Authors: Christina Dodd
“You can question Griffith later,” Angharad said, making Marian wonder if Rhys’s authority was indeed absolute. “Now we need to care for Lady Marian. Griffith, take her to your sleeping chamber.”
“Wife…”
Rhys’s voice sounded ominous, but Angharad seemed unaffected by it. “Griffith can sleep in the great hall with the servants.”
Rhys groaned. “Little tyrant.”
Angharad dimpled and curtsied to him, then
clasped her hands in her apron. “Saint Winifred’s head, I must start the maids to work on the chamber, and the cook to preparing a proper dinner!” She ran off, as light-footed as a true angel with wings.
Griffith watched after her with a smile that brought a lump to Marian’s throat, then he looked down at her. “You lost your mother,” he pledged, “so I give you mine.” Clasping Marian more tightly, he started out the door.
A gentle rain sprinkled Marian’s face, mingling with the tears that dappled her cheeks, but she blinked it all away and looked about her at Castle Powel. The massive outer walls dwarfed the guards who stood on them, and the four towers dwarfed the walls. The keep, sturdy and gray, stood on a knoll within the bailey, and Griffith climbed toward it. It seemed to grow taller as they approached—intimidating, strong, unyielding—reminding her of something.
Griffith.
She wanted to huddle into his arms, and at the same time she wanted to run away. This place had cradled and formed Griffith into its likeness. Like Griffith, it dealt harshly with its enemies yet protected those who sheltered in its shadow. If she chose to yield to Griffith, she would be sheltered, too. Yet if she did not, she would be battering herself against the stone of his determination—uselessly, she suspected.
They stood before the great oak door and as it swung open to swallow her, she struggled in blind panic.
“Marian.”
Griffith called her name, and she glanced up at him wildly.
He knew what she feared. “In Wales, some practice the tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold. ’Tis a remembrance of those days when the bride was stolen from her family. Is there a similar tradition in England?”
She wanted to shout. She could scarcely whisper, “Cur. Louse.”
He stopped her mouth with a swift kiss and passed into the keep. Climbing the stairs to the great hall, he paused to let her absorb the sight. “Your English King Edward built castles to subdue the wild Welsh rebels, and we built Castle Powel to fight him. We lost, of course. Castle Powel stayed in English hands until my lick-dog ancestor groveled before his new master.”
Right behind him, Angharad gave him a push. “Upstairs to your room, Griffith. Lady Marian can hear the glorious Powel history when she’s well. ’Tis a musty old keep, and nothing to brag about.”
Marian understood Angharad’s complaint. The keep showed its age in the lack of built-in comfort, but this had been compensated for with cushions, tapestries, and continuously burning fires. The chimneys scarcely smoked, the windows captured all the outdoor light to be had, and the servants performed their duties with a smile.
Art stepped up and pulled the now damp blanket off her. “Ye’ll be good for Lady Angharad, won’t ye?”
Marian hesitated, and his hands began to tremble.
“No matter what foul-tasting medicines she gives ye, ye’ll swallow them, won’t ye?”
She set her chin, and his one eye filled with tears.
“I never told ye, but ye remind me of my own eldest daughter. I couldn’t bear to lose another such dear girl.”
“Blackmail,” she whispered, but she knew she’d lost. “I promise.”
Art grinned, his tears dried as if by magic. “Ye do as Lady Angharad says and get well, and I—” he glanced uneasily at Griffith, but went on anyway as he took Lionel from Rhys—“I will take care of yer lad, just as I promised. Don’t fret yerself about him.”
“Nay.” But she faltered, for how could she not fret about Lionel? “I’ll not worry.”
The room to which Griffith took her bustled with the activity of many maids. They warmed the sheets, fanned the new-laid fire, sprinkled savory herbs among the clean reeds on the floor. A kettle of water bubbled on the hearth, and Angharad said, “Good. You brought my medicines.”
The maids bobbed and smiled as Griffith laid Marian on the sheets. Leaning over, he placed a fist on either side of her head. “
Croeso i Cymru
. Welcome to Wales.”
Had she been relieved to see him in that hut in the mountains? If so, she didn’t remember why. He was a pushy, obnoxious man who thought too highly of his lovemaking and the rights it gave him.
Agitated, she tried to push him away. Angharad did it for her. “Leave her to me,” the older woman said.
