She broke off so abruptly that Stephen knew she’d had another pang. “Is it common to have these pains?”
“The midwife assured me that they come and go in the days before the birthing begins. But the ones I’ve had today have been different, in my back, and I—” Maude’s mouth contorted, and then an alarmed expression crossed her face. “Jesú!” she cried. “My water has broken!”
Stephen jumped to his feet. “We’d best get you inside straightaway.”
“No…you go in and tell them.” Maude was looking everywhere but at Stephen’s face. “I…I will follow in a moment or so.”
“Maude, that makes no sense!” He stared at her in utter bafflement and had his answer, then, in her crimson cheeks, averted eyes, and sodden skirts. God save the lass, she was embarrassed! “Sweet cousin, listen. You must come with me. You cannot have your baby in a stable. This is Le Mans, not Bethlehem.”
As he hoped, that won him a flicker of a smile, and she held out her hands, let him help her to her feet. “Take me in, Stephen,” she said. “I doubt you’d make a good midwife…”
GEOFFREY and Stephen were dicing to pass the time. Robert had found a whetstone and was occupying himself productively in sharpening his sword. And Ranulf roamed the hall like a lost soul, edgy and impatient, generally making a nuisance of himself.
“How much longer will it be?” he asked yet again. “It has been hours already.”
“That is only to be expected, lad,” Robert said calmly. “It has even been known to take days.”
“Days?” Ranulf and Geoffrey echoed in unison, sounding equally appalled.
“You are indeed a comfort, Cousin,” Stephen said dryly. “Matilda will let us know if the birthing goes wrong. It is foolhardy to borrow trouble needlessly.”
“You are right,” Geoffrey agreed, reaching again for the dice. “Who wants to wager on the sport above-stairs? What say you, Stephen? I’ll put up a garnet ring that Maude births a son.”
Stephen shook his head in a good-natured refusal. “A man would be a fool to wager against Maude. She says it’ll be a lad, and that is enough for me.”
Soon after, Matilda came downstairs, bearing the same message as on earlier trips, that all was going well. The babe seemed in a hurry, too, so it would not be much longer.
This time she did not go back upstairs, instead sat down wearily in one of the recessed window seats. Stephen soon joined her. “Are you not going up again, Tilda?”
“No,” she said, “I think not.” Seeing his surprise, she said quietly, “In truth, love, I doubt that Maude wants me there. A woman is never so helpless, so vulnerable as when she gives birth. Her will counts for naught; it is her body that has the mastery of her. It is a frightening feeling, Stephen, knowing you must deliver your babe or die. It strips a woman down to her soul, and my cousin Maude finds that a harsher penance than the pain. She wants few witnesses to her travail, and most assuredly, I am not one of them.”
“You read people like monks read books,” Stephen said admiringly, and agreed readily when she suggested they go to the castle chapel to pray for Maude and her child. Once there, though, he found himself assailed by conflicting urges. Maude’s claim to the crown would be strengthened if she gave birth to a son. For England’s sake, it might well be best if she birthed a lass. But as he approached the altar, he seemed to hear again Maude’s voice, “I want no daughters,” and after a brief struggle with his conscience, he knelt and offered up a prayer for Maude, that she should be blessed with a son.
WHEN the pains got too bad, Minna and the midwife urged her to scream, but Maude would not do it. Instead, she stifled her cries by biting down on the corner of a towel. It made no sense to her that she could be shivering and sweating at the same time. The midwife insisted, however, that nothing was amiss. She’d been worried, she confessed, about Lady Maude’s water breaking so soon, for that might well have prolonged the birthing. But the pains were coming sharp and strong, and the mouth of her womb was opening as it ought. It would not be much longer.
Maude tilted her head so Minna could spoon honey into her mouth, fighting back her queasiness. “You said…,” she panted, “said it would take about twelve hours…”
“Most often that is so, my lady,” the midwife said, and then grinned. “But this babe of yours is not willing to wait!”
When Minna briefly opened the shutters, Maude caught a glimpse of the darkening sky. Night was coming on. The women did what they could to ease her suffering, gave her feverfew in wine, fed her more honey to keep her strength up, brought a chamber pot when she had need of it, blotted away her sweat, cleaned up her bloody discharge, prepared a yarrow poultice in case she began to bleed heavily, and prayed to St Margaret and the Blessed Virgin for mother and child.
