by K. C. Helms
She settled them on a leather chest and turned to Sir Geoffrey, motioning with her head. “Out! ’Tis no place for a man.” Beneath her dark glower, he retreated into the corridor. She turned to Anne. “Has the water broken?”
When Anne stared blankly at her, the midwife lifted the coverlet and examined Katherine and the bed. She nodded with a frown. “Quickly, my lord, we must needs find another chamber—one that offers privacy.” She clutched the pile of linens tightly to her flat breast and limped away, stepping gingerly through the gaping doorway.
Gathering Katherine in his arms, Dafydd feared he would stumble. The feel of her body next to his, her warmth radiating into his hands, the delicate scent of lavender wafting up from her hair, smote him fully in the gut. ’Twas torture most cruel to hold her as she had never allowed.
With fixed stoicism he bore her to the next chamber and settled her within the new bed. Her eyes opened and met his. Never had he seen such fear.
“’Tis time ye were gone, m’lord,” the midwife murmured beside his elbow.
Indeed, yet he lingered, hovering beside Katherine.
Muriel tugged on the sleeve of his jerkin. “I know my duty, m’lord. Your wife is in good hands. Take her sister with ye.”
Nodding, he glanced at Anne, expecting a fight. But she surprised him. She kissed Katherine’s cheek and murmured quiet words of encouragement then turned and left the chamber.
Dafydd could not muster an equal dignity. He had to be pushed, with Muriel’s knotty hand against his back. Barely could he put one foot in front of the other. And when the door was bolted behind him, all he could do was to test it, pushing against it with all his bottled up fears to make sure it would safeguard Katherine and her babe.
Returning to the hall, he glimpsed Lady Adela and Sir Geoffrey seated by the hearth. She held a goblet of wine in her slender hand. Her unbound hair, the color of midnight, was held in place with a lace trimmed gold circlet. Though draped on the back of the chair, her black woolen cloak fell in waves around her, giving her the sinister appearance of a devil’s woman.
He stalked across the chamber. “Begone with you!”
“Be you not so rude, Dafydd. The lady is come at my bidding.” With a dark frown, Sir Geoffrey rose to his full height. “She can help with the birth.”
“Nay, my wife fears her.” He grappled with his emotions. ’Twas a great effort, even in the face of his father’s rising animosity.
“Adela to be feared? How so?”
He tried to shrug, almost succeeding. “’Tis irrational, I realize. But women are, ofttimes.” He must not succumb to his father’s intimidation. “’Twould be best that Lady Adela returns to Myton Castle. I will not have my wife fretting.”
Sir Geoffrey scowled all the more. “You indulge the whore’s whims.”
Dafydd clenched his fists, tried to mitigate his anger. “’Tis not the time for argument. Take your herbalist and go, Father.”
“’Tis no hardship.” Lady Adela rose to stand beside Sir Geoffrey. She bestowed him with a scintillating smile. Her eyes, bottomless and opaque, betrayed a predatory intelligence.
They stood like an impenetrable fortress, his father and Adela, a blended strength of understanding. Terrifying!
The herbalist wisely had kept her distance the day he had visited Myton. He had not realized her fortitude. But their combined cunning was obvious, a keen vision that missed naught.
“My humble apologies, lady.” He bowed politely, hiding his newfound insight. “Your offer of assistance is appreciated, but it must be declined.”
Smiling, Lady Adela extended her hand. “Another time, mayhap.” Her voice was smooth and enticing.
Dafydd bent a swift kiss upon the back of her hand. Her fingers lingered on his, her touch gentle but firm.
’Twas a relief when the two left the hall. Moments later he was dismayed to see Sir Geoffrey returning. “I thought you escorted Lady Adela to Myton?” he asked, keeping his voice friendly.
“My place is here,” Sir Geoffrey replied with a sly smile. “Should there be difficulties, I remain to advise you.”
“What difficulties are there that I can not meet?” Dafydd said, fear splintering his voice. He flung himself into the nearest chair, for his knees grew suddenly weak. “I fight for the king and he is pleased with me. What advice need I?”
