The Love Knot (41 page)

Oliver stared until the words danced on the page and lost their meaning. He knew that this letter was not Catrin's doing. Probably she was unaware that her husband had even sent it. Louis de Grosmont possessed a nature that took pleasure in torment. A tweak here, a pull there, a subtle manipulation of the truth. Catrin would not care whether she was kept as a queen or not. Indeed, her spirit needed freedom to be whole. The thought of her bearing a child was sheer torment. Had it been his own child he would have been frightened enough, but the thought of her carrying and bearing Louis's offspring so distant from him numbed Oliver completely.

Returning to the kitchen, he approached the fire and the two huge cauldrons bubbling over the flames. Crumpling the letter, he tossed it into the blaze and watched the vellum blacken and curl, the red seal melt and sizzle, until his eyes were hot and dry and nothing was left.

Louis de Grosmont was going to have a son. Never had such a child been born before, if the expectant father was to be believed. All and sundry were made aware of the fact; from the poorest serf struggling on the demesne land to feed his family, to William d'Ypres and King Stephen.

"Twill be an easy labour,' one of the midwives assured Catrin cheerfully. 'You're young and strong with good wide hips.'

Two had been installed for her lying in, the best that Louis could not afford. They were skilled, sensible women, and Catrin liked them both, but she would have preferred just one and less of Louis's bragging. After the first months of utter sickness, her body had adjusted and her pregnancy had passed without incident. She was untroubled by swelling ankles or giddiness. Her appetite was excellent, and she slept moderately well. Now the first twinges of threatened labour had started, but as yet there was no real pain.

'The labour does not bother me.' She stroked the taut mound of her belly. 'I know what to expect; I have delivered enough babies myself. But I don't want Louis to know until it is necessary.'

'He is very keen, my lady,' said the other midwife with an indulgent smile.

Catrin said nothing. She knew that her husband's fervour depended upon her producing a healthy son - to be named Stephen in honour of the King. He had refused to countenance the prospect of a daughter. It would be a boy because that was what he wanted. Fortune, he said, was running in his favour. But Catrin had her suspicions that it was not fortune which was running, but Louis, and as hard as he could to keep up.

Another pain, deeper than the last, tightened around her belly and squeezed.

Rising from the cushioned window seat, she paced the chamber restlessly. Walking helped. She counted her paces and breathed deeply, easing herself over the contraction.

Louis appeared an hour later, the news having leaked down to the hall where he was presiding over the quarter-day rents and exacting heavy fines from those who were not prompt to pay. He burst into the bedchamber where Catrin was still pacing and counting and pulled her into his arms, her swollen belly mounding between them.

'How long?' he demanded, his eyes bright with impatience.

'How long have I been in travail, or how long will it continue to be?' Catrin asked, and tried not to tense as her womb tightened.

'How long until I see my son, of course.'

Stripped of its gilding by his eagerness, Louis's selfish nature was laid bare to the bone.

'It will be a while yet, my lord,' the older midwife spoke out. 'First babes can take two or more days to show themselves to the world.'

'Two days!' Louis looked aghast.

'If waiting is all you have to do, then you are fortunate,' Catrin said waspishly. 'Go and make yourself busy. The time will pass.'

'No, it won't, it'll stand still.' He looked at the women as though they were involved in a conspiracy.

'Of course,' the midwife added quickly, 'it is frequently much sooner than that. Examining my lady, I would say that come eventide you will have cause to celebrate.'

'Eventide,' Louis said, grasping the word like a lifeline across a river in spate. He squeezed Catrin's hands in an echo of the muscular squeezing of her womb. 'Make haste, Catty. I'm eager to see my son.'

'I will do my best,' she replied, but her sarcastic tone was wasted on him as he bounced out of the door with the eagerness of a puppy.

The day progressed. Almost every hour, Louis sent to discover how the labour was advancing, and as dusk approached Louis himself took to haunting the landing outside the bedchamber door.

