It would be rather a relief, he thought, even if he must travel to the wilds of Caledonia, to get back to the regular army again.
Seventeen
As the summer ripened towards Lughnasad it did not seem to Eilan that Lhiannon grew any better. Sometimes the old woman’s heart pained her, and always she was tired. Ardanos came daily, and at first he and the High Priestess would talk, but as the days passed, and her attention drew increasingly inward, he simply sat by her bedside in silence, and when he spoke it was with Caillean, or to himself. After these sessions, Caillean would be silent and pensive, but she had always been one for keeping her own counsel.
Eilan found it strange that as her own body was becoming a vessel of life, Lhiannon should be undergoing a parallel transformation, preparing to release her spirit – but in what world she would be reborn no one could say. Joy at the new life within her muted Eilan’s own sorrow. But in those days the Forest House grew very silent, and all the women went about their tasks with mingled excitement and dread. For no one had yet dared to ask who Lhiannon’s successor was to be.
It was fortunate that everyone was too distracted by Lhiannon’s illness to take much notice of anyone else, but what would Eilan do when her belly could no longer be concealed by her loose robes?
Not for a moment was Eilan allowed to forget that as far as Ardanos was concerned she was under sentence of death; she
fancied that even Dieda regarded her with barely concealed contempt.
Miellyn was still mourning the loss of her own child and could offer no comfort. Only Caillean never changed toward her – but then Caillean had always been a law unto herself; the one thing that sustained Eilan when she grew most afraid was her awareness of the older woman’s love.
She did not know when, if ever, she would see Gaius again; but remembering the kingly spirit she had glimpsed when they lay together, she felt certain they would meet again. She did not want to believe – as the Arch-Druid said – that he had hastily been married off to someone else. Even among the Romans the solemnizing of a marriage must demand more formality and time than that.
A month passed, and Caillean presided over the full moon rituals. Now it was obvious, nurse and care for her as they might, that Lhiannon was dying. Her feet swelled so that she could no longer even stagger to the privy. Caillean nursed her tenderly; no mother ever had a more devoted daughter. But still the fluid filled her body.
Caillean fed her herb brews and spoke of dropsy, and once they went far afield to find the purple flowers of the foxglove, which Caillean said were sovereign for an ailing heart. Eilan cautiously tasted the brew Caillean made of them, and found it bitter as sorrow.
But in spite of all their care, day by day Lhiannon grew weaker and more swollen and pale.
“Caillean—”
For a moment she doubted she had heard it; the call was like a breath drawn by the wind. Then the bed creaked. Wearily, Caillean turned. Lhiannon’s eyes were open. Caillean rubbed the sleep from her own and made herself smile. Illness had consumed the flesh from the older woman’s face so that the good bones showed with a terrible clarity. It is almost over. The unwelcome knowledge came to her. Soon, only the essentials will remain.
“Are you thirsty? Here’s cool water, or I can stir up the fire and give you some tea . . .”
“Something hot . . .would ease me . . .” Lhiannon drew breath. “You are too good to me, Caillean.”
Caillean shook her head. When she was ten years old and halfway to death with the fever, Lhiannon had nursed her back again, more than her mother or father would have done. Her feelings for the older woman went beyond love or hatred. How could you put that into words? If Lhiannon could not sense them in the taste of an infusion or the touch of a cool cloth on her brow, she would never know.