In the distance, a church bell was pealing. Was it a “passing bell” tolling the death of a parishioner? A bell to welcome into the world a new Christian soul? Or was it the sound of Compline being rung? Maude had lost all track of time. And then the midwife gave a triumphant cry, “I see the head!”
Hastily pouring thyme oil into the palms of her hands, she knelt in the floor rushes at Maude’s feet, gently massaging the baby’s crown. Maude braced herself upon the birthing stool, groaning. The contractions no longer came in waves; she was caught up in a flood tide, unable to catch her breath or reach the shore. A voice was warning her not to bear down anymore. Hands were gripping hers, and she clung tightly, scoring Minna’s flesh with her nails. Her eyes were squeezed shut. When she opened them again, she saw her child, wet head and shoulders already free, squirming between her thighs into the midwife’s waiting hands.
“Almost there, my lady, almost…” Maude shuddered and jerked, then sagged back on the birthing stool. “Glory to God!” The jubilant midwife held up the baby, red and wrinkled and still bound to Maude’s body by a pulsing, blood-filled cord. “A son,” she laughed, “my lady, you have a son!”
IT was over. The afterbirth had been expelled. Maude had been cleaned up and put to bed. The women had bathed her son, swaddled him in soft linen, and called in the wet nurse to suckle him. Maude struggled not to fall asleep, for they’d warned her it was dangerous so soon after the birth. But she must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes again, Geoffrey was standing by the bed.
He was smiling, and after a moment’s hesitation, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You have given me a fine, robust son,” he said. “You ought to be proud.”
“I am,” she said. “Where is he? I want to see him.”
Minna emerged from the shadows, beaming, and laid a swaddled bundle in Maude’s arms. “Lord Geoffrey is right, my lady. He is a fine little lad.”
The baby was bigger than Maude had expected, and seemed to be a sound sleeper. His skin was not as red now, or as puckered. Maude touched his cheek with her finger, and it was like stroking silk. She was intrigued to see how much hair he had. Even by candlelight, it held unmistakably coppery glints.
“He looks like you,” she said, and Geoffrey peered intently into his son’s small face.
“You think so?” he asked, sounding pleased. “Maude, the priest says he ought to be christened as soon as possible. I think we’d best have it done on the morrow.”
Maude nodded. She was finding it harder and harder to stay awake, but she was not yet ready to relinquish her son, even for a few hours. “I suppose you still want to name him Fulk, after your father,” she said drowsily.
Geoffrey looked at her, then at the baby. “Well…no,” he said, and Maude’s lashes fluttered upward in surprise. “I know we’ve been quarreling over names, but I’ve changed my mind. You can name him, Maude. I think you’ve earned the right.”
Maude did, too. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled sleepily at her husband and son. The baby chose that moment to open his eyes, and startled them both by letting out a loud, piercing wail. They looked so nonplussed that the midwife and wet nurse started to laugh. And it was then that Minna opened the door and
ushered Robert, Ranulf, Stephen, and Matilda into the bedchamber.
Maude was not a woman to find humor in chaos. But for once she did not care about decorum or dignity. Cradling her screaming little son, she said happily, “Come closer so you can hear over his shrieks. I want to present Henry, England’s future king.”
4
London, England
April 1135
IT had been a day of chill winds and random rain showers, a day that had offered but one wan glimpse of the sun and not even a hint of coming spring. An oppressive, damp early dusk had settled over the city, and by the time Sybil neared the river, she was cursing herself for having mislaid her lantern, for the night sky was starless and the narrow, twisting streets were deep in shadow. Ahead lay the bridge. As she approached it, church bells began to toll; off to the west, St Martin Le Grand was chiming the curfew. Sybil swore under her breath, quickening her step, for the city gates would now be closing.
Fortunately, the guards were young, and she won their sympathy with a pretty smile, a lie about seeking a leech for her fevered child. She was the last one allowed through the gate, out onto the bridge.
