The Black Rood (5 page)

That night, Rhona and I clung to one another in our bed, exulting in our loving, and celebrating the life running strong in us.

Next day, the mundane chores of the settlement resumed. The awaited ship arrived with its cargo of cut stone, and we began the sweaty task of unloading the ship and dragging
the heavy blocks up to the site of the new church. Murdo put as many men to the chore as could be spared from other duties, but it was hard labor still. By day's end we were well exhausted each and every one, and Torf's death and funeral were of no more account than the ripple of a pebble tossed into the sea.

As the weeks passed, however, I found myself thinking about some small thing or other Torf had told me about the Holy Land. Once, I asked Murdo for farther explanation, but he just told me that whatever Torf had said was best forgotten. “The ramblings of a sick man,” he declared flatly. “He is dead and that is that. I will not speak of it again.”

Of course, this only served to increase my appetite the more. All through the rest of the summer and the harvest season, I fairly itched for some word of the Great Pilgrimage and its many battles, but little enough came my way. No one on the estate or any of the other settlements had taken the cross, or made the journey—save Abbot Emlyn and Murdo. When I asked the good abbot what happened in the Holy Land to make my father so close-mouthed on the subject, he replied, “One day, perhaps, he will feel like talking about it. No doubt it is for the best.”

Toward the end of harvest that year, Rhona told me that our child-making efforts had borne fruit also: we were to have a baby in the spring. I remember, Cait, looking at you when my lovely lady wife told me the glad news. You were sitting by the hearth stirring a bowl of water with a wooden spoon which your mother had given you so you could cook with her.

“Did you hear, little one?” I shouted. “You are to have a brother!”

Oh, I was so certain the child would be a boy, and I would have a son at last. We dreamed this happy dream all through the long, cold winter. As Rhona's belly swelled, she often remarked she had never carried a child so large and heavy—a sure sign that a man-child would be born in the spring.

At winter's end, we awaited the appointed time eagerly. One morning, we awakened to the sound of the snow melting from the roof into puddles below the deep, overhanging
eaves. I felt Rhona stir beside me and turned to find her watching me. “Did you sleep well, my heart?” I asked.

“How am I to sleep?” she replied. “This son of yours gives me no rest at all. He kicks and squirms the whole night through.”

Placing a hand to the bulging dome of her round stomach, I said, “It is only because he is eager to come out and meet his family.”

“It is because he is his stubborn father's son,” she replied sweetly, stroking my hair with her fingertips.

Little Cait awakened and scampered into bed with us. She snuggled down between us and proceeded to wave her feet in the air while singing a song about a fish. It was a fine and happy moment with my best beloved and I reveled in it. Looking back now, I cherish it all the more—knowing the dark, unendurable days which lay ahead.

T
HE BIRTH PANGS
came on her early the next morning, but Rhona continued with her ordinary chores until midday when the pains grew severe. I ran to alert my lady mother, who came with one of the older women of the settlement who often served as midwife, and one of her serving-maids to help. They took matters in hand, and Ragna sent me off to the church to help Murdo with the building, promising to fetch me as soon as the birth drew near.

I was still there when Ingrid, the serving-maid, came running a short while later. “Lord Duncan, you must hurry.”

“What,” I said, climbing down from the scaffolding, “is my son born already?”

“My lady said you were to come as fast as you can,” she replied, wringing her hands in her apron.

I took her by the shoulders to steady her. “Tell me what has happened.”

“It is your lady wife,” she said. “Oh, please, come now. Hurry.”

My father heard the commotion below and called down to know what was happening. I explained quickly, and he sent me off, saying he would find Abbot Emlyn and follow as soon as he could.

I raced down the hill to the dún, through the gate, into the yard, and to our house. There were several women standing outside the door; I pushed through them and went in. Ragna
met me at the bedside, her face grave and sad. “There is not much time, my son,” she said softly, taking my hand. “She wanted to see you.”

I heard the words but could make no sense of what she was saying. “What is wrong, Mother?”

“The birth has torn something inside Rhona,” she replied gently. “She will not live.”

“B-But—,” I stammered. “But she will be well. And the child—we were going to—”

“There will be time to speak later,” she said, leading me toward the bed. “Pluck up your courage, my son, and go to your wife.”

I stepped to the side of the bed and Rhona, her face gray-white with the pallor of death, opened her eyes and smiled weakly. I stared in disbelief. Only a short while ago that same lovely face had been glowing with love and life. How was it possible that such a change could occur so swiftly?

She lifted a finger and motioned me closer. I bent to place my ear near her lips. “So sorry…my soul,” she said, her voice the merest breath of a whisper. “I tried to get a son for you…”

“Shh,” I whispered, trying to soothe. “Rest now. We will talk about it later.”

“I love you,” she said, her lips barely moving. “Kiss me.”

I pressed my lips to hers—they were dry as husks, and cold.

