Chapter 8: Eglantine
It was a cold night, as the fall was beginning to wane, and the winter was approaching the Stormlands. The maesters promised that this winter would not be a terrible one, but Eglantine could not tell. As she walked the halls of her husband's castle, she gribbed the robe she had around her, pulling it tighter against her body as the chills went up her spine. Cold winds could be heard, like voices in the other rooms, and the freezing temperatures ran along her ankles, feet, hands, face, and the other bare parts of her body. It was so cold on the floor that she was absolutely certain that in due time one of her feet would be completely frozen against the stone.
Crying, she thought,
I hear crying.
There had actually been no crying until she thought that, and then there it was, echoing down the hall from one of the rooms on the left. It was as if Eglantine had thought the crying into existence. It was a high pitched, unorganized crying, sporadic in its pattern but incessant. She took her small steps towards the room where the sound was coming from, and inside she could see a small whicker bed, like those used for infants. She could hear the crying coming from that. Despite some nagging fear in the back of her mind, she compelled herself to step in, approaching the whicker basket and look down into it.
On the sheets, within the basket, was a bloodied fetus, crying horribly.
Eglantine covered her mouth with her hands, and yet opened it to scream. It was at that moment that she woke up.
When she looked about where she was, she saw that she was back in her bedroom. She was naked, and covered in sweat. Shaky hands found their way to her face wiping the sweat from her brow and moving messy strands of dark hair from her eyes. Slow, deep breaths attempted to relax her nerves, and she told herself over and over again that it was just a dream. Just a dream. Only a dream. A dream. It meant nothing. Dreams couldn't hurt you. They could frighten you for a moment, and they could make you worry, but they could never hurt you.
She turned and saw the shape of her husband under the bedsheets. He was facing away from her, sound asleep as he usually was. For many nights, she had been suffering these dreams, but had kept them from him. No more. Now, he needed to know. They did not truly love one another, but they were still husband and wife, and some things needed to be shared even among couples who hated each other. She reached out and gently shook him. He didn't seem to stir. She shook him harder. Still he did not stir.
It was then that she realized that something was seeping through the sheets that were covering him. It was a dark substance, and everywhere his outline was, the substance was appearing. It took only a moment for Eglantine to see, through the faint light in the room, that it was red. Blood. With a shiver, Eglantine pulled the covers back and turned her husband over. She let out a scream.
There, before her, was a bloodied, misshapen corpse – but it was not her husband. It was a younger man, with some of the features of her husband, but with her hair and nose. His eyes were rolled back, and his mouth was dangling open, the jaw at a slight angle as if broken. In her mind, somehow, she knew who it was: it was her son, Robin Threedrop, as he would have been as an adult...and here he was, slain before her.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eglantine could make out a strange shape. She turned, and for a moment she thought she saw a manifestation of the Stranger. A dark shroud was at the foot of her bed, wrapped around a tall figure with pale hands, holding something under its cloak. The hood lifted up, and she saw the face of a middle aged woman, tears pouring down her face. No, no it wasn't the Stranger...it was the Mother. How she knew this, Eglantine wasn't sure, but it sent a chill down her spine: the Mother was always portrayed as a loving maternal figure...who was this beast that had appeared before her bed?
"What are you?" Eglantine finally asked. Her voice was shaky, and cracked as she did her best not to break down. She was attempting to back up, but was stopped by the headboard of the bed.
The figure took something from her cloak, and Eglantine saw that it was a bloodied fetus like she had seen before. This young child had developed more, and the sexual organs could be seen. It was a girl.
"They took her from me," the figure said.
"Not me!" Eglantine cried out. "Not me!"
"Your husband," the figure said, "while she lay in the womb, helpless and afraid. He and his woman slaughtered her."
"Please," Eglantine said, finally crying herself into hysterics, unable to control herself any longer, "why?"
"He must suffer for what he has done," the figure said, "and so he shall always..."
"No!" Eglantine cried out.
Suddenly, the figure was on the bed, standing right above Eglantine. She could see a long sword in the Mother's hand, where a child had formerly been. The Mother raised it up high, the end of the blade pointed right for her womb. The Massey let out a cry as the sword went right down into it...
