A Lady Under Siege(9)

YOUNG ETHELWYNNE POURED A pitcher of lukewarm water over Sylvanne’s shoulders. She shivered as the water ran down her naked body. Mabel, sleeves rolled up, scrubbed her skin so harshly it hurt.

“You murder me,” Sylvanne muttered.

“I’m sorry Madame, I’ve never seen dirt so well-entrenched.”

“Concentrate on the parts of me that will show when I’m clothed,” Sylvanne said. “All that matters is my hands, forearms, my face and neck, and as much of my bosom as the dress displays.”

“You’ve lost weight, ma’am,” Mabel remarked. “The display won’t be so ample as it once was. Luckily, I’m an expert in the artifice such an occasion calls for.”

“Just get me clean, Mabel. Stop scraping at my thigh with that course soap, and attend to the principle places.”

There was a loud knocking upon the door. Ethelwynne went to investigate and came back wide eyed.

“Ma’am?”

“What is it?”

“He moves.”

There was no time to get properly dressed. She ordered Mabel to wrap her body in one of the white linens used for drying, then to drape her in two finer sheets from the bed, one over each shoulder like sashes. To hold it all together they took the first belt that came to hand, meant for a lavender dress, and tied it snug under her breasts. Thus arrayed she hurried toward her husband’s room, little caring that one of the sheets had slipped from her shoulder, and that her long hair hung loose instead of coiled and hidden beneath the barbette expected of a married woman. At the doorway it seemed that virtually the entire remaining populace of the castle had assembled. They parted like cattle, deferentially, but without hurry.

The room smelled of meat cooked on the flame. The ratcatcher was busy by the fireplace. At the bedside, the priest rose to give her his place. Sylvanne knelt, grasped her husband’s hand, and held it to her breast. His eyes were open. He studied her with an immense weariness. He was trying to speak, she could tell, but no words came.

“Has he said anything to anyone?” she asked.

“No,” said the priest. “Yet his eyes move about. He sees.”

Sylvanne leaned close and kissed him on the mouth. He seemed to draw strength from it, and ever so weakly, he whispered her name.

“I hear, my love. Speak to me.”

He looked up at the ceiling as though it were the sky.

“So he’ll have you after all,” he said finally.

“I’ll die first.”

His eyes met hers.

“It is I who am dying,” he whispered.

“They’re cooking you a rat—a mouse.”

He laughed a feeble, soft cough. A faint twinkle shone in his eye.

“Likely it’s as skeletal as I,” he mused.

“I should have told you it’s rabbit,” Sylvanne attempted in a light, jaunty tone. “Apparently that’s been the protocol around here for some time.” But she was fighting tears.

“I’ve no appetite,” Gerald murmured.

“Taste it first.”

He shook his head. His body shuddered, and when he spoke again it was with great effort.

“Do you know your Bible?”

Sylvanne began to cry. She wiped her tears on the white linen and pretended a laugh.

“You know I never troubled with it. Many’s the time you scolded me for that.”

“Ask the priest how Judith slew Holofernes.”

“You tell me,” she said.

His eyes grew wide for a moment, as if he’d seen something beyond this earth. A faint wheeze, the soft rattle of death, issued from his mouth.

“Tell me,” Sylvanne pleaded. “Tell me. Tell me!”

She took his hand, pulled it to her breast, and began to weep. The crowd in the doorway pushed closer for a better look. Mabel lifted a corner of linen and wiped her Mistress’s eyes, then her own. The ratcatcher, oblivious to all but the fireplace and the skinned carcass cooking there, now turned and announced excitedly, “It’s ready, Madame, it’s ready!”





5





Meghan awoke and felt her face wet with tears. She stumbled downstairs to the kitchen in a trance, opened the refrigerator and squatted there, grabbing anything that came to hand—pita bread, grapes, a block of cheddar— stuffing bits from all of them into her mouth. Ravenous, she yanked the lid from a half litre of yogurt and tipped it up to her lips to suck at its runny thickness. Yogurt dribbled down her chin.