by Prue Batten
Not so many days after the sickening note, horses, shouting and a horn could be heard approaching the lake. The early autumn day was beset with mists and drizzle and the light was half-hearted. I ran to the window with Gwen to see who approached and grasped my small bulge as I saw the De Courcey pennants. My husband led a group of a dozen men across the causeway and into the bailey and my heart jumped and dived. I sat on the edge of my seat composing myself, draping the folds of the brown bliaut in such a way as to camouflage the size of the bump.
‘Gwen, the chain!’
Ulric, why did you not tell me he was coming?
Gwen dug in the coffer by the window, the chain rattling like a spectre’s warning, and I hastily thrust it round my body just below breasts that were becoming full and motherly. The topaz gems sat over the folds, a display that would surely please the Baron and give me a moment’s reprieve.
The door crashed open and he strode in, his colouring fire and brimstone and tinged with a harsh ruddy flush.
‘How now, Ysabel, mother of my child…’ He grabbed me and pulled me up. ‘Lord but you are expanding.’
He ran his hand over the front of the gown in a proprietorial way and I gritted my teeth, thinking of hands that had lit fires in London.
‘But damned if you don’t look good with it.’
‘It often happens that a woman grows rapidly. Then again, perhaps I brew two babes. There are twins in Cazenay. And yes, I am well although prone to decrepit tiredness and the odd pain. I hope it will pass.’
There were of course no twins in my family but I was becoming an accomplished liar and he was so full of his prowess at siring a child in a mere strike or two that I could see he would listen to anything. I just hoped he would not be violent, not again, and I tried hard not to upset him.
‘One child ha, maybe two! These are my heirs.’ Initial joy lasted but a moment as his eyes hardened. ‘By the Saints, wife, if I do not hear that you mind yourself or that the staff do not mind you, there shall be a price to pay.’
‘Then it is as well that I am cared for. The servants, your men included, have been pillars of support. The demesnes runs well. The harvest has been got in. So you see my Lord De Courcey, I wonder why you are come? I presumed the King required your services elsewhere.’
‘He does and I have already served him well. I am here to see my wife and to gather the rest of the men. Richard is to begin seeking funds for a crusade and we are to bolster his forces.’
‘You think he shall need force amongst his own people?’
‘He is unsure how his barons will react and believes the Free Lancers shall be an incentive.’
Force?
‘For how long shall you be here? I will make sure the food supplies are adequate.’
I moved to leave but he grabbed my hand, his eyes filled with a look I had grown to despise.
‘A night and a day only – enough time for the rest of the force to arm and prepare. I have told the bailiff to organize food for us.’ He pulled me into his arms roughly, his fingers pinching. ‘By the saints, Ysabel, I want you.’ I could feel his manhood hard against my stomach and begged God to help me. ‘But…’ he pushed me away. ‘It seems I must not. I shall have sons madame, I am sure, and nothing, not even my rights, shall threaten their being. They shall be the sons of a kingmaker.’
He spoke with sickening grandeur and for one ghastly moment I had a window into a frightening future.
Kingmaker.
It was what I had deduced so long ago.
Kingmaker, kingbreaker.
Gwen shifted in the corner, Sorcia squirming out of her arms and running to me. I bent and picked her up and De Courcey glanced at her.
‘A hound, Ysabel, and like to be huge. Hardly the dog for a Lady Chamber.’
‘She is a good bitch from Eodmund’s litter and will add fine blood to your own.’
But his eyes had drifted from the dog to Gwen and the glance was filled with thickly scented interest.
‘And this is?’
‘Gwen. Since you sent Cecilia back to Upton, I have felt in need of help. A girl from the village will suit my needs as the months move on.’
‘Gwen.’ He walked around her, his eyes on her young breasts and formative hips. ‘Your father?’
‘Died protecting the Lady Ysabel in Anjou, my lord.’
You angel child! You lie as well as me.
Gwen knew, I could tell. More worldly wise than me at the same age, of course she knew what her liege-lord was about and sought to placate him.
