Page 53 of Claiming the Tower
“Please, yes. Do you know them both, then? I’ve only ever had much to do with the Wallaces, and not the parents. One of the brothers.”
Bess settled in to figuring how to lay out the family interconnections in the most helpful way possible. It was just the kind of problem she liked to get her teeth into, actually. And doing it here, cosy and quiet with Hereswith, that was even better. Her help here would make Hereswith’s work easier, and in turn that would solve a problem in the larger world. It was the opposite of the horseshoe nail that lost the war. More like the cup of chocolate that kept the peace.
Chapter 35
October 28th at Verdant Court
“Bess?” Hereswith came up the stairs, pulling her gloves and cloak off as she came. Bess couldn’t possibly have heard her, but she was coming out of Papa’s bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Is—” Her voice trailed off.
“He’s poorly, very poorly. The Healer would like a word in a moment. He’s said he can stay as long as— well.” Bess put her hand on Hereswith’s arm. “I was reading to your father. He’s still responding, but—.” It was obvious Healer Oglethorpe didn’t think it would be long, not if he was planning to stay.
“Oh.” Hereswith took a step or two back, sinking into one of the chairs in the hall. “I. What do I do?” She looked up at Bess, then shook her head. “That’s not a fair question.”
“You take a breath. You let me take your gloves and hat and cloak up. And then you go in there, and you talk to your father, and you take the time you have. Healer Oglethorpe’s given him something. He’s not in pain. Just, just come to an end. I will bring you a little food and something to drink. And I sent messages to your brothers, but I have heard nothing back from them.”
Hereswith rubbed the bridge of her nose. She’d been at a gathering in Trellech, but of course Bess had known exactly where she was. And if Hereswith had left precipitously from the parlour, well, her hosts would understand in this case. She couldn’t begin to think where her brothers might be if they weren’t at home.
It wasn’t the Trellech Season, nor the London one, of course. Off in the country for the game, possibly. It was Saturday night, after all. And it was not as if they’d told her where they’d be. She took a breath and let it out, trying to will the panic away. That didn’t work.
“Let me go wash my face. Food of some kind, yes, when there’s a chance. Tea. Could you make sure Healer Oglethorpe has somewhere comfortable to be, the library, most likely, unless he prefers the sitting room?” The library was closer.
“Of course. I’ve already set up some space in the library. Go wash.” Bess patted her on the hand, took the hat and cloak and gloves off with her, and left Hereswith to do that.
Ten minutes upstairs did not put everything to rights— nothing was going to do that, not today. But she was cleaner. She’d changed her gown to something more comfortable, the dark green Papa loved on her, and loosened her corset a bit to suit. She felt she could at least keep some semblance of her composure for a little while. Or rather, no, she wouldn’t, but she could start well.
As she came down the stairs, Bess was coming up with a tray. She murmured that she’d ask Healer Oglethorpe to step out and sit while they talked. Hereswith moved to the library and one of the chairs there, avoiding anywhere near her father’s desk. It was fortunately a spacious sort of library, but she could feel the desk sitting there, like a monument. A moment later, Healer Oglethorpe came in. He was in his sixties, and he’d been seeing to Papa for twenty-five years now. “Council Member Rowan.” He offered a slight bow.
“None of that, please. You’ve called me Hereswith for years.” Her voice caught, then she said, “What do I need to know?”
He was both concise and thorough, admirably so. It was likely her father would make the effort to talk, but that sometime in the next few hours, perhaps as long as dawn, he’d slip away. Someone should summon him immediately if there were any sign of pain or discomfort, but there might not be. Hereswith listened, as attentively as she’d listened in the Council Keep during the Challenge, then asked, “Is there anything we could have done differently?”
“Ach, no.” A bit of his northern accent came through. “This is a kinder way than might be, too. He’s fading, his body is done. No great crisis, just a clock running down finally.”
The image would stay with her for a long time, she was sure. Then she nodded once. “Please ask the staff for anything you need. Bess said she’d tried to reach my brothers. I hope you can— if they, when they appear, can be a help with that? I don’t expect they’ll take things well.”
“I have some experience with that. And your Mistress Marley has been a great help, and your father clearly finds her company soothing. Leave matters in her hands, other than what you wish to do yourself, and you will be well tended.”
Hereswith felt her mouth quirk up at the corner, not quite a smile. “That I will,” she agreed. “I’ll go sit with Papa for however long there is.”
When she eased herself into Papa’s bedroom, she found him lying back on pillows, leaning, not fully upright. The blankets were tucked up around him. The fire was keeping everything warm, a little too much so for her comfort, and various small items were on the bedside table. Bess had been sitting in a chair by the bed, holding his hand, but now she patted it. “Hereswith’s here. I’ll leave you with her. Sandwiches and tea there.” She indicated the tray, which Hereswith hadn’t managed to spot, and then withdrew, almost silently.
“Papa.” Hereswith came and sat, automatically making sure she’d be comfortable for a good while. He blinked at her, and she slipped one hand under his, one over. He felt frail, transient, like a blowing leaf, and it put her to mind of one of the texts he’d often lingered with, the imagery of the Anglo-Saxon poem “The Phoenix”. Parts of it had more of Christianity than either of them tended to. But others were full of the imagery of birth and glory and bright colours, turned to age and then again to rebirth.
She could hold on to the hope of that, a split hope. That everything that had gone before mattered. It would always matter, and would not fade. And that perhaps, there was a future for the spirit in some form. The land she now tended grew and changed and had its seasons. Perhaps people did too. “What would you like, Papa?” She asked it carefully.
“Talk to me. Your day. As we do.” The sentences were short. She could hear him needing a breath between them, but she could do that. She had the habit of it, after all. Of sharing what had mattered to her with him, who mattered to her. Now her, too, with Bess, but that was for a later time to think about.
Hereswith began with the ordinary parts of the day, what she’d been studying and learning from the long list her colleagues on the Council had suggested. Time in the Keep library, to continue piecing together the maps she needed in her head. Of the party she’d been at, the mix of people trying to get her measure and the ones who thought they already had it, but had it wrong. And then Bess’s message. “There. That is my day to now.”
“A full one.” Papa’s voice was soft, and she thought he might not say more. He made the effort, each word as distinct as he could manage. “I am proud of you. Always a surprise. Know I love you. Past, now, future.” Then his eyes closed as he lay back further. “Read to me?”
Hereswith nodded, then murmured, “Of course, Papa.” She felt she had to say something. “I’ve always known you would be there. And this year, knowing you were.” She could face the world, knowing she had a solid rock to leap from. She felt him squeeze her hand, and then she rummaged for the book on the side table.
There were two, but the bottom one was a collection of Anglo-Saxon poetry. She fumbled with it for a moment, to get to the right page with one hand, not letting his go, and then she began to read. She was not gifted at this, but she had learned the language from Papa, from the time she was small, and she would not fail now.
Somewhere in the middle, his breathing grew quieter. It was still there, that and the faint, too small rise of his chest. She read through to the end, and he didn’t wake or move. From there, she just sat, talking quietly to him of memories. Of Mama, of him and Mama, of navigating those dark seas after Mama’s death together. He had not had words for it, but he’d given her words from other people, lighthouses in an ocean of grief and storm and fragility. Hereswith talked of happier things, too, of the house and the gardens, of books he’d shared, of tricks of magic she’d learned from him.
It was well into the night when something changed. She did not want to move, but she knew. There was a little sound from him, muted, but a last shiver of life. With her free hand, she reached for the charm token to summon the Healer. Hereswith heard the door behind her open, and then the Healer was on the other side of the bed. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “Hereswith.”
