Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  Arlette, full of stubborn pride and anxious to hold onto her looks for as long as possible, and using all the means at her disposal, had determined to return to her pre-breeding condition. She would probably do it too.

  She screamed again. It was a wonder her throat did not rupture. I pitied the poor women standing so close to her. Their ears would be sure to ring for a week. Lord Robert had instructed the wives and daughters of his noblemen to attend Arlette when he set her up as his mistress – much to their disgust. He demanded she be treated with the respect befitting a wife, not a concubine. And she was his wife, in all but name, and would continue to be, in spite of the various machinations to try to persuade the duke to wed one grand lady or another. He steadfastly refused, all the plots and plans of his courtiers continually coming to nought. And after this night, the Duke of Normandy would have a bastard for an heir.

  ‘Water,’ Arlette called, and one of her ladies fetched her a goblet, holding it to her lips. She drank greedily, and promptly threw it all back up over the lady’s gown. The disgust on the woman’s face almost had me laughing.

  Birth was a messy affair.

  Herleva and I stayed well clear of the business end of the proceedings, preferring to watch from the relative comfort and safety of the padded chairs by the fire. The chamber was hot and dark, shuttered from the outside world, a womb in its own right. Arlette’s women came and went, taking turns to attend their mistress. Their role was not merely to help her bring forth the babe, they were also there to vouch for its lineage and viability. No risk of anyone swapping a dead or weak child for a healthy one. They gave credibility to the birth of the duke’s heir.

  Herleva shifted, her own pain written on her face. She should not be sat in a chair, however well padded; she should be at home in her bed, waiting for death to claim her, but I had been unable to prevent her from coming once she knew Arlette was in labour.

  ‘Do not let Arlette see me like this,’ Herleva had insisted. She had hidden her illness from me for as long as she could, until it became obvious to anyone living in close proximity to her. But she had not wanted Arlette to know, and she concealed the severity of it from her even now, when she was so close to leaving this world.

  ‘I do not want Arlette worried,’ Herleva had said, time and time again. ‘Not whilst she is with child.’

  I swear the old witch was clinging to life purely to see this babe come into the world. If that was so, its birth could not come quick enough for me. I would have brought it on early if I had the power to make it happen.

  Yet another scream. Surely Arlette must be heard by the whole town, and not just the good folks in the castle. Midnight had come and gone, and still she laboured. There was to be no rest for anyone tonight.

  ‘Get it out of me,’ Arlette moaned, her head thrashing from side to side as another birth pang ripped through her. Her stomach contracted, a band of iron holding her body rigid in agony.

  A part of me, a nasty hidden part, rejoiced in her pain. Now she had a taste of the suffering I endured every time I became a cat.

  The midwife scrabbled about on her knees, peering between Arlette’s legs.

  ‘I see the head,’ she announced. ‘Push hard with the next contraction.’

  ‘What do you think I have been doing?’ Arlette yelled, as another pain claimed her.

  She clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth, bearing down with all the force she could muster. Small blood vessels popped across her cheeks with the effort. Her eyes were screwed tight shut, and she gripped the hands of her ladies so hard their own faces creased in discomfort.

  ‘The head is out. Stop pushing,’ the midwife said.

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘You must, if you want the child to live.’

  Arlette’s moan of despair and pain raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  ‘Do as she says, little one,’ Herleva called across the chamber. She leaned forward, hugging her own stomach. I saw the effort it cost her to appear normal.

  ‘The birth cord is around its neck. I need a moment to free it.’ The midwife prodded and poked, then sat back on her haunches. ‘There, it is done. Another push and the child will slip from you.’

  Arlette pushed.

  With a wet sucking noise, the babe slithered out, the midwife easing him into her waiting hands. A gush of blood and gore followed, splattering to the floor.

  Arlette sank back against her ladies’ legs, spent.

  We all held our breath.

  ‘Call for the others,’ the midwife said.

  Herleva’s eyes widened in fear, then the cry of a shocked and outraged new-born filled the room. He lived, and sounded hale and hearty if his yells were any indication.

