‘She has some sort of septicaemia. She’s got several recent cuts and grazes that don’t look very nice, but the probable site of the infection is a half-healed gash on her left hand. It’s okay on the surface. But when we opened, it we found a nasty mess inside.’
‘I told her to see someone about that!’ Gavin glared at the swirly-patterned carpet. ‘I said, go to the surgery, you need get that sorted, and she promised.’
‘Well, I dare say she thought it must be healing.’ The doctor patted Gavin on the shoulder. ‘She should soon respond to therapy. She needs help with her breathing, so we’ve sent her to the ICU. When the staff have made her comfortable, you can see her there.’
Chapter 17
‘Susannah Miller?’ said the nurse, as she led Gavin into the humming heart of the ICU. ‘She’s always called Susannah?’
‘I call her Susie.’
‘Right.’ The nurse took Gavin to a washroom. ‘Scrub your hands for two or three minutes,’ she told him, ‘then put on a mask and a plastic apron.’
‘How – how is she now?’
‘She’ll be all right, we don’t lose patients here,’ smiled the nurse. ‘Come and see her, eh?’
But Susannah didn’t look as if she’d be all right. She was lying supine. One drip fed medication into a purple vein on her left hand, while a second fed what Gavin thought the nurse had said was glucose into one on her right.
A fat white tube snaked down into her windpipe. Other tubes and wires were everywhere. She was a pathetic sight.
Monitors bleeped, machinery gurgled, now and again a printer spewed out paper. Amidst all this, she looked so small, so insignificant, a child lying still and naked, under a thin, white sheet.
‘It’s not as frightening as it looks.’ Calmly efficient in her pale blue trouser suit and sensible, flat white shoes, another nurse was checking instruments, then plotting figures on a graph. ‘In a moment, I’ll explain what all this stuff is doing, then you won’t feel so scared.’
Putting the graph back on a stand, the nurse went over to do something with Susannah’s pillows. ‘It’s okay, love,’ she murmured, as Susannah fidgeted and moaned. ‘Let me make you comfortable. If you lie like this, you’ll hurt your neck.’
Susannah muttered something, then lay still.
The nurse took Susannah’s hand between her own, rubbing and stroking, gently patting it. ‘Come on, Susannah,’ she urged, ‘wake up!
‘You hold her other hand,’ she told Gavin. ‘Talk to her, and tell her she’ll be all right. It’s possible she can hear you, and she’ll feel much better if she knows you’re here.’
But then, Susannah moaned again. Eyes wide open now, Gavin saw the pupils were so dilated that they were pools of black in her white face.
She screamed, or rather failed to scream, for the tube going down her throat reduced it to a dreadful, tortured gurgle, that became a bubbling, whimpering wail.
‘Susie, it’s okay,’ whispered the nurse. ‘You’re in hospital, you’re safe, you’re going to be fine. ‘
‘No!’ Susannah cried. Suddenly, her hands jerked up, as if to shield her face. The canulas shot from the veins, and blood and medication sprayed the bed, dyeing the sheet that covered it with vivid crimson spirals.
‘All right, Susie love, don’t cry, it’s all under control.’ The nurses caught Susannah’s flailing arms. A doctor hurried in, and now they tried to get new canulas into two new veins, while Susannah thrashed around, screaming and trying to fight them off.
Using soft elastic bandages, they tied her arms to the rails on the bed. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ soothed the nurse, as the doctor gave her an injection. Susannah wailed and moaned and wept for a few minutes more. But finally she closed her eyes again.
‘She’s sleeping now,’ murmured a nurse, tucking Susannah in. Meeting Gavin’s blank-faced, wide-eyed stare, she smiled at him, a mother comforting a frightened child.
‘Sit down here and talk to her,’ she whispered. ‘Tell her something – what she’s getting for her birthday, where you’re going on holiday this summer, anything you like. Just let her know you’re here.’
‘Susie, love?’ Feeling sick and knowing that he must be white as wax himself, Gavin took Susannah’s bandaged hand. ‘Susie, you’re in hospital. You’ve been very ill. You’re getting better now,’ he added, though he didn’t believe it. But at least, he thought, she’s dying peacefully, she isn’t in any pain.
