by M. K. Hume
‘You’re a lucky woman to be so well loved. Now, have you bled overmuch?’
Elayne and Gwyllan both blushed at the intimacy of the question, but Elayne shook her head. ‘I have been strapped so tightly that my blood couldn’t escape even if it needed to. I do thank you for assisting me during the birth, my lady, for only the good Lord will ever know if I’d have survived without your intervention. You have learned the skills of Myrddion Merlinus, and it is well known that he was the wisest healer in these isles. My little girl would have died without you. It was very good of you to help.’
‘Nonsense, Elayne. What use would it have been to us if you had died? What good would Bedwyr have been to my son if he’d been left a widower with four small children? I often help at births when I’m at home, and such work gives me pleasure. We who bear the responsibilities of rule over others are obliged to serve our people when we have an opportunity to do so.’
Elayne blushed, but moved on to other matters. ‘The little one fed three times during the morning. She can only suckle for five minutes or so, so I feed her often, especially since the wet nurse will arrive soon. She is still an ugly little thing, but her colour is much better already, don’t you think?’
Anna moved across the room to a woven rush basket that sat in an improvised sling hanging from the ceiling. The air was warm, so the infant was lightly covered and her thin limbs and ancient, wizened features were exposed. Her eyes were the blue of many babies and Anna knew they were likely to change in colour. The babe’s focus still wasn’t sharp, but she stared intently at the giant face leaning over her. Unlike those infants who were so frail that the slightest ailment might carry them off, this one seemed untroubled. No fretful crying, no whistling breath and no clamminess in the hands and feet. Against all the odds, this child might yet live.
‘See, Lady Anna? She’s stronger than she appears, isn’t she? I’ve chosen her baptismal name. Although it’s not the custom, Bedwyr permits me to name my daughters.’ Elayne’s face glowed with affection and triumph.
Anna looked at the small, old-woman’s face in the crib. ‘She’s certainly stronger, but a cold from a stray breeze could easily kill her. I’ll pray to the Mother for her, if you’ll not be offended. I’ll not be happy until she’s full sized and vigorous. What have you chosen as her birth name?’
‘I’ve been presumptuous, but if fate permits her to live, then she’s worthy of it. I’ve decided to call her Medb, which some men call Maeve. It’s pretty, but I was told many years ago that it means intoxicating and bewitching, and my girl might need a powerful name at some time in the future. I’ve a feeling that she will become an important young woman as she grows to adulthood. Please don’t laugh at my presumption, Lady Anna, but my aunt, who went to live with her husband across the Hibernian Sea, told me the tale of Medb, a great queen in Connaught. She was a war-like female and practised magic, but, most important, she wielded great power over men. We women need all the help that the Lord High God can give us, so although I’m now a Christian I’ve decided to name my new babe after a woman who ruled over her menfolk in a pagan world.’ The triumph and challenge in Elayne’s voice made Anna laugh and brought a frown of surprise to Gwyllan’s face.
‘The poor child will be saddled with the name of a notorious woman who broke the hearts, and other delicate parts, of any man who tried to press their claims on her,’ Anna said. ‘I hope little Maeve can live up to the expectations that such a name will place on her.’
‘She will if I have any say in the matter,’ Elayne replied. She was quietly determined under her giggles, and Anna reminded herself that this unassuming woman had been the confidante of the greatest of all the High Kings of Britain. There was far more to Elayne of Arden than mother and domestic chatelaine.
After some minutes of quiet conversation during which Anna satisfied herself that neither of her charges was suffering from a high temperature or other bodily ills, the two visitors excused themselves. One of Elayne’s ladies showed them to the door with a low bow, and promised to inform Anna immediately if Elayne’s condition changed.
Free now to discover what was bothering Gwyllan, Anna led the girl to a small orchard at the edge of the large clearing that was surrounded by Bedwyr’s wooden palisade of sharpened tree logs. In the Roman fashion, Bedwyr liked to run a self-sufficient enclave that could survive for some time if the household should come under siege. Apple and pear trees clustered close to the wall, each carefully pruned and cleared of weeds that could trouble the harvesters. The apple picking was nearly over and only a few immature fruit remained, awaiting the last of the ripening. Here the air smelled clean and sweet, the grass was soft and mown short under the women’s house slippers and no servants were nearby to hear their conversation.