The wind was gusting, the river surging against the wooden pilings, and Sybil was thankful when she reached the far shore. Turning west along the priory wall of St Mary Overy, she headed toward the Bankside. Londoners took pride in their city’s ancient past, stretching back a thousand years to Londinium, capital of Roman Britain. Southwark’s history was more obscure, but Sybil suspected that it, too, had existed then, luring Roman soldiers across the river to drink, gamble, and sin. Long before Norman-French adventurers followed William the Bastard into his newly conquered kingdom, Southwark was notorious, a haven for fugitives and felons and those seeking whores, ale, or trouble.
Southwark, be it Roman, Saxon, or Norman, was no safe place for a woman alone, even in broad daylight, and now, with the curfew bells still echoing across the river and every alleyway black as pitch, every door bolted against thieves and drunken knaves, Sybil hastened along the Bankside, keeping to the center of the street, for she knew the shadows hid watching eyes.
Had it been daylight, the Bankside would have been teeming with raucous, ribald life—with peddlers, beggars, sailors from the quays, pickpockets on the prowl, prostitutes too old or ailing for the bawdy-houses, foraging dogs, hissing geese, even a stray pig or two. Now the street was deserted, mired in mud and strewn with rotting garbage. Detecting movement from the corner of her eye, Sybil whirled as a scrawny grey cat scuttled under a broken wagon wheel. “Fiend take me,” she said ruefully, “if my nerves are not on the raw this night! How is it that you’re so stouthearted, Emma, whilst I’m so skittish?”
She got no answer, but did not expect one, for her daughter’s cheerful babble had yet to translate into recognizable words. Shifting the baby to her other hip, she swerved to avoid a deep, muddy rut in the road, and it was then that the men stepped from the shadows, barring her way.
“What is your hurry, sweeting?” The smile may have been meant to be ingratiating, but it emerged as a leer, and as he lurched toward her, Sybil caught the reek of cheap wine. She had already marked out the other man as the more dangerous of the two, and when he grabbed for her, she sidestepped, spun out of his grasp, and backed up against the closest wall.
He smirked. “Nowhere to run now, wench,” he gloated, and lunged, only to halt abruptly, blinking at sight of the slender blade that had suddenly materialized from under her cloak.
“I do not give away free samples!” she spat. “Put your stinking hands on me again and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig!”
“Bitch!” he snarled. But he kept his eyes on her knife, kept his distance.
His partner was peering at Sybil in bleary-eyed confusion, which slowly gave way to sheepish recognition. “Sybil…? A pox on us, Wat, she’s one of the doxies from the Cock!” The leer came back. “Sorry, lass, we just meant to have a bit of fun…”
“You still can,” she said coldly, “as long as you pay for it,” thinking all the while, Not in this life or the next, for they stank of sweat and grease and spilled wine, and her gorge rose at the thought of their dirty hands and foul breath in her bed. She knew better than to trust to the honour of thieves, and kept her knife out and at the ready as she circled around them. Her heart was thudding and her face flushed, but she moved at a deliberate pace, seeking to appear unafraid, for defiance had often proved to be as effective a weapon as her dagger in fending off rape. They shouted after her, making lewd offers and then obscene threats, all of which she ignored. But she did not sheathe her knife, not until she saw ahead the whitewashed wooden houses of the Southwark stews.
She’d heard it said that the brothels were whitewashed so they’d be easily visible to would-be customers on the other side of the river, and it was true that they stood out, even on a moonless night like this one. There were more than a dozen of these Bankside bordellos; unlike the protruding ale-stakes that hung over alehouses and taverns, the brothel names were painted right on the buildings, a crudely drawn crane or bell or crown. Passing the first three by, Sybil headed for the sign of the cock, slipping in a side door.
The kitchen was a contraband chamber, for bawdy-houses were prohibited from serving food or drinks. But like most of the laws intended to regulate Southwark’s sin industry, this one was sporadically enforced, and tonight the cook was stirring a savory beef-marrow broth in a large cauldron. Dragging her makeshift cradle toward the hearth, Sybil put her daughter to bed. After tucking in the blankets, she lingered, fishing out a freshly plucked goose feather for Emma to suck upon, loath as always to leave her child. But then Berta strode in. “You’re late, my girl—Jesú, not again! This is no fitting place for a babe, Sybil! How often do you have to hear it?”
Sybil was unimpressed by the bawd’s tirade; they both knew that she was the Cock’s star attraction. “A neighbor’s lass usually looks after Emma whilst I’m at work, but she was stricken with toothache. What would you have me do, Berta…leave a babe of seven months to fend for herself?”