‘There, that’s much better,’ said the nurse. She smoothed Susannah’s hair behind her ears, then turned to Gavin. ‘I expect you’re hungry. Do you fancy a piece of toast, with marmalade or jam? A cup of tea or coffee? Black or white? How many sugars?’
Over the next few days, Gavin learned no ICU could function without hot buttered toast, endless cups of strong, sweet tea, and mugs of milky coffee. ‘But why is she still unconscious?’ he demanded, that third, bleary morning.
‘Because she’s had a massive septic shock.’ The nurse picked up his plate, then cut his toast and marmalade into manageable squares. ‘It’s usually the result of an infection, or it could be an allergy.’
‘I don’t understand it. She was fine that evening. When I woke up on Saturday morning, she was fast asleep, or seemed to be.’
‘It must have started in the night,’ the nurse explained. ‘If her brain was starved of oxygen, she’d have become unconscious.’
‘My God.’ Gavin shuddered. ‘What if I hadn’t woken when I did?’
‘Just don’t think about it. What you must remember is, you did wake up, you brought her here, you probably saved her life.’
The nurse poured out some coffee. ‘Have you met Dr Russell? He came in late last night, but you could have been in the canteen. He thinks Susannah’s going to be fine. The drugs are fighting the infection, her blood pressure is fine, so oxygen is getting to her brain.’
‘There isn’t any permanent damage, then?’
‘I think you’d better talk to Dr Russell. He’ll be along quite soon. But he’s a Roman Catholic, so before he comes on duty, he sometimes goes to Mass.’
* * * *
She knew she must be lying in the bows of a small ship. Or maybe it was one of those flat-bottomed fishing boats, which the Maran fishermen moored in the estuary.
The vessel had come loose from its long painter, and was drifting downstream in the fog. She’d tried to alert them, but found she couldn’t speak.
She wondered what the priests were saying, back there in the stern. But at least they’d come with her, not left her to her fate, the thing she dreaded most. To die unshriven would be terrible, for she would go to hell. She’d been there once already.
Just now, one of them had mentioned Mass. She thought she would have liked to hear the Mass.
She realised a face was looming over her, swimming somewhat hazily into focus, then blurring once again. ‘Where has Lord Cenred gone?’ She’d meant to sound imperious, but her voice came out as a sort of bleat, because there was something in her mouth and snaking down her throat. She’d tried to spit it out, but found she couldn’t, she was too weak.
But then she became aware of gentle hands, stroking her bruised forehead and smoothing back her hair. A soothing voice was whispering comfort. She thought it must be Raedwen, her freedwoman. Or it might be little Aelfrith, Raedwen’s Mercian slave. She dozed again.
But soon her dreams grew horrible, for she was in the nightmare of that September evening once again. The timbers of the mead hall were ablaze. The smell of roasting man-flesh seared the nostrils. The screams of women and little children rent the autumn air.
That attack on Weolinsleah had been completely unexpected. The autumn and winter would see a renewal of hostilities – that at least was certain, for King Ceolwin of the Maransaete had called the Mercians’ bluff. He’d refused to pay more tribute until Mercia ratified the treaty, until King Beornwulf said before the priests that the Maran people should lie safe in their own land.
But even a
wily fox like Edgar Ceolwin hadn’t expected this sort of reprisal, at any rate not so soon. The Mercians themselves were being set upon from all sides. The Heathen Host was looting and burning on their eastern borders. The kings of Wessex and East Anglia had just signed a treaty, putting paid to Mercian expansion to the south or west. King Ceolwin’s spies at Beornwulf’s court had heard nothing worrying, or nothing they’d reported to their lord.
All the same, that fine September evening, the Mercians had attacked. They caught the Forest People unprepared. They burned Weolinsleah, looting the royal palace, then laying waste the area round about.
King Ceolwin and his eldest son rode out to meet the Mercians, and were killed. Their bodies were impaled on spits, roasted and gnawed by Beornwulf’s hunting dogs. The queen, together with her three youngest children, perished in the flames that razed the city. Of all the royal family, only Aelwyn was left alive.
She had played her part in the defence of Weolinsleah, for both the men and women of the Maran learned to fight. Their Mercian and East Anglian sisters might be kept at home, spinning hemp and stitching linen shifts – but among the Maran, all those maiden-children who were strong and fit enough were taught the arts of warfare with the boys.
