by Beleaguered
Thomas’s smile was slow but broad. “He will be a son, Alyse, with the dark hair and bright blues eyes of his mother.” His eyes took on a distant look. “I can see you, heavy with him many months hence. Then with the sweet babe at your breast. And later, holding the hand of a brave toddler. Aye, I can see him.” He slowly rubbed her stomach and said, “Be a good boy for your mother.” With that, his hand fell to the coverlet.
She drew her chair nearer and took his hand again. “Do you want for anything? More broth? Some wine? Anything at all?”
“Nay, my love. Just let me rest here with you near me.” He closed his eyes, and shortly his ragged breathing slowed. She leaned closer, afraid it would stop altogether, but it continued, and she sighed in relief.
Gently, she disengaged her hand and stood up cautiously, lest her movement awaken him.
She paced to the window, stretching her cramped muscles, and looked out at the sun, now low in the sky. She was surprised, for it felt as though the day had just begun, that only moments ago she had left Thomas after a passionate night to go to chapel with Princess Joanna. She spared a minute to wonder how the princess fared, if Anne had been able to obtain food for her, if either of them were still alive.
But time was too precious now to think of anyone save her husband. She paced back to the foot of the bed and stood studying his face, etching his features into her memory forever. The oval face with chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and a short, straight nose had drawn her attention the first time she saw him. Of course, his eyes were one feature she would never forget. Their warm honey-brown color and laughing demeanor were burned into her mind. His darkly blond locks were longer than the present fashion, but always seemed to suit him better than the current short style. She had always loved the way his beard had made him more rugged, more dangerous.
Her heart stuttered. This magnificent man, this loving, patient, good man would soon pass from her life. And, at last, her conscience smote her. Their time together had been short, made shorter still because she had withheld herself from him for fully half their marriage.
“Oh, Thomas, do not leave me! I cannot live without you beside me.” She laid her head down with her cheek pillowed on his hot hand.
With his other hand, he slowly caressed her head. She raised it to see Thomas’s eyes open and on her. He slid his hand down to her cheek, and she pressed it close as scalding tears flowed again.
“My dearest love,” she choked, as the tears threatened to close her throat. “I ask your pardon that I came late to loving you.” Thomas shook his head, but she continued. He must hear her out. “I was a fool to have kept you so long from me after our marriage for the sake of a man I could never have. We should have been man and wife from the beginning, and I dishonored you to refuse you my bed. If not for this foolishness, I might even now be sure I carry your child. Can you forgive me this, Thomas? I cannot think that I ever held aught from you. Oh, Thomas, I cannot bear this!”
With great effort, Thomas shook his head again. “There is nothing to forgive, love,” he whispered, and Alyse had to lean forward to hear him, even in the stillness. “From the moment we came together, you gave me the greatest joy imaginable. I am grateful for each hour of your company, however it was spent.”
His eyes slipped shut and his hand loosened its grip.
No, God, please not yet. He is not…he is not shriven.
“Thomas.” She shook his shoulder, and he roused. “The princess’s priest is dead of the pestilence, but Geoffrey told me I could hear your confession. ’Tis the only way to shrive you.” God must agree to this, having left them no choice.
He nodded. “Aye… I have…done so before.” A ghost of a smile played about his lips. “I do confess…since our marriage, my sins have been less colorful.” He tried to chuckle. “But I will tell you all, wife, and go to my rest in peace, knowing you know all.” A few minutes of whispering, and she made the sign of the Cross over him. Now a hope of Heaven lay within his grasp.
“Thank you…Alyse.” Each word seemed a struggle. “Smile for me…love. I love that…best of all.”
From some reservoir of strength deep inside her, she summoned a brave smile for him. Her tears began again, and squeezing her hand, he comforted her with the words he had always used. “’Twill be…all right, my sweet… I promise…’twill be…all right.” Then his hand went still in hers, and she watched the light in his eyes dim, retreat, and extinguish.
