The Countess

by Claire Delacroix

  As long as Brigid was fine. Oh, he probably paced a trench in Crevy’s stone floors while she labored to bring the babe to light, that would be Guillaume. Eglantine’s smile faded to naught. She hoped with sudden fervor that all had gone well.

  New doubts needled her. Perhaps she should have lingered, been there for Brigid’s delivery. Indeed, the shock of her departure would have troubled sensitive Brigid. And who else could have come?

  What if Eglantine’s mother had been ill, as was so often the case in the winters of later - or worse, her mother chose to meddle rather than to aid, as was often her wont. Brigid had no other family nearby, save Burke’s Alys.

  What if the babe came early and Guillaume was yet at court?

  Eglantine fretted, seeing another duty she had failed to fulfill when ‘twas too late to make amends. How could she have stayed though, and left Jacqueline prey to Reynaud? ‘Twas a muddle of poor choices she had been granted and that was the truth of it - indeed, it seemed that no matter what choice she made, there was a disappointment to be borne.

  But there was no point in dwelling upon what could not be fixed. Eglantine pressed a kiss to Esmeraude’s brow and was grateful for one victory in her life. She prayed for not only the best, not only that both Brigid and babe were hale, but that her brother would forgive her all.

  Indeed, there was little else she could do from here.

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Guillaume, for his part, was not in a forgiving mood.

  Indeed, he ranted in Crevy’s hall as never he had ranted before. He paced and he shouted and his staff eased back against the walls, as though they would put as much distance between themselves and their raging lord as possible. Even his mother had the good sense to hold her tongue, which was something indeed.

  Guillaume raved because the babe was late. Not only was it late commencing the labor, but it lingered over the task. He began to suspect that the babe had no inclination of coming forth into the world at all. Aye, this babe was taking longer than all the babes in Christendom had taken in sum!

  And worst of all, there was naught Guillaume could do about it.

  His wife screamed far above him, she raged in pain at a volume quite unlike her docile self, and he could do naught to make this easier.

  Much less faster.

  So, he paced and he growled and he snapped at anyone fool enough to venture close to his side. He had been home a fortnight, having feared the babe would have arrived sooner but powerless to free himself from the king’s grip. He had galloped through the gates, relieved to find Brigid nigh bursting at the seams. She had burst into tears at the sight of him and it had seemed the child awaited its father’s return.

  But each subsequent day had made Guillaume fear that something was sorely amiss. His mother insisted that first children were apt to be tardy, but he fretted all the same.

  Such was the state of his thoughts that Guillaume had barely noted how Eglantine had plundered his treasury and his stables. He had avoided his mother’s worries about his errant sister, no less her insistence that someone should ensure Eglantine was well. That last comment was made repeatedly, with hard glances at Guillaume each time, but he was preoccupied with his own concerns. He knew well enough that Eglantine was strong, Eglantine was determined, Eglantine could fend for herself.

  Brigid, however, was soft and vulnerable. Brigid needed him.

  And now she cried out in pain, striving to deliver the babe that he had planted in her belly. Guillaume tugged at his hair and paced the hall again. He had done all he could, he had sent for Alys and Burke, he had summoned a midwife, and now he could only wait.

  ‘Twas not a role he relished.

  “Where is Burke?” he demanded in frustration. “And why does he not hasten? Surely every steed in his stable cannot have been struck lame at this time! Indeed, a man could walk from Montvieux, or even from Villonne, in the time he has taken!”

  His mother cleared her throat. “It has been but a day since you sent word...”

  Guillaume flung out his hands and spun to face her. “It has been an eternity!”

  She lifted one brow, as much censure as she ever granted, and pushed to her feet. “I have told you well that the first will take its own time.”

  “But someone must do something! I can bear it no longer!”

  “Alors, I shall take a honeycomb to Brigid. ‘Tis a treat she favors well enough and perhaps ‘twill take her thoughts from the pain, non?”

  “A honeycomb will do naught to ease her labors!” Guillaume roared, realizing only when his mother’s eyes widened that ‘twas the first time he had ever shouted at her.

