Wynflaed is pulled out of her own pain

Lady Wynflaed was becoming as devout as she appeared. It was perhaps unseemly for a lady to pray in the chapel in her nightgown, but here on the high gallery, no eyes ever saw her save the Lord’s. Occasionally there were also her husband’s, but he came less often now. With the passing years Sigefrith was growing accustomed to her pain, and moreover he knew she would no longer consent to cuddle on the bench with him. The Lord, however, she felt to be always near.

She had confided her illness to the Abbot, having seen in his gaunt face and blue-​​shadowed eyes the signs of fellowship in the brotherhood of pain. He had taught her that the Lord did not send such afflictions on good Christians for the purpose of making them martyrs to their suffering. He had told her that she need neither be ashamed of her pain nor bear it in silence, so long as she did not go to the other extreme and give herself up to it utterly.

But more importantly, he had taught her how to pray through pain – truly pray, and not merely grit her teeth and mutter her way through the Lord’s Prayer. He had showed her how pain wiped away everything else, and how that left only pain standing between her and the Lord. The trick was in getting past the pain. However, sometimes she arrived, and at those moments, as he had promised, she found bodily pain a shortcut to beatitude.

At those moments she found an interruption from Sigefrith to be a shortcut back to pain.

But tonight Sigefrith surprised her out of her annoyance by appearing fully dressed, though she had left him naked in the bed when she had risen.

He helped her up with greater than usual tenderness and murmured, “Poor girl… are you hurting?”

“Not too much, tonight. But why are you all dressed?” She suddenly thought of her sister-​​in-​​law, who was even more pregnant than she. “Has something happened at the castle?”

“No, no. I just talked to a messenger who was coming from there, in fact. All is well there. But, Wyn, I must ride out to Acanweald. Judith is dying. I fear she may already by dead by now.”

“What?” Wynflaed gasped. “Oh, no!”

“She suffered a miscarriage a day or two ago and now she has a fever. Or had.” Sigefrith pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, as if he could stop the tears inside.

“They don’t think she has a chance?”

“You may pray for her, Wyn. In any case. And pray for Britmar and the children. And pray for your husband, too, while you’re at it.” He smiled weakly. “It’s a long way in the dark.”

“But…” Wynflaed hesitated a moment before deciding she could at least speak on behalf of the child in her belly. “Can’t you wait until it’s light? It isn’t safe…”

“I want to be there for Brit. I feel as if… I can understand better than anyone how he feels.” His smile seemed almost ashamed.

Wynflaed hesitated again, but this time he spoke before she could find the courage to ask her question.

“Judith always was a good mother to his children…” he mumbled.

It was not much of an explanation, but Wynflaed understood. She had already overheard the phrase applied to Hilda so many times.

She took a breath and said, “Give Brit my love. And kiss the poor children for me. And Judith, too, if you are not too late.”

“I shall in any case,” he whispered.

“Of course.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, not touching. But Sigefrith bent suddenly and patted her belly.

“You take care of Mama while I’m away, runt. If she starts acting up, you just kick her for me.”

“That’s what you mean by ‘taking care of Mama’?” she laughed.

“I know you’re always dying for me to get out of the house so you can misbehave.” He smiled as he spoke, but his face was suddenly contorted as if from pain. He hugged her quickly to hide it and said, “I shall send word as soon as I arrive. Sigefrith will be leaving at dawn, if you think of a message you need carried. Take care of everyone, starting with yourself and this runt. And it’s Friday – don’t forget to remind Haakon about his Latin before Father Brandt comes. And get some sleep, first.”

Wynflaed nodded earnestly. “Be careful.”

He only kissed her and hurried to the door.

She laid her hands on her belly, suddenly and painfully reminded of the perilous journey she herself was taking.

Sigefrith’s first wife had died at the end of it, and Judith had not made it even halfway there. It was a journey she would take over and over until she too perished along the way, or until she grew too old to take it – and she was still very young.

She was only waiting for the door to close before letting her tears fall, but Sigefrith turned abruptly, crossed the floor in three long strides, and grabbed her.

“Did I tell you I love you?” he asked.

“No!” she laughed.

“I remember it’s Latin lesson day and I forget the most important thing. What a looby!” he sighed.

She was not making the journey alone, and she thought it might have been more difficult for him, since he could only follow and could not help her along.

“What a looby!” she agreed.

If they never saw one another again, she thought, at least their last moments together would have been spent laughing. And if she died, his family and friends would say, “They were so in love.”