Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

A Place Beyond Courage (11 page)

BOOK: A Place Beyond Courage

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‘Ah,’ said the midwife, her hands busy between Aline’s spread thighs. ‘Here we are. What have we got?’

Aline felt a slippery, gushing heat and heard a sudden wail, high-pitched and fractious.

‘A boy, a fine boy!’ the midwife cried with triumph, holding aloft a smeared, bloody object resembling a very young, freshly slaughtered piglet. Aline’s eyes lost focus and the room began to spin.

When she revived, the baby was being washed in a large copper bowl and her women were fussing around her in concern. Another bowl, covered with a cloth, was being borne away from the bedside and linen rags had been packed between her thighs in the same wise as when she had her menstrual flow. She was given a reviving drink of wine, sweetened with honey.

Tears pouring down her face, her mother leaned over the bed to kiss her. ‘Oh Aline, my daughter, my daughter. You have given your lord a fine son. Praise be to God!’ Cecily turned to take a towel-wrapped bundle from the midwife. ‘He’s perfect.’

Aline took a dubious look. It hadn’t resembled a baby when it emerged from her body. She was assailed by the same feelings that had struck her on her wedding night. It had seemed impossible for that
thing
to fit within her body. Now it seemed equally impossible that the consequence, this baby, had come out of her. There shouldn’t have been room, but of course there was. How great were God’s miracles.

She was reluctant to take him from her mother and hold him, but forced herself. He was still as pink as a piglet, but the blood and slime were gone. His breathing was swift and snuffly and his minute fists were clenched either as if to resist the world, or grasp it tightly. His eyes were the hue of dark slate and it gave her a jolt for they were so much like John’s. A pang went through her, of pride, of dawning triumph. She had succeeded. She had given a thing of worth to the marriage through her own striving. ‘He is to be named Gilbert,’ she said in a trembling voice, ‘for my lord’s father.’

‘I will have the chaplain draft your lord a letter straight away!’ Cecily wiped tears from her cheeks. ‘Oh, this is a day for celebration.’

Aline found a tired smile. She knew John would be greatly pleased at the birth of a son . . . and she was pleased with herself too for she had fulfilled her duty. She touched the baby’s soft cheek, still disbelieving. ‘I wish John were here now,’ she said.

The atmosphere in Rouen was as tense as a primed trebuchet. The June day had been as hot as the heart of a bonfire and in the aftermath of sunset, the western skyline wore the heat like a dull purple bruise. John stood on the battlements of the Tower of Rouen, trying to catch a hint of breeze and looking out over the glitter of the Seine, busy with a traffic of barges and cogs. Not being on duty, he had discarded his tunic and rolled his shirt-sleeves back to his elbows. The locals and the irreverent called this section of the battlements Conan’s Leap, after the occasion when King Henry as a young man had lost his patience and thrown a baron over the walls to his death. John could well imagine Henry doing the deed. Affable though he was, his temper was like the swift kick of an angry destrier when provoked, and he was as strong as one too.

Hearing footsteps, John turned to regard Robert of Gloucester as he joined him on the wall walk. Gloucester was still wearing his tunic, but had unpinned it at the throat. A gold and garnet cross flashed on his breast as he stopped beside John and leaned one shoulder against the stonework. He too narrowed his glance in the direction of the busy river before sighing heavily down his nose.

‘How are the Empress and her new son faring?’ John enquired.

Gloucester grunted. ‘The baby is well; a fine little fellow to say she took so long to birth him, but my sister has a fever.’ He made a face. ‘It was too soon after the first. She’d hardly been churched before her belly was ripe again. A woman needs more time than that to recover.’

‘I am sorry . . . Is she very sick?’ John’s tone was diffident and tactful.

‘She’s not out of her wits, not rambling, or at least I think not. She and my father were having a vigorous argument about where to bury her when I left. He says the cathedral, she wants the abbey at Bec-Hellouin and insists it’s her dying wish that counts, but he’s being stubborn - says as her father it’s his right to choose and she won’t be able to do anything about it if she’s dead.’

