Matilda Starts Awake

Matilda woke suddenly and sat up, her heart pounding. Somehow she felt that something was wrong – the baby? Panic gripped her for a moment, but a glance in the cradle by the bed reassured her. The little Lord Yware was sweetly sleeping, his thumb planted firmly in his mouth and the tiny fingers of his other hand clenching around something from his dream.

She listened carefully for a while, but the castle was silent. 

She thought it must be quite late. She would just get up and check on Dunstan, to put her mind at ease and allow her to sleep.

Dunstan too slept soundly, his arm around the dolly Gunnilda had made for him when he kept stealing Bertie’s. 

Matilda bent over him and straightened the blankets that the boy had twisted around his chubby legs. How he looked like his father! Even to the way he slept with one arm thrown back behind his head.

She sighed. The boys were well, but she didn’t feel like crawling back into bed. She would just go out to the kitchen and see whether there was a bit of something to eat.

She had always loved the night, and this night was beautiful – the moon was full and silver, and the air was as warm as June. She remembered how her father would close her shutters on moonlit nights and grumble that too much moonlight made a woman overripe. Ah, her poor father, the outlaw’s son. How well they had understood each other!

She walked slowly, trailing her fingers along the wall and listening to the night sounds. The chirping frogs had long since gone to bed, but there were whispers, rustles, and snaps enough to remind her that there were plenty of other creatures who weren’t asleep. 

Her pace quickened as she neared one door, for it was the little room in which her husband slept, and she saw he had a light.

Abruptly she stopped – she had heard a sound that had nothing to do with the sibilant bustle of night in the forest. She listened a long while before it came again: a dreadful, convulsive gasp, followed by a painful silence.

She peered quickly into the chamber: her husband was sitting hunched over the little table, his mouth open, his head lolling onto his shoulder and his hand twisted into his hair, with the other arm lying limp on the table.

She stepped away and leaned back against the wall. Of course she had told herself she believed he was sick, but she hadn’t realized he was sick. Her heart beat painfully. What should she do? Could she go to him? She awaited each breath in anguish. Each time that it seemed that the next would not come, she would make up her mind to open the door just as he gasped again. 

And so she waited, and slowly his breathing returned to normal, and at last she heard him push back the chair and stand up. She stood silently, wondering whether he would open the door, and what she would do if he did. But he blew out the light, and a moment later she heard the bed creak as he lay down.

There was nothing left for her to do but to go back to bed herself.