Hellion

by Bertrice Small

  He was hard put not to laugh at her anger, and yet he truly believed he understood how frustrating it must all be for her. His wife was used to being active. She hated the fact she could not hurry about as she was used to doing. And carrying a child had not improved Belle’s temper. In recent weeks it had become shorter and shorter, to the point where the least word, or even a mere look, could set her to raving.

  “It cannot be much longer, chérie,” he told her. “I can only imagine how difficult it has been these last weeks, but just a little more time. Your mother says it won’t be long, and she should surely know.” Hugh took his wife’s hand in his and kissed it.

  Isabelle burst into tears. “Tomorrow is my birthday,” she said. “I will be seventeen. I am growing old, Hugh. Old!”

  Again he was tempted to laugh, but he did not. “You are the most beautiful old woman I know,” he told her.

  “Oh, Hugh,” she sniffled, suddenly, inexplicably, mollified by his kindness.

  The following morning as her family gathered to wish her a happy birthday, a strange look came over Belle’s face, and Alette instantly knew.

  “You are in labor,” she said in matter-of-fact tones to her daughter.

  “I think so,” Isabelle said, and then she winced. “I can feel something, Mother, and I want to push it out!” she cried.

  “Good heavens!” Alette said, astounded. “Surely you are not going to deliver your child like some serf in the fields?” But the look on her daughter’s face convinced her that perhaps Isabelle indeed was going to have her baby much sooner than later. “There is no time,” she told the others. “Ida, Agneatha, help me get my daughter upon the high board! We have no other choice, I fear.”

  Before they might even move, Hugh lifted his wife up and laid her gently upon the cleared table. “Easy, ma Belle,” he said in gentle tones. “Breathe deeply, chérie.” He smoothed her brow.

  “Rolf, bring a screen to shield the lady of Langston from prying eyes,” Alette directed her husband. She began to remove her daughter’s tunic and skirts, leaving her only in her chemise. Taking a knife, she slit the soft linen fabric on either side.

  Hugh stood at the end of the table, bracing Isabelle, who was now in a seated position, her legs raised against her chest.

  “Jesu! Marie!” Alette swore. “This grandchild of mine will not wait! Hurry, Rolf!”

  The screen was set before the front of the high board to give Isabelle some measure of privacy. Ida and Agneatha had already gone for and returned with hot water, wine, clean cloths, swaddling clothes, and the cradle for the soon-to-be-born infant. Isabelle shrieked and, unable to help herself, bore down. She could actually feel her body stretching, something being expelled from her innermost regions. She cried out again, and yet again. Hugh, his arms about her chest, whispered soft words of encouragement to her, pressing soft kisses upon her head. Belle grunted hard, and then to her amazement she felt free again. She heard a cry. The cry of an infant.

  “ ’Tis a fine boy,” her mother said, holding up the howling, bloodied little creature. “You have a son, Isabelle, Hugh.”

  “Give him to me! Give him to me!” Belle cried.

  “Let us clean him off first,” her mother counseled.

  “No! Give him to me now!” Belle demanded, almost crying as Alette set the child in her arms.

  “Let me at least cut his cord,” she said, but Isabelle did not hear her. She was too fascinated, too enthralled by her son.

  “Look, Hugh,” she said. “See how tiny his hands and feet are. I think he has your features. He’ll be plain of face, as his sire, my lord,” but her voice was soft with her love for them both.

  “Shall we name him after your father?” Hugh asked.

  “Nay,” Belle told him. “I will name our son after his father. He will be Hugh the Younger,” and she relinquished hold of the baby to her maidservant, Agneatha, so that he might be cleaned up and set safely in his cradle.

  Several weeks after the birth of Hugh the Younger, a summons came from the king. Robert de Belleme, the Earl of Shrewsbury, and his brothers—Arnulf, Earl of Pembroke, and Roger of Poitou, Lord of Lancaster—had rebelled against the king. The king’s armies were assembling to be deployed along the Marches of Wales, where the rebels had taken a stand. The marches were an area along the English-Welsh border, and along the southern coast of Wales. Hugh and Rolf marshaled their men, the troop having grown to fifty bowmen now.

