*
Wolfe’s Lair
Dream of angels,my sweet, as they rock you softly to sleep…
Isobeau had been repeating those lyrics in her mind, over and over, a song she had written for the child she no longer carried. No one had to tell her that she was no longer pregnant; she knew.
Half-asleep, she struggled to wake up. The physic had given her something to drink that would make her sleep; whatever it was affected her greatly. Her eyes lids felt as if they weighed as much as a full-grown horse because try as she might, she could hardly lift them. Her eyes kept rolling back into her head. But she fought it, the lethargy, and pushed herself over onto her left side.
“M’lady?” came a thin, frightened-sounding female voice. “M’lady, you shouldn’t move. Lie still.”
Isobeau struggled to open at least one eye and it worked, somewhat. She found herself looking at a young woman with missing teeth and oily skin. The servant hovered near the end of the bed, the chamber illuminated by the fire in the hearth, so all Isobeau could really see was the woman’s shadowed face. Isobeau licked her dry lips.
“How long have I been asleep?” she murmured.
The servant woman twisted her hands nervously. “A long time, m’lady,” she said. “The sun has just set. M’lady, you shouldn’t move around!”
Isobeau ignored the woman, struggling to clear the cobwebs, trying to recall her last coherent memory. She remembered the cramping of course, and the blood, and the physic who had forced her to drink the potion that put her to sleep. After that, she remembered nothing.
“Where is the physic?” she asked. “What did he do to me?”
The servant woman fled to the door, jerking it open and calling for someone named Piney or Pliney. Isobeau really didn’t know. She tried to look around, for she had no idea where she was and she didn’t recognize the chamber. But she noticed one thing right away; it smelled terrible and she was laying on an oiled cloth. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, either. As she struggled to prop herself up on an elbow, the tall and skinny physic entered the chamber. He had hands that looked like skinny skeletal bones and wisps of white hair around his pointed head. When he saw that Isobeau was trying to sit up, he rushed to her and gently, but firmly, pushed her back down again.
“Nay, my lady,” he said politely. “You will remain down. You must rest now.”
Isobeau was on her back, gazing up at the man. He still had his hands on her and she didn’t like it. “Remove your hands,” she commanded. “Who are you?”
The physic took his hands away. “I am Pliney,” he said. “I am Sir Solomon’s physic.”
Isobeau eyed the man, or tried to. She still felt as if her eyelids were extremely heavy. “What did you give me?” she said. “I cannot seem to keep my eyes open.”
The physic nodded. “That is the drug,” he said. “I gave you a potion of poppy. It will take away your pain and allow you to sleep. You need a good deal of rest, my lady. Your body must recover.”
Isobeau thought on that a moment, coming to realize what he meant. She’d known it the moment it happened, the moment she had awakened. But she needed to hear it from the physic.
“I am no longer with child,” she whispered. It was not a question.
The physic shook his head. “Nay, my lady.”
Isobeau sighed heavily, fighting off the tears. “Was…,” she began, stopped, and started again. “Was there anything left of the child? Was… was he very big?”
The physic shook his head. “We stripped you of your clothing, my lady,” he said, watching Isobeau as she realized she was in an article of clothing that did not belong to her. “I inspected everything that was on the dress and there was nothing I could see. You must have been very early in your pregnancy.”
Isobeau nodded, gazing up at the ceiling and thinking that her son was now with his father in heaven. “No more than six or seven weeks at the very most,” she said. “It was not very advanced.”
The physic suspected as much. “Then it is God’s Will that this should happen, my lady,” he said. “You must trust in the Lord that he knows what is best.”
His words inflamed her. “Best?” she repeated, raising her voice and trying to push herself off the bed. “How is the death ofmy child for the best? I have only just lost my husband and now my child? I have lost my entire family, you fool. How can this be for the best?”
The physic was used to dealing with the high emotions of illness or loss, or at least he thought he was. He had yet to come across anyone with Isobeau’s fire. “I am not God; therefore, I would not know,” he said. “Now your son will not have to grow up without his father. That is a blessing.”
Isobeau was utterly outraged. “Get out,” she spat. “Get out before I throw you out. You are a barbaric, foolish idiot and I want you away from me!”
The physic backed up but he did not leave. “My lady, you must calm yourself,” he said. “You must not get excited.”
Groggy and weak, Isobeau rolled onto her side. There was a table next to the bed with a dirty wooden cup on it, a knife, and part of a shriveled apple. She lashed out a hand and grabbed the first thing she could, which happened to be the knife. She hurled it at the physic, barely missing the man. Rather than remain in the room if the lady was starting to throw weapons, the physic quickly vacated along with the toothless servant. Isobeau threw the cup at them just for good measure. When the door slammed, she collapsed back on the uncomfortable bed and cried.
The tears were cleansing and comforting. Isobeau cried tears for the child, tears for Titus. She comforted herself with the knowledge that their son was with his father now and the two of them had each other. The physic had been right about that particular point and she was at peace with the idea. But she herself had no one. She’d never felt more alone in her life.