Panting upon the birthing stool, her body drenched with effort, her thighs streaked with blood and birthing fluid, Catrin gave the midwives a mirthless grin. 'Let him in,' she panted. 'Let him see me. All men should witness this.'

The women looked shocked and took her words as a jest. 'My lady, no man may enter a birthing chamber. It is not proper!'

'No, of course not,' she laughed savagely. 'But what kind of farmer sows the seed and then absconds the harvest?'

'My lady, you are distraught, you do not know what you are saying.'

'Yes, I do,' Catrin retorted. The pain returned and seared so hard that it destroyed all coherent thought. The midwives had given her various nostrums to drink, but none that had had much effect. She knew that she must be in the final stage of labour, for with each pain there was an overbearing urge to push down. It was now that the truth would be known. If the child was lying the wrong way in her womb or her pelvis was too small, then both of them would die. She grasped the smooth wooden sides of the birthing stool and bore down with all her strength. It was like trying to move a mountain, but the women encouraged her.

'Almost there, my lady, I can see the head. He's got dark hair, so he has.'

Catrin sobbed and, with the next contraction, pushed again. 'Oliver!' she screamed, the name surfacing from nowhere and bouncing off the walls.

'Is that to be his name?' one of the midwives enquired. 'I thought your husband had chosen Stephen.'

Catrin shook her head, beyond speech, beyond anything but the final struggle to push the child from her body and have relief. She was not even aware of the name she had screamed, only that it had been a cry for help.

Another surge, and the baby slithered from her body into the waiting, warmed towel, and immediately began a lusty bawling.

The midwives cut the cord and gently rubbed mucus and fluid from the infant's tiny body. Its furious wails filled the room, but there was no other sound. The women looked at each other in silence.

'What is it, what's wrong?' Catrin demanded with a sudden lurch of fear. 'Give me my baby, let me see.'

'No, my lady,' one of the women said quickly, 'nothing is wrong. See, you have a perfect little daughter.' She handed the screeching bundle into Catrin's arms.

The baby waved irate little fists and roared as if she had been insulted. She had masses of thick black hair and tiny, snub features. For Catrin it was love at first sight and, mingled with that love, a great flood of protectiveness. 'I wanted a daughter,' she whispered with a tearful smile.

Louis had been listening at the door and, as the raucous screams of the baby continued, his control snapped. Unable to wait any longer, he burst into the room. 'Let me see my son!' he cried, and advanced on Catrin, his arms outstretched to take the baby. She still sat on the birthing stool, the afterbirth as yet undelivered, her hair loose to her hips and sweat-soaked at the brow.

She tightened her grip on the bundle she held and immediately the new-born ceased to screech as loudly. 'Your daughter, you mean,' she said. 'Louis, we have a girl child.'

He stopped as if he had run into a castle wall and his arms dropped to his sides. 'A girl child?' he repeated, the joy freezing, then falling from his face to leave an expression of deep affront. 'That is impossible. My line always breeds boys.'

'Well, God has seen fit to bless you with a daughter.' Louis glared narrow-eyed at the baby in Catrin's arms. 'This is your doing, you bitch. Any other woman would have borne me a son. You have thwarted me deliberately with your wise-woman's tricks.'

Catrin opened her mouth to deny that she had done any Much thing, but found that she was too weary to stand against his petulance and rage. She just wanted him to go away. 'You have thwarted yourself,' she said, 'at every turn.' Louis clenched his fists. For an appalling moment, Catrin thought that he was going to strike her while she sat on the birthing stool, still in the last stage of labour. Raising her eyes to his, she saw the intent, but some tiny spark of control held him in check. Abruptly he turned from her, let out his breath with harsh contempt and strode from the room, slamming the door in a shudder of cold air.

Catrin hung her head over her tiny daughter. 'I chose the wrong man,' she whispered. 'God forgive me, I chose the wrong man.'

