Her temperature rose rapidly; by that Thursday afternoon, it was consuming her body in lethal heat. The midwives did what they could. They bled her again at the ankle, put hot poultices on her inflamed abdomen, tried to lower her fever with cold compresses, vervain, and sage. But their efforts were futile, and they knew it. Llewelyn's bedside vigil had become a death watch. He alone held on to hope. The speed of Ellen's decline testified to the virulent nature of her infection. Gwynora and Dame Blodwen privately thought it a blessing that death would be so quick, for they'd tended too many women who died in agony, after suffering for days. But they said nothing to Llewelyn, understanding that he was not yet ready to face the truth, that his wife was dying. And so they did their best to ease Ellen's last hours, and they did not protest when Llewelyn insisted upon summoning a doctor, although they knew it was for naught. The doctor arrived at nightfall. He listened intently to their recital of Ellen's symptomsthe raging fever, swollen, painful abdomen, extreme weakness, deliriumand gravely echoed the midwives' diagnosis: childbed fever.