  I went to the door and sent a passing servant to fetch the wet-nurse and more of Arlette’s waiting-women. ‘And water,’ I called after him. ‘As much hot water as you can.’

  The midwife brought the babe up so his mother could look at him. ‘It is a boy. The duke has a son.’

  ‘I know.’ Arlette smiled, a self-satisfied, smug smile.

  The cord connecting him to his mother pulsed and throbbed, but even as I watched, it slowed and stopped. The midwife sliced it through. Two had become one, mother and child separate entities. I marvelled at the miracle of it.

  Little fists waved in the air, little legs kicked. Covered in birth juice, purple with temper, and face screwed tight against his ordeal, the infant was beautiful. I stood and moved closer for a better look. Even his tiny manhood jiggled as he squirmed. Black-haired like his mother, and with a temper to equal hers, he did not stop yelling as the midwife wrapped him tight. Unable to move, he cried even louder.

  She gave him to his mother to hold, and as she slipped the child into Arlette’s arms, she grabbed one of her milk-fat breasts and stuffed the engorged nipple into his mouth. The little boy’s eyes opened in surprise, and he stopped yelling and began suckling.

  ‘Take him away,’ Arlette said, trying to prise him loose from the nipple.

  His cries were louder than before.

  ‘Let him suck.’ Herleva said. ‘The first drink from you will bind him to you, and you to him. There will be time enough for a nursemaid.’

  ‘Besides, it will aid with the afterbirth,’ the midwife said, settling her ample body back on the floor in front of the birthing stool.

  Herleva called me over to her. I went with reluctance. My own breasts ached as I watched the tiny boy suckle, his lips working around the nipple, his eyes closed in bliss. Arlette looked much the same as she stared at his face – the Madonna and her child.

  ‘Do not let her take the afterbirth away,’ Herleva whispered to me. ‘I have a use for it.’

  Please do not let it be to extend your life, I prayed. Was this the reason she had waited for Arlette to give birth, so she could claim the afterbirth? Was it a magic cure for her illness? Please do not let it be so.

  The afterbirth was duly expelled, the suckling of the babe encouraging those final contractions, with the midwife kneading Arlette’s stomach. The lady hardly noticed the mess at her nether regions – she did not take her gaze from her son. Belly full, he gazed blearily back. His eyes were blue. I had not expected that.

  The midwife put the bowl of steaming raw afterbirth to one side for a servant to remove, and busied herself checking the new mother. The rest of Arlette’s ladies flooded into the room, cooing and laughing, followed by maids bearing pails of steaming water and cloths for drying.

  I used the distraction to slide the bowl under Herleva’s chair, trying not to look at the red mass within. It reminded me of a lump of liver and I swear to God it was still alive, pulsing in its watery bath of birth fluid and blood.

  ‘Give him to me,’ Herleva said.

  One by one the voices fell silent, the chattering dying away.

  ‘Give him to me,’ Herleva repeated.

  The ladies looked at one another, the maids looked at the floor.

  ‘Someone has to hold him, whilst
you clean up Lady Arlette.’

  It was a reasonable statement. Arlette had to be cleansed of the blood, gore, and sweat, then clothed in a nightgown and propped up in bed, ready to receive Duke Robert. Not easy to do whilst holding an infant.

  The midwife, probably anxious to get paid so she could leave, took the child from his mother’s arms and placed him in Herleva’s. Everyone stared at Arlette.

  I shook my head in disbelief. Herleva was Arlette’s step-mother, the baby’s grandmother – why not hold him?

  Then I noticed the expressions on the faces of Arlette’s gentlewomen. They knew there was more to Herleva than a frail old woman. They felt it in their bones. If asked, I bet they could not express their concern in words, but it was there all the same. Herleva might be weak and old, but her eyes had not changed. A malevolent intelligence shone out of them, full of evil wickedness and ancient fearful knowledge.

  Arlette smiled at her step-mother.

  The chamber let out a collective sigh.

  One of the simpering, fluttering ladies pressed a few coins into the midwife’s hand and the woman left, duty done. With the mother safely delivered of her child, the fate of both was now in the hands of God. The midwife had played her part and her relief was clear as she scurried out of the chamber. If things had gone ill, it would not be the first time a midwife was blamed for it.

