Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [276]
He did not want to see that again; or the little kid slippers fallen aside, or the fragile clothes laid on the coffer, with the glint of stiff silver tissue beneath them. The signs, not of a molestation, but of a reckoning formally appointed and now paid to the limit. A tribute to Janus, God of Gates, to prevent that other, deferred payment to Charon.
It was necessary, in any case, to go on. He did, finally, light a candle in order to pass from room to room along the passage. They were all empty. In the silence his own fitful breathing entered his awareness. It was not how he wanted to sound, but if he could hold everything else under his control, that did not matter. He walked downstairs, and through the dark empty chambers and passages, and at last, pushed open the door of the kitchen.
Inside it was warm. The great fire, sunk in its embers, still burned rosily on the glimmering brass and latten and copper: on the golden scrubbed wood of Madame Roset’s racks and aumbries and table.
Before the fire, barefoot in her torn shift, Philippa lay, her hair spilled on the tiles, her fingers loose, her face invisible. And protected by her outflung arms were two scrolls of yellowed paper.
She was breathing. He knelt where his shadow did not fall on her, and laid two fingers on her wrist. Her pulse was fast and shallow: she was, he thought deeply unconscious. So it must all be done now, and quickly.
It was done then, in a ceaseless flow of quiet movement: the fire made up and water set heating; the shutters closed and the room set in order. He brought a mattress with towels laid upon it and eased it beneath her, touching her as little as possible. Then he drew the ruined shift from her bare body and bathed her, helpless as a young bird, with warm water.
There was room in him for no living trace of desire. He dried her skin and slipped over her hands the sleeves of his own warm lawn shirt. The towels he spread in front of the fire, and in their place on the mattress he laid his borrowed cloak, drawing her within its folds. Lastly, with his small comb he patiently stroked the damp tangle of her brown hair until it lay as it should, a shining scarf over her shoulders. Towards the end she stirred and he moved back at once, and waited. She opened her eyes.
She opened them on his face, at first only half conscious. Then memory came; and awareness. She lay without moving, looking at him; and he received the look where he knelt, without speaking.
Time ceased. At some station within the long, uncounted interval he rose, and bringing a pan poured out some warm milk and gave it to her. He watched her as she drank it, leaning slowly on one elbow and at the end received the cup from her and let her rest, her lids closed, while he remained without moving beside her. From time to time, when she opened her eyes, their gaze blended and held, lightless and still; the surface of the place, fathoms below, of their communication.
He had put a powder of his own in the milk. Perhaps she knew it. At least she sank into sleep without resistance: when he was sure she did not need him he rose and washed the pan and the cup she had used; put away the dried towels; made up the fire and then, taking a candle, went upstairs to the bedroom where Bailey lay.
Let every godly man close the mouth of his stomach, lest he be disturbed.
That night he ruled every organ of his body. He opened the door on the rankness within and set his hand to what had to be done. He cleansed and clothed the thick and stiffening body, restoring the room and replacing foul sheets with fresh ones. He removed every trace of Philippa’s presence from the dark bedroom; brought down and burned the stained cloth and salvaged the clothes she could still wear, laying them by her side