' Now then, mistress, don't you worry. He'll come around in time,' said the older midwife. Her face was pale with shock, but she had rallied bravely. 'Men need daughters to make good marriage alliances. He'll be right proud of her once she comes into her looks, you mark me.'

'His pride is the problem,' Catrin said, as her womb began to cramp and expel the afterbirth. 'He has boasted far and wide that he will soon have a son to follow him. He will blame me for failing him, not God for ordering.' She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pushed down. The pains were not as bad, but they were still deeply uncomfortable.

'Things will seem better in the morning,' the woman soothed. 'Now, we need a name for this little lass.'

Catrin parted the linen towel and looked down into the baby's tiny, crumpled features. While she owed her a great debt, she could not saddle the infant with a name like

Etheldreda. 'Rosamund,' she said, 'after my mother, her grandmother.' She gave the slightest of bitter smiles. 'Our line always runs to girls.'

Louis stared down at his small daughter in her cherry-wood cradle. She was sound asleep, her eyelids no larger than telin shells and seeming too delicate for their edging of dense black lashes. Her name suited her; she was as pink and soft as a rose. Over the past six weeks some of his initial disappointment had waned. As several people had pointed out in the process of commiseration, daughters were useful providing you did not have too many, and at least Catrin had proved that she could bear children with relative ease. Only a few days after the birth she had been chafing at her enforced confinement in the bower. The next one would be a boy for certain. Catrin had been churched that morning and thus was free to take up her wifely duties again, amongst them those of the bedchamber. Not that Louis had been on short rations during her confinement. Wulfhild, the kitchen maid, had been most accommodating in the stables, and there were a couple of women in the village too. If Catrin suspected, she had said nothing. Since the baby had been born, there appeared to be no room in her life for anything else, including him.

Usurped by a puling infant, and a girl at that. Louis's lip curled. She had even insisted on feeding the baby herself, like a peasant woman, instead of doing what was proper to her rank and obtaining a wet nurse. When he protested, she stood her ground so firmly that he had been forced to retreat and sulk in the stables for an hour with Wulfhild.

'I am a midwife; I know what is best for my daughter,' she had said with quiet assertion, no blaze of temper on which he could feed his own. She was a bitch, a contrary, irritating bitch, but she was also comely and, despite his other amours, he still desired her, not least because of the way she ignored him.

She entered the room now, clothed in her undergown and chemise, her black hair curtaining her shoulders. It was not as long as it had been during her pregnancy. The child had apparently taken the strength from her hair, and she had shorn off a good six inches. Still, it did not detract from her looks. At least if Rosamund inherited them she would make an appetising marriage prospect.

Louis sat on their bed and began disrobing. Catrin went to the cradle and looked down at the swaddled baby. An expression of melting tenderness filled her face. It was a look that Louis recognised because once, back in the days at Chepstow, it had been bestowed on him.

'She's asleep,' he said brusquely. 'Come to bed.'

Catrin raised her head and looked at him, the softness lading. 'May I not check upon my own daughter?'

'I've checked already. That cradle is like a shackle around your ankles. You're never more than a pace from it.'

'That is not true.' She left the baby and approached the bed. He could sense the reluctance in her step, and it was made all the more galling for the alacrity with which she had approached the cradle.

'If you had done as I said and employed a wet nurse, we could still have the bedchamber to ourselves,' he complained.

'You need not sleep here if it troubles you so much.' She gave him a cool stare and pulled off her undergown, then, more reluctantly, her chemise.

He snorted. 'I'll not be thrown out of my own chamber by a couple of women!' Her body glimmered in the candlelight. Her breasts were full from suckling the baby. She had recovered her trim waist, if anything she was more slender than before. There were a few small, silvery stretch marks on her belly, and an area of raised pinkish-white flesh on her side from the sword wound she had sustained at Bristol. The scar itself never ceased to fascinate him, because it was the sort of wound seen frequently on men but never on a woman.