“Farewell, my heart…,” she sighed.

A tremor passed through her body. I took her hand and clasped it tight. Her breath went out in a long, slow exhalation, and she lay still.

“Farewell,” I said, my throat closing on the word as the tears came. I raised her hand to my lips and held it there. Then I took her in my arms for the last time. I bent my head and put my face next to hers, and held her close—until I felt my mother's hands on my shoulders, drawing me gently away. I allowed myself to be gathered into my mother's embrace, and we stood for a time, motionless, while she spoke words of comfort and courage to me.

Abbot Emlyn and my father arrived then. The abbot
stepped into the room, and discerned instantly what had happened. His round shoulders slumped and his cheerful face dissolved in misery. Murdo rushed to the bedside as if he would command the life back into Rhona's dear body; only when he beheld the stark white skin and her empty upward gaze was he persuaded that there was nothing to be done. He turned to Ragna and me, put his arm on my shoulder.

“Duncan, my son,” he said, drawing me close. “I am so sorry.”

We three stood there together for a time, our tears flowing freely. Abbot Emlyn stepped forward and began the rites for the dead. Stretching his hands over the still-warm body, he began chanting—not in Latin, or Greek, but in the ancient and honorable tongue of the Celts—asking the Swift Sure Hand to enfold the soul of my best beloved, and guide her swiftly to her eternal home. Then he folded Rhona's hands over her breast, straightened her limbs, and told the serving-women to find Rhona's finest clothes.

To me, he said, “God has called his faithful daughter to join him in paradise. Tonight we will sing a lament for the empty place she leaves behind. Tomorrow we will celebrate her life and rejoice in her receiving her justly earned reward. Look your last upon her, dear friend, and I will return in a little while to take the body away and prepare it for burial.”

I looked at him in dismay. So soon? I thought. Why does it have to be so soon? But I said nothing, merely nodding my assent instead.

Emlyn left, and I turned once more to the bed. Already she seemed more at ease; the pinched tightness of her features had relaxed, and she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. For a fleeting instant my heart leapt up with joy. I felt like shouting, “See! It has all been a dreadful mistake! She lives! Rhona is with us still.”

But no. Released from the pains of death, her body was taking on something of its natural calm. Stooping over her, I brushed the damp strands of hair from her face and kissed her forehead. “Go with God, my soul,” I said, straightening. It was then that I saw the small still form beside her; wrapped in swaddling clothes, looking like little more than a
lump in the bed, was the tiny body of my son. Dark-haired, his small face clenched like a fist against a world he would never know, he lay beside his mother.

I beheld the body, and felt my own dear mother beside me. “The little one did not draw breath,” she told me. “There was nothing to be done.”

I nodded, and rested my hand on his still chest—my hand almost covered his whole body. “God bless you, my son. May we meet one day in Blessed Jesu's court.”

We waited with the bodies until the monks came to take them away to the monastery. I could not bring myself to accompany them, nor take part in the preparations. Instead, I went down to the sea and walked along the beach until nightfall, and Emlyn sent Brother Padraig to fetch me back to the hall. “There is food and drink prepared,” he told me, “and everyone is waiting.”

“No,” I replied harshly. “Go back and tell them to eat without me.”

“Master Duncan,” he said gently, so mild and compassionate in his reproof I had not the heart to refuse him again, and so allowed myself to be led back to the hall. Upon entering, I glanced around quickly and Niniane was the first person I happened to see. She stepped swiftly toward me and folded me into her arms. “Dear, dear, Duncan,” she sighed. “I am so sorry…so very sorry.”

I allowed myself to be consoled for a moment, and then asked, “How is it you are here?”

“I was on my way to the abbey. I arrived in time to help prepare the—her body.”

Lost in my grief, I had not been aware of the comings or goings around me. “Is Eirik with you?”

She shook her head. “There was some trouble in Inbhir Ness. The son of a visiting nobleman accidentally killed a local chieftain's son. The clan has sworn a blood oath and the unlucky boy has taken sanctuary at the monastery. Eirik thought it best to stay on until matters were resolved.”

Niniane regarded me sadly. “Rhona was a good friend to me, and I will try to be as good a friend to you. I will help in any way I can.”

I thanked her kindly, and escorted her to the table where the food was being served. They had saved a place for me at the board beside my mother, who was holding little Cait in her lap. You, dear heart, unaware of the somber proceedings, held out your hands to me, and wanted me to play with you. But I could not. I merely sat and gazed glumly at your happy little face, deaf to your childish pleadings.

All I could think was that I would gladly change places with my poor dead wife. It was my fault, after all. If I had not been so insistent on having a son, my beloved Rhona would still be alive. I would be sitting next to her; it would be her face, her bright eyes, I was gazing into now; it would be Rhona's hand reaching to take mine.