“Let me stay and help,” Griffith said. “I’ve cared for her all the way to Powel—surely I can be of help here.”
“No!” Marian croaked.
Angharad glanced toward the door. “Rhys?”
Rhys stepped forward. “We have matters to discuss. If you would excuse us, Lady Marian. Lady Marian…?”
Responding to the implicit question, Griffith said, “Lady Marian Wenthaven.”
“Wenthaven?” Rhys said sharply. “From Shropshire?”
Alarmed, Marian lifted her head.
“Aye, from Shropshire,” Griffith replied. “But why…?”
Rhys placed a hand on Griffith’s arm. “We must talk now.”
With a glance at the bed, Griffith followed his father, shutting the door behind him.
He was pleased with this day’s work. He’d been half-frantic every time he’d looked at Marian’s
cheeks, which were ruddy yet drawn with a wasting fever, and at her dull, anxious eyes. But it seemed as if his home had already begun working its magic on her.
Yet trouble had followed them, he guessed, and he turned to his father to ask, “Why do you know the name of Wenthaven?”
“An elderly beggar came to the gate only two nights ago, wrapped to his chin in rugs and cloaks and hobbling quite convincingly. We practice Christian charity, of course, and we brought him to the hearth to feed him.” With a sideways glance at Griffith, Rhys added, “I was quite interested in this Englishman beggar.”
“He was an Englishman?” Griffith straightened his shoulders. “Here?”
“Quite a long stretch out of the way for your normal beggar, I thought.”
“Aye. Did he have an explanation for his direction?”
“Not at first. Not until he’d imbibed a large portion of a cask of wine. Then he complained of warmth, and threw off his wraps.” Rhys smiled grimly. “Then he complained of a need, and tried to entice the maids. If he’d been sober, he’d have been good at it, I suspect.”
“Handsome face? One hand?” With sinking heart, Griffith identified him. “Harbottle.”
“Ah, you do know him. Recently of the household of Wenthaven in Shropshire, and recently the lover of the daughter of the house.”
Griffith roared, “That miserable lying son of a decayed maggot! Where is he?”
“Follow me.” As they walked to a chamber not far from Marian’s, Rhys told him, “He’s locked in here. He’s served three meals a day and as much ale as he can drink. Your mother popped his shoulder back into place, and bound it. She nursed his wine ache,
and the last I heard, two of the maids were visiting him of a night and nursing his stone ache. ’Tis as I suspected the first evening—he
is
a handsome brute.”
“I’ll cure him of that,” Griffith vowed.
“Your gentle mother wouldn’t approve of such violence to a prisoner,” his father said. “She can no more resist a child or an invalid than she can resist your own smile, and you know she’ll make Lady Marian well. By the same token, she made Harbottle well.” He fitted a massive key into the hefty iron lock and pushed the oak door. It creaked open to reveal a fire, a cot, a bench, a table, and a tray of morsels to tempt a capricious appetite. With a weary gesture, Rhys indicated Sir Adrian Harbottle, bound by his roped ankle to the bed. “Her compassion knows no politics.”
Harbottle’s glance absorbed his hosts’ menace, and he snarled like a wolf at bay. “Griffith ap Powel.”
With a bow that mimicked the sweeping gesture of a courtier, Griffith said, “As soon as I heard we had a guest, I came to greet you. ’Tis such an honor to welcome the best swordsman in England.” He stepped across the threshold of the tiny chamber. “Or is it the second best?”
Clutching his bound arm with his other hand, Harbottle proved his defense was less teeth and muscle than soft underbelly. “If you touch me, your mother will be angry.”
“My mother is taking care of Lady Marian Wenthaven and is far beyond reach of your screams.”
Marian’s name brought a subtle change to Harbottle. “Lady Marian?” He seemed to savor the name. “She has arrived?”
Griffith’s hands rose and clenched as if they were wrapped around Harbottle’s corded neck.
Harbottle straightened. “Or are your words as false as your hospitality? Was she here all along?”
Rhys caught Griffith’s arm and murmured,
“Steady, lad.” Shutting the door behind him, he told Harbottle, “We came to share a civilized conversation with you, nothing more.”
“You wanted to put me in the dungeon!” Harbottle accused. “You would have, too, but your lady wife wouldn’t let you so treat an injured guest.”
