The Devil’s Diadem by Sara Douglass

When Owain returned, I asked him if Stephen was truly buried under the heartstone.

‘Full six feet,’ he said. ‘We dug deep into the clay and shale beneath the chapel.’

I shifted uncomfortably on my bed. ‘You managed to unearth the heartstone?’

‘Yes, why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know, Owain. I just thought …’ It troubled me somehow, that the sacred stone had been disturbed and dug about.

‘He is safe now, Maeb. Don’t worry about him.’

They were an unusual choice of words, but at the time I did not push Owain, or think too much on what he had said. I was tired and ill, and in much pain. Owain left a strong analgesic draught with Evelyn, patted me on the shoulder, and left.

The earl came and went. He slept in the privy chamber (I prayed to God that Owain had taken the babies’ bodies when he had taken Stephen’s) and he passed through the solar as he came and went from the privy chamber, barely sparing me a glance. Mostly, he was busy within the wider community (such as was left of it) of the castle, repairing the damage the plague had wrought.

The castle had needed its earl, very badly. Evelyn told me that from the day he arrived, the plague abated. Of those sick in the chapel, most recovered. Those few who died had been in their final extremity anyway. The survivors, either those who rose from their sick beds or those who had escaped the plague entirely, somehow found meaning and purpose again. Loose horses were caught and restabled. The gates and parapets were once more manned. The fire was struck in the smithy, and the kitchens in the great keep and the outer bailey once more provided food.

We were to live again, it appeared.

I spent much of my time wracked with pain. My joints ached abominably, my muscles refused to work, my abdomen was a mass of tenderness, my brain as loose and unthinking as a bowl of cold gruel. I lay in that bed, doing whatever Evelyn required of me, taking Owain’s draughts as instructed, and spending the rest of my time staring at the ceiling, grieving for Lady Adelie, and Stephen, and Rosamund and John, and Alice and Emmette, and wondering what would become of me.

I tried not to think of the earl’s words: Like you did my son?

Aye. I had murdered his beloved son, and somehow he knew.

He had not spoken to me since that night, but I knew that he would. He waited only on my strength returning, that he might assault me with the full force of his rage.

He had hated me from the first moment he had set eyes on me, and I had justified all that hate in full measure.

I wished all the more that I was dead, that I had remained dead, for I had nothing left to live for.

Time passed. One morning, Evelyn, despite my weak protests, sat me on the side of the bed, washed my body and my hair, then dressed me in a linen shift and my best rust-red kirtle, finally plaiting my damp hair into two braids.

The kirtle hung loose on me, as I had lost a great deal of weight.

‘We will sit you by the fire for the morning,’ she announced. I winced and pleaded to stay in bed, to no avail.

Somehow, with Evelyn’s aid, I stumbled to a chair by the fire and she settled me into it with cushions and wraps. It was midsummer, and a bright day outside, but I was cold and glad enough of the fire and the wraps.

‘I won’t be able to stay long here,’ I said to Evelyn. ‘My joints pain me terribly, and —’

‘You will stay here for the morning,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your bed is tired of you.’

And with that she left me.

I looked longingly toward the bed.

It was out of my reach. I would need to wait for someone to help me back to it.

There were footsteps in the stairwell, and I looked hopefully toward its opening. It was likely one of the servants, bringing more wood, or a fresh pitcher of small beer for my lord’s —

It was the earl.

He stopped instantly. I was easily ignored when I lay in the corner in my bed, but to see me sit by the fire… he would need to pass right by me as he went to his privy chamber, and that would mean some form of acknowledgement.

I do not think, ever before in my life or ever again, I was quite so thoroughly terrified as I was at that moment. We would need to say something each to the other, and, knowing he knew I had murdered Stephen, what on earth could we say if not to parry recrimination and guilt?

A servant suddenly loomed behind the earl, carrying a pitcher of small beer. I closed my eyes momentarily, wondering at my fate that the servant had not arrived earlier and could have helped me to my bed, and the earl could then have ignored me as usual when he strode through to his privy chamber.

The earl turned, took the pitcher from the servant, thanking him, then walked toward me.

I looked down, trembling in my fear.

I heard the rattle as the earl took two pewter cups down from the hearth mantle, then the gurgle of the beer.

I had to look up. He was standing before me, his expression as unreadable as ever, holding out a cup. I took it from him, thanking him in a soft voice.

He sat in a chair a little apart from mine. ‘Tell me about Rosamund and John,’ he said.

I licked my lips, not knowing what I could say, what words I could use. ‘Tell me!’

‘They were suffering, my lord. The fungus had grown over their faces. They could hardly breathe. Stephen —’

‘Ah, so it was just “Stephen” then, eh?’

‘My Lord Stephen did not want them to suffer. He suggested that —’

‘He suggested?’

What did he want to hear? ‘If you want me to take the blame for this, my lord, then I am willing. I do not care. If you would like me to fabricate a tale for you in which I bear all the sin for what happened in this castle, then let me know. Otherwise I will tell you merely what happened.’

‘Then just tell me, mistress, but save me your outrage.’

I told him, in bare, stark words, how Stephen and I had held the pillow over John’s and Rosamund’s faces. ‘It was such a time of horror, my lord. What any of us did, it was only done under the most extreme of circumstances. We will all carry the guilt for the rest of our lives.’

I waited, unsure and fearful of the earl’s reaction.

He looked at me a long moment, then gave a simple nod. ‘Owain told me that he took the life of Emmette so that she did not suffer in fire, and I am glad of it. If Stephen suggested the same for Rosamund and John, then I am glad of that, too. If you assisted, then I thank you for it.’

I could barely believe the words. I had expected angry recrimination, not thanks.

‘And Stephen?’ said the earl. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’

I did, again in as few words as possible. Not to save the earl his grief, but to save mine.

‘At least he did not burn,’ the earl said softly when I was done. ‘My God, if only I had arrived sooner. If only …’

‘What could you have done, my lord?’

‘I could have done something!’ the earl snapped, and I looked down at the cup in my hands, avoiding the anger in his eyes.

‘Did you know that I have received word Ancel and Robert also succumbed?’ the earl continued. ‘Summersete told me they died not three weeks after joining his household.’

The twin boys were dead, too? Sweet Mother Virgin! He had lost his entire family. I raised my eyes, and thought he looked so old and haggard slumped in his chair that I felt more sorry for him than I had ever thought possible.

He drank the last of his beer and poured himself another, offering me more which I refused.

‘Why did you survive, Maeb?’

More guilt knifed through me. All his family had died.

I had not.

‘I don’t know, my lord. Owain says that maybe the plague had lost its force, or —’

‘Owain is a fool if he says that. You took hemlock as well. Both Evelyn and Owain told me this. You were in the final stages of the plague, choking on the fungus, and you took a dose of hemlock that was three times what would kill a strong man. So why did you live?’