Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Dear God!” Elen was standing in the sun, but she’d begun to shiver. “Not spotted fever?”

  He nodded mutely, and after that, there seemed nothing more to say, for the disease that they knew as spotted fever, that a later age would know as typhus, was one of the most mortal of all ailments.

  Like all men of high birth and wealth, John the Scot was an avid hunter, and Darnhall was one of his favorite manors, for it was less than fifteen miles from Chester, yet deep within Delamere Forest. The River Weaver flowed peacefully past a mile to the east, and the green, shadowy woods that rose up around the manor offered refuge to roe deer, foxes, fallow deer, marten, red deer, rabbits. It was a tranquil setting, and Nell had enjoyed some pleasant days with John before departing for Chester and Wales. She returned now to find it a house of horrors.

  John did not lack for doctors. There was Master Giles, who had attended the Earls of Chester since the days of John’s uncle Ranulf. Walter de Pinchbeck, the Abbot of St Werburgh’s abbey, had offered the services of Brother Eustace, who was skilled in the healing and apothecary arts. And when Elen returned to Darnhall, she brought with her Einion ap Rhiwallon. But Nell could not see that any of them had done much to ease John’s suffering. They put her in mind of an old proverb, one that warned of too many cooks spoiling the broth, for they seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time arguing medical theories, disputing one another’s treatment. And while they wrangled, John grew steadily weaker.

  His fever had raged for a fortnight, resisting all efforts to lower it with sage, verbena, and sponge baths. He coughed continually, and his tongue was thickly encrusted, while a brownish slime formed on his teeth and gums faster than Elen could wipe it away. Watching as Elen and a servant gave John yet another sponge bath, Nell was shocked anew at sight of that wasted, emaciated body. John was only thirty-one, had always been a robust, stockily built man; Nell could not recognize that man in the one who submitted, apathetic, uncaring, to his wife’s ministrations. To Nell, his body resembled nothing so much now as the hollowed woodwork of a lute, and she could only marvel that the disease could have made such lethal inroads in so short a time.

  The doctors had bled him again that morning, murmuring uneasily among themselves at the dark color of his blood, but he seemed even weaker after their treatment. Nell suspected that they’d already abandoned hope. They continued to give him enemas, to brew herbal potions, whose ingredients they seemed loath to share, especially with one another, to study his urine and take his pulse. But each one had come privately to Elen, suggested she summon a priest.

  Did Elen, too, realize her husband was dying? Nell did not know, for Elen shared none of her thoughts. She rarely left John’s bedside, had slept so little in past days that Nell had begun to fear for her health, too. The sponge bath was done; kneeling by the bed, Elen began to apply a linseed poultice to the bedsores on John’s thighs and buttocks. Nell had a sharp eye, yet try though she might, she could read nothing in Elen’s face but exhaustion.

  “Let me do that, Elen, whilst you get some rest.”

  Elen looked up; her mouth moved in a wan smile. “You need rest, too, Nell. I can never thank you enough for this, for all you’ve done…”

  Nell flushed, for there’d been too many times when she’d found herself regretting her offer to accompany Elen, times when she’d wished herself a thousand miles away from this foul-smelling sickroom. “I would that I could do more,” she said, in utter sincerity, and then, “Elen! Jesus God!”

  There was no warning, just blood. It gushed suddenly from John’s nose, soaking the sheets and pillows, spraying the bodice of Elen’s gown as she sought frantically to staunch the bleeding with a towel; the towel, too, was soon splotched with red. Nell ran to the door, shouted for the doctors.

  For a terrifying time, they feared John was dying, bleeding to death before their eyes. But at last that fearful rush of blood slowed, ebbed to a trickle. As the doctors applied fresh compresses, Elen sagged down on a coffer. For once she offered no argument when Nell insisted she change her bloodied clothes and then lie down; she nodded, moved numbly toward the door.

  It was difficult to change the blood-stained linens with John in the bed, but Nell managed it with some help from a little kitchen maid. Nell was becoming increasingly grateful to Edith, for most of the servants were so terrified of catching the spotted fever that only the direst threats could get them into the sickroom at all. Nell had raged in vain, for their dread of the disease was greater than their fear of her. Nor were the servants alone in their alarm; Nell and Elen’s ladies showed the same reluctance to cross that threshold. It was, Nell thought grimly, as if poor John had become a leper, and she decided that when she finally left Darnhall, she’d take Edith with her, give the girl a place in her own household.