‘What troubles you, sweetness?’ Anna began in a kind voice. Inwardly, she was impatient with Gwyllan’s high-strung fancies, but she had instructed the child to come to her if she was troubled. She couldn’t neglect her now simply because Bran had put her in a foul mood.
‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘The beginning is as good a place as any,’ Anna replied sharply, and immediately berated herself when Gwyllan coloured and was silenced. The girl bit her lip as she hunted for the right words to explain herself, her fingers playing with the nearest pear on the ancient tree above her. With one quiet hand, Anna stilled her unconscious movements. ‘The fruit isn’t ripe, child, so leave it be.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gwyllan whispered, and gripped both hands together under her breasts. ‘I know I’m being a bother when you’re so busy with really important tasks. Don’t worry about my silliness.’ She gulped, and tried to wipe away tears that threatened to fall from her impossibly long lower lashes. ‘My problems are too trivial to encroach on your time.’
‘I’m sorry, child. I’m irritable and gruff today, but it’s not your fault. Let’s sit for a while. I confess I would enjoy some time to myself in peace and quiet. Men think that women’s lives are easy, but we seem to spend hours of each day smoothing the ruffled feathers and bad tempers of our menfolk.’
Several mounds of hay had been brought to wrap around the tree trunks in preparation for the cold of winter. With her usual energy, Anna led the girl to the neat stacks of dried wheat stalks and threw her cloak over them. Gratefully, and with enviable flexibility, Gwyllan sat neatly on the impromptu seat. With a small pang of jealousy, Anna lowered her own bulk more carefully, frowning at the complaint from her older joints.
Ah, to be young again and able to use my body as I once did, she thought, suddenly envious of Gwyllan’s easy strength and vigour. I’m never going to be able to get up unless the child hauls me onto my feet.
‘Now,’ she began briskly. ‘Did you have a dream, Gwyllan? Are night horrors bothering you?’
‘No.’ The whispered syllable offered no clue to the source of the child’s discomfort.
‘Did Elayne’s childbirth upset you?’ Anna guessed with a sudden flash of insight. ‘Are you frightened of pregnancy?’
Gwyllan gave a strangled cry that lay somewhere between a sob and a laugh. ‘I don’t know how babies are made! I can’t imagine how an infant ends up in here.’ She patted her flat belly and then covered her face with her hands to hide a rich, ruby blush that spread upward from the neckline of her gown to stain her white throat and pale, porcelain cheeks.
‘What? Are you jesting, Gwyllan? You come from a huge family, so you must have seen many infants born into this world. You’ve seen animals in rut, surely. Your mother must have explained the physical process of how babes are made?’
‘No,’ Gwyllan muttered, almost too embarrassed to speak. She was unable to meet the older woman’s incredulous eyes. ‘Father always says that when the time is right, he’ll tell me all about it . . .’ Her pause was very expressive. ‘The time is surely right now, when I’m about to be wed, but I know less than Arthur, who seems to be aware of where babies come from. I’d ask him, but that would be too much sh
ame and embarrassment for me to bear.’
Seeing the incredulous expression on Anna’s face, the younger woman hurried to fill the shocked silence. ‘I’ve seen babies being born, of course, and I was terrified. It’s such a painful, messy business. I can’t understand how a woman’s body can stretch enough to expel . . . Oh, Lady Anna, I feel such a fool to be so ignorant and frightened!’
‘Don’t cry, Gwyllan. Everyone is afraid of what they don’t understand – even your father. Of course you can’t ask Arthur. I’m glad you’ve come to me, but I’m very surprised that your father has left you so unprepared. Really, Gawayne is like all men – ready enough to leap into any woman’s bed, but woe betide the man who casts an eye on his daughters. I sometimes wonder whether they would prefer them to remain virgins for ever.’
