Theobald learns the meaning

Theobald sat in the twilit barn—or hid, rather. He knew it would be time for supper soon; he knew Githa would be looking for him, but he couldn’t face anyone just then. He still had visions of his nightmare in his head.

His men had quickly perceived that morning that the master was not to be disturbed. And Theobald had wandered aimlessly all through the day, peeking in apple barrels and scratching the wooly backs of the sheep and kicking at hayricks, unable to concentrate on anything useful.

He felt sick. He was never bothered by nightmares. He knew them to be no more real—alas!—than his sweetest dreams. But this one clung to him all through the day, like the dark clouds one could often see hovering over the distant peak where his father’s castle stood, even on clear days.

His old dog whined again and pressed his wet nose into his master’s hand, wagging encouragement with his tail. He had shadowed Theobald anxiously all day.

“I shall feel better tomorrow,” Theobald told him. “God grant I will.”

Theobald closed his eyes and sighed as he heard Githa’s voice coming towards the barn. She must have had Athelis with her: he could hear her talking, and it didn’t sound like the baby talk she reserved for Brinstan. It would be time for dinner—time to face the world.

“There, I knew we would find him here,” Githa was saying.

The dog barked a delirious welcome, and Theobald opened his eyes—it wasn’t Athelis she had brought.

“Godwulf!” he cried, leaping to his feet.

And then he gasped at the pain behind his breast—for if Godwulf was here, then his mother was dead! Had he seen it in his dream?

“My lord!” Godwulf sobbed, kneeling stiffly on the rough stones.

“Godwulf—get up! My mother?” he begged.

But Godwulf would not stand. “Oh, my young lord!”

Brinstan began to whimper and pressed his face into his mother’s neck… the dog was barking… Godwulf was mournfully repeating “My lord, my lord.” Theobald thought he would scream if it went on much longer.

“Godwulf, you need not kneel to me! What has happened—how is my mother?”

“My lord, your mother—my lady your mother! And your brothers! And everyone! All, all!”

Theobald yanked him to his feet. “Tell me!” he roared.

“They’re all dead! All! Your mother, your brothers, your sisters, your nephews—all but Ethelmer’s two oldest girls! They’re all dead! All!”

Githa wailed, but Theobald did not—could not—make a sound.

“My lord, there was a fire last night—a fire—it all burned, all at once,” Godwulf blubbered. “None got out. Not a man—not a cat! Only Ethelmer’s girls, away at their grandmother’s…and I! I! who had gone to the church to pray through the night for your mother!”

Theobald shook his head slowly. It was impossible. His entire family? All but Ethelmer’s oldest girls? It was impossible. Godwulf had gone mad.

“My lord, you are Baron now,” Godwulf said, preparing to kneel again. “I pledge my life to—”

“No!” Theobald roared, pulling him roughly to his feet. “No! No! Not here! That was the dream! Not here!”

Godwulf was sobbing, and Githa was crying, and Brinstan was whimpering, and the dog was whining. Theobald saw he had to get out of there.

“Githa—Godwulf—you must take Githa and the children to her mother’s tomorrow,” he said rapidly. “Do not delay! I shall meet you there, dear. I leave the valley tonight. Godwulf, saddle my horse!” he called as he ran for the door. He would take his cloak and sword and leave at once.