by Linda Sole
If only her husband had not gone to Spain to attend the royal wedding. Melloria knew that if the earl had been at home the castle would have resisted any siege, but with the lord gone they had been vulnerable. The men had fought hard but Peter had responded to Montroy’s offer to talk and been betrayed by a callous, devious Devil who had disregarded the white flag to overrun their defences. Montroy was ruthless but for one moment as she looked into his eyes she had known that despite his bold talk he feared her. If he believed in her curse he would die. She hoped with all her heart that he would suffer the torments of hell.
The snow had penetrated the soles of her shoes, dampness soaking through the fine leather, but she no longer felt the cold. Covered from head to ankle in the thick, fur lined cloak, her body was insulated from the bitter weather, but the rest of her had long since become numb. Any tears she might have shed had dried, her mind empty of all but the hatred that drove her on through the icy wind and the softly falling snow. The Abbey of Saint Innocent was but thirty leagues from her home. There she could find shelter, someone to help her through the birth of her child, which was imminent – someone to care for the babe if she died.
She must give her husband the son he craved. The earl had been summoned to attend Prince Edward for the wedding in October, but his most recent letter had told her that the Prince had married the sister of King Alfonso X Of Castile. The Earl had begged his wife’s pardon for not being at her side while she awaited the birth of their first child. He had promised to return as soon as he was given permission to leave his prince. His letter had angered Melloria for he put ambition and loyalty to his prince above his wife. Robert was of a proud Norman family, whose forbears had come to England with Duke William; it had pleased her to wed him, because he was her equal in birth, but now she could have wished for a more considerate husband. Had he returned to her when she begged him, she would even now be safe and warm in her solar, attended by her ladies as she prepared for her confinement.
At this moment, Melloria hardly cared if she lived or died, but her son must survive. The nuns would care for her child, because she had been good to them, giving them money and patronage and Abbess Beatrice was her sister. Beatrice had felt the calling when she was a small child, leaving her home and family to become a bride of Christ. Their father had given the Abbey the gift of a small farm to take his eldest daughter. Because of the bond between them, which existed despite Beatrice’s devotion to God, she and her sisters would hide the babe. When Melloria’s husband returned from Spain, they would tell him of the way his lands had been stolen, his wife’s brother brutally slain, his wife abused and ill treated, cast out into a bitter night. Robert, Lord of Devereaux, would take revenge for the foul deed that had been done. He would claim his son and heir and take back his lands. She just had to reach the Abbey to be safe.
‘God protect me,’ she prayed, her lips hardly moving as the cold bit deep into her flesh. ‘Let Robert’s son be born in safety and let me be avenged for what has happened this day.’
Suddenly, pain swept through Melloria, engulfing her body. She had been blocking out the ache in her back for hours but this was such agony that she could not ignore it. Giving a cry of fear, she clutched at her belly. The pain was almost unbearable but she must bear it. There was a way to go yet to reach the Abbey and sanctuary.
Because of the snow that lay thickly, covering the moors, drifting so that undulations were smoothed away, hiding ditches and hollows, the terrain became treacherous; the sky had a pearly white lightness at odds with the hour for it was still night. The hem of her gown trailed on the ground, becoming soaked as the ice clung to it. Ahead of her, she could see a dark shape; one large building surrounding by a huddle of outbuildings. Was it the Abbey? Was she closer than she had thought? She moved forward eagerly. Here was warmth and comfort, a bed where she could give birth to her son.
As she saw the building more clearly her heart sank. This was not the Abbey but a large manor house built in much the same style with an undercroft, a hall above and outbuildings. She did not know who lived within its forbidding walls but disappointment had destroyed her will; she could go no further this night. She moved towards the gates, which were high, made of wood banded with iron and, as she tried them, locked against her.
‘Help me…please help me…’ Her pride gave before the overwhelming pain as she sank to her knees, tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘God forgive me.’
She was falling into a pit of burning coals, the pain more terrible than before. She gave one despairing scream and then crumpled into a senseless heap on the icy ground.
*
‘Here Brutus! Come I say!’ the man commanded in a tone that the great brute of a dog could not ignore. ‘Cedric, what have you found?’
‘It is a woman, my lord.’ The keeper of the hounds bent to investigate the crumpled heap before their gates. ‘I think she lives yet…’ He gave a cry as he turned her. ‘She is with child, Sire, and close to her time. I think her waters have broken.’
Nicholas Malvern threw orders at his vassals as he would bones to a pack of scavenging dogs. Gates were opened, his great war-horse led to the stables, the hound leashed, doors flung wide; feet scurried here and there at his bidding. He bent down to pluck the woman from the snow, a frown making his scarred face fearsome as he saw that she was close to death.
‘God’s Body! She is gentle born. What madness drove such a woman to my gates on a night like this?’
It was not a question his vassals dare answer for in truth no woman in her right mind would seek this house whether it be in sunlight or darkness. Nicholas knew he was dreaded, hated by many; even those who served him lived in fear of shadows for they did not understand him; though each and every one had come here more dead than alive and been saved. He was well aware what was said of him. It was whispered that he was a sorcerer; some accused him of necromancy and the black arts, and some thought him the Devil incarnate. Only the dregs of mankind with nowhere else to go would stay near him save for a few devoted servants.