“One never knows, Dafydd.” With stealthy grace, Sir Geoffrey moved closer. “You have no cause for anger. I thought a father’s support would be appreciated in this time of uncertainty.”
He let loose a sigh. “My apology. Worry does override my good judgment.”
“Yea, ’tis worrisome if your wife should drop a son.”
Dafydd checked his anger. “My worry is for my wife. I would not have her in peril.”
A moaning wail descended into the hall.
Leaping up, he reached the bottom of the stairs in a flash and peered up past the torchlight flickering from the curving wall of the stairwell.
His hands grew damp and he felt a trail of sweat coursing down his back. His leather hauberk felt stifling. A scream ruptured the silence. He clutched the hilt of his sword.
“’Tis not so long yet,” called Sir Geoffrey from his chair. “It could be hours before she delivers his child, if she is able. She may labor long. ’Twas a struggle for her mother.”
Sick with the thought of Katherine’s pain, he stared at the stones of the floor.
“’Tis better she perishes after what she has done to us.”
Dafydd swung around to glare at his father. One more word from the man, one more slur against Katherine and he would gladly tear Sir Geoffrey apart.
All his silent admonitions would come to naught if he did not get a grip on his emotions. He must not be drawn into a confrontation. Not at Haughmond. Not where Katherine would be blamed.
But his father’s cutting innuendoes went beyond bearing. He paced about the hall, swinging wide of the hearth.
Another shriek filled the upper corridor. At the base of the stairs he froze then held his breath in the long silence that followed.
And in that silence came a new sound—a babe’s first cry.
He stood rooted to the floor, counting, calculating the time. Finally he remembered to exhale. It was too soon for Muriel to summon him. He tried to breathe normally.
He could not breathe at all.
He glanced in his father’s direction, realized Sir Geoffrey watched him like an angry hawk eyeing its prey.
He hunched his shoulders. God almighty, Katherine needed him more than ever.
A servant hurried down the stairs. “The midwife bids you come, my lord.”
Unable to contain his impatience, he sprinted up the stairs.
The stillness of the bedchamber overwhelmed him. No cry, no whimper, no moan of pain. Hastily he secured the wooden bar behind him, all but slamming the door in Anne’s startled face when she tried to follow him. Stepping to the bed, he gazed down at his sleeping wife.
Katherine’s cheeks were pale and her brow was damp with perspiration, but her breathing was regular and no longer labored. She looked as though she had come through her ordeal in good health. But he had learned long agone things were not always as they seemed.
“Is she well?” he asked, struggling to get the words out.
“Aye, m’lord,” came the familiar cracking voice of the midwife. “She sleeps peacefully.”
In relief, he let loose a sigh. She was so beautiful, so desirable. Hesitating, he bent and pressed his lips lightly against hers. Her breath, from betwixt parted lips, wafted into his mouth. Agony and regret ripped through him as he straightened.
“I did as ye instructed,” Muriel continued, withdrawing a small vial from her pocket.
Dafydd took the draught of poppy syrup and deposited it within his hauberk. “And the child?”
“He sleeps peacefully.” She indicated a wicker basket beside the bedstead.
A boy!
The chamber spun. He leane
d against the bed for support. Taking a halting step, he saw a tiny face. ’Twas red and wrinkled beneath a wisp of golden down. Pulling aside the blanket, he reassured himself that all was perfect. Ten toes, ten fingers, round fat cheeks, dimpled arms, and miniature manly parts staring at him so boldly betwixt little legs. A beautiful and perfectly formed baby boy, whose tiny chest rose and fell in shallow steady breaths.
“You did not give him too much?” he whispered.
“Only a drop, as ye instructed,” she replied in kind.
Staring another long moment, he finally lowered the blanket. “Dusk has fallen. ’Tis time we made the switch.” Yet he stood immobile, his eyes glued to the babe’s tiny face.
Only when the midwife tottered over to the farthest corner of the chamber and returned with the pile of linens she had brought earlier, did he stir.
“Be swift, m’lord.”
Aye, swift and silent, else his world would end.