  “Do try to swallow, John,” she coaxed, tilting a cup to his lips. He opened his eyes, but they were dulled, putting her in mind of quenched candles, lacking even a spark of light. The doctors had told her this eerie indifference was characteristic of his illness, but she found it strange, nonetheless, that he seemed not to care as he drifted closer and closer to death.

  “Madame.” One of the doctors was standing in the doorway. “Several lords have just ridden into the bailey. If you like, I’ll sit with Lord John whilst you greet them.”

  Nell nodded, rose slowly to her feet. She’d never before been careless of appearance, but now she could not even bother to glance into a mirror. She untied her apron, relinquished her vigil to the doctor.

  Although it was the last day of May, a fire burned in the great hall; it had rained steadily, relentlessly, for the past five days, and the men standing by the hearth were shrouded in dripping, hooded mantles. Nell felt no surprise to find no women among them; although both of John’s sisters had been informed of his illness, neither had yet to arrive. Nor would they, Nell thought, with cynical certainty. John’s sisters were no more willing than John’s servants to brave the spectre of spotted fever.

  One of the men had detached himself from the others, was moving swiftly toward her. There was something familiar about that tall, mantled figure, that quick, confident stride. Nell came to an abrupt halt. “Simon?” She rarely sounded so hesitant, but she was afraid to let herself hope. He jerked his hood back, and she looked up into intent grey eyes, eyes that showed sudden alarm as they took in her pallor, her startling dishevelment.

  “I came as soon as I heard.” He reached out, caught her hand in his. “Nell, you’re not ill, too?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, Simon…Simon, thank God you’ve come!”

  John’s fever began to subside, but he showed no other signs of recovery. He was often delirious now, mumbling incoherently, plucking feebly at his coverlets, exhausting the last of his energy in agitated, sometimes violent, ravings. Elen moved a pallet into the bedchamber, slept there during those rare hours when she could be coaxed away from his bedside. “He needs me,” she’d say whenever Nell or the doctors protested, and indeed, John did seem somewhat calmer when she sat by him, holding his hand.

  Nell would always remember that first week in June as a waking nightmare. The rains had yet to abate, and the River Weaver was rising so rapidly that Simon set up a flood watch. In one of his brief lucid moments, John was shriven by his chaplain, and for a few hours afterward, he slept. But that night he was troubled again by fevered dreams, by sharp abdominal pains. The diarrhea soon became so acute that the doctors were not long in drawing the same bleak conclusion. For once in agreement about their diagnosis, they told Elen that her husband was in God’s hands, beyond mortal help.

  John was groaning, twisting from side to side. The sudden stench was overpowering; Nell had become accustomed to the fetid odors of the sickroom, but this was so foul, so noxious that she nearly gagged. She clapped her hand to her mouth, fought back her nausea as Elen called out for servants. They appeared within moments; Nell did not know what Simon had done, but the servants no longer balked at entering John’s c
hamber, obeyed all commands with alacrity. Now they hastened toward the bed, quickly stripped off the soiled sheets, as Elen wiped her husband’s wasted body with damp cloths, all the while murmuring wordless sounds of comfort, the way a mother might seek to calm a fearful child. Nell’s eyes filled with tears; whirling, she bolted from the chamber.

  Simon was coming from the stables as Nell emerged into the bailey. She heard him call her name, but she did not stop. Her steps quickened; by the time she reached the gatehouse, she was running.

  She ran until she had no breath left, until she was surrounded by the utter silence of a woodland clearing. The sky was dark with rain clouds, and the oaks, hazels, and aspen trees were glistening, spangled with moisture. The grass was wet, but Nell was beyond caring about mud stains; she sank down beside a dripping oak. For a time, she sat very still, breathing in the scent of grass and honeysuckle. The silence had been illusory; she could hear now the soft trilling of linnet and lark, the harsh, clear cry of a mistle thrush.

  “Nell?” Simon came through the trees, dropped down beside her in the grass.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, and he smiled.

