“I don’t know what to do,” he said suddenly, his voice filled with anger. Without another word, he pulled open his trousers and fell over her. He was pressing at her, opening her, and she began to struggle against him, all the intense feelings swamped in fear.
In that moment a cramp seized her belly and she cried out, trying to lurch up.
He came up onto his elbows. “Stop fighting me.” She was breathing hard, truly frightened now, but not of him. “What is wrong?”
“My belly,” she managed, shoving at him. He rolled off her and watched as another cramp doubled her over. She rolled to her side, her arms locked about herself, crying out softly.
He frowned. “What is wrong?”
“I don’t know. It hurts, Rorik.” The cramps came more quickly now, more viciously. Suddenly, she gagged, and came up onto her knees. She vomited her dinner, vomited until there was naught left in her belly and still she shuddered and gagged and heaved.
He held her shoulders, keeping her hair away from her sweating face. He felt the bone-deep shudders in her, the wrenching of her belly that spread throughout her body, making her weak.
Still she heaved until she was so weak she fell back against his chest.
“ ’Twas something you ate,” he said. “There must be others who are ill. Lie still. I will fetch you some water to clean out your mouth. Don’t move, Mirana.”
When Rorik returned, he held her against him and slowly fed her water from a wooden cup. She spat it out, then swallowed some. Her belly cramped immediately and she moaned.
“Asta is sick,” he said. “No one else.”
Mirana said nothing. She just wanted to die. She closed her eyes, her head lolling against his chest.
“I’m carrying you back to my sleeping chamber. My parents will sleep in the outer hall.”
But then it would be more difficult for her to escape, she thought, but it wasn’t a strong thought, merely a vague thought that went softly through her mind and was soon gone. A cramp twisted inside her and she knew then she would die. She couldn’t bear this sort of pain, no one could bear it. It was beyond anything she could have imagined.
She was ill throughout the night. She was aware that Rorik’s mother was there, and she put a cup to her lips and told her to drink, that it was an herb—the root of the brawly bush—that would help settle her belly, that it would calm her. She wondered if it were also poison that would make her sleep forever, but she didn’t care. She drank it. It tasted sour, of old milk, but it did settle her belly, and she slept until the belly cramps woke her again.
Old Alna was beside her this time, wiping her face with a cool damp cloth, and it felt wonderful. She spoke of the cheese making that would soon begin in earnest, of the growing crops that were flourishing with the rain that had fallen so heavily during the past days, of Sculla, so tall that he would walk amongst the rows of barley waving his arms, and surely this scared the birds and animals away. Mirana listened and wondered why she should care. Surely she would die soon.
She awoke once and believed she was floating above herself, feeling light and insubstantial, as unfettered as a cloud or a western breeze. She felt a strange emptiness and sought to fill herself with something that would give her meaning again, that would give her substance. Then she was within her body again and she wanted to die at the twisting, roiling cramps.
And Rorik, he was always there, either lying beside her on the box bed or speaking softly to whoever was in the chamber with them. He would hold her, lightly rubbing her back, massaging her belly, holding her when she retched and shuddered and fell against him in exhaustion, the spasms temporarily ended. But they always came back and she knew she was growing too weak to fight the pain in her mind. Her body would give up because her mind would have no more will to combat the pain.
Near dawn she fell into a deep sleep, her head lolling in near unconsciousness against Rorik’s chest. She slept until midday and awoke with no more cramping, no more pain. She lay there, waiting, distrusting, too afraid to move, but she was as she had been. Just so very weak. Her ribs hurt as did the muscles in her stomach. She had no more strength, no more will. She felt like an old woman, surely older than Alna. She wanted only to sleep.
She opened her eyes at a sound from the doorway. There was Rorik, standing there, looking at her. He said, “I have a bowl of broth for you, made by Utta. She said that her mother loved the broth and it was the only thing she could eat without vomiting before she died.”
Mirana shoved herself up in the bed. It took all her strength. How, she wondered suddenly, now firmly back into her body and into the present with all its vast complications, would she and Entti escape now?
Rorik set the large wooden tray on her lap. Steam from the broth curled upward. It smelled delicious. “Do you want me to feed you?”
“Nay,” she said, and took the spoon from him. She managed one bite, then dropped it. Her hand was trembling and her forehead was damp with sweat. Rorik took the spoon and pressed her back against the pillows. She wondered at this new gentleness in him but said nothing. There’d been none in him the previous night before she’d become so ill.
“Open your mouth.”
She did. She ate the entire bowl of beef broth. It was the best broth she’d ever tasted in her life. Her stomach felt bloated and very content.
“Why didn’t you let me die?”
“You weren’t ready to die. You’re young and strong. Speak no more about dying, Mirana.”
“Was anyone else ill besides Asta and me?”
He shook his head. He looked away.
“How is Asta?”