‘Then you are welcome in my house, Gwen.’
His voice had softened to silk and I hoped Gwen would use her wits. If not, placating him could take a whole other course entirely.
‘Oh!’ I grabbed at my lower back and sank onto a settle.
De Courcey turned back, his eyes dark with something nasty.
‘What ails you?’
Untruths!
‘Back pain. Gwen, run to your mother and ask her to come to me with her herbals. When she leaves, you must take the youngsters to your aunt’s.’
She bobbed and dashed out. There was no aunt nor siblings and I prayed for sharp little Gwen to go where she could not be found. I prayed also that a good meal and plenty of ale and wine might dull the Baron’s excesses. And there were always Gwen’s mother’s herbs.
I drugged him.
The herbs for my so-called back-pain were nothing but the extract of poppy. Brother John had directed me to Gwen’s mother on witnessing my post-marital bruising, saying she had experience with herbs and had helped the sick and needy at times.
‘She will give you a drug to feed into his drink when you want to avoid him, my child. I will not see the daughter of Joffrey so treated. He is an animal.’
And so I placed the drops in his ale and by the end of the meal, he lay with his head on a half eaten trencher. I ordered two of the brawny men I had come to know to carry him to the Master Chamber and I passed a more comfortable night in the knowledge Gwen and I would be left alone.
He departed in a foul temper next day. He snarled at me to mind his heirs, squeezing my arm, and I bit my tongue so as not give him pleasure in my pain. He almost kicked Sorcia but I grabbed her as his booted foot was drawn back. He knocked his squire down when a chainmail vest was misplaced, the fellow hitting his head and bleeding. He yelled to the bailiff that the bushel yield from the harvest must exceed last year’s else his position would be forfeit. And when his horse reared on being mounted, he raked his spurs along the animal’s sides leaving bloody scores.
Moncrieff seethed as the men mingled and mounted, forming into lines. They clattered out two by two leaving the castle with a guard of six men-at-arms and peace.
I watched until the noise of horses and men faded on the air. Till the honk of bird and bleat of sheep sounded, until harshness was replaced with poultry pecking at worms disturbed in the bailey’s soil, Sorcia barking at a cat, children chasing the pigeons that flew up with a flacking of wings to settle on the corbels of the walls. It was then I finally took a breath of wonder as my child quickened inside me, a butterfly touch so that I rubbed the mound and thanked God and the Saints that we were left behind and that De Courcey, God rot his soul, was heading in the opposite direction.
Straight away I hurried to my chamber and wrote two notes – one to Cecilia begging her to come. The other to my despised husband saying that in view of my apparent discomfort and his interest in the care of the mother of his offspring, it seemed sensible to secure the cosseting companionship of my godmother.
Thus the months passed – Cecilia, young Gwen and Brother John … my triumvirate. All guarded by an alarmingly large Sorcia. There was enough barley and wheat from the harvest to be distributed amongst the villagers and by judicious numbering of the bushels in the records De Courcey would never know. Livestock fattened through the summer was butchered and salted for the winter, autumn fruits provided just enough to sweeten our appetites. We had no real need of compl
aint. Apart from my name, my condition, and the introduction of the six men-at-arms, it seemed Gwen said, as if nothing had changed at Moncrieff in years.
Cecilia’s company was a boon beyond all expectation as the cold set in and snow fell. We walked, our feet in pattens and Ceci holding me tightly in case I should fall. I met the villagers, visiting in an ox and cart, and sat quietly talking to Ceci about Alaïs and Joffrey, paying respect to them once weekly and laying wreaths on their tomb. I told Cecilia about Ulric’s code, and his notes continued to arrive by devious means … a relics pedlar, a pilgrim, a returned soldier travelling west.
But I knew the day a thick encoded packet arrived, that it contained something vital.
Cecilia was looking at me as someone knocked at the chamber door.
‘Ysabel, you are so big and the child hangs so low, it’s as well that excuse for a baron is not here. You are fit to burst, my child.’
