Falls the Shadow by Sharon Kay Penman Page B

cheaply?”
    “What?”
    “Why should God punish you by taking John? That makes of him little more than a pawn, Elen. Does that not seem rather arrogant to you, that you should allot so much worth to your own soul and so little worth to his?”
    “Simon!” Nell hissed. “How can you talk to Elen like this, now of all times!”
    He ignored her, kept his eyes upon his cousin’s widow. “John did not die because the Almighty wanted to punish you. He died because it was his time. That is the truth of it, Elen. To believe anything else is an insult to John, an insult to God.”
    “Simon, enough! How can you be so cruel?”
    “No, Nell.” Elen drew an unsteady breath. “It is all right,” she said, “truly,” and Nell saw that Simon’s brutal common sense had somehow given Elen more comfort than her own sympathy.
    Elen raised a hand to her face, seemed surprised when her fingers came away wet. “I shall try to remember your words,” she said to Simon. “Now…now there is so much I must do. John must be buried at St Werburgh’s; it was his wish. I must bathe him, must…” She faltered, and Nell said swiftly,
    “I will take care of that for you, Elen. Simon and I will take care of everything, I promise. Come now…come with me. If you do not get some rest, you will not be well enough for the funeral.”
    She’d expected an argument, but Elen nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for your kindness to my husband, to me.” She moved back to the bed then, bent over and brushed her lips to John’s forehead. Straightening up, she had to catch Simon’s arm for support, and only then did they realize how close she was to physical collapse.
    “John deserved a better death than this,” she said softly. “And a better wife.”
     
    John the Scot, seventh Earl of Chester, was buried on Monday, the 8th of June, before the High Altar in the Benedictine abbey of St Werburgh at Chester, the same church in which he and Elen had been wed more than fourteen years earlier.
    Abbot Walter had turned over his private quarters to the Earl’s widow. His great hall was crowded now with mourners. Servants passed back and forth among them, offering wine, ale, and cider, sweetmeats. The solemnity of the funeral Mass had slowly given way to the perverse cheer peculiar to wakes; people drank and ate with unseemly zest, shared news and gossip, speculated what would befall the earldom of Chester, for John’s heirs were all female.
    Nell would normally have enjoyed such a gathering, for she was the most sociable of beings, and she very much appreciated the attention a lovely woman could invariably command. But now her every thought was for Elen, Elen who moved amid the mourners like a wraith, so detached, so apparently aloof that she was giving rise to gossip, among those who did not know—as Nell did—just how frighteningly fragile Elen’s composure was. As soon as she could, Nell drew Elen aside, led her toward the Abbot’s private chamber at the south end of the hall.
    “No arguments, not a word. As soon as I get your gown off, it’s into that bed.” Ignoring Elen’s half-hearted protests, Nell soon had the other woman stripped to her chemise. Removing Elen’s veil, she deftly uncoiled Elen’s thick, black hair—a pity Elen’s coloring was so unfashionable—and propelled Elen toward the bed.
    “There, dearest, just lie back. You truly ought to rest awhile. I daresay you never suspected I could be so motherly!” Nell busied herself in fluffing the pillows, tucking the blankets in. “I think it is fortunate, indeed, Elen, that you are Prince Llewelyn’s daughter.”
    Elen was not as surprised as she might have been; Nell’s conversations were often enlivened by such seeming non sequiturs. “Why?”
    “Because he’ll look out for your interests, make sure your dower rights are protected. To tell you true, Elen, you’d best keep an eye on those sisters of John’s. Their husbands cannot wait to get