send Caitlin whirling toward the door. But she'd taken only a few steps before coming to an abrupt halt, for it was then that the tray of food slipped from Hugh's fingers, went clattering down into the floor rushes.
Caitlin stared at the broken crockery, then looked up at Hugh. He'd gone the color of chalk; even his mouth was rimmed in white. "Hugh?
What is it?" He did not seem to hear her, continued to look blindly toward the bed, where Llewelyn and Elizabeth were wrapping Ellen in
Bankets. Ellen was shivering so violently now that her teeth were chat-
'"ing, and it was then that Caitlin understood. Hugh was no longer in aks; he was back in the Maremma, that accursed Tuscan marsh, atching helplessly as Ellen's brother was stricken with chills and then ever, unable to save Bran ... or Ellen.
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ELLEN'S chill lasted an hour, was followed by fever. Her temperature rose rapidly; by that Thursday afternoon, it was consuming her body in lethal heat.
The midwives did what they could. They bled her again at the ankle, put hot poultices on her inflamed abdomen, tried to lower her fever with cold compresses, vervain, and sage. But their efforts were futile, and they knew it. Llewelyn's bedside vigil had become a death watch. He alone held on to hope.
The speed of Ellen's decline testified to the virulent nature of her infection. Gwynora and Dame Blodwen privately thought it a blessing that death would be so quick, for they'd tended too many women who died in agony, after suffering for days. But they said nothing to Llewelyn, understanding that he was not yet ready to face the truth, that his wife was dying. And so they did their best to ease Ellen's last hours, and they did not protest when Llewelyn insisted upon summoning a doctor, although they knew it was for naught.
The doctor arrived at nightfall. He listened intently to their recital of
Ellen's symptomsthe raging fever, swollen, painful abdomen, extreme weakness, deliriumand gravely echoed the midwives' diagnosis: childbed fever. He was hampered by his inability to conduct a personal examination of the patient, but it was unthinkable for a woman to reveal her private female parts to a man not her husband. He did take Ellen's weak, racing pulse, noted her pallor, her hot, dry skin, her labored breathing, carefully studied a vial of her urine, and expressed his approval when the midwives assured him that they'd bled
Ellen twice since the onset of the fever.
His arrival was well-timed, he said, for although men could be classed as choleric, sanguine, melancholic, or phlegmatic, all women were known to be melancholic, and the best time for bleeding a melancholic was during the evening hours. But he recommended the use of leeches rather than a lancet.
Green leeches, taken from a frog pond and starved for a day first, were preferable, and fortunately he had been foresighted enough to bring some with him. Since they were to be applied to the Lady Ellen's belly, he had to rely upon the midwives to act for him, and he tutored them in the art of leeching at great length, instructing them how to place the leeches, rubbing the skin raw first, afterward sprinkling salt to break their grip.
The doctor was so sure that the leeching would benefit Ellen that Llewelyn let himself believe it, too. But she showed no improvement afterward. In fact, she seemed worse to Llewelyn. She'd been drifting in and out of delirium for hours, mumbling incoherently, breaking out in sweats, her breathing burdened now by intermittent coughing spellsSometimes she seemed to know Llewelyn was there; too weak to talk-

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she'd give his hand a feeble squeeze. At other times, she'd cry out his name, but when he'd bend over the bed, he could find no recognition in the depths of those fever-bright, hollowed eyes.
The doctor admitted to being baffled by her failure to rally. There was one more treatment he could try, though. Good health was dependent upon the proper equilibrium of the four basic humors: blood, phlegm, white bile, and black bile. Lady Ellen's ailment was due to the imbalance in her womb of three of these humors. But they could be balanced by use of the cauter. Brandishing a slender needle-like rod for Llewelyn's inspection, he said proudly that it was made of beaten gold. Once it was heated and then applied hot to the lady's belly, the blisters it raised would not only adjust the imbalance of humors, they might also draw out some of the infection.
"Of course I could not do the blistering myself, for that would not be seemly.
But I could show one of the women how to do it, if that meets with your approval, my lord?"
Llewelyn was looking at him with odd intensity; without knowing why, he found himself increasingly uncomfortable under that unblinking scrutiny. But he was still unprepared for what happened next. "Get out," Llewelyn said, "now." He did not raise his voice, but the doctor, stunned, indignant, yet thoroughly intimidated, snatched up his medical satchel, made a hasty retreat.
As soon as the doctor had fled, Llewelyn crossed to the bed. "Ellen? Ellen, can you not hear me?" He smoothed her hair, stroked her cheek, and linked his fingers in hers, but she did not respond, either to his touch or the sound of his voice, and he slowly knelt by the side of the bed. He had leaned forward, his head resting upon his arms, when he heard someone hesitantly clearing a throat.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, for intruding ..." His chaplain was standing in the doorway; behind him, Llewelyn could see Caitlin and Elizabeth. Getting stiffly to his feet, he beckoned them into the room, then drew back into the camouflaging night shadows that spilled from every corner.
"My lord, I must speak with you about your daughter. We ought not to wait any longer, ought to christen her as soon as possible. Jesu forfend that evil should seek out an innocent, but if it did happen ere she was baptized, her soul would be lost to God, forever condemned to limbo."
"Do it, then, without delay."
"But my lord, we ... we do not know what to name her!"
Llewelyn focused upon the priest with an effort. "We never picked a name, not for a lass. Ellen was so sure we'd not need one . . ."

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His voice trailed off. The priest waited patiently, until he realized that
Llewelyn was not going to offer up a name. "Well, then . suppose we name the little lass after her mother?"
"No!" The vehemence in Llewelyn's voice took them all aback. "She has taken
Ellen's life, but not her name, too!"
There was a shocked silence. Elizabeth seemed about to speak, but Caitlin caught her eye and shook her head. "What about. . . Gwenllian Uncle Llewelyn?
That is a name I've always fancied," she lied; it was merely the first name that came into her head.
Llewelyn's throat had closed up, making speech impossible. He nodded, staying where he was, safe in the shadows, until he heard their footsteps receding, the door closing behind them. Only then did he move back to the bed. Sitting down beside Ellen, he gently lifted her off the pillows, took her into his arms. Her head lolled against his chest; her breath was hot upon his hand, as ragged and shallow as her pulse. After a time, he wept.
ELLEN knew she was dying. But it was a muted awareness, for in the twilit world she now inhabited, regrets and fears had lost their edge Nothing was as she'd known it. Her fevered dreams recognized no boundaries, brought back her dead, merged her past and present in a hot haze of shifting color and light.
But sometimes the heat receded. When it did, the pain became sharper, more acute. So did her wits, though. It was then that her fear would come flooding back, a fear all the greater for being unfocused. All she knew was that it somehow concerned Bran, her brother. He was in grave danger. Yet it puzzled her, too, for she sensed she'd forgotten something, something important. But each time she seemed about to remember, the fever got in the way.
She was so thirsty, so very thirsty. But she could not get her parched tongue to form the words. It seemed miraculous when a cup was suddenly tilted to her swollen lips. She drank gratefully, greedily, then opened her eyes, squinting against the light. The face above hers was dark, familiar, loved. Llewelyn. So good to have him here, so sad to die alone . . . like Bran. And then she gasped, for she remembered. Bran was long dead. He'd died in Italy. It was her baby, his namesake, the baby who was dead, her baby. Her heart had begun to pound, and her head was filled with silent screaming. "No ... he cannot be dead, noBut all that emerged from her lips was a weak whisper, a no as soft a any sigh.
"Ellen?" Llewelyn's face was closer now. Another face was hoverme