Meriel looked up at him. Her large green and gold-flecked eyes were bordered with tears. “There is nothing more I can do.”
Her voice had sounded so small and weak, he was not positive that she had even spoken. He knelt down and took her fingers into his and kissed them. He then gathered her in his arms and placed her in one of their chairs. And with few exceptions, that had been where she remained for the next week.
Craig glanced at the dying fire. “Are you cold?”
Meriel looked as empty as the room she sat in and gave him a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. He tossed another two logs on the fire and the warmth from the hearth began to creep into the chilly room. “I have some time,” he lied. “We could go to the castle.”
Meriel gave a slight shake of her head.
“You need to see Raelynd.”
Meriel’s gaze finally locked onto his. “But she does not need to see me.”
Craig sighed, wishing Rae had not performed a vanishing act right after telling them the news about Raelynd and her baby. Since then, Crevan had handled all that he could at the castle, but he refused to leave his wife’s side for very long. With Rae gone and Crevan constrained, the majority of the clan responsibilities had fallen to Craig. At first he embraced the extra work, as he needed something to focus on besides his fear for his wife and the sorrow of his brother and sister-in-law. But Meriel’s grief had become personal. For some reason he could not fathom, she believed herself to be partly responsible for the tragic loss of her sister’s baby. And he was not sure anything short of seeing Raelynd, speaking with her, and hearing from her, would convince Meriel otherwise.
Craig went to the table, grabbed a leather pouch he typically used for carrying water, and began pouring its contents into a bowl. He laughed, but no joy was in the sound. “I thought you might like some soup. I asked the girl in the kitchen to find a way for me to carry it back here, and this is what she came up with.”
Meriel curled up into a tighter ball and pulled the blanket Craig had laid on her that morning even tighter around her. “I don’t want any.”
Craig’s face clouded with uneasiness. She had been eating so little that her face had become gaunt. Initially he had been angered, thinking that she might have been intentionally trying to starve their baby, out of guilt, and hinted as much. Instantly her lifeless demeanor had vanished as Meriel had become nearly violent with anger. “I love my baby!” she screamed so loud her voice cracked. And in the next several minutes, she had made it clear that for him to suggest anything contrary to that was heartless and untrue.
But his anger had quickly morphed into concern, then alarm, and now he was truly frightened. “Meriel, please eat. If not for you, then for our baby.”
“I will, just later.”
A glazed look of despair spread over his face and he squatted down in front of her. “Look at me, Meriel. You do not eat. Just as you do not sleep. You do not talk to me. You only sit. Please tell me what to do.”
Meriel stretched out her thin hand and caressed his cheek. “I am fine. The baby is fine. I eat when I am hungry and I do sleep when I am tired. I sit because I have nothing else to do.”
“What about the castle and all the sewing stuff that is so important?”
Meriel reclaimed her hand and pulled it back within her huddled form. “If the weavers have questions, they know where I am.”
Craig sighed and leaned his forehead against her arm. “What happened is not your fault. It’s awful. It’s horrible, and it is in every way unfair, even more so because you were both with child at the same time. But that is my child in your womb. I want him to be strong and healthy. I need him to know his aunt, and her lunacy for order, but he will be raised by his mother. I need her back. Return to me, Meriel. Please.”
Hot tears began to stream down Meriel’s face. “I don’t know how. I do not think I can. I so need Raelynd’s help, but how can I ask for it now? She hates me, and I have given her the ultimate reason why she should.” Meriel stifled a sob. “I promise that I will get better. I only need some more time.”
Craig smoothed the hair from her face. Time. This was not the first she had asked for it. But he was more convinced than ever that time was not the solution. She and Raelynd must find a way to be close once again.
Craig left the keep after learning from the housemaid that Raelynd was asleep and that she had no idea where Crevan had gone. Exiting into the bailey, he looked up and studied the dark form pacing atop the closer of the castle’s two large drum towers. Recognizing the shadow as belonging to his brother, Craig headed to the tower stairwell and began to climb.
Crevan glanced at the emerging figure. When he recognized Craig, he returned his focus to the few stars visible in the partially cloudy night sky.
“Stargazing,” Craig said simply, knowing that was what his brother did when he needed to think.
“ Aye.”
“Been here awhile?”
“Not long enough to form any answers.”
Craig inhaled. The answer was short but well understood. While he had been worried about Meriel, his brother had been just as concerned about his wife. “Has Rae returned yet?”
“ No.”
Craig leaned back against one of the battlements and crossed his arms. “Where did he go anyway? And why?”
Crevan looked at his brother. “W-where? I have no idea, nor do I know w-when he w-w-will return. But I do know he left to grieve. He mentioned to me once, quite some time ago, that he pre-f-ferred to mourn in solitude.”
“I can’t imagine the memories this has raised.”
Crevan returned his eyes to the heavens. “I hope you never w-will,” he murmured softly, his voice filled with sadness and loss. “Did you know right here, on top of this tower is w-where Raelynd and I f-first met? She didn’t know who I w-was. But I knew her. Even at sixteen, she w-was so f-feisty. So f-full of life.” He looked back at Craig. “I’m scared, brother. More than I ever have been, because I do not know what to do.”