  Herleva and I ignored the bustle and concentrated on the little boy sleeping in her arms. Although tiny, he was sturdy and robust, with fat cheeks and a shock of black hair. He made little sucking movements with his mouth, and every so often his face would screw up as if he was reliving the drama of passing through the birth canal. Or was he dreaming? Did babies dream and if so, what could they possibly dream about?

  I leaned forward, inhaling his milky smell, listening to the soft murmurs as he slumbered. And wished he was mine.

  Envy, stinging and hot, swept through me. I wanted to be Arlette so much at this moment, that it hurt. She had everything I had lost, and more – she had a son.

  I took him from Herleva and slowly walked to the bed, wishing I could hold him forever. Arlette stretched out her arms to receive him, and I placed a kiss on the little forehead before I gave him back to his mother.

  Arlette had changed. She had become more woman, less girl. When she looked at me I saw Herleva’s eyes shining from her face. Was it only me who felt the crackle and tingle of an unseen power in the room? It felt like a thunderstorm was building, with Arlette as the lightening-rod.

  The door opened with a slam and the moment was lost. I backed away, retreating to join Herleva by the fire. Lord Robert strode into the room, filling it with his maleness, out of place in this sanctuary of motherhood.

  When he saw the woman he loved with his son in her arms, he dropped to his knees.

  ‘Leave us,’ he said, his voice thick and hoarse.

  The ladies fluttered out. Herleva and I remained. I expected him to order us to go too, but he did not seem to notice our presence. Herleva’s doing, I presumed.

  ‘Is he…?’ The duke hesitated.

  ‘Every finger, every toe is accounted for,’ Arlette said, holding the tightly swaddled infant up for inspection.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ the duke breathed. ‘He looks like you, with all that dark hair.’

  ‘He may have my hair, but he has your heart and your courage, my lord.’

  I wished I had left with the rest of Arlette’s attendants, and tried to close my ears to their endearments. Arlette let her duke hold his son, and once Robert was satisfied that both mother and child were healthy, the call of celebratory wine in the great hall proved too much. He left to wallow in the congratulations and well-wishes of his men. The church bells rang out in a clamorous announcement of the new arrival as the duke strode from the room.

  Silence descended on the chamber. The wife of Robert’s senior advisor poked her head around the door and Arlette shooed her away.

  ‘My mother’s maid will see to my needs. I wish to rest,’ Arlette said.

  ‘Shall I send the wet-nurse in for the child?’

  ‘I will keep him with me for now. If I sleep, my mother will hold him.’

  My mother. I had never before heard Arlette refer to Herleva as her mother. A subtle change in the relationship between the two women had taken place over the last few hours. Motherhood had indeed changed Arlette.

  Herleva nodded as if all this was foreseen, and perhaps it was.

  ‘Ensure Lady Arlette is not disturbed,’ Herleva instructed, rising from her chair like the proverbial phoenix.

  The witch was back, in all her glory. Had I imagined the past few months? The woman standing before me showed little sign of frailty and ill-health. She appeared taller, less hunched, her shoulders back, her head high, and though her steps were slow, she walked across the chamber unaided.

  My heart sank. I glanced at the chair she had been sitting in, trying to see if the bowl containing the afterbirth was still there, and still full. I would not have put it past Herleva to have eaten it. Why else had she wanted to keep it, if not to restore her health and defy death?

  ‘Fetch me the skull,’ she said. Even her voice was stronger, more sure and commanding. This was the Herleva of my visions, the Herleva who had bespelled me.

  She had insisted I packed a bag of essentials when the summons to attend the labouring Arlette had arrived. Herbs and powders, ointments and potions had gone into her bag. Other women might have packed a knitted shawl, or the swaddling clothes they had made in anticipation of the successful delivery of their grandchild, but not Herleva.

  Herleva had packed a skull and an ancient blackened pot.

  She had made me empty the skull of the noxious liquid it always held, and cleanse it with crushed thyme and water, revealing strange shapes carved into the bone.