Great, wrenching sobs broke from her throat—the same keening wails Thomas had heard the day she discovered Geoffrey had married another. But this time no comfort came from the still form on the bed, and she continued to wail long into the dark night.
Chapter 9
To Their Most Gracious Majesties
King Edward III and Queen Philippa of England
Majesties,
The wisdom of God is infinite, while his servants here on earth know but little. Had I knowledge of God’s plan for us, I could better bear the tidings which I am charged to impart unto you.
It is with a heavy heart that I must advise you of the grievous illness and unfortunate death of your dearly beloved daughter, Princess Joanna. The princess succumbed on September the second in the year of Our Lord thirteen hundred and forty-eight to the pestilence that has scourged France for many months. It may comfort you to know that she was taken swiftly, which is a blessing, for the longer one lingers with this dread disease, the greater the suffering. She was as patient and sweet in her death as she was in her life, and our sorrow here is absolute that one so fair and mild has been taken so early from us. Through the mercy of God, she received the sacraments and entered a state of grace before her death. As befits a Princess of England, her body has been taken to the cathedral at Bordeaux to be interred there until such time as Your Majesty can arrange for her to be brought back to her home in England.
I send this sad missive by your lawyer, Andrew Ullford, that you may know of the princess’s passing. The remaining members of the princess’s retinue will endeavor to escape the reaches of this pestilence and swiftly make our way back to England and your gracious presence.
Most keenly do I grieve with Your Majesties, for Princess Joanna was always good to me, and I was loath to give her up to God. I know that my sorrow can only dimly mirror Your Majesties’ lamentations.
Please be assured, Majesties, that Sir Geoffrey Longford, acting as the head of the company after the death of Sir Robert Bouchier, is securing the princess’s possessions until such time as your guard arrives to retrieve them.
With great sadness at the passing of your dear daughter, I continue to remain your humble servant.
Alyse, Lady Braeton
With leaden fingers, Alyse finished her letter to King Edward, sanded and sealed it, and handed it to Andrew Ullford. Princess Joanna’s lawyer—like herself, one of the rare few not affected by the plague—had agreed to act as courier and bear the bitter tidings of her death to the king and queen.
“Please also convey my personal grief at Princess Joanna’s passing, Master Ullford.” She tried to summon a semblance of anguish into her voice, although in truth, numbness had dismissed all feeling from her. The short, rotund man stowed the parchment away in his leather pouch. “As soon as Sir Geoffrey finishes his inventory of the princess’s possessions, he and his wife and I will journey overland to Calais and thence to England. I hope we will not be many days behind you.”
“I, as well, Lady Braeton. I fear you will all be in grave jeopardy until you leave this village and strike out for less populated areas. The best we can hope is that the scourge has not yet invaded England, and we will be safe when we reach her shores.” Ullford kept glancing nervously toward the door, obviously impatient to be gone from her company.
She rose and curtsied to the anxious man. “Go with God, Master Ullford.”
“And you also, my lady.” He bowed and almost ran from her chamber.
Alyse sighed and stretched out on her bed, too heartsick and wear
y to seek out what little company now remained.
Almost two hundred souls had left England in August with the princess. Of that number there were now only Geoffrey, Mary, and herself left in the manor house in Loremo. Everyone else in their company had either died or fled the town. And, at last, Geoffrey had decreed they themselves would leave in the next day or so, taking the royal carriage and horses.
They had been set to leave two days ago, after Thomas’s burial. Before Alyse had even drawn water for her bath, however, Geoffrey had pounded on her door, urging her to come quickly, for the princess had fallen ill. Alyse had done what little she could for the girl, but the sickness progressed even more rapidly than Thomas’s had, and in the early hours of the morning she had died quietly in her bed, her face serene, her spirit comforted.
Upon hearing of Joanna’s illness, Alyse immediately dispatched Geoffrey to the monastery for a priest, for she feared the princess would die as Thomas had, without the proper sacraments. Where and how he had found and convinced a friar, a rather unkempt individual with wild hair and a stained monk’s robe, to come to the princess’s chamber, Geoffrey did not tell her. The grim determination on his face when he thrust the priest into the sickroom led her to speculate it involved force or threat of a sword’s point. She cared not. Whatever his persuasion, the princess received the final sacraments, and Alyse thanked him and God to be able to write as much to King Edward.