Then at twelve or thirteen, these maiden-children went into the forests where, armed with the short stabbing swords that had made Maran ironmasters famous, they patrolled their borders. They attacked their enemies with such speed and savagery that they were feared and hated.
In recent years, the priests and monks had started to complain that it was indecent to send women into battle. But the Maransaete had no choice. Other people wanted their rich lands, the kings of Wessex coveted their hunting grounds, sweet pastures, and the ironstone outcrop in their hills. As for the Maran people – skilled in metalwork and known throughout the land as cunning craftsmen, they would be reduced to carls and slaves.
* * * *
‘Lady, the king is dead.’ Coming into the Lady Aelwyn’s presence, the chamberlain bowed respectfully, and blinked his brimming eyes.
But Aelwyn’s eyes were dry. ‘He fought hard and bravely,’ she observed, ‘so now he is with God.’
The Lady Aelwyn’s household had not been in the battle for the city. Their task had been to guard the new cathedral, King Edgar Ceolwin’s pride and joy. This had been reduced to ash, so now the lady’s heart was sick, because she had failed her father and her people.
The Mercians had routed her small company of spearmen. All her thanes were dead, and she herself was wounded in the sword arm. Her only comfort was that now the Mercians were retreating, carrying their blood-boltered loot away. ‘What about my brother?’ she demanded. ‘What became of him?’
‘Lady, he died too. You must not see him. The sight would break your heart.’ The chamberlain crossed himself, and growled a prayer. ‘My lady, the thanes are waiting,’ he continued. ‘They want a sign from you.’
‘They need to choose my father’s heir,’ said Aelwyn. ‘They will invite me to suggest one, but then they’ll jeer and laugh my choice to scorn.’
‘My lady, you must come!’ The chamberlain was weeping. ‘Tempers are high already, and enough blood has been spilt this day! Lord Cenred takes your part, but others laugh, so if you care about your people – ‘
‘Very well, Alfric Godwinson, I’ll come.’ Aelwyn wrapped her cloak around her body. So Cenred took her part? This was a benefit she could have done without.
Cenred was just a boy. A swaggering adolescent who was always picking fights, who rode his horses half to death and got drunk every night. He’d never be what Aelwyn thought of as a proper man.
As she approached the meeting place where all the surviving thanes had gathered round a dismal fire, she heard Cenred talking. Or rather shouting, for Cenred never spoke when he might yell.
‘You say the Lady Aelwyn is untried and still unproven,’ shouted Cenred, who – to be fair to him – was obliged to yell on this occasion, so he’d be heard above the shouting of the other men. ‘You fear for our safety, if the Mercians learn our queen is just a whey-faced girl. But you must remember that the people loved her father. They love her, and they’ll need – ‘
‘They need a man to guide them.’ Raedwald, a grizzled veteran of more than forty winters, glared balefully at Cenred. Raedwald’s wounds were smarting, but his pride was smarting more. ‘What do you know of leading?’ he demanded. ‘You left-handed shit-raker, you’re just a child yourself.’
Cenred ignored the insult. ‘The monks,’ he said, ‘tell us the story of the Lady Boudicca. She lived when the Romans ruled this island. When the Romans stole her land, she summoned all her thanes. The Britons rose, the Romans were defeated, they – ‘
‘But in the end, she failed.’ Raedwald scowled at Cenred balefully. ‘I know that story, too. The Romans put her whole tribe to the sword. We need a man to lead us!’ he repeated. ‘A warrior, not a maid!’
‘But where shall we find him?’ Cenred asked, as he gazed round the assembled thanes. ‘Who might this warrior be, Lord Raedwald?’
‘He means to suggest himself,’ growled Wulfhere, whose daughter had been Raedwald’s wife, but died after a beating. ‘He will admit it, if you ask him.’
But Raedwald merely glared.
Aelwyn stepped into the circle, stood against the light. ‘I shall pretend I did not hear your treachery, Lord Raedwald,’ she began. Then she scanned her audience. ‘I come to seek your counsel, but will you hear me speak?’