Craig nodded. “That I do understand.”
Crevan pursed his lips and then yanked up the door to the stairwell. “Let’s talk,” he said glumly and began to descend.
They entered the Great Hall and saw a servant laying down fresh rushes in the empty spaces where the old ones had been crushed. Seeing Crevan’s gesture of dismissal, he left, leaving them alone. Crevan went behind the screens and returned carrying two mugs and a pitcher of ale. The men made their way to the other end of the Hall, where the main hearth was always kept burning during the winter months. Crevan placed the items on the table next to the chairs closest to the fire. Spying a log one of the servants had brought in but not yet added to the fire, he tossed it in and then joined Craig, pouring them both a drink.
“You tell me your troubles. I’ll tell you mine,” Crevan said before swallowing the mug’s entire contents in one gulp.
It was an old expression they had shared since they were young boys. Both of them had been prone to mischief, though never of the same kind, and oftentimes they had found themselves in trouble concurrently. The bond forged from those moments, sharing and sympathizing with each other’s woes, was what enabled them to seek out and trust each other’s counsel. And tonight, more than ever, Craig needed his brother’s advice.
“I am afraid for Meriel. She eats just enough to remain alive. She barely engages in conversation. And after sitting all day in a chair, she cannot sleep at night. I’m losing her, Crevan. She is getting weaker and I am terrified what will happen if something happens to our child.... And based on her mother’s history and what happened to Raelynd, I am terrified that something might. When that happens, Meriel will truly lose the will to live. I cannot lose her. But I already know that I am.”
Crevan heard his brother choke back a sob. He had cried privately so many times this past week, he did not think he had tears left to shed. But he understood his brother’s fear. “Raelynd no longer will leave our bedchamber. A few days ago, she final
ly rose and ventured out of the room, telling no one she was doing so. But she had not gone far before she overheard three or four of the servants talking about what had happened. After hearing their comments, she locked herself back in our room and opened the door for me only when I promised I would not force her to leave.”
This captured Craig’s attention. “W-what did they say?” he asked, his voice ominous with a promise of retribution.
Crevan poured himself another drink. “Remarks like God needed another angel. That everything w-would be just f-fine again soon. At least she could try again. It was only her f-f-first loss. Another baby w-would make her f-forget this one.”
Craig relaxed, for the remarks his brother just listed sounded rather well-meaning and far from horrible. Some of them he thought should have been a little comforting.
Crevan lifted his mug and swallowed some of the contents. “I cannot remember all the ones Raelynd rattled off, but those are the ones that made even me angry. Deep down, Raelynd and I both know that no one was trying to be hurtful, but w-w-when she told me w-what they said, I w-wanted to gather everyone together and yell at them until they understood—God does not need another angel. He has plenty. And if we ever do try again, another child would never replace the one w-we lost.”
Craig downed the rest of his ale. He had not thought of those comments in that way. Seeing it through his brother’s eyes, he realized such remarks did more to pacify people like himself, who could see his brother was hurting immensely and felt helpless. The words did not actually provide comfort, despite the good intentions of those who spoke them.
Crevan leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees as he spun the mug between his hands. “What those women said was bad enough, but it is the midwife that I had better never see again.”
“What happened?” Craig asked, knowing that what happened was really irrelevant when it created that much animosity in Crevan. The woman was going nowhere near Meriel. If Craig had to beg, bribe, even kidnap her, the McTiernay midwife, Hagatha, was going to be there at the birth of his child. Even if the old, crusty woman had to live with them for a month.
“She did nothing wrong exactly, but . . . well . . . I don’t know. Maybe she has seen death too many times to care anymore. Raelynd had just lost our baby and the midwife was the first person to know. What my wife needed most was a sympathetic face. Someone to say she was sorry and that she was there for her. That it was not her fault. Anything . But she merely stood up, washed her hands, and told her there was nothing she could do. That was it. Told me to let her rest and then left.”
Craig was at a loss for words. He was in many ways afraid to say anything, lest his good intentions be misinterpreted. But he had to agree that the midwife should have been more sensitive. Perhaps Crevan was right, and after seeing loss too many times she could not be. But if that was true, should she be a midwife to expectant mothers? Did he want her around Meriel in case things went horribly wrong for them as well? Craig knew the answer to that. Absolutely not.
“God, Craig, what am I going to do?”
Craig sat transfixed. He had no idea to what his brother was referring, but he knew that it did not matter. He had no answers.
Crevan got up and began to pace. “Raelynd knows our baby is gone, but she swears she can feel it kick.”
“I did not realize she ever could.”
Crevan took a deep breath. “I don’t think she could. She just imagined it so much and was so eager for us to have this child. How do I tell her she doesn’t feel something she insists she does?”
Craig tilted his head and twitched his mouth in understanding. “I don’t think you should. As you said, Raelynd knows the truth. If she needs to feel the baby for a while longer, then let her. You and I have known men who have lost a limb in battle and for years can still feel it itching.”
Crevan returned to his chair, slumping down so he could rest his head on its high back. “I think I have monopolized the conversation long enough. You came for a reason.”