Berta continued to grumble, but without any real heat. Sybil knew there were stew-holders who ran roughshod over their whores, but neither Berta nor her taciturn, morose husband, Godfrey, had a talent for tyranny. Sybil accorded them a casual sort of deference because it was politic to do so, but she never doubted that in any clash of wills, the stronger one would prevail—hers. Giving Emma one last quick kiss, she shed her cloak and sauntered into the common room.
She did not like what she found there: a surfeit of working women, a dearth of paying customers. It was, she saw, going to be a long night. There were a few foreign sailors, a drunken dockworker, a nervous youth whom she dismissed as a serious prospect; lads that young had the itch but rarely the money to scratch it. The sailors were already snared, sitting at a table with Loveday, sharing ale and bawdy laughter, apparently not handicapped by their lack of a common language, for they knew only Norwegian, and Loveday, like most of the Southwark harlots, was of Saxon birth, which meant that English—not Norman French—was her native tongue.
As Sybil entered, Loveday gave her a wave. Between them, they had the pick of the Cock’s clientele, but their rivalry was a friendly one, for they were rarely in direct competition; they appealed to very different male needs. Loveday was a big-boned, good-natured country girl, crude and blunt-spoken, with thick masses of untidy curly hair, dyed yellow or gold or red as the whim took her. She always looked somewhat disheveled, breasts spilling out of her low-cut bodice, so well-rouged that she seemed sunburned, perfumed and powdered but none too clean. There were many men, though, drawn by her brazen earthiness, reassured by her easygoing approachability. And for the others, there was Sybil: tall and slender, with small wrists and feet, high breasts and unblemished skin, so prideful and poised that a man could easily indulge in fantasy, could pretend he was bedding a lady.
Sybil poured herself some wine, sat down at one of the trestle tables. She felt no surprise when
Eve soon drifted over. She’d vowed not to take the younger girl under her wing; she had enough on her plate as it was. But Eve, a timid, frail fourteen-year-old newcomer to the stews, needed no more encouragement than a lost, scared puppy would, and as she took a seat with a shy smile, Sybil grudgingly admitted to herself that she was stuck with yet another stray. She was frowning over an ugly greenish bruise that was only partially hidden by the sleeve of Eve’s gown when Avelina pulled up a stool, helped herself to Sybil’s wine, and announced glumly that she had missed her flux again.
Time was never a friend to women in their precarious profession, and tonight it was the enemy. Loveday went off with her sailors. Sybil suggested some herbs—tansy and pennyroyal—that Avelina might try. The drunkard in the corner spilled an entire flagon of ale and took it out on the little kitchen maid, who fled in tears. Avelina was cheered by the arrival of a portly goldsmith, one of her regulars. But he was intercepted by Jacquetta the Fleming, who’d been blessed with blue eyes and long blonde hair but no scruples; she had no qualms about stealing another girl’s customer, as she proved now, coaxing the goldsmith above-stairs before Avelina could muster up an effective protest. Sybil ordered another wine flagon and they set about drinking in earnest, for there seemed no better way to pass the hours. But it was then that the door banged and their watchdog barked and the young lords swaggered in.
She could tell they were gentry, Sybil explained to Eve, by their swords and fine wool cloaks and bold manner; did Eve not see how Berta and Godfrey were fawning over them? Knights—no, too young, she amended, most likely squires to some lord, for that was how the Norman highborn educated their sons, sending them off to serve in great households, first as pages and then as squires.
Eve was fascinated; Sybil never failed to impress her by how much she knew of the ways of the world. But her admiring glance went unnoticed. Sybil was coolly assessing these new arrivals, as alert as a cat on the scent of prey, for she well knew there was both danger and opportunity in any encounter with the highborn. They would have money, these young lordlings, and they’d need no urging, would be quick to spill their seed, not like some of her customers, who required tiresome coaxing to prime the pump. She was fastidious by nature, much preferred to couple with a body that was young and firm and reasonably clean, and these cocky lads were more to her taste than aging merchants or unwashed sailors. But if the rewards were greater, so, too, were the risks. What did a Southwark whore’s wishes matter to a baron’s son? Who would object if he chose to maltreat a lowborn harlot? Who would even care?
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 8
