Eadgith asks for a lullaby

Eadgith was not asleep. Sigefrith was dimly aware of her breath on his shoulder, and the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin, and the persistent stroking of her fingers in a tight circle over his biceps.

That was well enough, but she would whisper his name from time to time. Alas! it was true. He had a wife who would ask whether one was awake until one was most definitely awake in any event. There was no point in trying to sleep through it.

His other hand came up and dropped upon the little hand that lay on his arm. At least that maddening stroking would be stopped.

“Are you awake?” she whispered eagerly.

“Was I snoring?” he mumbled.

“No. But I can’t sleep.”

“Shall I sing you a lullaby, little baby?”

“Do you sing lullabies to your little babies?”

He grunted and let his hand fall back to his side. Hers was still now. “Most of the songs I know aren’t fit for young ears. Or yours.”

“But do you?”

He opened his eyes. Behind the windows the night was very dark. There was only the long candle she had left burning for Saint Catherine, and that stood behind the curtain that divided the room. If it burned still, it could not yet be very late.

“I suppose I sang to Emmie quite a bit. She was often ill.”

“Lullabies?”

“I don’t know. Silly things. Alred is the man to ask for lullabies, and any other sort of song.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. Now that that was settled, perhaps he could sleep again.

“You might ask him to teach you some,” she said.

“If I thought it would help you sleep, young lady, I would.”

“But Sigefrith!”

She slid her hand down his arm until it reached his hand and slipped her fingers between his. She lay close enough to him that he could feel her soft fur tickle the back of his wrist. She would wake him, one way or another.

“Not for me!” she whispered.

She was fairly squirming, like an eager puppy. He opened his eyes again.

“Mother told me I mustn’t tell you so soon, but I can’t help it! I can’t help it! Sigefrith!”

As soon as he turned his head, she began to cry. He only saw that look of fierce, victorious pride for an instant. Then she was crying in his arms, overwrought with her happiness, and babbling about babies and being sick and her mother and July and the nursery and other things suddenly of great concern to her.

Fortunately none of it required much of a reply on his part. He was still stunned. He had planned, for a few months at least, to stop hoping that her wish might be granted. He had wanted to wait until Theobald had a bit of his old look about him again, and until Matilda was out of danger – or beyond all danger. There would be time enough, he thought. His wife was very young. He had not had her long.

He absently stroked her hair down her back. He had always liked to see it spread out across the pillow when he laid her down, but now he thought – he thought – he thought of Githa, and how her curly hair had been spread out on either side of her face, and of the dark, wine-​​colored ribbons that trilled through it, and how he had wondered that no one besides he had seemed to notice how they looked like rivulets of blood spreading out from her white face – as if she had any blood left in her to spill.

His wife was very young, and she was healthy and strong. He had never expected it would be much trouble for her. One did not, unless one had reason to.

Alred had. Matilda lived on with the plodding determination of one who knows that the end of the journey is no longer very far, and there will be no further need for rest along the way. She had already left Alred behind.

It was a bitter season, he thought, and it was not the time he would have chosen. His wife was very young. He had not had her long enough.