Suddenly he was near the cliffs, the pounding surf on the rocks below, as he sat listening to Zakry shout, ‘Sir! You will listen to me!’
But Bernarr could hear nothing over the pounding of the waves on the rocks, and while Zakry’s lips moved, Bernarr could not make out the meaning of his words. Bernarr pulled up, waved his boar-spear in rage, and Zakry’s horse shied, and suddenly Bernarr sat alone on his horse.
A ride, and suddenly he was back in the castle, his guests dismounting as a chirurgeon hurried forward, glad tidings on his lips. He was to be a father!
Then he was at Elaine’s side, and she wept, her shoulders shaking and he couldn’t remember why. Was it the news of Zakry’s disappearance? Or tears of joy?
Then he saw carriages as her friends from Rillanon left, eager to depart by ship before the winter storms prevented them.
Now the old man lay still, the only motion the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the movement of his eyes behind the closed lids.
For a brief moment, he remembered peace. He remembered the quiet joy he felt in anticipating fatherhood. Elaine was quiet in her confinement, saying little to him or the maids who attended her. Occasionally a woman of the barony, a squire’s wife or the wife of one of the more prominent merchants, would visit and she would brighten for a bit in the company of another woman while sipping tea or strolling through the gardens, but mostly she seemed sad in a way he didn’t understand.
Then came the night Elaine went into labour. A storm had sprung up out of the sea: hills and walls of purple-black cloud piled along the western horizon, flickering with lightning but touched gold by the sun as it set behind them. The surge came before the storm, mountain-high waves that set fishermen dragging their craft higher and lashing them to trees and boulders, and to praying as the thrust of air came shrieking about their thatch. When the rain followed it came nearly level, blown before the monster winds.
Whips of rain lashed the manor too, and lightning forked the sky while thunder rattled the windows. Bernarr had bribed the midwife to stay at the manse the last two weeks and given the dreadful weather was glad he’d done so.
The storm blew in a traveller and his servants who begged shelter, which Bernarr granted gladly—hospitality brought luck, and at this moment he wanted his full share. The house was so still these days he welcomed the company and was delighted to discover that his guest was a scholar who cared far more for the books in his coach than for either his horses, his servants or himself.
‘Lyman,’ the old man said in his sleep, his lips barely speaking the name.
Bernarr could not see the man’s face. He stood in shadows and no matter how hard Bernarr tried, the memory of the man’s face eluded him. In his fever-dream, the old man remembered, he had shared wine with this man, he had seen him in daylight, yet at this moment, reliving this terrible night, he could not see the man’s face in the shadow.
Then the scream came, and he could hear Lyman’s voice, as if coming to him from a great distance, carried by the storm, ‘You should go to her, my lord.’
Bernarr rushed from the room even as another cry rent the air, terror lending wings to his feet. Yet as he hurried, his feet refused to carry him. The hall was impossibly long and each step was a struggle. He felt as if his body was encased in armour, lead boots clasped around his feet, and terror rose up within as he fought to reach his chambers. Then he was at Elaine’s door in moments, throwing it open—
The midwife stood there, her face at once showing joy and fear. The baby was coming, but Elaine was in distress.
‘You have a son, my lady!’ the midwife said a moment later. She handed the babe to one of the maids and that one rushed the child over to another who tended a bath.
In his dream Bernarr stood unable to move, and then he watched himself approach the bed, stand at its foot and stare in horror at Elaine. Bernarr saw himself look down at his pale, lovely wife, her face drenched in perspiration, her dark hair plastered to her head. Her night clothing was hitched up over her stomach, and everywhere below he could see blood.
Elaine’s eyes sought his, and in them was a silent pleading, and suddenly there was a presence at his side.
‘My lord,’ said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Bernarr saw himself turn to stare at his guest. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Lyman.
‘There may be something I can do.’
Then came a rush of images. Lyman raised his hands and the room plunged into darkness.
The midwife tried to hand him his son, but one look at the child and Bernarr shouted, ‘Get rid of it! I never want to see it again.’
Suddenly a monk was in the room, a healing priest from the order of Dala, and then he was accompanied by the chirurgeon. Then he heard the monk’s voice. ‘I am sorry, my lord. She is moments from death, there is nothing I can do.’