by Ann Turner
The procedure showed no signs of succeeding and Rowena was allowed to scramble to her feet, assisted by her sister, sobbing pitifully. Next, the midwife pushed on her belly, to try to force the baby on its way into the world, but as with the tossing, this also failed. She then sent her young assistant out to find the physician. Aubrette sat by Rowena, while the midwife and physician left the tent to talk. Simon saw them and ran at them, demanding to be told what was happening and why his wife had not yet given him his child.
He looked hopelessly at the physician and the midwife, unable to digest the facts they were telling him. Rowena and the baby would both die if she continued to labour much longer, the baby was positioned the wrong way round and could not be born naturally. There had been successful births when the baby had been breach, they assured him, so he should not give up all hope. Their concern was that his wife was failing fast and would possibly not survive much longer. The physician explained that the only chance they had to ensure the safe delivery of the baby was to sacrifice Rowena. He would have to cut her open to bring the infant out.
Aubrette came out of the tent to see what decision the physician and the midwife had reached. She saw Simon, who looked in her direction. His face was blanched white and disbelieving, and he was shaking violently. His wife’s suffering made him unable to think rationally and he could hear Rowena’s agonising screams.
‘Help me, Aubrette. What can I do?’ he cried.
‘I cannot say, Simon. Please don’t make me,’ she replied, not wanting to be the one to condemn her sister to a certain death. The responsibility and blame must be laid at Simon’s feet only. ‘How much do you love your wife? She is suffering in there and needs you.’
He looked towards the tent, hearing Rowena howl again in pain. His eyes darted to the three faces watching him and the decision was made. ‘Can you save the baby? Will my wife die whatever happens?’ His voice suppressed, not wanting to realise the awful truth that he would lose his wife whether the baby survived or not.
‘Then come and see her before it is too late,’ the physician said, calmly. Simon looked again at the tent, hesitant to enter and sought Aubrette’s hand to give him strength. She withdrew it, not wanting to be part of these events anymore. He took slow steps and warily entered the tent, with Aubrette following behind.
Rowena still lay tossing and turning, sobbing hysterically. Simon called her name and she instantly became silent, looking at her husband. Her hair was wet from the sweat and stuck to her face, which was as white as her husband’s. Simon ran to her side, dropping to his knees and holding her trembling hands, feeling her fingers dig into his own.
Aubrette stood back and watched them, feeling the stabbing of remorse at the pain she and Simon had brought to Rowena over the years. Was it their affair that had brought her sister to these last moments? Between the three of them, they had fooled everyone to think that Eustace and Raymond were her natural sons, so why could she not have been happy with that? Why did she insist, after so many miscarriages, so much heartache and disappointment, on having her own child? She must have known that her life was at risk if she attempted to have a child of her own, so was this twisted retribution on her part? Had she a death wish, and was she determined to make her husband and her sister guilty for the rest of their lives if she perished?
Aubrette watched as Simon rose to his feet and took his wife, so limp and fatigued, in his arms, and kissed her lovingly for the last time. She clung to him in desperation, tearfully begging her husband not to leave her side. He pulled her hands away and then, blinded by tears, fled the scene. Her pleading for him to stay echoing painfully in his ears. There was no retribution here. This was one woman’s desire to have her own child, a desire that would end in her untimely death.
The physician drew Aubrette aside. ‘You must position yourself so that she cannot see I have a slitting knife here to cut her. Talk to her, tell her anything, only do not let her know what is to happen,’ he instructed.
‘Is there nothing you can give her to dull the pain a little?’ asked Aubrette.
He shook his head. ‘It would have no effect on what I have to do,’ he answered.
‘Give her this,’ the midwife interjected, holding a cup towards Aubrette. ‘Poppy juice. It usually dulls the pain, will make her think that everything is fine.’
‘What are you talking about? What is happening?’ Rowena called from her bed.
Aubrette took the cup, forcing her face into a smile, and came to stand by her sister’s side. She took her clammy hand into her own, keeping her voice calm and smiled reassuringly.
