Free Falls the Shadow by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

can maim, can leave men with their senses bereft, their tongues hobbled. But God has spared you that. Your wits are clear; so, too, is your speech. Your left arm and leg are benumbed, weak. But it may well be that in time you’ll regain some use of them. I do believe that, my lord. You never lost consciousness; that is a good sign. And the muscles in your face were afflicted for but a few hours. That, too, bodes well for your recovery. But you must be patient, my lord. Above all, you must not lose heart.”
    Llewelyn did not reply, and after a few moments heard the doctor’s retreating footsteps. But he was not yet alone; Ednyved still stood by the bed. “I know your thoughts,” he said, not sounding like Ednyved at all; for once, there was no mockery in that quiet voice, no sarcasm.
    “Do you?”
    “Yes. You do not understand why the Lord God took Joanna from you, why He then did not take you. And as you lie there in that bed, you wish He had.”
    Llewelyn turned his head on the pillow, looked at the other man. “Could you blame me if that were so?”
    “I, too, lost my wife within the past twelvemonth, but never did I love Gwenllian, not as you loved Joanna. Nor am I the one stricken with palsy. Blame you? No, Llewelyn, no. I can but tell you this. The ways of the Almighty are beyond our understanding. Why does He strike down the innocent with the guilty? Why does He claim a babe in its cradle? Why did He afflict my son with leprosy?” He leaned over the bed. “We need you still, Llewelyn. That is why the Lord stayed His hand. That is why you must not despair.”
    He stepped back. “Davydd, Elen, and Gwladys were sorely troubled by what happened this forenoon. They love you well, Llewelyn.”
    “I know,” Llewelyn said, sounding so weary that Ednyved winced.
    “Well, I shall leave you now, that you may rest.” Adding reluctantly, “You must be told, though. Gruffydd has withdrawn into Powys.” He received no answer, but then, he had not expected one.
     
    Llewelyn’s dream was disjointed, confused, but held such dark overtones of menace that he awoke with a gasp. The chamber was deep in shadows; he’d lost all sense of time, of place. But then he started to sit up, found himself wrenched back to the brutal reality of his plight, to the dead weight where his left leg should have been.
    He raised himself up awkwardly on his elbow, threw off the coverlets. His body was still lean, showed the effects of a lifetime of hard activity, of riding, fighting. Across his ribcage, along his collar bone was the evidence of old wounds; the only serious sickness he’d ever known had been inflicted at sword-point. A third scar zigzagged down the upper thigh of his left leg. The leg was bent at the knee, angled away from his body, the muscles constricted, as if in spasm. He reached over, tracked the knotted path of the scar, felt nothing, as if he were touching foreign flesh, not his own. He’d begun to shiver; he pulled the blankets up, lay back against the pillow.
    His left arm had drawn itself up to his chest. He stared at his hand, willed it to move, concentrated upon that to the exclusion of all else. His fingers twitched, slowly curved inward, formed a fist. He exhaled his breath, staring down at the hand, a stranger’s hand. But no matter how he tried, he could not get his fist to unclench. At last he gripped those frozen fingers in his right hand, pried them apart; his eyes filled with tears.
    A sudden creaking alerted him that he was no longer alone; the door had just opened. He wanted no witnesses, wanted no solace, no pity. “Get out,” he said roughly. “Get out—now!”
    No footsteps sounded; the door did not open again. All was still, the only sound that of his own uneven breathing. He grabbed for the bed hangings, jerked them back. In the center of the room a light flickered weakly, a horn lantern holding a single tallow candle. Above it he could just make out the chalk-white face of his grandson.
    The