Chapter 4: The Sting of Death
Late in the morning Margaret awoke. She could hear the music of rain outside. Varda and her nurse had already arisen and gone to break their fast; Rose and Brinn's nurse, Fione, was moving quietly about, tidying up as usual; the girls and young ladies were still asleep.
Margaret dressed and went down to the Hall to see who might be awake. There were but a few knights, and these were getting ready to go out and race horses and do some jousting drills in the rain. Margaret sat on a bench near the fire for a few minutes, chewing oaten bread and drinking sweetened tea, but soon became bored. She decided to return to the bower and fetch her needlework, feeling very let down after the previous day's excitement.
When she entered the room, she found Fione bent over Brinn, her hand on her forehead, looking worried. She looked at Margaret, who came to the bedside and laid her hand on Rose's brow, then on Brinn's. Neither child stirred, but lay with red lips parted, their cheeks flushed.
"They are both warm. Very warm," said Fione, "I will get water and bathe their heads," and she left to fetch a ewer and cloths. Margaret meanwhile pulled back the coverlet they shared, and opened the near window.
Fione returned, followed by Elora, who bent over the children and stared at their faces. "Brinn is burning up!!" Elora rasped. "She will need more than a cool cloth. She needs a cool bath to bring down the fever. And medicine--"
"I will prepare that myself," said Margaret. "I will go now and have the ewerer fill a tub in the bathing room. And I will send up someone who can carry her down--"
"I can lift her," volunteered Fione.
"Very well then, I will send up someone to help you, Elora," she said, and flew down to the kitchen. When water was set to boil and baths were being prepared, she went to the storehouse where the herbs were hung to dry in the fall. She took feverfew, yarrow, meadowsweet...where was some peppermint? She recalled the roast whole lamb of the feast which had been rubbed with herbs and guessed that the last of the dried peppermint had been used. Never mind, there was plenty of that to be found among the banks by the brook. She would send someone down, it was easy to find even this early in the season...But not so the elder flowers she also wanted. They must be properly harvested to be useful. Later, she would go down herself.
She steeped the herbs in a crock, and had an earthenware cup, sweetened with honey, sent up to the bower; she brought another herself to the bathing chamber to see how Brinn was getting on. Someone had told Rivanone that her daughter was ill and she now stooped over the bath, her brown hair uncombed and hanging down to the stone floor, a few strands trailing in the bath. Brinn was barely conscious, complaining vaguely that the water hurt. Margaret handed the medicine to Rivanone, who lifted Brinn's head and coaxed her to drink. She didn't want to, but the taste of the honey in the drink convinced her.
Rivanone had rushed to the bathhouse without taking care of her own needs, and Margaret now urged her to go on, and she sat by the bath. Fione combed Brinn's hair up into a bun and Margaret sang a soft bairn-song to her.
What shall I be when I am grown?
Shall I go live in the wood alone?
Will I dwell in a willow tree
The blackbird to keep me company?
Nay, sweet lass, fair are the trees
But never a home for a one like thee.
Whose shall I be when I am a bride?
Shall I a seashell carriage ride
To greet my groom, a selchie gray
And I, Lady Seal on my wedding-day?
Nay, sweet lass, fair is the sea
But never a home for a one like thee.
Brinn had always laughed at this song, but now only stared. The child began to shiver and was lifted from the bath and wrapped with a sheet. Fione was carrying her up to a room which had been cleared per order of Elora of the knights who had occupied it, when Burda entered carrying Rose, who looked dreadful. "She's turned suddenly very ill, and puked what little was left in her, and fainted. Is that Brinn's bath? Let's put her right in," said Burda, and Margaret agreed. Elora appeared, checked with her hand the temperature of the bath, and said, "Let's have some of that brew that Margaret had made up, hot, right in the bath. She may not keep any down. Lady Margaret, was there no mint in the tea?"
"There's none to be had in the storeroom, Elora. Do you know of other?"
