Crossing To Paradise (13 page)

“Next year, Sei!” said Simona cheerfully. “Gatty, you sit in the bows.”

“I'll row!” said Gatty.

Simona shook her head. “It's not as easy as it looks,” she said.

Then she and Cinque each took one oar, and Sei and Nest sat close together in the stern and, as the thick knot of boats around the Doge's ship began to loosen, the two boats bearing their companions mysteriously appeared on either side of them. Together the three of them eased through the water.

From time to time the six brothers called out to one another. As dusk crept in from the sea, and shreds of gauzy mist drifted across the face of the water, many of the returning boats lit lanterns in their prows.

Now and then, Cinque plucked his lute; now and then he sang.

You can't arrange to be happy, Gatty thought, and you can't make happiness last. It just sneaks up on you, and then before long it disappears again.

Sei reached under the bench in the stern and pulled out a flask.

“What is it?” asked Nest.

“Love potion,” said Simona.

“Love potion!”

“The essence of love,
sì.
He bought it from a witch.”

Sei poured a drop of the liquid onto his little finger, and held it up to Nest's lips.

Sei thinks life's for laughing, thought Gatty. He thinks love's just a game.

Sei took a gulp of the potion and then watched with satisfaction as Nest did the same.

“It doesn't taste like love,” said Nest, grimacing.

“Horn of unicorn,” said Simona. “Very rare. Unicorn and rose petals and wine.”

At this moment Gatty realized with a start that she hadn't even thought about Lady Gwyneth and her stomach pains since before the Doge's son dropped the ring into the water. There and then her happiness faded.

Darkness lowered its lid over Venice, the chill mist rose up to meet it; and Gatty, a creature as much of instinct as reason, felt within her an unconscionable, dark foreboding.

Cinque and Sei and their brothers brushed sea-snails off the slimy stanchions on the landing stage; they tethered their little boats to them and handed the pilgrims ashore.

Nest grasped Gatty's forearm. “Gatty,” she whispered. “Sei and I are walking out together.”

“Where?”

“Just the two of us, I mean. He asked me.”

Gatty felt a pang. Sei had asked Nest, but Cinque hadn't asked her.

“He'll bring me back to the hospice later,” Nest whispered, her eyes shining in the gloom. “I'll see you there.”

Gatty
was right.

The hospice nun who had promised to keep an eye on Lady Gwyneth opened the door to the pilgrims and at once called out, “Alessandra! Alessandra!”

A woman carrying a second lantern advanced down the gloomy passage towards them. Gatty saw she was wearing a white linen gown.

“Alessandra Lupo,” the nun told the pilgrims. “
Chirurgo
.”

“A surgeon,” Everard translated.

The doctor, a small, intent woman with deep-set dark eyes and scars on both arms, as if she had experimented by operating on her own body, led the pilgrims to their room but Lady Gwyneth wasn't there.

“Where is she?” demanded Gatty.

Doctor Lupo nodded and softly patted the air, and one by one the pilgrims sat down in a row on two of the straw mattresses. Then she got onto her knees in front of them.

“Lady Gwyneth's stomach has burst inside her,” she said gently.

The pilgrims looked as if they had been turned to stone. Their blood chilled.

The nun came and squatted beside Doctor Lupo. “She vomited all afternoon,” she told them. “I pressed my hand against her stomach, and when I lifted it, she yelped. That's when I sent for Alessandra.”

The doctor looked at the row of stricken pilgrims, and shook her head. “She cannot live,” she said in a quiet voice.

In the falling air, the nun made the sign of the cross, and said something.

“Lady Gwyneth is a precious dove of God,” Everard translated. “She will fly to paradise.”

“Can't you…” began Gatty in a strangled voice.

“You're a surgeon,” said Tilda.

“She cannot live,” Doctor Lupo repeated, in a quiet, deliberate voice.

“We've carried her to another room,” the nun told them. “A quiet room!”

“She wants to see you all,” the doctor said.

“Nest!” exclaimed Gatty. “She's not even here.”

“She'd be afraid,” said Nakin. “I'm afraid.”

“Think of Lady Gwyneth's needs,” Doctor Lupo said, “and you will not be.”

Gatty stood up. “I'll go to her,” she said.

“No,” said the surgeon, unfolding herself and getting to her feet. “I'll go first.”

“I'm coming with you,” Gatty insisted.

Leaving the others still sitting on the mattresses too stunned to speak, Gatty followed the doctor down the passage.

Doctor Lupo paused outside the door of Lady Gwyneth's room. “She may be asleep,” she said in a low voice.

Gatty nodded. “How long?” she asked.

“What?”

Gatty looked at her unblinking. “How long?” she repeated. “I seen death before.”

The surgeon shook her head. “For one person, a few hours; for another, a few days. I can't tell.”