These dreams had plagued ever since that day, when she went into labor...and the male child, who had been named Robin, had perished.
It had been a hard thing to grasp. For so long, Eglantine had felt the joys and pains of a first pregnancy: the sickness of the first few months, the lovely feeling of a small child kicking and moving inside you, and finally the anxiety and eagerness in the last few months. Then, all that ended the night when, after several hours of pain, grunting, and pushing, it was all for naught. The child was not alive when it left the womb. The midwives had permitted Eglantine a chance to see and hold him, and for a brief moment the lady of Herston Hall had hoped that, by some miracle, the baby would open its eyes, see her, and giggle, happy to be with his mommy. That wasn't the case – the child was lost. The child was never going to grow up. Eglantine was never going to see his first crawl, see his first walk, hear his first words, or see him train and study to be a lord. She was never going to be a mother to him. When he was dead and buried a day later, the septon's words did little to comfort her. He was in the ground, and she was not. He was her child...but she was not a mother.
Lorys did seem affected by the loss. He seemed genuinely sad, which moved Eglantine. For once he kept to himself, and saw no one else – not even Maester Dermot. Eglantine had attempted to reach out to him, but he had spurned all his attempts. Eventually, he began to see
that woman again. He had even gone so far soon afterward as to make her his Master of Laws. It wasn't that she wasn't qualified for the job, but compared to Ser Jeren, she was
just as qualified. There was no reason to have Ser Jeren replaced, but Lorys assured everyone that Jorda was a perfect fit. Eglantine knew the reason why: he got to hear her voice during the council sessions, and he got to entrust her with important tasks, and he got to speak with her and have pleasant conversations and spend well into the late evenings discussing various topics and...
Errrgh! I cannot stand her! Eglantine would think. She had never known anyone to make her so enraged. It made her hot under the collar, and cause he blood to boil. Sometimes when she saw that woman she wanted to wrap her fingers around that woman's throat and tighten her grip until no sign of life shot back from those young, beautiful eyes.
In March of 288 AL, Jorda miscarried. That was what the maester said, at least, but Eglantine knew the truth – she had always known the truth ever since the dreams began. Jorda had been pregnant with Lorys' child, but she wanted to have no children – especially bastard children – and so she drank moon tea to kill the child in the womb. The baby had been a girl...the same gender as the bloodied infant the Mother had held in Eglantine's dream.
Lorys was obviously becoming aware that people were beginning to talk about his special relationship with Jorda, especially after her appointment to the council. He attempted to shift away discussions by appointing another newcomer, this a new castallan, to the council (Master Robert, the new mayor of Lockport), and by arranging a marriage between Jorda and Steffon, the old castellan. This enraged Eglantine even more, since she knew the truth, and knew that Lorys was attempting to hide it. The dreams and the lies in the court had driven her insane, and now she had to do something about it.
One night, at the septry, she did something she had never done before: prayed to the Stranger. She lit a candle before his altar and prostrated before him, and asked him to assist her with her dilemma. In as sincere a tone as possible, she begged the Stranger to appease the Mother, and to help bring about peace. She wanted judgment upon this situation, and she wanted judgment as soon as possible. Most of all, she wanted vengeance for her lost son, and Jorda's murdered daughter.
Then, in May of 288 AL, Eglantine received news...
When the news was reported to the lord and lady around dinner of that day, their reactions couldn't have been more polar opposites: Lorys' eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped, looking like he was in absolute shock; Eglantine gave a soft smile and got a glow in her eye, despite herself. She had never intended to be so obvious in her dislike for Jorda, but the news was overwhelmingly good. It didn't matter any way – most of the servants and court members knew of her dislike for Jorda, or understood why such a dislike would exist, and no one really judged her for it.
"What shall I do with this?" Lorys asked no one in particular, still reeling from the news as the messenger left.
"Appoint Ser Jeren back to his position," Eglantine said rather matter-of-factly. She stood up, tossed her handkerchef down onto the table, and simply said, "Good night to you, dear lord husband," before she left.