“And I’m known for the best hospitality in Cymru,” Rhys marveled. “Consider the welcome you would receive elsewhere.”
Paling, Harbottle muttered, “I wish I’d never come.”
“Did Wenthaven send you?” Griffith demanded.
“Nay.”
Harbottle clearly wanted to say more, but he restrained himself. For fear of Wenthaven? Griffith wondered. Most likely. The long arm of Wenthaven reached all the way into Castle Powel.
“Then why did you come to Wales?” Rhys urged. “’Tis a lengthy, chilly walk in the spring rain.”
“I came to get what was promised me.”
It was a sullen boast, but a boast nonetheless, and Griffith asked, “And what was that, pray tell?”
“He promised me Lady Marian for my bed.”
Scornful of his claims, Griffith asked, “Why would the earl of Wenthaven promise you his only daughter? His heir?”
“For services rendered.” Griffith and his father exchanged assessing glances, and to cover his slip, Harbottle added hastily, “Besides, ’twould not have been such an unseemly match.”
“He’s an earl, a rich and influential man. He could do better than you for Marian. If you’re telling the truth”—Griffith suspected the opposite—“I wager you proved anxious to collect your reward before you performed the services, and he threw you out.”
Harbottle’s breath sounded harsh in the room, but he said nothing.
“What services,” Griffith asked in fake conviviality, “did he ask you to perform?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Harbottle said with sulky defiance. At the look on Griffith’s face, he cried, “Only to defeat her with the sword!”
“You tried that once.”
“He was going to teach me the strikes she didn’t know. We were to fight again.”
“To kill her?”
“Nay, I…” Harbottle’s voice trailed off. “Nay, he wouldn’t…well, she’s his daughter, after all. What use in goading me to kill her?”
“Is it her son, perhaps?” Rhys suggested, and Griffith hushed him with a gesture.
“Her son? Who’s he?” Harbottle scoffed. “Nobody even knows who the father is.” His blue eyes sharpened, and he stroked his strong jaw thoughtfully. “What father could be so important that Wenthaven planned to use…?”
“Nonsense,” Griffith said. “There must be another reason he wanted you to—”
“Swive her witless?” Taunting in his turn, Harbottle smiled directly into Griffith’s face.
Taking a breath, Griffith struggled against the image Harbottle presented. “Marian has better taste.”
“Better than me?” Harbottle stood, caught his foot against the rope, stumbled, and righted himself in one graceful swoop. “Look at me. I’m not some beastly Welsh barbarian who speaks an uncivilized tongue and lives in some dank, moldy castle far from the English court. I’m an English nobleman, sound of mind and limb.”
“The least of the noblemen. The lowest of the high.” Damn! Griffith wanted to beat that handsome, smirking face to a pulp, but he couldn’t, so he taunted, “The best of the common folk stand well above you.”
Rhys incited Harbottle with a soft assent. “Aye, better the head of an ass than the tail of a horse.”
“Not true! I am a nobleman, and more trustworthy than any Welshman who ever trod the earth.”
“Ah, he’s bold for a man with his foot in a rope,” Rhys said.
“Could be his neck.” Griffith put his fists on his hips and grinned at the thought.
But his grin faded when Harbottle snarled, “I came to rescue Lady Marian.”
Griffith was savage in his fury. “She stays with me.”
“Because you force her to remain.” Harbottle had found the chink in Griffith’s armor, and he pounded at it. “How could she trust a foreigner, a man who serves the king she despises?”
“She does trust me, she just…”
Words failed Griffith, but not Harbottle. With glinting eyes and open smile, he advanced on Griffith. “At least I’d keep her under control with the back of my hand, and that whelp of hers could go to Lord Wenthaven. When I give her more brats, she’ll forget her bastard. When I’m her husband, she’ll advance me in court with her connections, keep her mouth shut about matters that don’t concern her, and make me comfortable. That includes spreading her legs when and where I—”
Harbottle squeaked like a rat when Griffith’s hands reached for his neck. Then a shrewd intelligence flashed across his face, and he slammed his fist into Griffith’s stomach. Griffith doubled over in agony, scarcely hearing Harbottle crow, “I owed you that.”
But he heard the shriek as Harbottle went flying under the impetus of his father’s arm, and the thump as his head hit the wall. Gathering his strength, Griffith staggered back toward the door and stumbled out when Rhys opened it.