‘My legs and back ache with the weight of it, Ceci, and if I am right I think I only have days to go and us yet with no plan.’ I arched my back and called ‘Come.’
The fire flared as the door opened, the flames dipping and diving.
Gwen slipped in.
‘My lady, a merchant has passed this to you. He is even now with Brother John.’
‘Then let us hope Brother John shall thaw out the poor man’s feet and prevail upon him to put aside his wretched travels until the snow clears. It is a God forsaken freeze outside.’
Cecilia growled. She hated the cold, her bones aching and her blood sluggish; another reason to be away from Upton which lay on a bleak hill in the middle of wind-scoured moorland.
I held the heavy packet in my hand, gazing at how it was folded upon itself and I thought back to the very advent of the turn my life had taken and the package of death that I had opened on that day … the hours before I met Guy of Gisborne.
We all of us lose family – it is the natural course of life, but I think I had ached with it for months now, grieving in fits and starts. Just once I would have liked to cry and be heart-sore without pretensions to strength. I don’t even recall flinging myself into Ceci’s arms and wailing when I saw her that day Gisborne and I slipped from the passage, nothing but the odd quiet tear and an unconscious urge to dig deep for something to anchor me. I think it was the child that sustained me now – that giant bulge that put pressure on my spine and made me realize I had a supporting backbone.
My finger slipped under the fold held down by the hated De Courcey seal, flicking the crumbling wax apart. The parchment trembled, as there was something of the troubadour’s Death Roll in the air. De Courcey’s death or Gisborne’s, my heart quailed for alternate reasons. I watched the wax segments crack and flutter to the floor like aged petals.
‘It is from Ulric,’ I breathed with relief. ‘Shall I read it?’
‘Of course, Ysabel, and for God’s sake sit, you’re quite pale.’
I subsided onto a coffer. ‘It will take me time to decipher, so have patience.’
I spoke more to give myself a moment than anything.
‘He has a good hand and should surely be an excellent steward for someone so much more noble than De Courcey. He begins with the usual…’ I tapped the page, skipping over the opening pleasantries. ‘He says … You would find the costumes of court a wonder to behold in winter, my lady. I have never seen such thick velvets nor so many extravagant furs but the women are ugly and as pale as a hardboiled egg and the men strut like cockerels … perfect company for my lord Baron. It is however impossible not to be awed by His Majesty. He is as golden and perfect as you would expect a child of Eleanor of Aquitaine to be. Prince John is like a black spider next to a wondrous butterfly by comparison and such an odious man to whom our lord Baron appears to be tying himself.
An inner circle of very different men surrounds the King. Master Gisborne is one; although he comes and goes…’
My cheeks flushed as I realized he was no longer in Sicilyand I was glad I sat by the fire so that Cecilia needn’t employ her dry wit.
‘However he is no longer Master,’ I continued reading Ulric’s words aloud. ‘He is knighted and has had estates gifted, a favourite you see, and the Baron chafes to see it is so. The Baron however has been ordered to ready his men for a departure. He is to take his men as an advance cohort to the Middle Sea and they shall billet in a location that must remain undisclosed. I can inform you of nothing more except that the King plans the crusade for July and of course we are now in January.
The Baron returns to Moncrieff to see yourself and to issue instructions for the estate for the next few months. Keep you safe, my lady and beware. I wish you … and so on, signed Ulric of Camden.’ I looked up. ‘He has dated it. A week ago, Ceci. The Baron must be so very close … argh!’
I dropped the parchment and grabbed at my stomach as a wave of pain clutched it and squeezed. At the same time, warmth ran down my legs and I glanced floor-ward to see a trickle emerge under my gown and soak the edges of the letter. Another pain as I reached to throw the document in the fire. I held to the stone surrounds.
‘Cecilia, the child! Gwen, get your mother!’
It seemed that a whirlwind of activity occurred but I withdrew into a small space defined by the scope of my pain. I walked, I cried, I screamed and swore. I sweated and eventually allowed myself to be stripped to the chemise and laid on the bed.
