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“Now,” he said, his voice taut with fury, “the pigs, or my bed?”
Carefully she rose to her feet. Her balance did not quite work right, and her right eye could not focus. She took an unsteady step, caught a breath, took a second step, and rested her hand on the door latch. Lifted it.
The door opening, and the blow, occurred at the same time. She fell forward into the corridor, onto her hands and knees. Another blow, along the ribs—perhaps it was his boot. She struggled to get to her feet, but each time she rose and showed the slightest movement forward, he hit her again.
Blood hazed her right eye, but it didn’t matter, because she couldn’t really see out of that eye anyway.
She got a hand on the wall and pulled up, and then was flung hard into the other wall. Her head slammed into stone, and she dropped hard. When she tried to stand again, she could not. She lay there, whimpering, trying not to whimper, trying not to make any sound, trying to get her legs to work. His boot nudged her side.
“Now, Liath. Which will it be?”
“The pigs,” she said. The words were hard to say, because her mouth was filled with blood. Since she could not rise, she found purchase with her elbows and tried to crawl forward. This time, when he hit her— whether with hands or boot she could no longer tell—a swirl of blackness flooded her. She heard her own labored breathing. She could not see. Her vision grayed, then lightened. She saw the narrow passageway as a hazy pattern of stone and shadow, but that was enough. She heaved herself up on her elbows and drew her body along after her. Forward, toward the pigs.
She heard words, a horrified exclamation, but it was not attached to her.
She hurt everywhere, stinging bruises, sharp deep pain in her bones, a fiery stabbing at her ribs; blood trickled, salty, from her mouth, and yet her mouth was dry. She was so thirsty. She could picture the pigs perfectly in her mind. They lived outside the city of memory, in pleasant comfort: Trotter, who was her favorite, and the old sow Truffling, and the piglets Hib, Nib, Jib, Bib, Gib, Rib, and Tib, some of whom she could tell apart, but she could not now recall which ones had been slaughtered and salted and which ones kept over the winter.
He hit her again, from her blind side, and she collapsed onto the cold floor. Rough stone pressed into her face, but the tiny irritating grains helped her stay conscious; she counted the grains, each one pressing into her cheek, into the open wound, like salt. She just breathed for awhile. Breathing was hard. It hurt to inhale and exhale, but eventually she had to get out with those pigs. She would be safe with the pigs. The book would be safe with the pigs.
Pain like a hot knife stabbed through her abdomen. She screamed out of stark fear. He was going to kill her rather than let her go. Kill her! That hadn’t been the choice.
She opened her left eye to see Hugh standing more than a body’s length away from her, staring at her, his face as cold and stubborn as the stone. But he had not touched her.
The pain lanced again. Warm liquid trickled down the inside of her thighs. Pain stabbed again. She tried to gasp out words, but she couldn’t make them form on her tongue. Ai, Lady! It hurt. She curled up into a ball, and fainted.
Came half conscious when Lars picked her up. Dorit was speaking. Liath caught a glimpse of Hugh and then lost him again. Her thighs were sticky with dampness. The cool afternoon air struck her to shivering as Lars carried her outside. Pain coursed through her abdomen again. She twisted, tossing her head back. Dorit was speaking to her, but Liath could not understand.
Lars’ jolting walk sent flares of pain up her legs. She fainted.
This time, when she recognized she was awake, she tried not to panic. She was lying on a hard surface. She couldn’t open her eyes. Something cold and clammy covered her eyes, like the hand of a dead, decaying corpse. …
She jerked, clawed at it, but her hands were captured and held tight in another’s strong grip.
“Liath, it’s Hanna. Stop that. Stop it. Trust me.”
Hanna. She could trust Hanna. She clung to Hanna’s hands. What had happened? She was naked from the waist down, legs propped up, lying flat on her back, awash in pain.
Another voice intruded. “Can you sit, Liath? You ought to, if you can.”
“Here,” said Hanna in that wonderful practical voice she had. “I’ll put my arms under you and hold you. Just lean on me, Liath.”
Rising up, even to a half sit, made her head throb. The pain in her abdomen came and went in waves. The clammy hand dropped away from her face, but it was only a cold rag. Through her good eye she saw Mistress Birta and, in the background, Dorit. Mistress Birta straightened up from her crouch at Liath’s feet. Her hands were blood red.
Dizziness swept Liath. “I have to lie down,” she gasped. Even as Hanna lowered her, she fell completely out of consciousness.
Came up again, still lying on the hard surface. Mistress Birta was speaking.
“We’ll move her upstairs. I’ve done all I can.”
“I’ve seen him hit her a few times, now and again,” said a new voice which Liath vaguely identified as Dorit’s, “but with that temper she has, and her his bonded slave, I’ve never blamed him. But this.” There was a heavy silence, followed by the clucking of tongues. “It’s a sin against Our Lady, it is. I couldn’t let her lie there, bleeding, when I saw she was losing a child.”
Hanna and Birta carried her upstairs. It took that long for Dorit’s words to sink in.
Losing a child.
They laid her on Hanna’s bed and padded her with moss to absorb the blood still flowing from her. Birta pulled a shift down over her hips, so she might rest modestly.
She choked out the words. “Is it true? Was I pregnant?”