  “This time,” Hugh told Isabelle, “not all will come back, I fear. This time there will be fighting.”

  “See that you come back,” she told him. “And what of Blanca? If you answer the king’s summons, you cannot possibly take her to Duke Robert. Will you offend him?”

  “Send to the duke a missive telling him that I cannot come but will try to come in the autumn, or the following spring,” Hugh told his wife.

  Isabelle nodded, and then, kissing her husband, bravely bid him Godspeed.

  Robert de Belleme and his two brothers, of the Montgomerie family, were each all-powerful men in their own right. United, they were a forceful trio. Unfortunately, they were disliked by the majority of the baronage, most of whom were far less powerful. The Montgomeries had no support in their rebellion against the king from either their own kind, from the clergy, or the people, who hated them. Why they had dared to face off against King Henry was a mystery to most. Others, wiser, believed the Montgomeries had foolishly succumbed to their overweening ambition.

  Driven back into their own castles, they were forced to surrender after only three months. Each of the three lost their lands as forfeit for their stupidity; and they were exiled with their families back to Normandy, where they immediately began to plan another rebellion. Duke Robert, while he had not actively encouraged the disobedience against his younger sibling, had also not actively discouraged it. He had, in fact, very pointedly looked the other way. His wife was shortly to deliver their first child. He was not happy to see the return to Normandy of the Montgomeries, who had always been ambitious troublemakers wherever they settled.

  Hugh Fauconier and Rolf de Briard returned home to Langston in late July. Six of their archers had fallen in the fray, a relatively small number, and they felt fortunate. King Henry had been very pleased by their loyalty and their support. Let great lords rebel against his legal authority; it was the small lords like Hugh who would hold England against all rebels and foreigners. He made his childhood friend a baron to reward him, and when Hugh asked if he should go to Normandy, the king said, “By all means, Baron Langston, go, and take the gyrfalcon to my brother. It will reassure him better than anything else I can do that I do not hold him responsible for the bad behavior of the Montgomeries. They are his problem now, may God help him. Poor old Robert. They will cause him more trouble, to be sure, sooner or later. Aye, go, and remain in Normandy until the Duchess Sibylle has delivered her child. Then return, and bring me all the news, both public and private, that you have managed to learn at my brother’s court.”

  “I wish you could come with me, ma Belle,” Hugh said to his wife. “If only our son were a trifle older and did not need you, chérie.”

  “But he does need me,” Isabelle replied. “I do not want to give him to a wet nurse yet, my lord.” She looked down upon the bed where their little son lay naked upon a sheepskin, kicking and cooing. He was almost four months old now, and each day, Isabelle thought, he seemed to change before her very eyes.

  “I have already missed much of Hugh the Younger,” her husband said sadly. “It is the way of our world that I must be away so much right now. Once the king has reigned for a while, England will be quiet. Then I shall have but my knight’s service each year. I shall be home to teach our son to ride and to hunt.” He smiled down at the baby, who grinned up at his sire, a great, toothless grin. Hugh offered him a finger, and the infant grasped it strongly, surprising his father. “By the rood, ma Belle, he has a tenacious grip, our wee lad!” Then he bent down and kissed the child upon his forehe
ad. “Take care of your mother, Hugh the Younger. I’ll be home as quickly as I can.”

  “How long?” Belle asked.

  “The king wants me to remain long enough to bring him the news of the duchess’s delivery and learn the sex of her child. She is due to have her babe in mid-autumn. I should be home by Martinmas, if the seas are not too stormy.”

  “The weather is usually best either just before a storm or immediately after one,” Belle told him. “Go, my lord, and do what you must. Rolf will be here, and we are well-defended now.”

