Falls the Shadow by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

mayhap…” She snuggled back in his arms, and it was the true measure of her exhaustion that she felt no excitement at being so close to him, only a drowsy sense of security. Soon, she slept.
    She awoke more than two hours later, and was both astonished and touched that Simon—so restless, so intense and energetic—should have found the patience to sit quietly, holding her while she slept. She was dangerously drawn to him, acutely aware of the strong sexual attraction that burned between them. But she’d not realized he could be tender, too.
    They followed a woodland path back to Darnhall, their steps instinctively slowing as they neared the manor, not talking, reveling in the unexpected intimacy of silence. They were within sight of the manor gatehouse when thunder crashed over their heads and rain poured down in torrents. They ran for shelter, hand in hand; by the time they reached the great hall, they were both soaked to the skin. Laughing, they hurried toward the fire, leaving puddles in their wake.
    “Simon, I’m half-drowned!” Nell jerked off her sopping wimple; even her long, blonde braids were drenched, dripping water onto the floor rushes. Still giggling, she glanced toward Simon. He’d already sobered, more sensitive than she to the atmosphere in the hall. Nell looked around her, saw only somber, disapproving faces, and sighed. Laughter was a sin of no small proportions in a house waiting for death.
    Abbot Walter moved toward them. “My lord of Leicester, Madame. I regret I must be the one to tell you. Whilst you were gone, the Earl of Chester’s earthly cares came to an end. He was taken to God nigh on an hour ago.”
     
    Elen was sitting in John’s favorite chair. She was so still she scarcely seemed to be breathing; her dark eyes were dilated, blind. She did not react to the opening door, to the sound of her name.
    “Elen, I’m so sorry!” Nell knelt by Elen’s chair, put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “If only we’d been here,” she said remorsefully, and Elen pulled away from her comforting embrace.
    “I fell asleep,” she said; her voice was toneless, flat, not like Elen’s voice at all. “I did not mean to, but I was tired, so tired. And whilst I slept, he died.”
    “Ah, Elen, you cannot blame yourself for that. John would understand, truly he—”
    “It is my fault,” Elen said, still in that strangely muffled voice. “My fault.”
    “Elen, that is ridiculous! The Blessed Virgin herself could not have given John better care than you did. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, nothing!”
    “You do not understand.” Elen rose, moved toward the bed, where she stood staring down at her husband’s body. “John had taken the cross, meant to depart this year for the Holy Land. I knew how dangerous such a pilgrimage would be; I knew how many died on such quests. And I could not help thinking that John might die, too. I let myself imagine how it would be if he did not come back, if I were widowed.” Tears had begun to streak her face; she seemed not to notice. “I did not truly want his death, I swear I did not. I just wanted to be free. Was that so very terrible, Nell? That I wanted to be free?”
    “No!” Nell’s answer came unthinkingly, a cry from the heart. “No, of course it is not, Elen.”
    Elen had yet to take her eyes from her husband’s face. “Then why,” she whispered, “do I feel like this? Why do I feel as if his death is my doing?”
    Nell was utterly at a loss. She turned, gave Simon a look of mute appeal, and he moved away from the door, joined Elen beside her husband’s body.
    “Do you think he was a good man?” he asked, and Elen nodded. “A good Christian?” She bit her lip, again nodded. Nell was beginning to look indignant; was this Simon’s idea of comfort?
    He reached out suddenly, grasped Elen’s shoulders and turned her to face him. “Then why,” he demanded, “do you think God would value his life so