"I'll scare some up, sure. Someone must also go down to find the elder flowers that should be in bloom--"
"That I will see too, Elora. I don't mind going," said Margaret, and quickly left. Margaret called for a page to ready a pony and bring it down to the knoll by the brookside and meet her; meanwhile she drew on a woolen cloak against the rain and hurried down the lane toward the ford, then veered off on the trail to the left. The rainfall was steadily hissing, warm drops; the cloak was hot and heavy with rain by the time she arrived. Under the elder shrubs, which dripped steadily but at least the wet did not drive into her eyes, she pulled the hood off. She withdrew a sack from under her cloak, and the knife she had used when he... Margaret looked about, not expecting to see anything, and was startled to find him gazing at her from the opposite bank of the brook. Delighted, she lifted her hand to wave, and he waved back. His horse stood beside him, drinking from the brook; he looped the reins to the saddle and started over the stream. The water was somewhat swifter than yesterday, owing to the rain, and he had to watch his step on the wet stones. He approached, and his eyes that held no threat fixed upon her. He bowed to her deeply, yet naturally; Margaret very naturally returned him a deep curtsey, and wondered at the joy in his eyes.
"You are a merry spirit, to be watering your horse here in the rain, Sir."
"And you, Lady, cutting branches again? For your own wedding today?"
"To be sure, I look fit to be wed, do I not?" She smilingly retorted, referring to her rain-draggled outfit; but she flushed suddenly and had to look down at the knife in her hand. "In truth, there is no merry occasion that brings me here, but that I need elder flowers for my little cousins, who awoke feverish, Sir. Perhaps you would again help me?" Oh, please help me, speak with me, stay with me, keep turning your blue eyes upon me!
He bowed his head slightly, and reached out for the knife. She laid it in his hand, and he reached for a branch, squinting against the drops of rain. "Just the clusters, none of the leaves or twigs," she instructed, and watched as he cut the white flowers, the knife blade against his thumb, raindrops running down his wrist, catching on the golden hairs along his arm, wetting the edge of his green sleeve. She found herself captivated watching him, and bestirred herself to ask some of the questions which had turned over in her mind earlier.
"Sir, you have been so kind, yet in truth I cannot recall that we have been introduced. I could not tell of your kindness to my lord my father without your name," she said, holding out the sack for a bunch of the dripping blossoms, which he placed in the sack, then leveled his gaze at her; for the first time, it seemed clouded. He stood straighter and took a deep breath.
"In truth, Lady Margaret, while I know your name, we never met ere yesterday, though I have seen you often, from afar. I am your servant, Sievan. Forgive me for not giving you my name sooner. But I have done nought for you worthy of mention."
"Sievan," she repeated. "Sir Sievan?"
"Aye," he nodded, and turned to cut more blossoms. He filled the sack, all the while asking Margaret about her family. She told him of her Aunt Rivanone raising her almost as her own mother, and that it was her children that were ill and that it was she and her mother who had taught her the virtue of the herbs for which they had often searched in this place. She dearly hoped she wasn't chattering.
"I am sorry that it has taken your cousin's illness to bring you down here again so soon, but I am very happy to be able to be of help to you, and I do so hope that we may meet under happier circumstances, Lady Margaret. There, your sack is full of good medicine."
She drew out another bag. "I need also so
me mint, peppermint or spearmint will do. I believe we will find some over there..." She said, turning farther up the bank. The mint they pulled was still short but would be potent. Too soon, the sacks were both full. They stood a moment. The sky had really opened and they had to stand close in order to converse.
"Your horse is wandering away," said Margaret.
"He will come when called," he replied. In spite of beginning to be soaked to the skin, she didn't want to leave that place. She didn't want to leave the glance, the nearness, the scent and sound of him. "How can I repay your kindness, Sir?" said she, wishing she could say much more.
"Only say that we may meet again, and I will live in joy for hoping, my Lady," said. Margaret's eyes widened and her breath caught: it was not a conventional politesse; her heart stood still a moment. He held out the handle of the knife to her, she raised her hand to take it. He put his left hand under hers and placed the antler handle in her palm, her fingers closed around the handle, warm from his hand. She knew that she must turn and go now, and slipped the knife in its holster at her belt, and took the sacks from him. Margaret offered him her right hand, which he clasped. "May we meet again, Sievan," she almost whispered, and there they both stood for a moment, unwilling to let go. Finally she turned away toward the knoll.
