Sumerford's Autumn by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

Author:Barbara Gaskell Denvil [Denvil, Barbara Gaskell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gaskell Publishing
Published: 2015-09-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One

Alysson stretched out her right arm, staring, unblinking, flexing the fingers and twisting her wrist. She was still charmed, almost surprised, to find her muscles obeying her, her bones knitted again as neat as a fine pair of hose. But those same muscles had shrunk and become weakened and thin. The veins seemed garish, wriggling serpentine just below the pale wrinkled flesh. Alysson extended her left arm, holding the two parallel. They no longer matched. She sighed, pulling down the sleeves of her chemise again and retightening her robe.

It was six days now since the sling had been discarded, the bandages unwound and the splint finally removed. Discovering her pallid puckered skin unshrouded and again displayed, Alysson gazed for a long time, practising her grip and the feeble strength of her fingers.

She had learned to eat with her left hand, clumsy with a spoon but nimble enough with bread, pies and food already sliced. Often it had been Ludovic who had sliced it for her, sitting beside the bed as she ate, telling her absurd stories so that she laughed and spilled her soup. At first her diet had been milk sops and gruel, but by early September Ludovic had insisted she receive proper solids, red meat and custards. He had spooned much of it for her, tying her napkin around her neck like a collar, commanding her to open her mouth, and shovelling in food as a mother bird feeds its fledgling. He had even named her as such. “Now, little squab, open. Close. Chew. Now swallow. And smile.”

He had taught her chess, presenting her with his own set wrought from ebony and silver. When occasionally he failed to beat her at the game and threw down his king in surrender, Alysson scowled and called him a cheat. They had wagered at dice, with prizes of honeyed biscuits and aniseed cakes. He had told her something of his family history, not the wild stories of rape and abduction that he had recounted once before, but the quieter, sweeter tales of hard work, care for the land, character, friendship and loving. He had read to her for long hours by the lilting light of the fire, books of giants and unicorns, bloodshed and chivalry, crusade and comedy. He had read her love stories of King Arthur courting his queen, and of knights laying down their lives for their ladies.

One day, he promised, when she once more had the use of two hands, he would teach her to play the lute. “I am sadly no master,” he told her, “but I can show you the chords and some simple tunes. Then I expect the pupil to surpass her instructor.” But sometimes, after supper when the wind whistled and the fire flared, he would sit within the shadows, candles snuffed, and play the old melodies, fingering the strings with his eyes closed as if he played while half asleep and dreamed to the music.

On mild and sun pooled afternoons, he had taken her up onto the battlements to walk with him, stretching her legs and breathing deep.

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