The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  In mid-afternoon, Dai and Goronwy arrived, bearing unwelcome news. The English had burned the town of St Asaph, not sparing even the cathedral. Anian, St Asaph’s Bishop, had long been at odds with Llewelyn, but he’d refused to obey the Archbishop of Canterbury’s command, refused to publish the edict that excommunicated Llewelyn, and he’d now paid a great price for his defiance.

  But not even the vivid image of a town in flames could keep Llewelyn’s thoughts from straying across the bailey, and Dai and Goronwy gallantly conceded Ellen the victory, no longer tried to talk to Llewelyn of strategy and his coming campaign in the south. Instead, they began to make the heavy-handed, well-meaning jokes that people inevitably inflicted upon first-time fathers. Llewelyn did not mind, though; he was grateful for any distraction, for anything or anyone who could stop him from dwelling upon his wife’s ordeal, upon all that could go wrong in a birthing.

  Elizabeth kept her word, and when she did not come herself to the hall, she sent Juliana or Caitlin. Whoever the messenger was, though, the message seemed woefully inadequate to Llewelyn, that all was going as it ought. But soon after dusk Elizabeth brought more encouraging word. Ellen’s waters had broken, she reported cheerfully, a sure sign that the babe would soon be delivered.

  The evening hours passed. Dinner was served. Dai and Goronwy ate heartily, Llewelyn very little. Juliana had assured him they were feeding Ellen honey and wine to keep her strength up, insisted that her spirits were good. He found himself marveling more and more at the quiet, unsung courage of women. And he’d begun to wish fervently that he knew more about the female mysteries of the birthing chamber. By his reckoning, Ellen had been in labor now for eighteen hours, but he did not know if that was what the midwives termed a “lingering” delivery. By prodding boyhood memories, he seemed to remember his mother giving birth to Davydd in ten hours or so; he could stir up no recollection of Rhodri’s birth. The women continued to offer vague, evasive assurances that he no longer believed. As the night advanced, so, too, did his sense of foreboding.

  Llewelyn could not sleep, lay watchful and tense upon a pallet in the great hall. All around him, men were snoring, fumbling for blankets as the hearth burned low. Dogs prowled about amidst the sleepers, scratching fleas, sniffing out food dropped into the floor rushes. Out in the dark beyond the hall, an owl screeched, and Llewelyn raised his head, listening uneasily, for that was an ill omen for certes; all his life he’d heard it said that owls, like howling dogs, heralded an impending death. When he could endure neither the solitude nor his own thoughts any longer, he rose and, trailed by Nia, crossed the hall, stepped out into the bailey.

  He’d begun to think the night would never end, but the sky was slowly greying to the east. He stood for a time gazing across the bailey; the shutters of Ellen’s lying-in chamber were in place, but a few glimmers of light escaped through the cracks. The owl cried again, and he hesitated no longer, began to walk toward the silent, darkened chapel.

  The door was ajar. As Llewelyn moved into the shadows of the nave, he saw a lantern flickering upon the altar. A woman was kneeling within its feeble glow. She was cloaked in a long, full mantle, and it was not until she turned at sound of his footsteps that he recognized his sister-in-law. He looked into the pale, tear-streaked face upturned to his, and then he reached down, pulled Elizabeth to her feet.

  “You’ve been lying to me,” he said. “Why?”

  “Ellen made us promise not to tell you. She said it would serve for naught, that you were anxious enough about the birthing, needed no more cares thrust upon you, and she would not be denied.”

  Llewelyn was silent for a moment. “More fool I, for not expecting that of Ellen.” Grasping Elizabeth by the elbow, he steered her back into the lantern light. “Now I’d have the truth,” he said. “Why is the birth taking so long? What has gone wrong?”

  “Only the Almighty could answer that with certainty. All we can do is guess. Ellen’s pains are sharp and too frequent for her to get any rest, but the mouth of her womb has not dilated as it ought by now. Dame Blodwen said she has seen this happen when the babe is large and the mother narrow across the hips—like Ellen. It may be—”

  “Christ! Are you saying she cannot deliver the baby?”

