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Roland was silent for many moments. He was aware of bees swarming about the apple tree behind him. He heard sparrows flapping their wings in the still hot air. The heavy smell of grass filled his nostrils. This should be a peaceful spot, but it wasn’t. There were mysteries here, and things he didn’t understand, and there was pain as well, and he knew he was the cause of it. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t begin to know what to think about this. He rose and looked down at his wife.
“I must send a message to Kassia. Doubtless she will arrive shortly to see to her lord.”
Daria merely nodded.
It was deep in the middle of the night. A storm was blowing in. Just as lightning streaked across the sky, Daria awoke, pain convulsing her belly, a cry erupting from her mouth.
20
Daria had never imagined such pain. It welled up in her, overpowering her, capturing all of her within it, and she couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it. The pain twisted and coiled until she screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her knees up, but nothing helped. Then, suddenly, just as the pain had started, it stopped.
Roland lurched upright at her first cry. He’d just come into their bedchamber a short time before and was on the edge of sleep. “Daria.” He clasped her arms and tried to bring her about to face him, but her pain was keeping her apart from him, apart from understanding, apart from even the knowledge of him and his presence. So he held her until she quieted. She lay on her back, staring up at him, panting heavily.
“It’s gone,” she said, her voice low and harsh. “It was horrible but now it’s gone.”
“What pain? Where did you hurt?”
“My belly. Cramps, awful twisting cramps and—” Her eyes flew to his face. “Oh, no.”
Roland quickly lit several candles. He turned back to see her standing beside the bed, staring down at herself. He felt himself grow cold at the sight. Blood blotched red on her white shift, blood streaked down her legs, puddling at the floor between her feet.
She looked up at him, her eyes blank. “I don’t understand.” Another cramp seized her, and she fell to her knees with the force of it.
She was losing the child. She was bowed on her knees, crying. He lifted h
er high in his arms and felt the agony of her body as she twisted and heaved against him. He laid her onto her back, watching her immediately roll to her side, her legs drawn up, her arms around her belly.
“Hold on,” he shouted at her, then ran from the bedchamber, grabbing his bedrobe as he went.
He met Katherine in the narrow corridor. Her face was pale in the dim light.
“What’s wrong, Roland?”
“It’s the babe, she’s losing the babe.”
Katherine ran past him. She stood over her daughter, wishing she could take the pain from her, magically take it into herself, but she couldn’t, of course. She pushed sweat-soaked hair from her daughter’s forehead, speaking to her softly. “It will soon be over Daria. Soon now. Don’t frighten your husband so, darling. But look at him, his face is as pale as the dawn light and your pain becomes his. Come, Daria give him your hands and he will help you.”
Roland moved automatically to do as Katherine bade. He was grateful for any instruction, for he felt so damnably helpless. He grasped his wife’s fingers, then eased his hold so that she could grip his hands instead. She saw him, at last. “Roland, please make it stop.” She was gone from him for many moments, locked into the pain of her body.
Daria felt a mighty twisting that wound tighter and tighter, crushing her within it, and she prayed in that instant for oblivion, for that thick whiteness she’d seen that afternoon. But she felt everything; nothing faded, nothing lost its sharpness. She felt the flood of liquid down her legs, and she knew then that she was losing the babe, losing her babe, Roland’s babe. The wet was sticky and warm and she screamed for herself and her own loss and she screamed for the loss of the unborn child. She was aware that someone’s hands were on her body, warm water and cloths were touching her gently, and Roland was holding her face against his chest and she could feel the sharp loud rhythm of his heart and he was speaking to her, yet she didn’t understand his words. Slowly, as the screams that clogged her mind and her throat finally pulled away from her, releasing her back into herself, she made out his words, soft but insistent, pulling at her, lulling her.
“Hush, Daria, hush now. You’re all right. Everything is all right now. Hush.” And he was rocking her, kissing her sweaty forehead, and for a moment in time she was comforted and allowed herself to heed his words and his gentleness, and gave herself over to him.
She heard her mother’s voice. “I can see no damage done, Roland. Now I must get the bleeding slowed. Just remain as you are. Hold her and soothe her. Keep her as quiet as you can. Try to—comfort her.”
He did, kissing his wife’s temple, speaking to her endlessly of the farmer he’d visited and the man’s four daughters who’d wanted to come back to Chantry Hall with him and serve his beautiful wife. Aye, they’d all heard of her, of her kindness, of her gentleness. He talked and talked, of nothing and everything, yet none of it was important and he knew it, but it didn’t matter. Daria was quiet. He watched Katherine bathe the blood from her daughter, watched her make a thick pad of white cotton cloths and press it against her. He saw the crimson cloths on the floor beside the bed.
It was over.
Daria felt the smooth edge of a cup pressed against her closed lips. She opened her mouth at Roland’s command and drank deep. She lolled back against her husband’s arm, aware that the potion she’d drunk was drugged, aware now that Roland was stripping off her bloodied chemise and bathing the sweat from her body. She felt the soft cool material of her bedrobe as he wrapped it around her. When she was on her back, she opened her eyes to see her mother and Roland standing beside her. But they weren’t looking at her, but at each other, and Katherine was saying quietly, “It isn’t uncommon at all, Roland. She will heal and there will be other children for you. Also the vigorous activity this afternoon—she lost the child, but she did save Graelam. A choice God doubtless approved, Roland. It was no one’s fault.”
Roland was silent.
“It’s for the best, Roland,” Katherine said, unable to bear the empty pain of his silence. She really meant nothing by her words, just feeling so helpless that she said anything to ease him, for it hurt her to see him so shattered and withdrawn into himself. She wished he would say something, anything. But he remained silent. And she said again, “It’s for the best, Roland.”
Daria felt darkness clouding her vision, closing over her mind, but she fought it. She laughed, a raw ugly sound. “Oh, Mother,” she gasped, the words pouring out unbidden, “you’re so very right. It is for the best. Roland’s best. This child is dead and Roland is silent because he knows he must wait until he can yell his relief to the world—he is a man of some wisdom. He doesn’t wish to shock you or any of our people, Mother, with his rejoicing.” And she laughed and laughed until the tears streamed down her face and she was choking on them, and then suddenly she felt his hand strike her cheek and the laughter and tears died and succumbed to the tug of the poppy juice. She saw her husband’s face, drawn and white; then she saw nothing.
Roland stared down at his wife’s pale face. Bloodless, he thought blankly, his eyes going toward the soaked cloths. So much blood. “You’re certain she will be all right, Katherine? She’s so pale—”