“You can't do nothing?”

Again Doctor Lupo shook her head, and she grasped Gatty's forearm. “I will give her medicine to soften her pain.”

“She knows?” asked Gatty.

Doctor Lupo nodded.

Then Gatty opened the door, somehow expecting Lady Gwyneth to look ghastly and grisly, but there she was, propped up on two pillows, appearing much the same as usual. Flushed, yes, but blue-eyed, fair-haired, willowy.

Lady Gwyneth turned her head a little, and saw Gatty.

And Gatty, she gazed at Lady Gwyneth with such love, such longing. Then she took two strides and launched herself onto her knees.

“It's you,” murmured Lady Gwyneth.

At once Gatty heard how shallow her breathing was. She looked up at Doctor Lupo. “I'll stay here with my lady for a while,” she said quietly. “I'll fetch the others.”

Doctor Lupo almost smiled. “Then we are in your hands,” she said, and she left the room.

“And I,” whispered Lady Gwyneth, “I'm in God's hands. My blood's boiling. I keep shivering. Oh Gatty!”

Gatty pressed her forehead against Lady Gwyneth's shoulder.

“I may not have long,” Lady Gwyneth said. “And I have to tell you.”

Gatty lifted her head. “I am here, my lady.”

“Where's Nest?”

“She's…coming back,” faltered Gatty. “She'll be here soon.”

Lady Gwyneth feebly reached out for one of Gatty's hands. “Feel my stomach,” she said. “So hard. So swollen. Oh!” Lady Gwyneth winced with pain and, noiseless, she wept.

Gatty closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“It was like this before. When I was with child.”

“My lady?”

“Griffith. I loved him so. I sang songs to him. I even fed him myself. And…and…”

“He died,” whispered Gatty.

Lady Gwyneth hiccuped, then shrugged, as if even the air lay too heavy upon her.

“I seen how you prayed at his tiny grave, and how you tended it,” Gatty said.

“I loved him so,” Lady Gwyneth sobbed, “and I killed him.”

“No, my lady. You told me. His little heart was weak and it stopped and he was only eleven weeks old.”

“That wasn't true.”

“My lady?”

“While I was asleep I lay over him, and smothered him. I killed him.”

“Oh, my lady!”

“I've never told anyone.”

“Not even Austin?”

Lady Gwyneth miserably shook her head.

“My lady, you must. You must confess it.”

“I woke and Griffith's breath was gone. My darling son! His skin was like skimmed milk. I killed him. That's the reason why I have to make this pilgrimage. To do penance and save my soul.” Lady Gwyneth's breathing became more shallow. “I cannot,” she said. “I cannot. I cannot reach Jerusalem. But if I do not…”

“My lady,” interrupted Gatty, in a strong, deliberate voice. She took both Lady Gwyneth's hands inside her own. “I will,” she said.

Lady Gwyneth stared up at Gatty.

“I'll go. I'll go for you.”

Lady Gwyneth swallowed and winced.

“I will do penance for you.”

Now Lady Gwyneth's eyeballs were hot and somehow too large for their sockets.

“Like them young men, remember, on the way to Canterbury. John and Geoff. They were hired by an old stick too shaky to be a pilgrim herself.”

Lady Gwyneth would have smiled but she couldn't make her cheek muscles do what she wanted.

“I'll pray at all them places you told us about,” Gatty said. “Holy Sepulchre and the Golden Gate and that. Austin will know.”

“To save my soul,” whispered Lady Gwyneth.

“I will and all,” said Gatty. “You can trust me.”

Lady Gwyneth nodded, or thought she did. “I believe I can,” she whispered. “But if you fail to reach Jerusalem, I'll never rise to paradise.” Lady Gwyneth gasped. “I will never see Griffith again.”

This long conversation exhausted Lady Gwyneth, but it also calmed her. She closed her eyes, and for a while the only sound in the dying-room,
that's what the hospice nun later called it, was Lady Gwyneth's rapid, scratchy breathing.

Then the door creaked and, led by the nun with her lantern, the other pilgrims filed into the room. Nest was with them and Gatty saw at once how pink-cheeked and bright-eyed she was.

Nest took hold of Gatty's shoulders and lowered herself onto her knees beside her, and all the other pilgrims shuffled and subsided around the bed.

“The doctor said you were coming for us,” Nest said in a low voice.

“You weren't even here!” Gatty whispered. “Where have you been?”

After some while, Lady Gwyneth opened her eyes and Gatty noticed at once that they were more misty. To begin with, she scarcely recognized her companions, or knew where she was.

“We are all here,” Austin said in his good, firm voice. “The four angels of the Lord are standing at each corner of the room.”