Swaddling the babe, Muriel gently laid him in Dafydd’s arms.
His breath faltered. With a frown, he looked into the small sleeping face, felt the weight of the little body molding against his arms, so helpless and fragile.
Would Katherine ever forgive him?
He had bargained with the devil. Would he be damned, evermore?
Muriel draped a cloak over his arm that held the babe and opened the door. Stepping into the corridor, he followed it to the stairs leading up to the wallwalk. Through the dark, skirting the length of the bailey, he finally came to the east wall tower.
His heart pounded. Was he alone? He canted his head, heard a sound. A figure moved toward him. Bless the saints, ’twas Will.
He handed off his burden, gingerly moving the tiny limp form into the waiting arms. He yearned to give a word of advice, yet dared not. Will turned to leave. Dafydd gripped his arm like a vice.
Will seemed to understand, for he nodded before he hurried down the stairs.
Dafydd watched for as long as he dared. Finally, with a heavy heart, he retraced his steps.
In the upper corridor, where the steward had no reason to be, he almost collided with Gilbert.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord," the man exclaimed, leaping out of the way.
Shaken to the soles of his boots, Dafydd hurried on to Katherine’s chamber.
* * *
Dafydd sat by the brazier, quietly feeding it to keep the chamber warm when Katherine awakened. Behind him, Muriel’s voice, low and soothing, drifting across the chamber, was cut short by a sharp cry from the bed.
Laying another piece of wood in the fire, he tried to still his trembling heart. He and he alone, was the cause of Katherine’s agony. Without moving, sitting like stone, he prepared himself to endure it. Whatever she suffered, he must bear the same. Mayhap the future could be different betwixt them.
But not this day.
He shifted on the stool, turning to look at Katherine. The midwife had given her the dead babe they had purchased. Propped up against a pillow, with tears on her face, she held the babe with a mingled expression of love and sorrow.
Quieting his riotous emotions, he took a calming breath and rose to his feet.
Aware of him at once, watching him warily, she cringed.
He stepped toward her.
“Stay away,” she cried, her voice wavering, her arms tightening around the swaddled bundle.
The frantic entreaty stopped him short of the bedstead. “I will not touch your child. I come to console you, my lady.”
Katherine shook her head and clutched the babe tighter.
The tiny head with dark hair showed above the blanket. He swallowed down his trepidation, praying the dead child would not contaminate Katherine.
“Leave me to my grief. You had your way. You took my babe.” Her eyes—the pathway to her soul—led him straight to her broken heart.
Barely able to breathe—from her pain, from his fears—he did not move. How much did she know? He threw a startled glance at the midwife.
“There, there, m’lady,” Muriel soothed, stepping forward. “Just ’cause ye fainted from the pain, ye mustn’t accuse yer husband of any wrong doin’.”
“You drugged me.” The harsh accusation stabbed the air. “You murdered my babe!”
“Muriel did not kill your child,” Dafydd interjected, glad for his meager honesty.
Katherine turned her glare upon him.
Such malice, such loathing, such depth of agony he had never observed.
How could this be honorable? It was the most dishonorable deed he had ever committed.
But what choice was there? ’Twas better than Sir Geoffrey flinging Katherine’s precious babe off the battlements or Adela ministering a potion of hemlock at some terrible point in the future.
Turning, his shoulders sagging in defeat, he left the chamber in search of the village priest. The sooner this child was interred, the sooner Katherine would grow beyond her pain.
Chapter Twenty-eight
’Twas the seventh day following her babe’s birth. ’Twas the fifth since he was laid to rest in the chapel beside his grandmother. ’Twas the first day in over a week she had entered the hall.
Days marked by pain.
But time had brought healing, thereto. Katherine’s discomfort from childbirth began to ease. Her engorged breasts, hard and sensitive, that wakened her in the night whenever she moved, no longer leaked, nor were they as tender. But she bled as though from an open wound. Having no one else to turn to, she sought out Sibyl.