Gwyllan’s eyes were very wide as Anna began a detailed explanation of human sexuality. The girl looked quite revolted by some aspects of congress, and Anna wondered if Ector had the patience and sympathy to woo this ignorant girl with sensitivity. She made a mental note to talk to her grandson frankly, and soon.
Anna’s description of conception rendered Gwyllan speechless. Sensibly, the older woman drew male genitalia in the rich brown dirt at their feet with a stick, and explained what Myrddion had told her of their function. ‘Childbirth is not too bad, child. Elayne will tell you that once you hold your infant in your arms, you forget the pain you’ve experienced in birthing it. We’re constructed for the role of mother – that’s why we have such wide hips.’ She smiled down at Gwyllan. ‘You will find that the act of love which results in childbirth is just as pleasing to women as it is to men if their husbands understand what they’re doing. Even if a man is inexperienced and clumsy, women find the act pleasant after the first occasion. Men may court sex more than women, but don’t believe for one moment that we dislike it. Old wives’ tales of pain and suffering are lies.’
Anna grinned conspiratorially and Gwyllan managed a rather damp smile in return, as if she were being told some exotic female secret.
‘It sounds horrible, though,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve seen Elayne’s baby, and even though she’s tiny I can’t imagine carrying something that big in my stomach . . . sorry, my womb . . . and least of all birthing it. It will kill me!’
‘No, sweetheart, it won’t. You’re a delicate little thing, but so is your mother, and your hips, like hers, are womanly. How many children has your mother borne?’
‘Ten,’ Gwyllan murmured, her amazed eyes wide open. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘I often used to discuss childbirth with Myrddion Merlinus, and he always assured me that while it can be dangerous for the mother, the risks can be minimised if your midwife keeps you clean and regularly washes her hands with very hot water. He swore that hygiene was the key. I’ve no intention of passing into the shades for some time yet, so I promise I’ll be with you when you have your first babe.’
‘You promise?’
‘Aye, child, I promise.’ Anna crossed her heart in the homely children’s gesture and Gwyllan managed the small smile of a conspirator. ‘But if you find that the act of sex is difficult for you, or there’s anything you don’t understand, just ask me. You know I’ll be honest with you.’
Back in the ladies’ bower, where the younger woman continued her weaving of a fine shawl of rich red wool for her dowry, Anna amused herself by planning what she would say to thoroughly chastise Gawayne for his daughter’s ignorance. The thought of embarrassing the great Gawayne maintained Anna’s good mood for the rest of the afternoon.
One of Gawayne’s warriors rode irritably up to the palisade, towing a donkey on which sat a tall, lanky priest, his cowl raised to obscure his face and his large, sandalled feet almost dragging on the ground. The warrior was in a thoroughly bad temper by the time the gate was eventually opened, and as the priest slid off his relieved mount he strode away to find King Gawayne and Lord Bedwyr. Over his shoulder, he shouted a brusque order for the priest to stay put until the masters arrived.
‘Does anyone here have any wine? Ale? Even water would be better than nothing,’ the priest bellowed at the guards. ‘I’ve got a vile headache from dealing with yon laddie and his abysmal sense of humour.’
The guards looked at the priest incredulously. Once he threw back his cowl, he was certainly a surprising sight. He was an unlikely man of God in any circumstances, and if he was the best priest available, then Satan was winning the battle for human souls. One warrior said as much and the priest looked at him with eyes that were glacially green, reddened and unfriendly.
‘Mind your tongue, idiot, or I’ll tie a knot in it,’ was his unpriestly reply.
‘You’re a drunken sot!’ one of the guards called down superciliously. ‘I can smell you from up here.’
‘Can you then, lout? Come down and I’ll show you what damage an unhappy, sober priest, smelly or not, can do to that huge wart on your face.’
‘What wart?’ the offended guard shouted back indignantly, as his friends laughed raucously.
‘The feature that passes as a nose on most of us. If it’s not a wart, then perhaps it’s your dick, and the Lord God made an error in anatomy.’ The man of the cloth then pumped his hips at the hapless guard with a suggestiveness that was as coarse as a slap in the face. ‘Don’t tell me you’re frightened of a priest,’ he sneered.