  “You blazed quite a trail. You ought to ask those Welsh kinfolk of yours to teach you something of woodland lore.” He was carrying a hempen sack, and as she watched, he pulled out napkins, thick chunks of cheese, and a loaf of manchet bread. “After you ran out, I stopped by the kitchen,” he said, “grabbed whatever I could lay my hands upon. I’ve a flask of wine, too…here.”

  Nell took it gratefully, drank deeply. “My father died of the bloody flux, Simon. I always knew that, of course, but till now I never knew how he must have suffered. This afternoon I watched John’s agony, and for the first time, I found myself thinking about my father—truly thinking about the man, about those last dreadful days and how it must have been for him…” She drank again. “I also found myself wishing John would die.”

  “Do not reproach yourself for that, Nell. For John, death will be a mercy, a blessed release.” He reached over, handed her bread and cheese. “Eat,” he said, “ere you fall sick, too.”

  “We ought to go back. I feel like a fool, running off like that…”

  “You had cause. I’ve seen few women—or men—show the courage you’ve shown in these past days. In truth, Nell, I never suspected you’d make such an admirable nurse.”

  Nell smiled tiredly. “People are always surprised when I show I am competent or capable, not just—”

  She stopped, and Simon finished for her. “—fair to look upon.”

  She blushed, then grinned. “As vain as it sounds, I was going to say that,” she admitted. “But I’d be lying if I pretended I did not know I was pretty, and I’ve never seen the virtues in false modesty. I like the way I look. It is just that…” She hesitated. “I would never want people to think I’m like her, like my mother.”

  Nell’s mother had been one of the great beauties of her age, a sensual sophisticate who’d left England when King John died, returning to her native Angoulême, where she’d wed her own daughter’s betrothed. Nell had been just two when Isabelle departed; the only mothering she’d ever gotten had come from her older half-sister Joanna. For several months now, she and Simon had been conducting a cautious but intense flirtation; this was the first time she’d ever revealed anything so personal, giving him a sudden glimpse of the woman behind her flippant court mask. Twice she’d smothered a yawn, and he leaned over, put his arm around her shoulders. As she started to pull away in surprise, he said, “When was the last time you slept? Lie back, Nell, and put your head on my shoulder.”

  “I ought not to…” Nell’s dimple flashed. “But I will. I am bone-weary, in truth. A few moments, mayhap…” She snuggled back in his arms, and it was the true measure of her exhaustion that she felt no excitement at being so close to him, only a drowsy sense of security. Soon, she slept.

  She awoke more than two hours later, and was both astonished and touched that Simon—so restless, so intense and energetic—should have found the patience to sit quietly, holding her while she slept. She was dangerously drawn to him, acutely aware of the strong sexual attraction that burned between them. But she’d not realized he could be tender, too.

  They followed a woodland path back to Darnhall, their steps instinctively slowing as they neared the manor, not talking, reveling in the unexpected intimacy of silence. They were within sight of the manor gatehouse when thunder crashed over their heads and rain poured down in torrents. They ran for shelter, hand in hand; by the time they reached the great hall, they were both soaked to the skin. Laughing, they hurried toward the fire, leaving puddles in their wake.

  “Simon, I’m half-drowned!” Nell jerked off her sopping wimple; even her long, blonde braids were drenched, dripping water onto the floor rushes. Still giggling, she glanced toward Simon. He’d already sobered, more sensitive than she to the atmosphere in the hall. Nell looked around her, saw only somber, disapproving faces, and sighed. Laughter was a sin of no small proportions in a house waiting for death.

  Abbot Walter moved toward them. “My lord of Leicester, Madame. I regret I must be the one to tell you. Whilst you were gone, the Earl of Chester’s earthly cares came to an end. He was taken to God nigh on an hour ago.”

  Elen was sitting in John’s favorite chair. She was so still she scarcely seemed to be breathing; her dark eyes were dilated, blind. She did not react to the opening door, to the sound of her name.

  “Elen, I’m so sorry!” Nell knelt by Elen’s chair, put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “If only we’d been here,” she said remorsefully, and Elen pulled away from her comforting embrace.