Before Brother Augustus could slip away, she had asked him to shrive her also, as a precaution. Geoffrey and Mary did the same, although the latter very reluctantly. Mary had taken the inexplicable notion that if they were prepared for death, they would all surely contract the disease. Under Geoffrey’s none too gentle urging, she had acquiesced, weeping in protest throughout the proceedings.
Mary’s unwillingness to do anything sensible coupled with her unfounded fears made the prospect of their coming journey bleak at best. The woman was timid, insipid, and no great conversationalist. Alyse would likely go mad after many days with no topics of conversation save religion and the illness that raged around them. These subjects had been Mary’s chief concern when they dined together last evening—a meal Alyse had scarce been able to choke down due to the woman’s lamentations at the princess’s death.
Alyse pursed her lips. ’Twas not as though Mary had helped tend her cousin. Geoffrey had forbidden his wife to attend the princess and had assisted Alyse himself instead. There had been precious little they could do for the girl, yet the presence of her kinswoman might have been of more comfort than mere courtiers. Had the woman no courage to gainsay her husband at all? Geoffrey might appear formidable, but she had certainly spoken her mind to him while they had been betrothed.
A sharp pang twisted in her heart.
No, I will not think on it.
Yet the truth mocked her, stealing into her mind at the most unexpected moments. Deep down, she still hated Mary for marrying Geoffrey. ’Twas senseless to hold the woman to blame for a deed she had been compelled to do by the king himself. Still, each time she beheld Mary at Geoffrey’s side, jealousy and hurt gnawed at her. While Thomas lived, the pain had been bearable, for her affection for him had helped deflect her feelings for Geoffrey. Now, the anguish of Thomas’s death and her constant contact with Lord and Lady Longford squeezed her heart as though it were in a vise. How she would be able to live day in and day out with the wife of the man she still loved she did not know. She prayed to God to give her the fortitude to bear the strain.
Alyse shifted to lie on her side. The expanse of empty bed stretched beside her, a damnable reminder of what she had lost. She closed her eyes against the memories of Thomas’s warm body lying next to hers. Sleep, she must sleep. There had been little since before Thomas’s death. If she did not at least attempt to rest, she might fall ill herself.
The sun streamed the bright light of the early afternoon through the westward facing window of her new chamber. Geoffrey had insisted she change rooms, and she had not argued. The recollection of the final hours she had spent in that apartment was too painful to contemplate. She burrowed her face into her pillow. Mayhap she could nap for several hours before going down to the great kitchens to prepare the evening meal for the three of them.
Another thorn in her side. She grunted and twisted around in the freshly-sheeted bed. Cooking had fallen to her for the simple reason that she had gained some basic knowledge of food preparation while a girl at Merwyck Castle. Mary apparently had never set foot in a kitchen. Preferring plain fare to burned, Alyse had hastily offered to attend to their meals. She must remember to set the bread to rise this evening.
When she knew anything again, the sun had almost set in the western sky. She struggled to sit up, wiping a weary hand across her eyes. The little rest had tired rather than refreshed her. She went to stand at the window, breathing deeply of the cooling air, letting it blow away the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to her. Stretching, she quit the chamber, bound for the kitchen and the preparation of the evening meal.
She swiftly descended the staircase then headed outside toward the kitchen. The air was warm enough that the baking could wait until the early morning. Tonight’s fare would be simple bread and cheese, with some leftover salt beef. She had had little enough appetite these past days. If the others wanted hardier fare, they could fix it themselves.
As she passed the little courtyard where Thomas lay buried, she stopped, startled by the sight of Geoffrey standing next to Thomas’s grave. That he grieved for his friend, she had no doubt, yet it had not occurred to her that he might visit the grave. She herself attended her husband each morning, laying a fresh rose on the new mound and saying prayers for his soul.