“’Tis naught unusual, m’lady. ’Twill ease in a few weeks, by the time of your churching.” The servant smiled in encouragement. “If you are distressed, you should speak to the priest. He will know what to do.”
Forsooth, she would not speak to Father Martin on the matter. He would say ’twas her punishment for fornication, that she must bestow an offering and prostrate herself upon the village church floor. She had done so, yet she bled buckets. Thereto, ’twould require she enter the village. Children bided there. Even if it meant she bled to death, she would not go, not when she must hear their happy laughter.
Christmas fast approached. Grateful for the distraction, she checked the larder and discussed their provisions with the pantler. Haughmond must see its duty to provide for the welfare of the church. In the ledger, Gilbert deducted a crate of chickens and a haunch of venison from the castle inventory then went off to arrange for their delivery to the village priest, along with two tins of honey cakes.
The villagers contributed to the yearly offering as well. Even the meanest peasant rendered up some small gift, everyone concerned for the welfare of his or her soul.
’Twas two weeks agone since her husband had departed. Two weeks more and her flow finally ceased. She presented herself to Father Martin for her churching.
Reciting a psalm and a prayer of thanksgiving, he sprinkled hold water over her. “Enter into the temple of God that you may have eternal life,” he intoned and led her into the church. She was pure once again and ready to submit to the duties of a wife. ’Twas sobering that God expected her to resume her marital obligations when He knew what lay in her heart. How glad she was her husband had gone awarring.
Anne and she settled in a routine some would consider lusterless. She did not object. ’Twas familiar and did not trouble her overmuch.
The task of spinning wool into yarn kept her sequestered in the solar. A menial task, she preferred it to sewing. Haughmond’s storerooms held great quantities of wool, spinning and weaving being the tasks of winter. Hooking the distaff under her arm, twirling her spindle and pulling the twisted wool into strands of yarn, the chore kept her hands busy when her mind screamed with memories.
“Could you not smile just once?”
Her sister’s pitiful request startled Katherine from her reverie. With her needle aloft, Anne sat frowning at her.
How could Anne understand? Only a mother would understand the ache of empty arms.
“Everyone is sorrowful an
d dreary. The Yuletide is nigh upon us and we are morose. Sibyl wants to know if they will be allowed umble pie. Could you not smile, put the castle in a festive mood?”
Katherine bent to her task, blinking back sudden tears. Forsooth, she did set the tone for Haughmond. She must needs shore up her blighted spirit.
“Why do you work so hard?” Anne’s frown persisted. “You are not long out of childbed. No one expects you to labor so.”
’Twas not her sister’s fault. She was young and could not recognize a mother’s grief. Katherine swallowed her tears and forced a pleasant tone into her voice. “I intend for Haughmond to prosper, despite the war with Wales. The trade with the continent brings added wealth.” Concentrating on the task, she tugged the woolen strands betwixt her thumb and fingers, and bore her patience with greater fortitude.
“You will wear yourself to the bone,” Anne exclaimed.
“Fret not, I do not— ”
Her sister flung down her sewing. “What becomes of me should you die?”
Ah, Anne’s fears made her querulous. Katherine answered lightly, “You will be the chatelaine of Haughmond, dear.”
Anne shook her head violently. “But only until your husband remarries.”
She gave her sister a sideways glance, perplexed at the course of the conversation. “I do not think I shall die this day.”
“Forsooth, you shan’t. I do not wish to be responsible for this castle. The king would not allow me to wed Simon, elsewise. A mere squire would not be allowed to reach so high.”
Another time Katherine would have been hurt by such uncharitable considerations. But of late, Anne looked to the future. ’Twas good. Filled with hope, she no longer quaked in despair and fear. Within Haughmond’s walls, her sister had blossomed.
She let the feeling of relief wash over her. If naught else, that much she had accomplished.
Hefting the drooping distaff back into place, letting her spindle twirl yet again, she continued her task. Soon they would grow weary. Soon Anne would pull out the Merrills board and encourage Katherine to play, for ’twas her favorite game. Anne would quickly form her colorful stones into a mill and then she would grow impatient with Katherine’s lack of competition.