  “No!” Elizabeth’s cry, shrill and scared, focused Llewelyn’s attention fully upon her for the first time, and he saw now the toll Ellen’s travail was taking upon Elizabeth. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips bitten raw, and she looked even younger than her twenty-four years, looked like a weary, bewildered child kept up past her bedtime.

  “You’re about done-in, lass,” he said, in a gentler voice. “Just tell me the truth. No more lies. How bad is it?”

  “You must not despair, Llewelyn. I’ll not deny that she’s suffering, or that the midwives are very disquieted, but they have not given up hope, I swear they have not. It is just so hard to see her in such pain and not be able to help her… If only her waters had not broken!”

  “But you said that was a good sign! Or was that a lie, too?”

  “No! When the waters break, that usually means the birth is drawing nigh. But sometimes it does not happen, and then the risk to the mother and baby is much greater. Her pains become more severe, you see, and if the labor lingers on too long, she loses heart, her strength bleeds away…” Elizabeth’s voice faltered, then steadied again. “But not Ellen! I’ve never seen a woman so set upon giving her husband a son, and she will, Llewelyn, I know she will!”

  Llewelyn loosened his grip upon her arm, turned away as he sought to master his fear. By now it ought to have been a familiar foe, a presence sensed if not seen since Ellen’s lying-in began, hovering close at hand these long hours past, awaiting its chance. But Elizabeth had just given it legitimacy, infused it with enough raw power to gain the upper hand, to become the only voice he heeded, and he swung around abruptly, started for the door. Elizabeth had seen his face, though, and she darted forward, her small, slender body a barricade thrust into his path, arms outstretched.

  “No,” she cried, “you cannot do that, Llewelyn! You cannot go to her, not now, not until the babe is born.”

  “I have to do something! Can you not see that?”

  “I understand,” she said, “I truly do, for you’re more like Davydd than either of you know. Nothing is harder for you than waiting, but that is all you can do for Ellen now. It would not help to go to her, for you could not ease her pains, you could not make the babe come a blessed moment sooner. All you could do would be to burden her with your fear, and she is not strong enough to bear it. Men are always barred from the birthing chamber, always. You take but one step into that room and Ellen will know the truth, that you think she’s dying.”

  Llewelyn started to speak but the words wouldn’t come, for there was no way to refute her argument, and even half-crazed with fear, he knew it. “You’ll tell me how she is faring?”

  She nooded, tears brimming over again. “I’ll hold nothing back,” she promised. “I swear it upon the souls of my own sons.” He was too tall for her to kiss. Instead, she took his hand, pressed it against her cheek. “God will not abandon Ellen in her time of need,” she said, and then she was gone, dark mantle blending into the shadows, her steps too light and quick to linger long on the quiet air. She’d forgotten her lantern, and the candle’s fluttering white flame drew Llewelyn back to the altar.

  Thy Will be done. The Christian’s greatest test of faith. Llewelyn knew the words by heart, the prayer of the Saviour at Gethsemane just before His betrayal. “Father, all things are possible to Thee. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what Thou wilt.” He knew the words by heart. But they caught in his throat. He could not say “Thy Will be done” if that meant Ellen might die in childbirth. Instead, he pleaded and he bargained, offered up to God all that he had, his soul, his tomorrows, hopes of salvation, if only the Almighty would save his wife and son.

  At Gwynora’s urging, Ellen would try to swallow a spoonful of honey. Juliana k
ept wiping her hot face with a wet cloth, massaging her legs when they cramped. Caitlin fanned her, brushed her hair, rubbed her temples with rosewater. They gave her feverfew, and wine mixed with the bark of cassia fistula. Elizabeth found an eaglestone for her to hold when the pain got too bad. And they offered their hope and cheer in abundant measure, assuring her that she had nothing to fear, that the child was coming soon.

  Ellen knew better, knew she and her baby were in grave danger. The chamber was stifling, dimly lit, the shutters still latched. It was unexpectedly disconcerting, not knowing day from night, and she kept asking what time it was. Wednesday, love, mid-morning. Nigh on noon, lass. Mayhap about four, my lady. Over Ellen’s head, their eyes met in the same silent, frightened query. Thirty-six hours. How much longer could her strength hold out?