Should she intrude on Geoffrey’s grief? Mayhap he preferred privacy at such a time. ’Twould not be seemly to interrupt him an he shed a tear for Thomas. Something about his stance, however—back slightly hunched, head hung low—beckoned her to offer comfort.
The grass must have silenced her footfalls, for Geoffrey made no sign he was aware of her. His shoulders shook, and she stared aghast, confounded by the sound of his weeping. Such an outpouring of emotion for his friend struck her as fundamentally wrong for Geoffrey’s character. She would have expected stoic silence, a bowing of the head perhaps. But tears? Something was dreadfully amiss.
Alyse closed the distance between them, bent on giving what comfort she could, when she shuddered to a halt. Geoffrey stood at the foot of Thomas’s grave, but his gaze lay to the right of it, on a fresh grave. He must have just smoothed it over, for he still held the shovel.
“Geoffrey?”
He spun around, guilt and misery warring in his eyes.
“Oh, Geoffrey, what has happened?”
There could only be one answer. The heat pressed upon her, and she trembled in the still, silent air.
* * * *
Geoffrey peered at her a long moment, sweat from his exertions trickling down his back. Should he tell her anything? ’Twould matter little in the end, yet he longed to simply stride away from her and mourn for a time on his own.
After a morning in Bordeaux, spent securing the ship containing Princess Joanna’s trousseau and household goods, he had returned to the manor house to a scene of gore and sorrow. His initial sharp pangs of grief had ebbed into a dull ache in the middle of his chest. The tears had surprised him. He had not believed his affection for his wife ran deep enough to warrant them. The loss of the child played a part as well. The sturdy blond-haired lad would never ride at his side. A large portion of his pain, however, he suspected was guilt.
Abruptly, he turned from her, tossing the shovel down and striding away from the graves of his best friend and his wife.
“Geoffrey?” Alyse tried to put a hand on him as he passed, but he threw her off and continued from the courtyard into the manor house. She caught up to him at the bottom of the staircase, this time laying hold of his arm and turning him toward her. “Geoffrey, please tell me what happened?”
He scowled. Good Christ, for once why could she not be anywhere but here? “Can you not guess, madam? Even one of your limited wits should be able to draw the conclusion.”
She stepped back and a wary look appeared in her eyes, but she continued. “Of course, Geoffrey, I know it must be...Mary. I...am so very sorry.” She made as though to touch him, but he waved her gesture away.
All he wanted was to be alone. He turned back toward the doorway. He could saddle Saxon and ride out. Ride away from this house of misery and death.
“But how, Geoffrey?”
Her voice pricked at him.
“She was well this morning, was she not?”
He spun around at her words and strode to her so quickly, she recoiled and backed away. She retreated up the stairs, fear growing in her face.
“By God, madam, would you intrude thus on my grief?”
“I meant not to trespass, Geoffrey.” She wrung her hands and continued to back up the stairs.
Afraid of me. Good. She should be.
“I simply asked how she died. She did not seem ill this morning.”
He stopped. “She did not die of the pestilence, madam, if that is what you fear.” He clenched his hands. “’Twas I that killed her.”
Alyse’s jaw dropped. Her crystal blue eyes widened, and she began to shake. “No, Geoffrey.”
“Oh, aye, madam. In faith I swear ’tis true, though mayhap not as you might understand it.” He relished the look of fear he had put on her face. She should hurt as much as he. “I did not kill her with my hands nor with my sword. Yet ’tis my fault she is dead.”
Her brows furrowed. “Geoffrey, I do not—”
God’s death!
“She carried my child!” he bellowed into Alyse’s face.
Blood drained from her cheeks until they became an ashy white. She swayed on her feet and grabbed for the balustrade.
“She must have tripped, going down the stairs of the back entry, for I found blood there when I came in this afternoon.” His voice broke. The shock of finding her had surpassed anything he had experienced on the battlefield. “She managed to crawl back to our chambers, miscarried our child, and died alone. I was not even there to comfort her at the last.” That was the grief that stabbed sharpest.