“One that I now know you cannot help me with, just as I cannot solve yours. Meriel blames herself for your and Raelynd’s loss, and I cannot convince her otherwise. I think the only one who can is her sister, but I can see now that getting them together is not possible.”
Crevan’s brows came together sharply. “Raelynd needs her sister as well, though she keeps refusing to let me send for her.”
“Aye, Meriel refuses to come until asked.”
Crevan shifted in his chair, his expression clearly perplexed. “But you said she blames herself.”
Craig nodded. “Aye, and in a way I also feel at least partially responsible. I’m the one that compelled Meriel to organize a party, and I am the one that barged in angry that night and started arguing, creating so much stress that—”
Crevan held up his hand. “Raelynd was beyond excited and happy when we left, knowing she and Meriel were both pregnant. I can promise you there was no stress. And if anyone is to blame, it is me. She had been cramping all week, and I wanted her to stay in bed, but she refused. I should have made her, and if I had not yielded to her pleas to go . . . So tell Meriel that whatever danger Raelynd was in, I knew about it, and it was I who did not protect her as I should have.”
“Let me guess—Raelynd feels that she should have listened to you.”
“Aye, but she does not condemn Meriel for what happened. She is only angry and hurt that her sister has not once come to comfort her.”
“And for that, you should blame me,” came a booming voice from behind.
Both men turned around and saw a large, imposing man walking toward them. Rae Schellden had returned and he had overheard at least the last part of their conversation.
“Go get your wives and bring them back here. If they are asleep, wake them. If they refuse, carry them. But from what I just heard, tomorrow is not soon enough for you four to hear what I have to say.”
Crevan and Craig glanced at each other before they both downed the rest of their ale. There was nothing to be said. The father figure in their lives had given them an order, and while both men were not typically inclined to follow such dictates, this time was different. They were desperate for solutions . . . answers . . . anything, and Rae Schellden had given them hope that there might actually be some.
Rae watched as Crevan deposited his furious wife in the hearth chair next to her sister and then grabbed the remaining seat beside her. Like Meriel, all she had on were her night clothes and a robe, and her hair was pulled back in a long, unkempt braid. Both women looked haggard and their husbands fatigued. Some of it was caused by the exertion of getting the women here, and some by their resistance. But Rae knew that he was also a major reason behind their current states.
He began to stroke his snow-white beard thoughtfully. “I . . . I’m sorry.” The simple expression gained him the attention of all four people, for it was something they hardly ever heard—Laird Rae Schellden apologize. “I made several recent errors when it came to my family, starting with leaving when and how I did. I should have been here to help, and instead I reacted on instinct.”
He paused, but no questions came. It did not matter. He knew what those questions should be, and it was past time his daughters knew the full truth. Rae cleared his throat, looked directly at Meriel, then Raelynd, and continued. “Unlike what you may have believed, and I will admit to encouraging that belief, your mother and I had no problem conceiving children. However, with one exception,” he said, pointing at his daughters, “she would always lose our child before it could be safely born.”
Rae paused and straightened his back, locking his fingers behind him. It was an unconscious maneuver to distance himself emotionally from the past, but the pain of each loss was etched into his face. “After awhile, I heard people say that your mother and I would get used to it, or that it was not the same as losing a child that had been born and lived,” he began, his gruff voice singed with resentment. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I do know that the
loss of a child is not something one ever learns to endure. And each loss was painful, and remembered—regardless if your mother and I ever actually held the baby in our arms.”
Craig pulled Meriel close to him. “You are a miracle,” he whispered.
“All children are,” Rae said, the anger gone, “but aye. Meriel and Raelynd were our miracles, and we would never have been blessed with them if it had not been for your mother’s willingness to keep trying when so many kept telling us that we should give up. That God obviously did not want us to have children.” Turning, he knelt down in front of Raelynd, gathered her small hands into his, and looked her in the eye. “Listen to your heart, Raelynd, not to others, even if they are trying to be kind. As long as you are healthy, and you and Crevan desire to try again, then do so. But just as important, if you both decide that you do not want to pursue having a family—for whatever reason—that is your right as well. People, friends, even we loved ones, want to help, but we are not the ones who have to live with your decisions.”
He stood up and went to stand in front of the fire, his back straight and hands once again locked behind him. “During those bad times, your mother and I needed time to grieve. At first, we each preferred to be alone to mourn. Only then would we come together and lean on each other for comfort. That was how we handled sorrow. So that night, when I learned of the loss of my first grandchild, I left. I did not think. I knew the clan was in good hands, and I went to mourn as I have always done.”
Rae swallowed and again stroked his beard. Both his daughters were staring, wide-eyed, digesting what he was telling them. He licked his lips and then pointed first to Crevan and then to Raelynd. “You are not to blame,” he said slowly, clearly, and without any doubt. “No one knows why one mother loses a child and another does not. You could have remained in bed every day and still lost your baby. But then you would be blaming yourself for lack of exercise. Believe me, I know this to be true. Your mother and I had to fight the inclination to blame ourselves, each other, the cooks, or something else.”
Michele Sinclair - [McTiernays 05] Page 34