  Ellen could deny her fear, but not her fatigue. She was no longer able to walk across the room to the privy chamber; they had to bring her the chamber pot now. Exhaustion was becoming as great an enemy as the pain, and her brain had begun to play queer tricks. She got it into her head that Blanche was on her way to Aber, could not understand when they told her Blanche was in France. She would ask about Llewelyn, receive Elizabeth’s assurances that he was enduring the waiting as well as men ever did, forget she asked, and ask again. And she suddenly had to have her dog, would not rest until Caitlin brought the little creature into the chamber, where it huddled by the birthing stool, whining and getting underfoot.

  Dame Blodwen was again lowering herself onto her knees before the birthing stool. She was a statuesque woman, full figured, and stiff in the joints, but she managed the awkward maneuver without losing her dignity. She held out her hands, and Gwynora poured thyme oil into her cupped palms. Reaching for the hem of Ellen’s chemise, she raised the skirt, uttering a polite “By your leave, my lady” that Ellen thought preposterous under the circumstances. The next contraction came then, and she forgot Dame Boldwen’s probing fingers, forgot all but the pain. When it was over, she slumped back upon the stool, just in time to catch the troubled look that passed between Dame Blodwen and Gwynora.

  “Is it the baby? Is he dead? Is that why I have not been able to bring him forth—because he is dead?”

  “Ah, no, my lady! The babe is not dead!”

  But now that Ellen had at last asked the unspeakable, she was not to be so easily satisfied. Gwynora saw her disbelief, and leaned over, catching Ellen’s hand in her own. “Listen to me, child,” she said, forgetting that Ellen was her mistress, seeing only a young woman urgently in need of comfort. “Dame Blodwen spoke true; the babe is not dead. If he were, you’d not be feeling him move in the womb, your nipples would be contracted, your eyes sunken, and your skin cold as ice—and none of that is true, is it now?”

  She’d been specific enough to prevail over Ellen’s doubts, aided by Ellen’s desperate desire to believe her. “What is wrong, then? Why is it taking so long, Gwynora? Is it that…that he is positioned wrong in the womb?”

  Dame Blodwen started to deny it, but Gwynora risked offending the midwife’s professional pride by cutting her off. They should have been honest with Ellen from the very first; she’d known that, for she knew Ellen. “We do not think so, lass, but we’ll not know for sure until the birth is nigh. If the babe is not coming head first as it ought, Dame Blodwen will reach up into the womb, try to turn it. But even if it does come feet first, it can still be safely delivered.”

  Gwynora paused; she’d given Ellen the truth, but not all of it, for if the child lay crosswise in the womb, both mother and babe were doomed. Before Ellen could question her further, she brought a wine cup to the younger woman’s lips, waited while Ellen drank.

  “Listen to me, child,” she said again. “You’ve had a rough time of it, and the worst lies ahead. I’ll not lie to you about that. You asked why Dame Blodwen and I were so troubled just now. It is because the mouth of your womb is still not fully opened. All these hours and still not opened. But it is dilating, lass. It is slow, slow enough to break your heart—if not your spirit. Your babe may be a mite shy about making his entrance, but make it he will—as long as your courage does not fail you.”

  Ellen’s eyes were fastened unwaveringly upon Gwynora’s face. “It will not,” she said, then gasped, her body contorting upon the stool. When the pain had passed, she was drenched in sweat, but as soon as she got her breath back, she repeated, “It will not…”

  It was dusk before Ellen’s cervix had fully dilated. Soon thereafter, she was stricken with recurring, severe bouts of nausea and vomiting, and then, odd shivering fits, although she was hot and flushed and soaked in sweat. The midwives insisted that these were proofs that the birth was near, but it was still alarming to Juliana, and Elizabeth, who had not suffered such extreme symptoms in either of her pregnancies.

  By now the strain was telling upon all the women. Only Caitlin’s temper showed no signs of fraying. Gwynora had been opposed at first to Caitlin’s presence, for she did not think the birthing chamber was a proper place for a young, impressionable virgin maid. But Caitlin had proved to be a godsend. Neither Elizabeth nor Juliana spoke much Welsh, Dame Blodwen and Gwynora spoke no French, and they could hardly expect Ellen to translate between contractions. Caitlin had been more successful, too, at hiding her fears than either Elizabeth or Juliana, and she seemed to know instinctively how best to comfort Ellen.