‘Drink this juice to help you. It’ll soon be over; the physician knows what he is doing,’ she promised.
Between contractions, Rowena sipped the juice and managed a feeble smile. ‘My baby will be born and then I will be a mother,’ she said, wondrously.
Aubrette nodded. ‘You will be the best mother that there has ever been.’
‘I love my sons, but this one shall be special as he comes from me.’ Rowena sighed and looked at her swollen body, running a hand over it with a simple pleasure. She then looked back to her sister and kissed her hand. ‘Thank you for Eustace and Raymond,’ she said.
Aubrette then positioned herself between Rowena and the physician, speaking gentle words to her, keeping her calm and ignorant of these final moments of her life.
Outside, Simon paced nervously up and down. His wife’s screams still filled his head. He had slain Saracens, sliced limbs from torsos, split skulls, been covered with blood, not knowing whether the blood was his or the enemy’s, and heard the screams from a thousand butchered men, but the screeching from Rowena tore into him more painfully than any scimitar. The howling grew hideous in its intensity and volume. He hunched his shoulders, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He clamped his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out the inhuman sounds, and doubling over, he fell to his knees in his own agony.
Then, silence. Complete silence.
Simon scrambled up and looked expectantly at the tent. After a long pause, Aubrette, her clothes covered in blood, emerged holding a blanket in her arms. She slowly walked towards him and held the bundle out for him to take. He looked at her blank face; it was pale and ashen, and her eyes were red, void of emotion. With the back of her hand, she brushed loose strands of hair from her face, smearing a trail of blood over her forehead. Hesitantly, Simon took the baby wrapped in the blanket. There was hardly any weight to be felt.
‘Your son,’ she said, flatly, and turned to return into the tent.
Simon looked in the blanket and drew a ragged gasp. His son was puny, pallid and very small, his slate-coloured eyes were large and puzzling in his small face. The traumatic birth had taken its effect on him. His small bow-shaped mouth opened and closed – he was too feeble even to cry. While in his father’s arms, the boy died. Slowly and painfully, Simon sank to his knees and wept inconsolably, burying his face in the inert bundle. His wife was dead. His son was dead. Everything had been for nothing.
Eventually, Simon stood up and, with staggering steps, he entered the tent. The sight that greeted him made the bile rise in his throat and he lurched back. Rowena lay on the bed, with her bloodied nightshift pulled up to her breasts and her abdomen sliced open, peeled back and raw with flesh and blood. The mattress was sodden in blood that trickled and splashed into a puddle under the bed. The physician was washing his instruments in a bucket of water, wiping the blood from the blade with a cloth. He then immersed the slitting knife into cold water, dried it with the apron he wore and replaced it in the leather pouch. The midwife was packing her ointments into the bag and her assistant was washing her hands with a rough bar of soap.Aubrette sat near to Rowena’s head. With her face turned from her sister’s abdomen, she brushed her hair. It was all she could think of to do while she talked quietly to the motionless body. Simon strained to hear the words
she spoke as he walked over to the bed, attempting to avert his eyes from his dead wife’s mutilated belly. Aubrette looked up at him and silently moved aside for him to sit beside his wife, to be with her for one more time, still unbelieving that Rowena was dead, that she would open her eyes and smile at him. She took the bundle from him and, carefully removing the dead infant from the soiled blanket, proceeded to wash the tiny body before wrapping him in fresh linen swaddling.
‘What will happen to her?’ she asked, glancing back at Simon, who was holding his wife’s cold and lifeless hand, and staring blankly at her still face.
‘She will have to be buried here, as we cannot take her with us,’ he answered, not looking up.
Aubrette gave a small cry of distress. ‘No! Rowena can’t be left out here alone!’ she protested.
‘We cannot take her or her son with us. There is no other way,’ he explained, bitingly.
‘Your son, too,’ Aubrette reminded, acidly.
He glanced up at her, the statement cutting him. ‘Our son,’ he corrected, quietly.