Harbottle groaned
as the key grated in the lock.
God’s teeth, how he’d enjoyed hitting Griffith. He could have hit him and kicked him until Griffith bled from every orifice. The satisfaction he’d experienced almost offset this suffering. Fingering his throbbing jaw, he stood up and peered into the full wash bowl.
He could just barely see his reflection, and he winced as he realized Rhys’s fist had left a bruise. Cupping his hands, he plunged them into the icy water and dabbled the droplets on his face.
With any luck, he could contain the swelling—and the pain.
He hated pain. ’Twas the secret of his brilliant swordsmanship. He hated to be hurt.
Gingerly he touched the bump on the back of his head. Didn’t those bullies know the rules governing the captivity of a noble hostage?
Of course, he wasn’t a hostage, exactly. No one would pay money to have him released. But he’d
been in tighter places—he’d just have to get himself out.
A slow grin spread across his face, and he studied it in the basin. What a handsome man. Good teeth, square jaw, beautiful hair, eyelashes most women would kill for. Aye, women would do a lot of things for a man of his looks. So he’d get himself released.
That was the easy part.
Deciding whom to take with him was not.
Marian? Aye, he wanted Marian, for a lot of reasons. Because she’d refused him once and taken Griffith. Because she was Wenthaven’s daughter, and he spied a chance for revenge on the earl.
He wanted her badly. Was he ill? It raised his fever when he thought about her, and a shiver chilled his spine when he imagined making her repent of her boldness. He fantasized their final sword duel. She’d fight with all her skill and strength. He’d outslash her, and when at last he’d knocked her sword from her hand, he’d show her what the thrust of a real man’s sword could do.
What worried him was his thought that he would marry her even if her father disinherited her. It might be worth it, to tame the vixen, but better that he should have it all: Marian, the position, and the money.
But he had to reconsider. He had to
think
.
That whiny little whelp of hers was the key. Marian had been at court when she’d conceived him, and it seemed that Griffith—and Wenthaven—considered the child important. And if Wenthaven considered him important, the whelp was worth having.
If he got himself released, and if he could lay hands on the boy, and if he could get away from the castle…well, then he could have Marian, and on his terms.
He smiled. A good incentive, and one well worth suffering for.
Griffith, too, suffered as Rhys towed him into the master solar—suffered from his pain in the gut and suffered more beneath his father’s disapproval.
Kicking the door shut, Rhys demanded, “Get out of those wet clothes, and while you do that, tell your loving father about this union with Lady Marian.”
His father was furious, Griffith determined, and with reason. A man’s wife was not his own business, but the business of his family. A man wed to increase the family’s lands, wealth, and power.
Griffith had done that with his first wife, and their union had been satisfying. There had been no fights, for his wife had known her place. There had been no talk, for his wife hadn’t comprehended politics or warfare. There had been hot meals on the table and a warm body in the bed—everything a man could desire.
A single moon ago he would have hooted with laughter had someone suggested he would seek his second wife without a thought beyond the swelling in his breeches.
But a moon ago he had not met Marian.
God, Marian. As inappropriate as any woman could be. Helplessly he began, “She’s a fine woman. Gentle, demure—”
An abrupt gesture from Rhys cut him off, and Griffith remembered how intimidating his father could be.
“Stand before that fire and get out of your clothes.”
Griffith did as he was told, as meekly as that small, disobedient boy had done so long ago. As he did, Rhys moved to the trunks lining the walls to pitch them open. With a total disregard for Angharad’s organization, he flung clothing hither and yon until he’d compiled one complete, warm outfit. Holding it
in his hands, out of reach, he demanded, “Now—try again, and tell the truth this time.”
The truth? What truth? That Marian fought with swords and wore men’s clothing? That when she recovered, she’d be as active and restless as her son? No, Griffith couldn’t tell his father the truth. “Da, you’ll like her when you get to know her.” He rubbed the gooseflesh that rose from the chill of the air. “She’s sweet and civil—” More gooseflesh rose, but this time Rhys’s curled lip caused it and not any outer chill.
“Have you been in England so long you’ve forgotten honesty?”
Discomfit your opponent, and he will buckle. A good tactic, and one Griffith had used many times—but he had forgotten from whom he’d learned it. He couldn’t help but beg, “Please, Da, my clothes.”