‘The plan, Cecilia. We have no plan.’
I grabbed her hand, my voice husky with exertion.
‘Hush, just save your breath.’
But her expression was grim.
‘Madame,’ Gwen’s mother, Brigid, spoke to Cecilia as I writhed. She wiped my face with a damp cloth and took my hand.
‘Listen to me. I can see the head right now and it’s covered in black hair which aint goin’ ter please the Baron too much.’
I groaned.
‘Milady, you listen. I’ve a sister in Wales and as I’m on me own, I was thinkin’ I would as like to live with her as here. I’d take Gwen too if you’d allow, as I think she’s unsafe when the Baron’s here. I remember yer face, milady, beggin’ yer pardon. Shush, you jus breathe. Nice an’ easy. There. Now rest. Next one’ll be a big un.’
‘Well for God’s sake, Brigid,’ Cecilia wrung out another cloth and passed it to the villager. ‘What’s your idea? Lady Ysabel’s life is forfeit if we have no plan.’
‘I’m sayin’ I take the babe to Wales as soon as it is born. I can suckle it with goat’s milk as it’s too dangerous to have a wet-nurse and you jus tell the Baron the babe died.’
She looked at Cecilia and for a moment I held my breath, storing my energies for the last purge.
‘Gwen, get Brother John.’
Cecilia’s voice took on such a tone that I knew she saw this as the only way the child could live.
‘Put it around that there is a sickly babe like to die and that the Lady Ysabel is weak and it’s in God’s hands as to whether she or the babe survives or neither. You, Brigid, deliver this infant and then you will leave undercover of night with Gwen and the child. I don’t know how you will get to Wales but it is the only plan and better this child lives than dies.’
My breathing began to build to a roaring crescendo and I pushed with every bit of strength left. There was a slithering sensation between my legs but I just lay in a pool of exhaustion, letting it drag me to an oblivion I craved.
‘Ysabel,’ my cheek was slapped. ‘Hold your child! He’s a fine boy.’
Brigid lay something over me and I opened my eyes to see a waxy face and scrunched eyes and little fists crunched tight. My hand crept to his back and he arched under my touch and then his fist opened to the tiniest star and lay upon my flesh. He snuffled and sniffed and at one stage gave a tiny yawn which ended in slight cry, but in essence it was as if he knew the need for secrecy.
He was indeed his father’s son.
‘William,’ I croaked, lifting my head to kiss him. ‘His name is William.’
/> Cecilia took him away to a bowl and washed him and wrapped him in a cloth of fine wool as the afterbirth slithered out. Brigid cleaned me and wadded some cloths to soak up the blood and Cecilia, the infant in one arm, passed me a warm, spiced wine.
Brother John hussled in with plain swaddling in his arms and gave me a kiss.
‘Well, Cecilia. And what skullduggery do we pursue now? Lord I hope I am forgiven for all this.’
‘Rubbish, you silly man,’ Cecilia thrust William into his arms. ‘You dote on the subterfuge. Your God will forgive you, of course he will. De Courcey’s might not. Bless him and name him and intercede with God for him because he must leave immediately.’
He tickled the babe under the chin. ‘And I suppose I am burying a phantom babe on the morrow?’
‘What a clever priest you are.’
Brother John laughed softly and I felt the warmth of relief; my son, named and blessed, to be delivered beyond De Courcey’s wrath.
All will be well.
I slept through his naming, the Latin words sonorous and soft and fading in and out of my hearing. And then he was wrapped like a dead child.
‘We go, Ysabel,’ the priest whispered to me. ‘Our visiting merchant is an old friend and heads toward the Welsh border. He will take Gwen, Brigid and William as far as he can. Rest easy now.’
I heard the door click and even then the fact that I had lost my child didn’t register. I just imagined the little rescue-party as I dozed – Brother John carrying the ‘stillborn’ babe with a measured tread, Gwen and Brigid following with the piles of bloody laundry, all of them knowing they would meet in Saint Agatha’s later.