There was singing that night, but I remember almost nothing of it. Emlyn sang a lament, as I recall, and some of the women of the settlement likewise sang, and Padraig played the harp. But my mind, like my heart, was with my beloved lying cold and alone on her bier in the church, and I drew no consolation from the kindly expressions of those around me.

A more wretched man there never was than myself, that night. When at last everyone departed for their beds, I left the hall, too; I thrashed around in my empty bed for a time, and at last, unable to rest, I rose and walked the clifftops above the dark, restless sea until morning.

Following the death service in the old wooden church, we buried Rhona in the new churchyard. She would have approved of her final resting place, I think, as there was a plum thicket growing nearby, and she was always fond of plums. I was the last to leave the yard. I knelt a long time by that mound of stones gathered from the beach, wondering how I could go on living when my light, my life, lay under that heap of earth and rock.

The next days brought no solace. I went about my various chores with dull efficiency, a man bereft of all hope and life, seeing no good thing, hearing no kindly word, taking joy in nothing around me. At night, I roamed the clifftops.

My wretched condition persisted until I could bear it no more. One night, with the moon shining full in the yard, I rose and went out. My feet found the familiar path leading
down to the shore. Heartsick, weary with grief, I walked down onto the beach, and out into the sea.

God help me, I could endure the gnawing ache no longer. I felt the cold water surge around my knees, but I kept walking. If I had any thought at all it was that the pain would soon be over and I would be with my beloved forever.

I felt the water rising around me—to my thighs, and then my waist—yet still I walked on, and would have gone on walking. But, as the black water swirled around my chest, I heard a voice call out to me from the shore: “Duncan, wait!”

I recognized the voice; it was Padraig.

Not to be dissuaded, I paid no heed to the call, but struggled ahead in all determination. In a moment, I heard the splash of footsteps in the water as Padraig pursued me. Not wishing to be caught, or dissuaded from the course before me, I made no answer and pushed deeper into the water.

“Duncan!” he shouted. “Here, Duncan, I have something for you!”

Ignoring him, I continued on. The water was up to my throat, and the swell of the waves tugged at me, raising me off my feet. He shouted after me again, and then I heard another voice—a child's voice, frightened, crying. Casting a backward glance over my shoulder, I saw him striding after me, holding Caitríona in his arms. So unexpected was the sight of her, I stopped and turned around.

“What do you mean by this?” I shouted. “Get her away from here.”

He waded nearer and, dearest Cait, your tiny face was twisted in fear and your hands were reaching out to me to help you, to save you—from the water, and the night, and the strangeness of what was happening.

“Come now,” Padraig called. “Would you leave without saying farewell to your daughter? Better still, why not take her with you?” Stretching his arms, he held the child out to me.

“Take her back to shore, you fool!” I shouted angrily.

He merely shook his head.

I glared at him. “Have you gone mad?”

“Here,” he said, holding her out to me again. Cait began to
shriek as the cold water splashed around her legs. “Take her now and make an end of it. It will be a kindness.”

“You
are
mad,” I growled.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “Still, it would be better, I think, to have died in the arms of your loving father than to lose both parents before you are old enough to remember either of them. As you mean to end your life, so be it. You might as well end her life, too.”

Enraged, I strode forward and snatched the dear babe from his arms. “Stupid priest! You know nothing about children.”

“True,” he agreed placidly. “But I know this water is freezing and night is far gone, and I miss my warm bed. Could we go back now, do you think?”

Cradling my squalling child in my arms, I started toward the shore. We walked back to the dún in silence; Cait had ceased crying by the time we reached the house. Padraig bade me farewell and I went in, wrapped my darling girl in one of her mother's warm mantles and put her in her bed. I sat with her until she was asleep. I slept as well and woke the next morning when I heard voices outside. Thinking Padraig must have told someone what had taken place in the night, I grew embarrassed, and went outside to face the stares of disapproval and reproach. But it was just some women from the settlement coming to bring me and little Caitríona some food. They gave me the baskets and departed, saying how they would be glad to help look after the bairn whenever I needed them.

The women went their way then, but all day long I kept thinking someone would mention the previous night's incident. No one did.

After vespers that evening, I saw Padraig leaving the chapel and went to thank him for not breathing a word to anyone about my shameful behavior of the night before. He looked at me curiously. “Behavior? What shameful behavior could that be?” he said.

“You know,” I muttered, irritated that he would make me speak it out so bluntly. “I went walking down by the sea.”

“How very strange,” he said mildly, his face betraying no
hint of guile. “I too went walking in my sleep last night. Now, try as I might, I can remember very little about it.” Leaning close, he said, “Between ourselves, I would consider it a kindness if you would not tell the abbot. We are not supposed to leave the monastery after prayers.”

“Well,” I told him, “you can trust me to keep your secret. Only see that it does not happen again.”

“Oh, I have repented of it a hundred times already.” He gave me a look of shrewd appraisal. “I do not think I will have occasion to sleepwalk again.”