His father snorted. “I changed your nappies and taught you to piss in the streams. You’ve got no secrets from me…do you?”
“You wish me to tell you about Lady Marian?”
“Nay.” Rhys dangled a hose enticingly. “I want you to tell me the
truth
about Lady Marian.”
Griffith wondered how to surrender in such a way as would placate his father. It had been so long since he’d allowed the wild part of himself—the Welsh part of himself—its freedom. Did he even remember how?
Hesitantly he found the words. “Lady Marian. When I raise my eyes to the sun, I see her. She’s like a gyrfalcon, fit for a king, soaring in the windswept sky, wild and proud above even the morning lark.”
Rhys threw him a linen shirt.
Griffith pulled it on and tied the drawstring at the neck. “Her feathers are summed to the peak plumage, her train and beams glow in the light of day.”
Watching him closely, Rhys tossed him a tunic and murmured, “The truth at last.”
Griffith paused, surprised at himself, at the lyricism he’d thought poisoned and killed by life. “’Tis not the truth, ’tis just—”
“’Tis just a Welsh soul you’ve buried so deep I thought you’d never find it again.” Rhys threw the rest of the clothes at Griffith, then pulled a chair to the fire.
Amused at himself and at his father’s complacency, yet irresistibly drawn, Griffith dressed himself and continued his thoughtful tribute to his lady falcon. “When some lesser mortal snares her and takes her to hand, with pounces and beak she tears at them until they are bloodied. But though they loose their grip, they never stop seeking the flash of wing and cry of elation that betrays her presence.”
“But you may tame her?”
“No man will ever tame her.” Griffith knew the harsh truth. “I can whistle until my spit runs dry, but she comes to me reluctantly. She uses not her claws and beak, but stays only when I coax her with”—he faltered—“delectations she cannot refuse. Then for a moment, while she’s weary and replete, she’s mine and mine alone.”
Rhys quoted, “With empty hand no man shall falcons lure.”
Knocked from his poetic perch and instantly defensive, Griffith said, “I give her myself.”
“Not all of yourself.”
“The part that matters. The part that’s whole. She’ll know no difference.”
“Nay?” Rhys templed his fingers. “Falcons—and women, too—have a fine instinct for those whom they can trust.”
Sharp and keen, the memory of the vow she had wrung from Art stabbed at Griffith’s heart. He poured himself a cup of wine and drank it, trying to swallow his misgivings. “She must learn, but she will trust me.”
Like the powerful report of a cannon, Rhys
knocked down Griffith’s pretensions. “She’ll not trust you if you never let her know you.”
Griffith turned his head away, but Rhys tapped the hand hanging lax at his side and said, “What happened, happened long ago. We’ve all forgiven you—only you have not.”
Bitterness and long-ago embarrassment had burned lines in Griffith’s face. “The loss of Castle Powel was not a great thing?”
“’Twas only a temporary thing. I would not have given it up had I not known how to retrieve it. There were other ways to get you back, if not as easy.”
“It should not have been necessary. I was a stupid, spoiled lad.”
“Not spoiled. Headstrong. And as your mother told me at the time—if I’d handled you better, the whole incident need not have happened.”
Griffith excused his father’s long-ago impatience. “’Twas the strain of resisting the siege, of rationing supplies and fearing they would poison the spring that fed the well.”
“Aye, and your escapade resulted from the strain of living with the siege. By the saints, man, tell the woman what oppresses your soul, and perhaps she’ll willingly nest with you.” When Griffith didn’t answer, Rhys stretched out his legs and relaxed. “That
is
what you’re planning? To build a nest with this Lady Marian Wenthaven?”
Ready to turn the subject, Griffith asked, “Do you care?”
“Our lineage is respected enough to bear the disgrace of an Englishwoman in the family, but will she bring us a dowry?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it.”
“Then of what use is she to the family?”
“Her connections in the court are of a weighty nature.” Griffith picked his words carefully. “The queen of England is her friend.”
That impressed Rhys. “I doubt your assurances of her good nature. Art seemed to be in awe of her—and Art finds little which awes him.”
Griffith muttered, “I don’t know why I keep that old man.”
“Because you owe him your life?” Rhys suggested.
“Mayhap that’s it.” Griffith poured a mug of wine and handed it to his father.