The rain was letting up. Climbing the path, in only a few steps she could see the boy, who had taken to flinging small stones at the bole of a large willow a number of yards off; the pony was pulling the new grass which grew thinly on the scabby top of the rise. Margaret turned, perhaps to wave goodbye, but again as before, there was not a trace of him to be seen on either bank of the brook. When the boy saw her, he straightened quickly and grabbed the pony's reins. Margaret couldn't help but smile at the show of diligence.
"Thank you, Alaic," she said, and mounted the pony, who reluctantly headed for the castle, still chewing the last sweet mouthful, which with its horse-scent Margaret could smell, and the wet wool she had pulled over her head, and the fresh rain smell, and Sir Sievan's fragrance-- what was it? New leaves, smoke, pine, rain-washed moss. She jealously clutched the sacks to herself, her hand prickling with the warm imprint of his hand.
When she returned to the castle she was met at the kitchen door by Burda's daughter Maro, who had been set to watch for her. She curtsied shortly and declared, "My lady, there's three more moved to the sickroom and Lady Rivanone wants you to come soon as you are able. Shall I take the sacks?"
"Thank you, Maro, where is Elora?"
"She's in and out. Her son, the Troubadour, took sick, and she's looking after him. She's given my mother instructions as to preparing these. She told me about starting the fresh herbs in cold water..."
"That's good, Maro, here," she said, and hurried to her bower to change to dry clothes. She met Burda on the stair, who stopped to put her hand on Margaret's forehead. "Forgive me, My lady," she said, hurrying on down the stairs. "You look flushed bright…"
By evening, there were eight in the sickroom, and three nuns had come to help minister to their needs. Rivanone would not leave her daughters, and a narrow couch was brought in for her to rest on. Not even Just's pleading with her late in the evening would take her to her own bed. Margaret sat by Varda's bed; she had taken sick after midday. Elora had been called to care for Gilling, who was delirious, and crying out that it was he who had brought the illness to Caer Aldene. So Margaret lingered to minister to the little ones, sang songs in her mellow, quavering voice, and told stories while continually checking that the children were neither chilled nor overwarm.
Gareth and his two squires had ridden out to see about the newly married couple at their nuptial encampment, whose location was uncertain, as was the custom; it was agreed that they should not know for now of the trouble in the castle if they were well. Meanwhile, Lord Eldred had decided that those who were well should prepare to leave for the two-day ride home, provided the rain stopped by morning. The church had within its compound an unused hospital; it was scrubbed and aired, more beds were moved in and infirm adults were moved in there.
Late at night, Margaret found herself nodding. Varda had drifted off to fitful sleep and three new nuns had come to spell the others; the room was quiet but for an older nun praying over a rosary. She held the beads dangling, but Margaret realized that her words were not the usual bead-telling.
"Oh Lord, You healed the sick and even raised children to life from the grave. Sweet Jesu, You are Lord of this child and of her illness as well. I Your handmaid know full well that Your love for her is beyond my comprehension. Help us to have faith and see Your hand at work even in this illness, which in Your sovereignty You have allowed to happen for our good and Your glory. Yet Lord, bear with Your handmaid, for I would plead for the life of this child; yet Lord, Your will be done..." The old woman sighed, and a burden seemed to roll off her. "Your will be done, Jesu. Our Father, who is in heaven, hallowed be Your name." She continued the Pater Noster, and Margaret was moved, for it was no empty recitation. Tears rolled down the wrinkled hands that clutched the beads to her forehead.
Margaret gazed at her sister, and felt her forehead. It was as before. She gazed at Varda, thinking, "Aye, if I could only pray like her..." She stroked her sister's forehead, then turned to her own bower and her bed. Varda was in good hands.
She awoke while it was yet night and looked about the room. One fat candle flickered on a wall sconce. Rose and Brinn's bed had been stripped and it gave her an awful feeling to see the couch empty. She rose quietly and counted. Two young women guests had left the previous day; their manor was but a few hours' ride; Hildreth was gone away; and three were in the chapel infirmary. That left eight that should be there, and indeed there were. She pulled on a shawl and went down to the sickroom.
