Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [223]
Viviane thanked the man, trying not to sound as grateful as she felt. She could not betray weakness before her escort.
Gawan met her in the narrow barnyard as she was dismounting from her donkey, steadying her so that she did not step into the midden. “Welcome, Lady,” he said, “as always, it is my pleasure to see you. My son Balin and your son will be here with the morrow—I sent to Caerleon that they might be here.”
“Is it as grave as that, old friend?” Viviane asked, and Gawan nodded. He said, “You will scarcely know her, Lady. She is fallen away to nothing now, and if she eats or drinks ever so little, she says it is as if a fire were lighted in her vitals. It cannot be much longer now, for all your medicines.”
Viviane nodded and sighed. “I feared as much,” she said. “When this illness once has hold on anyone, it never lets loose its claw. Perhaps I can give her some ease.”
“God grant it,” said Gawan, “for the medicines you left us when you were last here do little now. She wakes and cries in the night like a little child, when she thinks the serving-women and I do not hear. I have not even the heart to pray that she shall be spared to us for any more suffering, Lady.”
Viviane sighed again. When last she had come this way, half a year ago, she had left her strongest drugs and medicines, and she had half wished that Priscilla might take a fever in the autumn and die quickly, before the medicines lost their effect. There was little more that she could do. She let Gawan lead her into the house, seat her before the fire, and the serving-woman dished her up a hot bowl of soup from a kettle near the fire.
“You have been riding long in the rain, Lady,” he said. “Sit and rest, and you shall see my wife after the evening meal—sometimes she sleeps a little at this time of day.”
“If she can rest even a little, it is blessed, and I shall not disturb her,” Viviane said, folding her chilled hands around the soup bowl, and letting herself slump down on the backless bench. One of the serving-women drew off her boots and cloak, another came with a warmed towel to dry her feet, and Viviane, turning her skirts back so that her bony knees felt the fire, rested for a moment in mindless comfort, forgetting her grim errand. Then a thin wailing cry was heard from an inner room, and the serving-woman started and trembled. She said to Viviane, “It is the mistress, poor thing—she must be awake. I hoped she would sleep till we had set the night meal. I must go to her.”
“I will come too,” said Viviane, and followed the woman to the inner chamber. Gawan was seated by the fire, and she saw the look of dread on his face as that thin cry died away.
Always before, since Priscilla had fallen ill, Viviane had found some trace in the woman of her old buxom prettiness, some resemblance to the jolly young woman who had fostered her son Balan. Now face and lips and faded hair were all the same yellowed grey, and even the blue eyes seemed faded, as if the sickness had leached all the color from the woman. When last she had come, too, Priscilla had been up and about a part of every day; now she could see that this woman had been bedfast for months . . . half a year had made this much change. And always before, Viviane’s medicines and herb potions had given ease and comfort and partial recovery. Now, she knew, it was too late for any further help.
For a moment the faded eyes drifted unfocused around the room, the lips moving faintly over the fallen-in jaw. Then Priscilla saw Viviane, blinked a little, and said in a whisper, “Is it you, Lady?”
Viviane went to her side and carefully took her withered hand. She said, “I am sorry to see you so ill. How is it with you, my dear friend?”
The faded, cracked lips drew back in a grimace which Viviane, for a moment, thought to be a movement of pain; then she realized it was meant for a smile. “I hardly know how it could be more ill,” she whispered. “I think God and his Mother have forgotten me. Yet I am glad