Standing upright, John rubbed his sunburned neck. ‘I know little about women and childbirth except that it is a dangerous business, but I do know that while your sister is strong enough to argue with the King, there is hope. She will fight to the last stand, and surely this is not it.’

‘No,’ Robert said doubtfully and looked sideways at John with troubled eyes. ‘But what if she does succumb? What then?’

‘She has two sons to succeed her.’

‘Yes, and what happens when a country’s heirs are little children?’

‘They will need a guardian; someone to govern until they can take the reins for themselves.’ John returned Robert’s look. ‘A benevolent uncle, for example.’

‘Hah!’ Robert shook his head. ‘I sometimes feel like a lion charging a flock of carrion crows.’

‘Yes, my lord, but that is one of the annoyances of being a lion, not a crow.’

Robert snorted with grim humour. ‘You always manage to put situations in a nutshell.’

John opened his hand. ‘My position at court dictates that I observe all who come into the King’s presence, and note what manner of animal they are . . . or what they think they are. It’s not always the same thing.’ He watched the dusk darken over the river. Several of the craft bobbing there had now kindled lanterns at their prows. It might be better if Matilda did die, he thought, for then Robert could rule in her stead in the name of her sons. Of course, Henry might name one of his nephews his heir instead. Stephen of Mortain or Theobald of Blois - Stephen especially. Henry had engineered his marriage to Matilda of Boulogne and in doing so, joined Stephen to the ancient English royal line. There were many who thought Stephen should be the heir. Not that John would say so to Robert; he was too diplomatic and he knew very well that Robert considered Stephen one of the carrion crows.

Robert sighed. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘How is your own wife?’ he asked after a moment.

John knew Robert was enquiring to be polite, but perhaps also out of need for distraction and reassurance. ‘Well enough, from the letters I received, and my son is thriving.’ He felt an unexpected warmth at his core as he said ‘my son’. ‘Providing the Empress recovers, I plan to be at Hamstead for my wife’s churching ceremony.’ He watched bats flit through the last of gloaming and the sight made him smile a little. A colony of them had made their roost in the rafters at Saint Mary’s in Hamstead and Aline had screamed to see them hanging there. She wouldn’t have made a good wife for Noah.

‘I am pleased to hear the King’s daughter has made a full recovery,’ said Walter, sheriff of Salisbury. ‘Bearing a child is always hazardous for a woman. I thank God that my wife birthed all of ours without mishap, and that your own lady has been safely delivered.’ He smiled at his wife on his left, and then at Aline on his right. The latter reddened and looked down.

‘Indeed, my lord,’ John replied and signalled an attendant to refill the cups. They were feasting in the hall at Hamstead, following Aline’s churching. All was quiet at court and with the Empress’s life no longer in danger, he had been able to spare a fortnight to attend to affairs at home. He had noticed that the bats no longer inhabited the chapel. Even the swallows’ nests had been poked out from under the eaves. The altar sported an ornate new cross and embroidered cloth, and the pillars had been repainted in fresh, bright colours. He had also noticed a new statue of the Virgin and Child occupying a wall niche. The blue of its robe had matched the blue of the new gown Aline had worn to the thanksgiving mass for her safe delivery and purification after childbirth. He had made a mental note to rein back her spending on the church. Sense and reason in all things. The next order of the day was improving Hamstead’s general fabric and defences.

‘I hear the Empress’s eldest son has red hair,’ Lady Salisbury remarked to him.

‘That is so, my lady,’ John replied, ‘and a temper that surely comes from his grandsire.’

Sybire smiled. ‘And the new little one?’

John managed not to shrug. A baby was a baby and he had seen little enough of Prince Geoffrey. A swaddled scrap lying on a lambskin and crying fractiously. ‘More like his mother,’ he said.