As she approached the hallway leading to the room, she heard strange noises and sensed comings and goings. A dread wrenched the bottom of her stomach and her mouth went dry. Just then the Chapel bell tolled-- was it Lauds, or--? The bell continued, slow and steady. Each toll weighed on her, making her feet heavier, and yet she thrust herself down to the room, the shawl dragging and falling, and through the portal she rushed to Rivanone's side and threw her arms around her, for her body heaved and wrenched with sobs and her arms held tight the form of Rose, little Rose born the Summer after Varda; Rose the consolation, dancing, singing Rose's life had drained from her. The nuns murmured prayers; Margaret could hear them in between Rivanone's sobs. Lord Just arrived and took up the form of his daughter, and Rivanone left with him, leaning on him, her arm over his. One of the nuns, under her breath, murmured, "A voice is heard in Ramah, Rachel weeping for her children and can not be comforted, for they are gone."
Margaret stood and dashed the tears from her eyes. There went the only one to whom she could run, and here she stood alone. At a loss, she turned to see about Brinn and her sister, and noticed for the first time Elora, who stood in the doorway, staring at the vacant bed and listening to the bell. After a moment, looking much older than her seventy-odd years, she turned back the way she had come and slowly shuffled away. The sound of the rosewood cane stabbing the flagstones was the sound of loneliness.
The novice in the chapel whose duty it was to ring the bell wearied her arms and had to be spelled; eventually, because her services were wanted in the infirmary, a rotation of strong boys from the town had to be got in. The bell rang almost continuously over the next ten days.
Gilling recovered from his fever and gained strength quickly. When he could walk, he found his way to the church, where he was not wont to go, and tarried there crying on the altar. The priest, Father Ezekiah, finally succeeded in getting him into a side chapel to talk. The burden of the curse he was sure he himself had brought broke him and for long he could not speak. Not knowing what else to do, Father Ezekiah began to read aloud of the illuminated Latin Gospel, pausing and translating after each passage, doubting whether the man had received instruction in Latin. When he emerged from the interview, Gillin
g was silent and sober. He went into the infirmary and asked the prioress how he might serve the invalids.
For several days he hauled slop pails and swabbed the floor of the stinking filth from illness. The prioress had to order him to rest and to eat. Then one day he was bundling soiled sheets for boiling, when he passed by the bed of a knight who recognized his face.
"You are Gilling, the Troubadour, are ya not? I saw you play in the court of the King. And here y'are, swabbing vomit." Gilling stood still, looking into the gray face of the man.
The invalid rasped, "Might we not hear a song?"
Gilling averted his eyes, but a nun nearby said, "Please, good man, it'll make them forget their pain for a while."
He stood, remembering all the laughing, fashionable crowds and noble persons for whom he had been a sensation, another fancy thing to glitter in their eyes and ears before they moved on to the next diversion. How could he have been contented to parade himself before them? To bed with star-struck maidens and bored wives? He was so unneeded by any of these, so dispensable; his songs and bow-scrapings and amorous labors forgotten as soon as they were spent; while desperate eyes wearied of staring down death had only their own pitiful moans and retching to relieve the monotony of pain and fear. Tears clouded his eyes; he despised the amusing ballads of war and love, the endless, quenchless lusts and violences of mankind; he despised his life.
But there broke upon his soul a song he had heard-- he knew not where or when, or how inebriated he may have been-- but it came to him now in clarity, and he began to sing amidst the stenches and moaning of the infirmary, and the moaning stilled. The sun came up as he sang, the first beams level through the open windows, lighting on his face, which to the wonder of the nuns and patients, seemed to shine in return.
There is a tree most beautiful, of which I have heard tell
Where Jesu poured His own life out, to save sinners from hell.
Now is there life for me, and death, it has no sting
The Prince of life has risen and to Him I will cling.
Now is there hope for me, and death, where is your sting?
O most beautiful tree, in your shade I sing.