  Hugh Fauconier departed his home once again on Lammas, in the company of Alain the falconer and six Langston men-at-arms. He took with him Blanca, the gyrfalcon, who would be given to Duke Robert; and a charming little sparrow hawk he intended as a gift for the duchess. The swallow-sized hawk had a rufous back and tail, unlike any other hawk. The sparrow hawk was definitely a lady’s bird. It would find its prey and then hover over it, its elegant little wings beating rapidly, until finally it would swoop to kill.

  Isabelle stood upon the walls of the keep, her son in her arms, watching as her husband rode off toward the nearby coast and the waiting vessel that would sail him across to Normandy.

  Once again it was time to harvest the crops grown in the fields and orchards at Langston. Grain was threshed, and stored in the granaries. Flour was ground in the lord’s mill, some distributed to the serfs and other tenants, the rest stored. Cider, ale, and wine were made to be stored in the cellars of the keep. The fields to be used for the autumn planting of spring wheat were ploughed, and the seeds sown. The animals were gathered from their summer pastures and brought closer to home, where they might be quickly herded into shelters when the weather turned inclement. Michaelmas was celebrated. The weaving of linen began.

  Christian de Briard was in his tenth month of life, his nephew, Hugh the Younger, a robust six and a half months old. Alette confided to her daughter that she believed she was quickening with another child.

  “So soon?” Isabelle said, surprised.

  “I am not young like you, my daughter,” Alette responded. “I want to give my Rolf at least two sons before I am unable to conceive.”

  “What if it is a sister for Christian and me?” Belle teased.

  “A daughter would suit me as well,” Rolf told the women, overhearing their conversation as they sat together in the hall watching their babies crawl about. He bent, kissing his wife, then turned to Belle. “The manor is ready for winter, whatever it brings,” he told her. “Everyone has worked very hard, my lady daughter. I should like to reward the serfs by allowing them a day’s hunting in your fields and woods. No more than one deer per village, and two rabbits per family. Will you approve?”

  “Aye,” Belle answered. “They are deserving. Give them their day. Are the houses all in good repair for winter, Rolf?”

  “Two roofs, one in Langston village and one in the outermost village, will need patching before the cold sets in, but I have already arranged for it, my lady. Tomorrow I have said the women and children may glean in the fields and orchards for whatever they can find. Well-fed peasants cannot be urged to any kind of sedition. The winters are hard enough.”

  Martinmas came, and with it a letter from Hugh Fauconier telling his wife that the duke and duchess had been delivered of a son. The duke, however, wanted him to remain on so they might hunt crane and test Blanca’s prowess. The duchess had been pleased with her sparrow hawk. He would be home as soon as he could. Spring, at the very latest. Isabelle sighed, but there was nothing she could do. She was forced to accept her husband’s decision. He could have hardly refused the duke’s request without giving grievous insult to the king’s brother.

  The Nativity was celebrated in Langston’s new church, which was, as Hugh had desired, called St. Elizabeth’s. The church building was of a timber-frame construction, plastered and whitewashed. The roof was thatched. Hugh had wanted a stone church, but they would have had to wait much longer for the stones to be cut and then dragged over the marshes and the hills from Northamptonshire. Later, perhaps, they would have a stone church.

  Langston’s lord had wanted his church erected as quickly as possible. His serfs had worked diligently all summer and autumn, felling tress, cutting boards, mixing plaster, weaving thatch, in order that they might celebrate the Nativity within their own church. And next to the church was a small cottage especially built for Father Bernard, and a brand new churchyard.

  On the eve of the Nativity the interior of the church was decorated with branches of yew and holly. Alette and Isabelle had been busy for days making candles of the purest beeswax for the candlesticks on the altar. The tapestry that Alette had been weaving since the departure of her first husband on his crusade hung behind the altar. It was a scene depicting Christ feeding the multitudes; a lesson, Father Bernard said, as to how a master should treat the less fortunate; a lesson that was practiced nicely here at Langston.