‘We will.’ Lord Raedwald stood up, unabashed. He met the lady’s gaze. ‘Your father was a king,’ he muttered. ‘So his daughter has the right to speak.’
‘Although I do not have Lord Raedwald’s learning, years or wisdom,’ Aelwyn said, and was gratified to see that Cenred grinned, ‘although I do not have Lord Ingild’s strength, nor Lord Wulfhere’s cunning, my education taught me the value of humility.
‘As Lord Raedwald says, my father Edgar Ceolwin was a king. My brothers have been killed, so I am Edgar Ceolwin’s only heir. If you will take your oaths to me, I will promise to serve you with my life. I will lead you into battle, will not flinch from danger, I will not weep at wounds. I will hear wise counsel, and govern mercifully.’ Aelwyn bowed her head. ‘My soul belongs to God, but now I offer you my life.’
Cenred looked at Raedwald. ‘You heard the Lady Aelwyn,’ he declared. ‘She will fight for us, and I will fight for her while I have breath.’
‘I will deserve your loyalty,’ said Aelwyn. ‘I will serve you as my father did, giving grants of land and treasure to all those who are faithful. I swear this on the precious blood of our lord Jesus Christ.’
The thanes began to mutter amongst themselves, but soon they all agreed. The people loved the lady. Also, if one of them became its king, the tribe’s precarious state would soon be riven by faction and intrigue. Their enemies would like nothing better than to see the Maransaete squabbling amongst themselves.
* * * *
The city rose from ash and dust and ruin. The Maran built in timber, which of course was plentiful, and by November a king’s hall stood horn-gabled in the winter forest. In the middle of that month, a new Saint Hilda’s Minster, raised on the foundations of a Roman temple but hallowed by holy water from the River Jordan, was reconsecrated.
Here the lady prayed, for God’s guidance and deliverance from her enemies, especially from Beornwulf of the Mercians, who – her spies reported – had sworn a Michaelmas oath to destroy the People of the Forest.
Her scouts reported little sign of enemy activity on her borders, but this was no comfort. She knew as well as anyone that the Mercians waited, greedy as starving wolves or Odin’s ravens, biding their good time.
One gloomy Sunday in December, she and her ladies prayed for the whole day. When she at last rose from her knees, she found the world in darkness. She felt the gnawing emptiness of one who has been fasting, and hoped she would not faint.
As she came out of the church, two men accost
ed her respectfully. ‘Lord Cenred?’ she began, and peered into the dusk.
‘Lady.’ Cenred bowed his head. ‘I did not think it proper to disturb you at your prayers. But you will be pleased to learn that we have caught a spy.’
‘One of Beornwulf’s men?’
‘Of course. At first he would not speak, but we’ve tortured him all day, and now he’s started talking. We hope he’ll soon be ready to strike a bargain.’
‘What have you promised him?’
‘If you agree, my lady, we could let him keep the other eye and offer him protection, provided he reveals all that he knows. He can still walk and mumble. So, with your permission, I shall have him brought into your presence, then you may have words with him.’
* * * *
‘So go and have a word with him.’ The nurse touched Gavin’s shoulder. He realised it was dusk, and that he’d watched Susannah all that day, starting when her lips moved, or her hands or eyelids fluttered.
Sometimes he checked the monitors, dreading seeing a flat, white line. But the machines all went on bleeping, clicking and recording diligently.
‘Gavin?’ the nurse repeated.
‘Yeah, okay,’ yawned Gavin, standing up. ‘Where is he, then?’
‘In his office, waiting for you.’
The doctor invited Gavin to sit down. ‘You’re Susannah’s partner?’ he began.
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ Then, realising he must sound very grudging and ungracious, Gavin met the doctor’s gaze. ‘Actually, I’m her lover,’ he said tersely. ‘So I’m very anxious for her now, and worried about her prospects for the future – if she has a future?’
‘I think her future’s looking fairly bright.’ The doctor smiled. ‘We’ve run a few more tests, and you’ll be glad to know that our initial diagnosis was correct.’
‘So what’s wrong with her, what is it called, I mean?’
‘She has severe toxaemia. She cut herself, the wound scabbed over and appeared to heal, but some infection was left lying dormant until something set it off again.’
Elegy for a Queen Page 18