In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,171
to dry, the fire throwing shadows and shapes on the walls.
The others—Sedrick, Dafydd, Robin, and Brevant were asleep. FitzRandwulf was standing guard at the entrance to the tunnel and the women were …
Henry pushed to his feet, a curse forming on his lips as he jerked aside a corner of the blankets. Marienne and the princess were lying by the fire but the place where Ariel should have been was glaringly empty.
Henry dropped the blanket and started to reach for his baldric when he heard the cry again and realized it had indeed come from the other side of the blankets. Without thinking, he lifted the edge again and saw what he had missed before. Eleanor’s long, slender legs had thrashed most of her blankets free. Her face was bathed in sweat and her hair was a blonde tangle, matted to her temples and throat in tight, wet curls.
“No,” she gasped. “Please … please!”
Henry ducked beneath the curtain and stretched out a hand to touch Eleanor’s shoulder, but a small white fist grasped his sleeve first, preventing him.
Shocked, thinking Marienne might have misinterpreted his gesture as something other than concern, he folded his fingers into his palm and withdrew his hand immediately.
“I was only wanting to see if she was unwell. A fever, perhaps—?”
“It is no fever, my lord,” Marienne whispered. “Save the one in her heart.”
“Please” Eleanor cried, thrashing in torment. “Arthur … my God, Arthur … tell him what he wants to hear. I was wrong. I was wrong. Tell him. Tell him anything. Tell him—” She stiffened and her back arched up off the floor. Her arms started to tremble and flay the air and Henry, helpless to do more than watch, saw Marienne move calmly to where Eleanor’s head rolled back and forth on the hard stone. She quickly folded a blanket and tucked it beneath the princess’s head, then crouched and took hold of her wrists, gently keeping them from striking the wall or the rough floor.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Marienne cried softly, “but if you could hold her ankles, she might be stopped from doing herself an injury when the worst of it comes.”
Worse, Henry thought, doing as he was bid. How much worse? And why did the girl not simply waken her?
“’Tis the Angevin curse,” Marienne explained over the tears that started to well in her eyes. “It only happens when she is very weak, or very tired … or very frightened. And ’tis more like a trance than a true fit. A nightmare from which she cannot be wakened until it runs its course. She … feels guilt over her brother’s death. She thinks … it was because of her, because he did not want to appear weak or unworthy in front of the courage she displayed … that he refused to accept the king’s offer of exile. And because he kept refusing, the king became angrier, and …”
“Arthur!” Eleanor’s shivered cry drew Henry’s shocked gaze downward again. “Arthur … sweet, merciful Jesus, where is Arthur? Not dead. Not dead! Not dead!”
Eleanor twisted so suddenly, Marienne lost her grip. The princess reared up, flailing her arms, sobbing and screaming soundlessly as she went through the horrific motions of trying to escape some torment from which there was no escape.
Henry caught one wrist, then the other, surprised by the strength of her pain. He crossed her arms over her chest and drew her back against him so that she was pinned firmly against his body. He held her there, through one tremendous struggle after another, until they were both panting and running with sweat.
Marienne watched, her hands covering her mouth, her cheeks wet with tears. She knew it was over when Eleanor shuddered and went limp in Lord Henry’s arms, and she knew this episode had been worse than many others because of the anxieties roused by the escape. She was thankful Lord Henry had been there to help. Thankful he was helping still by holding the princess and rocking her gently as he smoothed the silvery web of hair back off her face.
His hand shook visibly when he lifted the last few tendrils away, for the shadows in the cavern had almost made it seem as though her eyes were simply closed against the intrusion of the firelight. A further heart-stopping illusion made him imagine the scars were crescents of golden lashes and that any moment they would lift over eyes so blue they would sparkle like a deep clear lake.