‘You’re not worth my time, arsehole,’ the warrior shouted back, more mindful of Bedwyr’s instructions to stay on watch than scared of the impudent priest below, who seemed devoid of any Christian decorum.
‘So kiss mine, coward.’ The priest turned round and bared his skinny backside to the warriors on the palisade, and then capped the insult with a wiggle of his buttocks.
The guard had to be restrained by several of his companions, and the hubbub of shouted oaths, barking dogs and even the distressed honking of the donkey greeted Gawayne, Bran and Bedwyr when they hurried up in company with the scowling Otadini warrior.
‘Silence!’ Gawayne roared in a voice that had the unmistakable tone of a master. ‘You! Priest! If that’s what you are! Cover your arse, for I don’t find it remotely attractive. And you lot can get back to your watch immediately, or you’ll feel the lash.’ Belatedly, he realised he wasn’t the master here, and apologised to Bedwyr for usurping his authority.
‘No, my friend, please continue. My warriors are fully aware of the punishments that will be meted out if they don’t obey any high-born lord.’ Bedwyr looked up at his men on the palisades from under his greying brows and the guards suddenly became very interested in the landscape beyond the settlement, although the hostile glances darted down at the priest gave promise of future meetings when their lords wouldn’t be present to ensure his safety. Unconcerned, the cleric examined his nails with studied insolence while one of Bedwyr’s hounds spoiled the effect by sniffing at his stiff, filthy robe with friendly, inquisitive interest. The priest tried to shoo the huge dog away, but it was determined. Surprisingly, it licked the priest’s grimy hand before leaning to one side to piddle against his leg.
‘As for you, priest,’ Gawayne snarled, spitting out the title in a hostile voice. ‘What’s your name?’
The priest turned his attention away from the dog to Gawayne’s face, where he obviously recognised the arrogance of regal power. With his own form of impudence, he appeared to consider the question seriously before making a sketchy bow that encompassed all three nobles.
‘I was born Lorcan, son of Lugald, but I’ve gone by several names since then. The Romans called me Lawrence when I was first made a priest. It’s as good a name as any, I suppose. But I’ll answer to hey you if I’m so inclined.’
Under the priest’s insulting demeanour, Bedwyr detected a certain polish of accent and language that belied his crudity. Their visitor was a man who spoke fluently and displayed the confidence of a man who feared no one, regardless of whether they held a sword or simply possessed the power to push his face into the dirt. Around his ton
sure his hair was coal black, and he obviously cared enough about his appearance to have shaved recently, for only blue-black stubble marred the clean lines of his grubby face.
‘You’re an insolent man, priest, whatever your name might be,’ Gawayne retorted, and spat in the dust to register his disgust. He strode to within six feet of the priest and wrinkled his nose with contempt at the smell of an unwashed body, stale alcohol and donkey sweat. ‘The guard’s right: you do stink! Before we speak to you any further, and definitely before you enter the presence of the ladies, you will go with this warrior and scrub yourself, head to toe, and the servants will boil that thing that passes as a robe. My men will help you if you need any assistance or encouragement. Now, get out of my sight before I order you cleansed forcibly.’
‘And who might you be, who orders me about as if I’m a slave and had me dragged out of a nice, warm tavern without a by-your-leave?’
The insolence of the question caused a collective gasp of shock from the onlookers. Gawayne might have been goaded into precipitate action had Bedwyr not stepped closer to the priest and made the necessary introductions, while keeping his own body between the volatile king and the difficult cleric.
‘Shut your impertinent mouth and listen, you fool. This gentleman is King Gawayne of the Otadini tribe, nephew of the late High King. This other gentleman is King Bran, lord of the Ordovice tribe, and also a kinsman of the last King of the Britons. I am Bedwyr, also called the Arden Knife. I am Master of Arden Forest and all who dwell within it. You are here to christen my newly born daughter, who came before her time and could still perish. You are nothing more than the priest we need to welcome the child into your religious family, because my wife, the Lady Elayne, believes in the Jewish God. Do not tempt us to reject you and find another. I follow the old ways, so your faith means nothing to me and you might discover such a fate to be neither comfortable nor healthy.’