As he strode up the stairs leading to his chambers none followed. Only Marta was allowed to clean his private apartments and there were chambers that she dared not enter.
‘Bring her here, master. The bed is aired and the sheets clean…’
It was Marta’s voice that called to him. Nicholas responded, taking the woman to a bedchamber close by his own. He had allowed no one to use it since she died – the one woman he had loved and the woman he had killed. God have mercy on her soul. He had not ventured here since they had torn her body from his arms. Yet the room was always kept clean and sweet and Nicholas accepted that it was the only place fitting for the woman he carried.
Marta had pulled back the sheets of fine linen. He placed his burden gently down. Her dark red hair spread out on the goose feather pillows, her face so white that he almost thought her dead.
‘Remove her gown.’ he ordered. Sensing Marta’s reluctance, he scowled ‘Foolish woman! Do you think I would ravish her in such a state? The cloth is soaked through where she has lain in the snow. If she lies in it all night she may take a putrid chill and die. You should use one of the nightgowns from the coffer. I will bring her something to restore her senses. If we are to deliver her child safely she must come to herself.’
Marta crossed herself but hurried to obey him. Nicholas knew she thought him a Devil and steeped in evil. He had once caught her in one of his private chambers, looking at the specimens he kept in brine and the look of horror in her eyes told him that she wondered why he should keep parts of the human body pickled in jars. A wry smile touched his face as he searched amongst jars and pots for the powders and potions he must use in his efforts to save the woman. Marta probably thought he was a cannibal or a demon; she would not understand if he tried to explain that he needed his specimens for research. She was ignorant and superstitious, as were most, for the church would condemn him and others like him who sought for knowledge. Life and death was in the hands
of God. Suffering brought the soul closer to a state of grace and might open the gates of heaven. To say that it need not be so would be blasphemy, a crime, that added to sorcery was punishable by death.
Nothing had been prepared for this birth. The chamber was not dressed with sweet herbs nor was there a birthing chair, which was often held to be the most comfortable way for a women to bring forth her babe. Yet this woman was surely beyond such methods; exhausted, she had ceased to try or even be aware what was happening to her body. He had no way of knowing how many contractions she had had before she reached his gate. A midwife would probably rub her belly with ointments but he had nothing prepared, nor was he sure it would help.
Nicholas unlocked the medicine chest he kept secure. Much of what he used was dangerous in the hands of those who did not understand the purpose of his preparations. Some of his cures could kill rather than cure if taken in the wrong quantities. A tiny drop of belladonna on the lips might bring the woman out of her crisis, too much would kill her – but unless he could bring her round so that she responded to her contractions, he would have to cut her stomach open and remove the child, and then she would almost certainly bleed to death.
*
Marta listened to the woman’s pitiful screams. She had never witnessed such agony as this poor lady’s and at times she had felt it would have been kinder to let her die, but he would not let go. He had somehow brought her back to her senses, but she was in so much pain, her body tortured as she arched and screamed. Hour after hour of such agony. It was past bearing.
‘In God’s name can you not help her?’ Marta cried. ‘If this continues she will surely die.’
‘If ‘tis her fate to die in childbed I may not be able to save her,’ Nicholas replied. ‘But look – the child comes…’
Even as he spoke the babe came slithering into his hands in a mess of slime and blood. He worked quickly, tying knots in the birthing cord and cutting with a sharp knife. The child looked blue in the face. Nicholas turned it over and slapped it hard on the back, a wail of protest bringing a grim smile to his lips.
‘It seems the girl lives and is healthy despite all the odds against it,’ he said and handed the squalling babe to Marta. ‘Wash her in water not milk or wine. I have cleared the mucus from the child’s nose and mouth – but you should finish cleansing her eyes with oil.’
‘Praise be to God she survived!’
‘I am not sure the same is true of the mother.’
Marta glanced at the woman’s white face as she cleansed the babe. Lying amongst the blood stained sheets, she had not moved since the babe was released from her body. Marta crossed herself, muttering a prayer to ward off evil spirits. This was a cursed night and there might be all kinds of demons at work.
‘You can go now,’ her master said. ‘Take the child to the village and find a wet nurse to suckle her. Her mother is beyond all mortal things.’
Marta looked at him and shivered, reading much into what she did not understand. There was no sympathy for the poor woman who had lost her life in giving birth, merely a look of eagerness, because, she suspected, fate had provided him with a body so fresh that it was hardly cold. Marta knew that bodies were delivered to her master in the hours of darkness; the corpse of a hanged criminal or that of a diseased wretch taken from its coffin might find its way here within days of the person’s death and the finder was rewarded with silver pennies. The cadavers were seldom as fresh or as young and lovely as the woman whose skin now looked whiter than the sheets in which she lay. Marta was filled with horror as she imagined what her master planned for this corpse. Would he have his wicked way with her before cutting out her heart and vital organs? She had heard it whispered that he had lain with his dead wife for hours before he would give her up. What kind of a man would desecrate the body of a dead person?