The corners of Lady Gwyneth's mouth twitched. “I cannot see them,” she said. She inspected the semicircle of pilgrims and sighed, then tried to lever herself up on her pillows. At once she yelped, and then gave a long moan.

“My new vocabulary!” she said, and the corners of her mouth twitched again.

Snout mumbled something and crossed himself; Nest began to sniff.

“I told you once,” Lady Gwyneth said, “that we were partners, and sisters, and brothers.” Her voice may have been weak, but her resolve was unwavering, and so was her concern for her companions. “Together we planned this pilgrimage, and together we've undertaken it.”

Nest sniffed more loudly.

“When one sister fails,” Lady Gwyneth went on, her voice becoming hoarse, “the others must not. They must do what she'd have done. I want you to continue with our pilgrimage and reach Jerusalem. I believe each step you take is a step toward paradise.”

Suddenly Lady Gwyneth arched her back. She cried out and began to writhe.

“Enough!” said the hospice nun. She put a hand under Austin's arm and helped him up, and then all the other pilgrims stood up as well.

“Come on, Gatty,” said Nest, and she pulled at her forearm.

Lady Gwyneth screamed, and her scream died away to a moan.

“I must hear her last confession,” Austin insisted.

“And after that I'll keep watch,” the nun told the pilgrims. “I will come and call you.”

The pilgrims were too shocked to talk very much. They were worn out by their long day on the water. One by one they fell asleep.

Even Gatty dozed for a while, only to sit upright, instantly awake, and wonder how long she had been asleep.

She looked around at her sleeping companions. Then she quietly removed the lantern from the hook and crept back down the passageway.

Lady Gwyneth didn't move, but Gatty saw her eyes were shining.

“I'll keep watch for a while,” she whispered, and the hospice nun nodded gratefully, stifled a yawn and left the room.

Then Gatty leaned over Lady Gwyneth. “I'm here, my lady,” she said in a warm, calm voice. “Gatty.”

“My heart,” whispered Lady Gwyneth. “Like a bird fluttering inside me.”

“A dove,” said Gatty. She got down onto her knees.

“I've been watching you,” Lady Gwyneth whispered, staring at the rafters. “How you've changed.”

“I have and I haven't,” Gatty replied.

“Some people say field-women are just animals.”

“Nakin does.”

“I've never thought that.” Lady Gwyneth paused; her breathing was jerky. “Some people say they care only for themselves.”

“That's not true,” said Gatty. “My lady.”

“I know,” whispered Lady Gwyneth. “But you were so rough and raw. So willful.”

“Standing up for myself.”

“Stubborn.”

“I still am.”

“Like a bull glued to mud.”

Gatty grinned. “I know all about that,” she said. “Good thing I am. I got to reach Jerusalem.”

Lady Gwyneth made a supreme effort. She turned her face towards Gatty, panting. “Your energy gives me energy,” she whispered. “Gatty, I am so proud of you.”

“Proud?” Gatty repeated. Her eyes began to sting.

“You're very brave. You saved Austin's life. You're learning to read, learning to write. And your voice…”

“No, my lady,” said Gatty. She wiped her eyes with the back of her right hand.

“I thought your voice would keep us all safe.”

“I will get there for you. I will,” Gatty said.

“Your singing's a silk ladder—a silk rope ladder—between earth and heaven.”

Gatty shook her head. “You're thinking of them monks and nuns.”

“I want you to sing at my funeral. I told Austin.”

Gatty gave a low sob. Her face began to crumple.

“That novice, Aenor, she thought I was your daughter.” Gatty shuddered and sobbed. “You're my lady, I know, but you been like my mother, almost.”

Lady Gwyneth looked at Gatty with her misty eyes. “Open my right hand,” she whispered.

“My lady?”

“My right hand.”

Gatty unlocked Lady Gwyneth's tight white fingers, one by one. In the palm of her hand was an almond-shaped silver badge—a seal.

“What is it?”

“
Y ddraig,
” Lady Gwyneth whispered. “You see the dragon?”

Gatty narrowed her eyes and stared at the dragon etched on the silver.

“Take it!” said Lady Gwyneth.

“What is it?”

“Whatever you do, you must keep it safe. Sew it into the hem of your cloak.”

“What is it, my lady?”

“Safe and secret until you get back to Ewloe.” Lady Gwyneth's breath was stuttering. “You understand?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then show it to Austin. He will explain it.”

“Don't die!” cried Gatty. “Don't!”

“And when I die,” Lady Gwyneth whispered, “cut a lock of my hair. Leave half in Jerusalem, Gatty, and take half home. Bury it in Griffith's grave.”

Then, without a complaint, without even a sigh, Lady Gwyneth just faded. Just died back into herself. A little bubble formed between her lips, and shone in the lantern light, and did not burst.