  It was Caitlin who began to rummage through Ellen’s jewelry coffer as Ellen’s sweating, shivering tremors persisted. The other women saw a flash of coral and gold as she pressed an object into Ellen’s hand, and they nodded approvingly, the midwives because coral was known to aid in childbirth travails, and Juliana because she knew the pater noster was a gift from Llewelyn. Ellen clutched the rosary tightly each time the pain came, held fast until it passed. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women…” But soon the familiar, formal words of entreaty gave way to a far more simple prayer. “Blessed Lady Mary, do not let my baby die…”

  “Soon, my lady, soon.” The midwives had a litany of their own, one they murmured at soothing intervals…soon, soon now, lass. Until Gwynora gave a triumphant cry. “I can see the head!”

  Removing Ellen’s soiled chemise, Juliana moved behind her, sought to brace her body as she writhed and twisted upon the stool. Dame Blodwen was pressing upon her abdomen as each contraction hit. Ellen bit down until she tasted blood, Dame Blodwen pressed even harder, there was a burning sensation, pain greater than any that had come before, and then she could see her child’s head, a cap of wet, scanty, dark hair. But it was not over yet. Urged on by the midwives, Ellen called upon her remaining strength, bore down, until at last the baby’s shoulders came free, and the puckered, red, and bruised little body slid out in a gush of blood and mucus, into Gwynora’s waiting hands.

  Ellen sagged back against Juliana, too weak to feel anything yet, even relief. She was so tired, so very tired, and it was so peaceful now, dark and soothing and quiet… A jolt of sheer terror arrested her drift, brought her back, the realization that she’d yet to hear the baby cry. As she struggled to sit up, her abrupt movement sent pain surging through her abused, exhausted body, but she barely felt it, aware only of the utter silence and the dismayed looks upon the faces of the women.

  “No…he cannot be dead! No!”

  “The babe is not dead, my lady!”

  “I do not believe you! Why do you look like that, then? Unless…is he whole? Crippled?” Ellen tried to reach out, but her arms were suddenly leaden, too heavy to lift. “Give him to me,” she insisted. “Let me see…”

  Their obvious reluctance only fed her fears. Alarmed by her increasing agitation, Elizabeth said hastily, “We will, Ellen, we will. But first I must tell—Dear God!”

  The horror in Elizabeth’s voice was puzzling to Ellen, intent only upon her child. But she followed Elizabeth’s downward gaze, and gasped, for blood was everywhere, spurting out upon her thighs, splattering the skirts of the midwives,
running down into the floor rushes.

  Not even Caitlin, in her innocence, could convince herself this was just the afterbirth coming. If she’d harbored any doubts, the urgent actions of the other women soon showed how great was Ellen’s peril. The next few moments were chaotic. Elizabeth snatched up the baby, even in her panic taking care not to jerk upon the umbilical cord still bound to Ellen. Dame Blodwen had begun to knead Ellen’s abdomen, gesturing for Caitlin to elevate her legs. And Gwynora was holding a cup to her lips, urging her to swallow.

  Ellen obeyed, and Gwynora reached over, pinched the baby’s foot until it began to cry. “Do you hear that?” she said, digging her fingers into Ellen’s shoulders. “This is your baby crying, your baby that needs you! You listen to that crying, lass, and you hold on!”

  Ellen tried. She clung to that thin, reedy wail as if it were a lifeline. But it was already growing weak, faint and far away. Someone was crying out her name. Then that, too, faded, and she heard nothing more.

  Elizabeth stood in the darkness before the door of the great hall, dreading to cross that threshold as she’d never dreaded anything before. But the baby had begun to whimper, and she knew she could delay no longer. Pray God she’d find the right words. She reached for the latch before she could lose her nerve, swung the door open.

  Llewelyn was sitting in one of the window-seats, looking so haggard and hollow-eyed that Elizabeth felt pity twist like a knife. Hugh was the first to notice her. He half-rose from his seat, but his cry died on his lips, for one glance at Elizabeth’s face was enough to warn him that something was very wrong. Others saw her now, too; there were uneasy murmurings, then an odd hush. It was the sudden silence that alerted Llewelyn. He glanced up and his breath stopped.