‘What are you staring at?’ Nicholas demanded, his eyes like black coals. ‘Take the child to someone who will care for it. Now!’
Marta jumped back fearfully, his gaze sending terror through her. She wrapped the child in a shawl taken from the coffer, holding it to her breast as she hurried from the room. She knew of a village woman who would nurse the babe for she was still feeding her own son, but there was another woman who longed for a child – a woman who would pay good money for a babe such as this one.
Hearing a terrible scream from the room she had just left, Marta hesitated and glanced back. Nicholas Malvern had sworn the woman was dead, but the dead did not scream like that. What that Devil had done to her? She crossed herself for if the woman had not been dead before, she surely was now. Pictures of vital organs pickled in jars came into her mind and she visualised such horror that it terrified her. She began to run down the stairs in panic.
When her master’s voice called to her, Marta ignored it. She would not stay in this house another night. Snatching up a silver candlestick from where it stood on the heavy oak cupboard in the hall, she ran to the little cell behind the kitchen, where she slept at night. Rushing about like a madwoman, she gathered up what few possessions she had and tucked them with the stolen candlestick into a leather bag. She made a sling of her shawl so that she could carry the babe across her body. Her eating knife and the few coins she possessed were in a little pouch that hung from her girdle. When she saw her master’s thick fur lined cloak thrown carelessly down on a bench just inside the front door, she hesitated before taking that too. It would serve to keep both her and the child warm. She might be able to sell the child and, with the silver it brought her, she would go back to her home, far away from this accursed house. The candlestick and cloak would be payment for the service she had given her master.
Like others before her she had found shelter and food beneath the roof of Malvern House, but now she was thinking of home. It was a long way and she had put off the journey but now there was nowhere else to go.
The day was bitter as she went out but it had stopped snowing. Marta hugged the babe to her breast as it whimpered, knowing that the first thing she must do was to buy milk. Her hopes of selling the babe to a childless couple were high as she walked as fast as she could towards the village. Yet the warmth of the child was somehow comforting, reminding her of things she had long forgot – a time when she had been happy before it had all come tumbling down about her ears.
Had the woman not died, Marta would have obeyed her master’s instructions to take the babe to a wet-nurse, but she did not trust him. Who knew what terrible things were in his mind? She would do better to place the child with parents who would love her.
*
In the room she had just left, Nicholas Malvern bent over the woman he had thought dead as another head appeared between her legs. This child was larger than the first and he knew as he witnessed the mother’s last feeble attempt to give the babe life that he would have to cut her. He picked up his knife and looked down at the woman’s face. She was all but dead. If he cut her to allow the child to come she might die, but if he did nothing both she and her child would surely perish.
‘Forgive me, lady,’ he said and made the sign of the cross over her. ‘I do what I must…’
Her scream as the knife entered her would haunt him the rest of his days, but as he lifted out the second babe, a girl, he knew that he had done the right thing. She was still breathing and the most beautiful babe he had ever seen.
He went to the door and called for Marta but no one came for some minutes and by that time it was too late. Nicholas had done something he had believed impossible. His heart was given to the beautiful child and he knew that he would never part from her. She was his child, a gift from God – or the Devil – someone to bring light into his lonely existence and take the place in his life that had belonged to his wife.
‘Iolanthe…’ he whispered as he held the child in his arms and gently wrapped her in a shawl of fine wool. ‘I shall give you her name…Iolanthe…’ It was the name of his dead wife, the only woman he had ever loved.
Hearing a whimpering
sound behind him, he turned and saw to his astonishment that the woman survived against all odds. She was bleeding heavily. If he did nothing she would surely die but there was a chance he might save her if he tried. Yet if she lived she would regain her strength and then she would take the child from him.
TWO
‘Gone?’ Marta stared at the woman who had opened the door of her house in dismay. ‘But I thought your sister had come to live with you?’
‘No, mistress. Elena came to pray at the shrine to the Virgin Mary that stands at the crossroads leading to York and then came here to rest for a few weeks before going home. She and her husband have made a pilgrimage to every shrine to Our Lady in the country and have been many months upon the roads. She prayed for a child, because she has been barren these past ten years and the priests told her that her only hope of a child was to make a pilgrimage and ask for her sins to be forgiven.’
‘I have a child she might have adopted,’ Marta said, holding the babe up for the woman to see. ‘How long have they been gone? Where might I find her?’
‘She travels to her home in Richmond, though she and her husband may call at various abbeys along the way to offer prayers and gratitude. They walked much of the way here, but my husband has given them a cart to make their journey home easier for we believe that my sister may be with child. It seems her prayers have been answered.’ The woman glanced at the child. ‘The babe is beautiful, mistress. I suppose her mother is dead?’
‘Yes…’ Marta suppressed a shudder as she thought of the wretched woman who had suffered so much pain to give the babe life. She crossed herself. ‘Have you a cup of milk to spare for the poor mite?’
‘Aye, ‘tis no more than my Christian duty,’ the woman said. ‘Wait here and I shall fetch you a cup that you may take with you. It is cracked and of no use to me but you are welcome.
