“The floor above the nursery, m’lady.”
Skye’s first instinct was to rail at Geoffrey. How dare he keep Johnny’s illness from her? Why had he not awakened her? Then she realized he had tried to spare her for a few brief hours so she might regain some strength. She sped down the corridors of the castle, climbing the stairs to the wing above the nursery floor, and pushed into the room.
“No!” she cried.
Geoffrey sat stunned, tears running down his face, the limp body of baby John in his lap. He looked up, his eyes mirroring such acute pain that she could not tell if her grief was for him or for the son they had just lost.
“I did everything you did,” he wept helplessly. “He couldn’t breathe, Skye! He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and I couldn’t help him. His eyes, Skye! His blue eyes … so like yours … pleading for help, and I couldn’t! I couldn’t do anything.”
She fell to her knees to gaze upon the body of her youngest child. He had looked so like her, with his fair skin, sapphire eyes, and dark hair. He had been Geoffrey’s favorite, not Robin his heir, but Johnny, her elfin child, everyone’s favorite, who was more of Ireland than of England. A muffled sound in the doorway caught her attention, and she raised her head to see Daisy, a fist stuffed in her tear-streaked face. Johnny had been her favorite too.
Feeling very old, she pulled herself up and, taking the limp body from Geoffrey’s lap, gave the child to Daisy. “See to it, lass. I must comfort my lord.”
Daisy fled from the room, holding the little boy close to her chest. Her weeping was quite loud now. Skye put an arm about her husband. “Come, my love. Come with me,” she begged him. He rose to his feet and, stumbling along by her side, allowed himself to be led downstairs to their apartments. “Hot wine!” she ordered her husband’s body servant, and when it was brought she added herbs to it and helped him drink. Mistress and servant undressed their lord and got him into a silk nightshirt. Skye nervously noted that Geoffrey was warmer than he ought to be. Tucking him into bed, she asked, “Do you feel all right, my darling?”
“Tired. So very tired,” he muttered. Then, “Too hot,” and he threw back the coverlet.
Skye put her hand on his forehead. It was burning. His fever was spiraling quickly. “Get me a bucket of cold water and some clean cloths,” she ordered Will, the manservant. The Earl coughed, a sharp, barking sound, and fear gripped Skye. “No!” she whispered. “Dear Holy Mother,please, please no!”
Will returned with water drawn from the deepest well on the lands. It was so icy that it burned Skye’s hands when she dipped a cloth into it. The Earl winced when the cloth touched his skin. “I must get your fever down, my love,” she apologized, but he did not hear her, for he was lost in delirium. In the hours that followed they kept him well wrapped in bedclothes while his forehead was bathed constantly. Both the sheets and the Earl’s nightshirt were changed three times, the used linen all burned to prevent the spread of infection.
Then suddenly Daisy appeared. “I’ve brought you a tray. It’s in the anteroom.”
Hollow-eyed, Skye looked up at her servant and then glanced away distractedly. “I couldn’t eat.”
“My lady, it will not do my lord any good if you fall ill, too. The children need you also, for they are badly frightened by their little brother’s death. Now the Earl is ill, and that will be hard on the little ones.”
I am frightened too!Skye wanted to shout. But she nodded wearily, glad for Daisy’s firmness, and went into the anteroom. The tray had been lovingly prepared with a silver dish of small scallops broiled in sweet butter and herbs, ham, a little bowl of new lettuce and young scallions, a bread pudding, an iced cake, and a carafe of wine. Skye ate mechanically, not tasting any of it, simply chewing and swallowing until the dishes were empty. Rising quickly, she went back into the sickroom to find that the Earl’s fever had broken. He was shivering violently and Daisy was piling more coverlets on his bed.
“Hot bricks,” commanded Skye, and Will rushed to obey.
Geoffrey began to cough violently and gasp for air. Skye forced his mouth open and peered in. The Earl’s throat was covered with dirty white patches, and a grayish membrane was forming that constricted his breathing.
“Keep his jaws open,” said Daisy to her mistress. And with one quick motion, the girl reached down and hooked the membrane out of Geoffrey’s throat. She threw it in the fire. The Earl was nowable to breathe. “If we can keep that scum from cutting off his air then we can save him, m’lady. If it hardens he will die,” she said straightforwardly.
“No!” Skye shook her head grimly. “I will not lose him!”
Together they began the tedious process of laying on hot camphor cloths. Several more times Daisy pulled an ugly mucous membrane from her master’s throat, easing his breathing. The hours crept by until one full day had passed and it was night again. The fever came again and went again. He was having more difficulty breathing as the membranes formed much more quickly now and were becoming more difficult to get out. His color was pasty and his chest labored harder with each harsh breath. Skye could feel panic beginning to creep upward from deep within herself. They could not seem to conquer the disease, only to slow it down.
Suddenly Geoffrey Southwood opened his lime-green eyes. “Skye!” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed that terrible barking cough.
“I am here, my darling.” She bent anxiously over him.
His marvelous eyes roamed slowly and lovingly over her face as if committing it to memory. “Take care of the children, Skye.”
“Geoffrey, my love, you must not say things like that!” Her voice was edged in hysteria.
He smiled a gentle smile at her and, reaching up, touched her cheek with his elegant hand, as though bestowing a benediction. “What a joy you’ve been to me, my darling,” he whispered, and then he gave a deep sigh and died.
The room was silent. Neither Daisy nor the manservant dared to move.
“Geoffrey! Please don’t frighten me so,” Skye begged. “You’re going to get well, my love! You will! And we’ll go to Ireland this summer as we planned, to see my family and so that Ewan may formally pledge his fealty to the MacWilliam.” She went on talking to him of family things and plans they had made.
Finally Daisy gently put an arm about Skye. “He is dead, my lady.” She began to sob. “The Earl is dead, and you must face it now. The children must be told and the funerals for wee Johnny and his father must be planned.”
To Daisy’s immediate relief, Skye burst into wild sobbing and flung herself across her husband’s body. “Not gone!” she wailed. “No! No! No! Not dead! Not dead!”
Her cries could be heard throughout Lynmouth Castle, and the cry was quickly taken up by others. Daisy and Will pulled Skyefrom her husband’s form. She fought them like a madwoman, but finally their combined strengths prevailed and they were able to get her to her own bed. She collapsed there, sobbing.