‘I always think that such children are blessed,’ Sybire said with a glint of mischief. ‘I wish that all of mine took after me.’

‘God forbid!’ Walter growled, but humour sparked in his own eyes.

John smiled politely. He didn’t want to imagine having a son who grew up like Aline. Many scholars were of the opinion that a woman was only the vessel and that most of the newborn’s essence came from the father, but he wasn’t going to get into that kind of discussion with his guests. He glanced towards the wet nurse who was suckling Gilbert at her breast and felt a lurch of emotion, but then it was different when the child in the cradle was your own. Even if he felt no great outpouring of love, there was still pride in having begotten an heir, the powerful instinct to protect and the knowledge that here was the future. Not only could he be ambitious for himself, he could plan for his son. He had always been careful with the whores at court, only spilling himself inside those who were barren or who knew how to prevent conception. He had nothing to offer a bastard child except a place at his hearth, and he didn’t want that responsibility. But a son and heir was a different matter.

The Salisburys’ youngest daughter was watching with fascination as Gilbert nursed. She had the gawkiness of late childhood as if someone had stretched her limbs on a tenter frame. Her masses of rich brunette hair were plaited in blue ribbons and her hazel eyes were as wide as goblet rims, taking everything in.

‘The King himself is in good health?’ Lord Walter asked.

It was a common question these days. Men were nervous. John turned his focus from the girl and fixed it on her father. ‘Indeed so, my lord, and very pleased with his grandsons.’

‘I swore my oath to the Empress,’ Walter said, tugging at his luxuriant whiskers, ‘but I am hoping those little boys grow fast and that their grandsire stays hale.’

‘Amen to that.’ John raised his cup in toast.

The old man gave him a shrewd look. ‘You must hear rumours at court, my lord Marshal. You are in a position to know most of what goes on.’

John drank and set his cup down. ‘Rumours are like pebbles on a beach - so many of them that you pick the one that attracts your eye. But whether it has value or not . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It is rare to see a piece of gold among the stones.’

‘But a man who knows the beach has more chance than a stranger.’

‘In this case, there is nothing I can tell you that you do not already know, my lord.’

Walter gave a mirthless smile. ‘I would hate to play chess with you.’

John said nothing. He didn’t need to, for the silence was not uncomfortable. Walter of Salisbury was too wily a diplomat for that and so was he. Even if he was growing old, Walter wielded tremendous influence and authority throughout Wiltshire. He had the support of the people too, for his father had been an English thegn and his family was one of the few to have survived the upheaval of the Norman invasion.

‘The Bishop of Salisbury will never accept the Empress as Queen. Neither will Waleran of Meulan, or Henry of Winchester,’ Walter opined after a moment.

‘Well then, my lord, it seems to me you have at least seen your stones, if not picked them up.’

‘I didn’t say I liked the look of them.’ The sheriff bestowed a hard, shrewd stare on John. ‘What of your own?’

‘I stand back and wait. Who knows what the next tide will push into the shore?’ John watched the sheriff ’s daughter take Gilbert from the wet nurse and cradle him in her arms with natural ease, her face alight with pleasure.

‘Probably more stones,’ Walter said.

John laughed in dour acknowledgement.

‘Speaking of which, I see you are going to be busy with your outerworks if those cartloads of timber in the bailey are any indication - or are you collecting firewood in anticipation of a hard winter?’

John looked wry. Despite his encroaching years, Walter of Salisbury remained as observant as a hawk. ‘The defences are in need of renovation,’ he said with a casual wave of his hand. ‘Nothing more than that.’

Walter folded his hands on the trestle and pressed his thumbs together. ‘I have no quarrel with ambition, my lord Marshal,’ he said quietly. ‘A man must do his best for his sons, so that they may do the best for theirs when the time comes. Providing you do not interfere with me and mine, I wish you well.’

‘Then we are of the same mind,’ John said.