‘And he must marry again.’
‘I suppose he must,’ Kirsty said thoughtfully, ‘but not yet, not while he is still grieving for Isabella.’
‘He’s not grieving for her, not really.’ Isobel’s voice was muffled.
‘I think he is,’ Kirsty said. She was beginning to understand the reason for this desperate tirade. As Robert’s eldest sister she had met too many girls who thought themselves in love with her glamorous brother not to know the signs. She sighed. ‘Eleyne told me to tell you she will come to see you when Donald is better. She said you must be courageous and patient and that she loves you and is praying for you.’
Isobel turned suddenly. ‘Have you ever had a baby?’ It was as though she had not heard a word Kirsty had said.
Kirsty shook her head.
‘You don’t want one?’
The question appeared to be artless, but Kirsty sensed there was more behind it than appeared. ‘Yes, I want one very much,’ she said wistfully. ‘But God has not yet seen fit to send us one.’
‘I see.’ There was disillusion in Isobel’s voice.
‘You’ll love it very much when you have one,’ Kirsty said cautiously.
‘I’m not going to have one.’
The tension in the thin shoulders, the angle of her head, the white, tightly clenched fists all proclaimed a denial of the fact.
Sadly Kirsty stood up. She held out her hands and took Isobel’s tense fists in hers. ‘Is Mairi looking after you?’
Isobel nodded. ‘Ask great grandmama to come,’ she whispered.
‘As soon as Donald is better, she’ll come, I promise.’ But Kirsty knew she couldn’t burden Eleyne with this further worry. Not now. Not yet.
VII
‘Mother. He’s dying.’ Gratney sat opposite Eleyne, holding her hands tightly in his. Two weeks had passed and Donald was worse. ‘Anyone can see it. You have to prepare yourself.’
‘No.’ She shook her head stubbornly. ‘He says he’s getting stronger. He wrote to King Edward today – ’
‘And he couldn’t hold the pen. His clerk had to take down the letter. He’s wasting away before our eyes.’
Kirsty and Duncan were standing together watching them. Duncan put his arm around Eleyne’s shoulder. ‘He’s right, mama. You must accept it. For papa’s sake. There must be things you want to say to each other…’ He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. ‘You loved each other so much.’
‘You talk as if he were already dead.’ Eleyne stood up stiffly. Her heart was breaking, deep inside, but her brain refused to acknowledge what was happening. ‘I thought I would die first,’ she cried in anguish, ‘and I’m having to watch his pain – ’
She went back to Donald’s bedside and sat down. Outside, the short summer night was luminous with stars. The mountains were hunched shadows, heavy with the rich scents of blaeberry and thyme and the sharp tang of pine. Somewhere out in the darkness a vixen screamed to her cubs.
‘Nel?’ Donald had opened his eyes with difficulty. His eyelids were heavy, his breathing laboured.
She leaned across and kissed his forehead. ‘I’m here, my love.’
‘I need something, one of your potions.’ He found it hard to speak now. ‘Please.’
She turned towards the table where a shaded candle burned and reached towards the draught she had made him, but he shook his head. ‘No use. Something stronger. Please, Nel.’
‘Something stronger?’ Eleyne looked at him silently.
He nodded. ‘The pain is worse every minute. I’m dying, Nel. We both know it. Please, help me.’ He coughed a little and she saw the flecks of blood on his chin. She wiped his face gently. His breathing was rattling in his chest and every breath was an effort. His hands clawed at the sheets. ‘I love you, Nel. You’ve made me so happy.’ He tried to smile.
Eleyne forced herself to blink back the tears. She leaned forward and kissed him again. ‘I’ll call Bethoc to sit with you, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’
VIII
The stillroom was dark. Closing the door behind her, Eleyne stood for a moment without moving, holding her candle high. The pale light flickered along the shelves of jars and pots and clusters of dried herbs. The spicy scent of the room enveloped her, bringing with it a sense of peace and calm. She put the candle on the workbench and moved towards the shelves.
Something to deaden the pain; something to help him sleep. That was what she wanted. That was all she wanted. The juice of the white poppy and the hemlock. Her hand hovered across the containers of dried herbs and the bottles of syrup. With shaking hands, she seized the pestle and mortar and reached down the first of her tightly stoppered jars.
When she returned to their bedchamber, Donald was lying back against the pillows racked with coughing. He could no longer leave the bed; no longer raise himself on the pillows. She stood in the doorway, her candle guttering, aware of the watching eyes in the room. Servants busied themselves while Bethoc dozed in the chair near the fire. By the bed Gratney had jerked awake as she opened the door. He gave her a wan smile; near him Duncan was dozing as he sat on one of the coffers.
Her eyes returned to her husband’s face. In the candlelight she could see the sheen of sweat on the grey skin, see the agony in his eyes which belied his attempt at a smile.
‘Nel.’ His whisper was so faint she did not hear it. She approached the bed and setting down her candle and the flask of thick syrup she had brought with her she leaned over and kissed him. ‘Donald?’ His skin beneath her lips was ice-cold and clammy. He looked up at her. For a moment she thought he didn’t recognise her. Then he gave her a faint smile. His fingers tightened over hers in a spasm of pain and she heard the breath rattle in his lungs. He coughed again and a fleck of bloody sputum appeared on his lip.
‘Gratney, would you and Duncan and Bethoc and the servants leave us alone for a little?’ Eleyne asked, smiling reassuringly at her son. He held her gaze, then slowly he stood up. He bent and kissed his father’s forehead.
‘Goodnight, papa.’
‘Goodnight, my son.’ Donald’s eyes focused with difficulty on Gratney’s face. ‘God bless you.’
Duncan followed. He too kissed his father, and Eleyne saw the tears streaming down his face.
She stood for a long time after the door had closed. She was staring at the candlelight.
‘Nel.’ Donald’s hand closed over hers. ‘The sleeping draught?’
‘I have it here.’ She turned and forced herself to smile down at him.
‘You’ve made it strong enough to take away my pain?’ His eyes were clearer than they had been for many days.
‘It’s the strongest draught I’ve ever made.’
‘Good.’ His hand fell back on the sheet and the room was silent save for his laboured breathing.
‘I could have wished for a more glorious death,’ he said after a long silence. He managed a wry smile. ‘One worthy of a romance perhaps.’ Another spasm of coughing shook his frame. ‘I’ve been so happy with you, Nel,’ he said when at last he could speak again.
She blinked back her tears. ‘And I with you, my darling.’ She took his hands in hers and kissed each in turn. His skin had the dryness of dead leaves.