  “I fell asleep,” she said; her voice was toneless, flat, not like Elen’s voice at all. “I did not mean to, but I was tired, so tired. And whilst I slept, he died.”

  “Ah, Elen, you cannot blame yourself for that. John would understand, truly he—”

  “It is my fault,” Elen said, still in that strangely muffled voice. “My fault.”

  “Elen, that is ridiculous! The Blessed Virgin herself could not have given John better care than you did. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, nothing!”

  “You do not understand.” Elen rose, moved toward the bed, where she stood staring down at her husband’s body. “John had taken the cross, meant to depart this year for the Holy Land. I knew how dangerous such a pilgrimage would be; I knew how many died on such quests. And I could not help thinking that John might die, too. I let myself imagine how it would be if he did not come back, if I were widowed.” Tears had begun to streak her face; she seemed not to notice. “I did not truly want his death, I swear I did not. I just wanted to be free. Was that so very terrible, Nell? That I wanted to be free?”

  “No!” Nell’s answer came unthinkingly, a cry from the heart. “No, of course it is not, Elen.”

  Elen had yet to take her eyes from her husband’s face. “Then why,” she whispered, “do I feel like this? Why do I feel as if his death is my doing?”

  Nell was utterly at a loss. She turned, gave Simon a look of mute appeal, and he moved away from the door, joined Elen beside her husband’s body.

  “Do you think he was a good man?” he asked, and Elen nodded. “A good Christian?” She bit her lip, again nodded. Nell was beginning to look indignant; was this Simon’s idea of comfort?

  He reached out suddenly, grasped Elen’s shoulders and turned her to face him. “Then why,” he demanded, “do you think God would value his life so cheaply?”

  “What?”

  “Why should God punish you by taking John? That makes of him little more than a pawn, Elen. Does that not seem rather arrogant to you, that you should allot so much worth to your own soul and so little worth to his?”

  “Simon!” Nell hissed. “How can you talk to Elen like this, now of all times!”

  He ignored her, kept his eyes upon his cousin’s widow. “John did not die because the Almighty wanted to punish you. He died beca
use it was his time. That is the truth of it, Elen. To believe anything else is an insult to John, an insult to God.”

  “Simon, enough! How can you be so cruel?”

  “No, Nell.” Elen drew an unsteady breath. “It is all right,” she said, “truly,” and Nell saw that Simon’s brutal common sense had somehow given Elen more comfort than her own sympathy.

  Elen raised a hand to her face, seemed surprised when her fingers came away wet. “I shall try to remember your words,” she said to Simon. “Now…now there is so much I must do. John must be buried at St Werburgh’s; it was his wish. I must bathe him, must…” She faltered, and Nell said swiftly,

  “I will take care of that for you, Elen. Simon and I will take care of everything, I promise. Come now…come with me. If you do not get some rest, you will not be well enough for the funeral.”

  She’d expected an argument, but Elen nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for your kindness to my husband, to me.” She moved back to the bed then, bent over and brushed her lips to John’s forehead. Straightening up, she had to catch Simon’s arm for support, and only then did they realize how close she was to physical collapse.

  “John deserved a better death than this,” she said softly. “And a better wife.”

  John the Scot, seventh Earl of Chester, was buried on Monday, the 8th of June, before the High Altar in the Benedictine abbey of St Werburgh at Chester, the same church in which he and Elen had been wed more than fourteen years earlier.

  Abbot Walter had turned over his private quarters to the Earl’s widow. His great hall was crowded now with mourners. Servants passed back and forth among them, offering wine, ale, and cider, sweetmeats. The solemnity of the funeral Mass had slowly given way to the perverse cheer peculiar to wakes; people drank and ate with unseemly zest, shared news and gossip, speculated what would befall the earldom of Chester, for John’s heirs were all female.

  Nell would normally have enjoyed such a gathering, for she was the most sociable of beings, and she very much appreciated the attention a lovely woman could invariably command. But now her every thought was for Elen, Elen who moved amid the mourners like a wraith, so detached, so apparently aloof that she was giving rise to gossip, among those who did not know—as Nell did—just how frighteningly fragile Elen’s composure was. As soon as she could, Nell drew Elen aside, led her toward the Abbot’s private chamber at the south end of the hall.