Accepting it, Rhys said, “I thought you wanted another wife like Gwenllian. Many was the time I heard you say you liked a domestic woman, adept with a needle and content to stay home.”
“Marian will learn,” Griffith declared. “Aye, she will learn.”
Griffith couldn’t help but suspect his father drank to hide a smile, but when Rhys finished and wiped his mouth, nothing remained of his amusement. “I do wonder if Lady Marian’s father will soon be camping on our doorstep, demanding the return of his daughter.”
Griffith sank onto a bench and leaned forward to catch the warmth of the fire. “Perhaps he would if he knew where she was, but a siege is not Wenthaven’s chosen method of warfare. He would rather hunt in the dun, like a ferret, and drag his prey away by the throat.”
“Reassuring. Shall we keep watch lest Lady Marian disappears?”
“She’s safe in Castle Powel”—Griffith hoped—“but ’tis Lionel who may be in the greatest danger.”
“The father of the child seeks him?”
“I don’t know the identity of Lionel’s father, but he’s shown no interest so far. Still, Lionel is a special child for many reasons, some of which I don’t yet understand.”
“So I was right. Wenthaven prizes Marian for her son.”
“I suspect that’s the truth, but I don’t want Harbottle to realize it.”
“Why should the son matter?”
Griffith wanted to explain, to ask his father’s advice. But to do so without Marian’s knowledge would betray Marian’s trust—the trust Rhys considered unattainable. “Da, I cannot in all honor tell you, but I must warn you—keeping Marian and Lionel here could endanger Castle Powel and everyone in it. If you wish, you may refuse sanctuary and I will take them elsewhere.”
“Nonsense,” Rhys said with inelegant bluntness. “If I refused them sanctuary out of fear for my life, your mother would drop me off the tallest tower—and worse, refuse me her bed.”
Griffith chuckled. It was no more than he expected, but he had felt he had to give fair warning. “Aye, Da, but this I can say—Marian was never Harbottle’s lover.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes as he examined his son from top to toe. “I wouldn’t ask you to betray your honor, but don’t tell your mother. She hates a secret.”
Relaxing back in his chair, Griffith realized Rhys had, for the moment, withdrawn his objections to Marian. For while Griffith’s duty remained with his family’s advancement, still Rhys harbored a romantic Welsh heart, and that heart deplored Griffith’s detachment from all who loved him. Griffith asked, “So what do we do with Harbottle? With that Gwarwyn-a-Throt?”
“A bogie, do you call him?” Rhys laughed in a burst, then sobered at once. “Don’t tempt the bogies to do you a wrong by misnaming Harbottle in their image.”
“Aye, even a bogie might be insulted,” Griffith concurred. “Shall we keep him? He’s a treacherous brute, and it might be wise to retain him within reach.”
“Or should we throw him out?” Rhys mused. “The spring weather is unsettled—wet one day, cold the
next. If he remained within the neighborhood, he’d soon find himself unhappy.”
“He is very comfortable in his prison.”
Their eyes met, and in unison they said, “We’ll throw him out.”
“You have to take your tonic,” Angharad coaxed, holding the potion before Marian’s pursed lips. “You promised Art you would.”
Marian pinched her nose against the stench. “I didn’t promise him I’d take it forever. I’m better now.”
“So you are. This last week in bed has been good for you.” Angharad wrapped Marian’s hand around the mug. “So another week will be better yet.”
“Another week?” Marian squeaked, and to her disgust her voice promptly failed her—a circumstance of which Angharad was quick to take advantage.
“See now, you’ve hurt yourself.” She caressed Marian’s cheek, much like a mother luring her infant. “If you’ll drink it, I’ll allow you some visitors.”
Marian glared and wished she weren’t so weak. She had thought she was going to die—now it seemed she’d come too close. The days of fever had seemed endless, a dark swirl of pain and fear, of sleeping with dread nightmares and waking only to cough until she was sick.
The malady had extinguished the spark of energy that drove her. She could lift her head off the pillow, but there seemed to be no reason to do so. She could verify, every day, that her treasure was still hidden in the bag where she’d placed it, but it seemed almost unimportant. She could sit up to have her hair brushed, and stand up to take care of her body’s needs, but she didn’t want to go out and face the myriad challenges her life had become. Her son was safe and being cared for, and she was weary. Bone weary.