The physician, midwife and her assistant bowed and departed, leaving Simon and Aubrette alone to grieve.
‘I shall stay with Rowena tonight. I need to apologise for the pain I caused her with my selfishness. I must know she will forgive me and will watch over me from heaven with our son,’ he said, his voice hoarse in emotion.
Aubrette did not object and walked outside, not wanting to be in his presence. The camp women, who had now gathered outside the tent, led her back to their accommodation for the night and she accepted, not wanting to be alone as the pitiless cold night air blew in.
Her evening was spent kneeling in prayer for Rowena’s soul and the soul of the dead baby. Sadly, Aubrette climbed into her bed and lay awake, remembering the years she and her sister had shared, the fun they had as girls at Romhill, and their strained relationship after the marriage to Simon. Aubrette shivered involuntary thinking of Simon. Would he be feeling remorse for his infidelity? Who was to know? Aubrette laid sleepless, her guilty thoughts denying the sleep her body craved.
A new mass grave had been prepared outside the camp for the killed men, which was large enough for more than two hundred bodies, including Rowena and her son. Aubrette stood, with Simon by her side, and looked into the grave at the bodies laid to rest. Rowena’s shrouded body with the small swaddled body at her side. Before, while helping to wrap Rowena in the linen bands, she had considered removing the locket her sister wore that held the two curls from Eustace and Raymond. However, she decided against this. The locket remained around Rowena’s neck.
‘Nag’s head,’ Aubrette said, softly. Simon glanced at her. ‘When we were girls, Rowena used to call me a goat’s arse, so I’d call her a nag’s head.’ She gave a small laugh, remembering those happy, innocent days that were so long ago now.
Simon smiled vaguely. ‘Sounds like something she’d say,’ he agreed.
The padre conducted the service for the souls, who had given their lives in such an honourable cause, to bring Jerusalem back to the Christians. Simon could not speak or take his eyes from the linen shroud. As he listened, his hand groped for Aubrette’s own and she felt him crush her fingers in his grip. The padre’s words gave cold comfort, and later, they spent the night sitting at a table, both too disconsolate even to cry. Simon drank himself into a stupor, in his attempt to blot out the image of his wife, mutilated and dead. He felt as if he had held the knife himself. Rowena was gone and there was nothing to bring her back. There was no way to turn back time. Their lives would have to continue without Rowena. As the sun rose into a pink and golden sky, Aubrette departed Simon’s accommodation, not seeing the beauty of the dawn. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and needed time alone to work out how she was to carry on without her sister close to her.
43
Berengaria and Joanna arrived at Jaffa at the king’s command; he wanted to have his queen near to him to quell the whispering about his private life that had sprung up again. She had changed since Aubrette had last seen her. There was a sad haughtiness behind her eyes, caused by the neglect from her husband, and a resignation to the fact that her royal marriage was an utter failure. She was a queen, but no queen – just an accessory, a possession, a thing of her thoughtless lord, nothing more important. However, when she saw Richard, standing proud in his armour covered by his white tabard, she forgot her sadness and a beautiful smile lit her face. Yes, he was uncaring and single-minded in his obsession with the crusade and the glory that came with victory, he was unconcerned with the feelings of his wife, but he was still a magnificent sight to behold. He was a man that would become a legend, and like a love-sick fool, the neglected queen fell in love with him again.
He greeted Berengaria politely, with all the honours due to his queen. Joanna was given a breath-stealing hug of love, which the queen noticed and felt envious of. However, she would not pick an argument with her husband, as they could discuss his affections later in private.
Aubrette stepped forward to be presented to the queen. Berengaria had been informed about Rowena absconding from Acre, accompanied by her sister, and was impressed with their feat of daring. She wished she could be as impulsive and brave, but the constraints of a royal marriage, constantly watched, never completely alone for a moment, prevented such reckless behaviour.
‘Where is Lady Fitzroy? I hope she is well and managing to cope with the unbearable heat,’ the queen observed, looking around for Rowena.