  I handed the now empty vessel to her.

  ‘Put the pot on the fire,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the baby.

  ‘It will burn. There is nothing in it,’ I said.

  ‘That is what the afterbirth is for.’

  Oh, nasty. At least she didn’t intend to eat it raw. I swallowed down bile, picked up the bowl and slopped its noisome contents into the pot.

  Herleva fussed around Arlette, making her drink this potion and that, rubbing ointment into her breasts, anointing the child’s forehead with dabs of liquid from a jar.

  I sat and watched the pot, stirring the contents occasionally, not wanting it to stick to the bottom, trying to ignore the smell of rancid boiling meat which issued from it. Herleva added a handful of powder and some crushed herbs. Acrid smoke billowed up. I searched it for any sign of cats, just in case she planned on turning the child into a kitten. Nothing hid in the smoke.

  ‘When it comes to the boil again, pour the liquid off into the skull,’ she instructed.

  There was precious little liquid in it, barely enough to cover the bottom inch of the skull.

  ‘Out of the way.’ She nudged me aside, took hold of the knife on her girdle and sliced the blade across her arm.

  ‘Dear Lord!’ I jumped back in shock.

  Blood dripped in a steady stream into the skull. Herleva muttered as it fell, stirring it in with a finger. Finally, after a good half a pint had flowed out of her, she lifted her arm and reached for a strip of linen.

  ‘Bind the wound tight,’ she said. ‘I cannot afford to lose any more.’

  She could not afford to lose what she already had lost, though this was the most animated and alive I had seen her in months. I bandaged her arm, then checked to see how much blood she had fed to the skull. Movement in the depths caught my attention, a slow stirring as if something large swam in them. I stepped back, disturbed.

  ‘Quiet. I need to concentrate,’ Herleva instructed. ‘Caitlyn, guard the door. Bar it if you can.’

  I did as I was bid, shoving the wooden bar across until it held firm, then inched closer to her. For all her dark and evil ways, her magic fascinated me.

&nbs
p; She drew a swift practised circle on the floorboards, with no sign of ache or pain, and followed it with a pentagram and hastily drawn symbols, then stepped into it holding the skull.

  Gracefully sinking to her haunches, she crouched over the vessel, waved her hands in the air above it and muttered. A frown creased her brow and the skin around her sunken eyes wrinkled even more as she squinted into the strange bowl.

  ‘Robert will have no legitimate children,’ she croaked. ‘This child will be his legacy. My legacy. He will be great.’

  My turn to squint. Did I see a crown shimmering on the sticky surface of the hideous contents of the skull?

  Herleva sat back, resting on her bony backside and lifted her face to the rafters, raising her arms in the air, palms up like a supplicant.

  ‘Welcome to the new Duke of Normandy,’ she paused. ‘Welcome to the future King of England!’

  Chapter 33

  ‘She has been asking for you.’ I ushered Arlette into Herleva’s chamber, giving her attendants a warning look to remain outside. ‘The babe?’ I asked.

  ‘With his nursemaid.’ Arlette was distracted. I suppose she had good reason to be.

  The figure on the bed hardly raised a lump. Herleva had shrunk to half her former self, in the space of a few days. Her rallying at baby William’s birth had been the last burst of life, before death firmed his grip. I had seen it more than once, that final attempt of body and soul to cling to earth. There would be no reprieve.

  Arlette gave me a harried, anxious look. ‘When you sent for me there was no mention of how ill she is.’

  ‘No.’ Herleva had instructed me not to speak of it, and I had no choice but to comply with her wishes.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ she hissed.

  ‘In bed? Since she returned from the birth of your son.’

  ‘She did not appear to be ill then.’ Her suspicion made me want to laugh. As if I was able to harm the old woman. Had she forgotten the constraints of my enchantment?

  ‘She was.’ My answer was as short as my temper, and I had to remind myself of Arlette’s influence. All I had to do was stay calm until the old witch died. After that, freedom was mine. I would slip away as soon as she took her last breath, and before Arlette thought to restrain me. There were enough attendants outside the door to contain a small army. I must give her no reason to suspect me of foul play.