  To celebrate the Nativity, every serf and freedman on the manor of Langston was given two measures of beer, a rasher of ham, and a loaf of bread. Each child was allocated a handful of raisins as well. As many as could crowded into the hall, singing joyously of the Christ child’s birth. A health was drunk to the absent lord and to his good lady, who had seen to this happy occasion. Then the family was left alone to celebrate quietly. Isabelle, however, was pensive. There had been no further word from Hugh. She had resigned herself to not seeing him until spring. She looked over to her baby brother, Christian de Briard, now toddling with great determination everywhere his fat little legs could take him; his nephew, Hugh the Younger, crawled behind him. It was good that they would have each other as they grew up. She looked to her mother and stepfather, content and happy as they awaited the birth of their second child. Belle sighed.

  The winter was a hard one, bitterly cold and wet. There were severe ice storms that damaged many of the trees in the orchards. Candlemas came, and with it the lambing, but it was a poor season. Not as many ewes gave birth as had the year before, and many of the newborns were lost in a wicked snowstorm that struck toward the end of the month. Only sheep, Belle thought, could be so utterly capricious as to have their young at the worst possible time of the year.

  The spring was late, the frost refusing to leave the ground. When the planting was finally done, it was washed away by severe rainstorms and had to be done again, which was accomplished with some difficulty, the earth being sodden and difficult to plough. The winter wheat had suffered with the cold and wet. When they were finally able to harvest it, the yield was scant. None of the usual signs seemed to bode well for a good growing season.

  “Pray God,” Isabelle said to Father Bernard after the mass one morning, “that the summer crops are bountiful.”

  “Without the lord, lady, little good will happen for Langston,” Ancient Albert, the old smithy, said in a quavery voice. “Where be Lord Hugh? We need him.”

  Isabelle took the rheumy-eyed old man’s hand and said to him, “The lord is at Duke Robert’s court on king’s business, Ancient Albert. He will return soon. I know it.”

  “There will be no luck at Langston until the lord is safely home,” Ancient Albert pronounced. “You does your best, lady, and loves the land, you surely does, but Langston must have its lord. Its luck is in its lord.”

  Easter came and went. Alette de Briard gave birth to her second son on the fifth day of May. The boy was baptized Henry, after the king. And still there was no word of Hugh Fauconier. Isabelle was becoming frantic. Where was her husband?

  “We will send to the king for word of Hugh,” Rolf said one evening as he sat with his stepdaughter in the hall. “Surely he will have had some word of him and know when he is to return.”

  “Nay, I will go to the king,” Isabelle said quietly. They were alone, the servants having sought their beds, and Alette in her chamber nursing her newborn son. “A message would be as likely to get lost with all the correspondence the king must receive. He cannot, however, ignore m
e if I am standing before him, can he?”

  “Belle, listen to me,” her stepfather said. “You know that Hugh and I were raised with the king. There are things about our liege lord that we have not discussed before you because frankly they were of no import to you. But if you go to court, you must know that Henry Beauclerc is a very lusty man. He has always enjoyed women more than he should. Although it is said of him that his couplings are more for political advantage than passion, I know that not to be true.”

  “The king is a married man, Rolf,” Isabelle said naively, “and I a married woman. He will have no interest in me at all. Besides, I am not going to court for pleasure. I am going to find out where my husband has gotten to, and nothing more.”

  “The king will look at you, Belle, and see a beautiful woman,” her stepfather told her. “You cannot refuse him if you engage his lust.”

  “Then come with me, Rolf, and protect me.” Belle laughed. “I will be a most proper lady. King Henry will not be in the least taken with me. I shall wear a wimple and veil at all times, and pretend to be shy. Besides, he will surely maintain a loyalty to Hugh that will make it impossible for him to seduce me. Shall we take Agneatha with us?”

  “Hugh would not want you to do this thing, Isabelle,” Rolf said. “He would forbid you, and as your stepfather so must I.”

  “You are indeed my stepfather, Rolf,” Belle said quietly, and there was danger in her tone, a danger Rolf recognized. “You are also, however, the steward of Langston, and I, Langston’s lady. You must obey me in the absence of my husband. I do not have to obey you.”