Aubrette swallowed hard, as this would be hard to explain. ‘Your Grace, Rowena died in childbirth and her son did not survive either. Sir Simon and I are missing her tremendously,’ she explained, tearfully.
Berengaria put a hand to her heart, momentarily shocked. ‘This is truly awful news. Lady Rowena became a dear friend, who I have missed and will continue to miss. At least I will not suffer death in childbirth, should I be so fortunate to conceive. It would be a biblical miracle, a miraculous conception.’ She sensed her husband stiffen, angry with her at the comment.
‘My Lady, you will remember who you are, where you are and on whom you pass such ridiculous comments.’ he whispered in her ear.
She ignored him. Joanna suppressed a small laugh and Aubrette blushed. ‘Nevertheless, I shall remember Lady Fitzroy in my prayers tonight before I climb into my lonely, solitary bed,’ Berengaria took the insult a step further.
The king now took her arm and pulled her away from the audience, his face red with fury. ‘Continue like this and your bed shall remain a lonely place for the rest of your life,’ he warned.
‘Would not a husband be pleased to see his wife after such a long absence and be eager to get back between her thighs?’ she retorted, her own resentment rising, forgetting her decision not to argue.
Richard hustled her into his tent, abruptly dismissing the others so he could talk to her alone.
‘Madam, you forget who you are. You are no bank-side doxy or whore plying for custom, you are a Queen of England. Behave like the queen I desire. Remember your place. You owe everything to me.’
‘Desire? Is that the physical desire of two bodies united as one, or the desire of wanting a plaything to look and behave as you want? Does this desire include the gratitude I am expected to show when you decide to honour me with your presence between the sheets? Or do you prefer the company of other people, like that churl Hugh Fulbert, to your lawful and obedient wife? I am expected to stand by and watch your activities with others and smile sweetly. I am meant to be a vessel to bring an heir to your country, but how can I when you keep me so many miles away? I do not forget I am Queen of England, sir, but does England know of its queen? Shall I be the queen who never sets foot on English soil?’
‘I must get Jerusalem back from Saracen hands and restore it to Christianity. I cannot be distracted by a woman making demands on me, when I need to concentrate and use all
my strength to win this crusade.’
‘So you don’t take another to your bed? I never make demands on you. You rarely came to my bed in Cyprus or Acre and I did not complain, but how am I to give you sons if you deliberately avoid my bed? You stay virtuous, untouched, unsullied, do you, Richard? News reached us in Acre about your campaign and I was proud of you. I fooled myself into thinking your abandonment of me would be worthwhile. I believed you would return to me, carry me to your bed and give me sons as handsome as you. Then I heard the gossips and the whispers about how Hugh Fulbert was your constant companion. And then some Muslim boy, who is young enough to be your son, was said to be amusing you at nights along with your camp doxies. Perhaps if I behaved as a bank-side doxy, you might pay me more attention. You are an abomination, Richard Plantagenet!’
A red mist swam before Richard’s eyes and he heard the thundering of blood pounding in his ears as he raised a hand to strike her. ‘I am the king! I do not answer to weak-minded women! My words and my actions are law and you will abide by them or suffer the consequences!’ he bellowed at Berengaria, who stood firm, refusing to be intimidated by this sudden explosion of Plantagenet temper. She braced herself, anticipating his large hand striking her across the face and to the feel of the painful blow, knocking her to the floor.
‘Go on then, hit me! Will that make you feel big?’
Her husband’s hand thrashed the side of her head with more force than she expected and she fell back, knocking against the table. With his blood rising, making the veins in his temples throb, he hauled Berengaria round, threw her face down over the table and exacted a forcible violation on her with a fury that amazed even himself. He ignored her shouts of pain, and the protests and pleading for him to cease the assault.
Outside, their argument and what ensued could be heard clearly.
‘Well,’ Joanna said, in an attempt to lighten the shocked atmosphere, ‘if she doesn’t conceive after that, she’ll never get a second chance.’