  Her mouth opened and closed again, before she turned away. Her skirts flared behind her as she snapped her fingers at her staff and climbed the stairs, her silence as cutting as anything she might have said.

  Before Guillaume could follow and apologize, his châtelain stepped into the hall. “Chevalier Burke de Montvieux, Lord de Villonne, and his lady wife, Alys, to see you, my lord.”

  “Burke!” Guillaume approached his friend with open arms. “What took you so very long?”

  The knight rolled his eyes and grinned. “Has she labored for more than an hour?” he jested as he clasped Guillaume’s hand.

  Brigid screamed, a most effective interruption and one that had all in the hall wincing. Alys, her fair hair bound back and her belly only slightly rounded, appeared somewhat alarmed.

  ‘Twas only then that Guillaume realized his insensitivity in summoning her of all people to a birthing. But naught would go awry here, would it? He bowed low, all the same, for it had not been his intent to recall hurtful memories to these good friends. “Alys, I do apologize...”

  She forced a smile and squeezed Burke’s hand. “Perhaps the formalities are best left for later,” she suggested, visibly squaring her shoulders. “I would hasten to Brigid.”

  Burke’s eyes lit with concern. “I will go with you,” he suggested, obviously following Guillaume’s thoughts.

  But Alys shook her head. “Brigid would be mortified by your presence. I shall attend her myself and all will be fine.”

  “You will be far from alone in that chamber,” Guillaume tried to jest. “There must be a fair crowd there by now. Indeed, my mother intended to feed Brigid honeycomb.”

  “In this moment?” Alys’ eyes widened in surprise, then she shook her head. “Only the Lady of Crevy would do as much,” she murmured with affection, then bustled to the solar. Burke’s gaze followed his wife’s progress and his eyes narrowed.

  “Burke, in my haste, I forgot...”

  But Burke held up a hand. “Alys would not have missed this.” A smile touched his lips. “She had a fondness for Brigid that no sorry event can undermine.”

  The small boy beside Burke, no more than three summers of age, watched Guillaume solemnly. He was a handsome boy and shared his father’s coloring, though his eyes were the clear green of his mother. “Why does the lady scream, Papa?”

  Burke ruffled his son’s hair. “Ah, because she labors mightily. ‘Tis not for you to concern yourself, Bayard. You remember Guillaume, do you not?” Guillaume appreciated that his old friend tried to distract both the child and himself from the proceedings above. “You may not recall this, Bayard, but Guillaume is your godfather.”

  The boy bowed low, his father beaming at his fine manners. “’Tis an honor to make your acquaintance once more, my Lord de Crevy-sur-Seine.”

  Guillaume smiled. It seemed but yesterday that he and Brigid had pledged to raise this boy as their own should the need arise, that Guillaume had pledged to ensure the true faith burned bright in this small soul. How the years had flown!

  “I believe you might call me your Uncle Guillaume,” he suggested, hunkering down before the boy. “Has your father taught you to play draughts?”

  An impish grin lit Bayard’s features and he leaned closer to whisper. “Aye and I best him most every time!”

  “Ah, well,
your father was always a poor player,” Guillaume declared even as Burke choked at this undeserved assault on his skills. Guillaume winked. “For I used to best him most every time as well.”

  “You cannot best me, sir,” the boy claimed with confidence.

  Guillaume grinned, guessing this would pass the time admirably. “Aye? It shall not be for lack of trying!”

  * * *

  Alys paused on the threshold of the solar and took a deep breath. She would not remember, she would not think of her own ordeal with her first.

  She would not think of that tiny little girl, that impossibly small babe, drawing her last breath in her own arms. Brigid would bear a healthy child, she knew it well, and naught would go awry.

  But Alys’ palms were damp as she stepped into the chamber. She was not unfamiliar with birthing and its ordeal, but she was shocked by what she found in the solar all the same. Her cousin was as pale as a winter moon and there was an astonishing amount of blood upon the linens. The portly midwife sat back, her expression grim, and wiped her brow with the back of one hand.

  “’Twill be one or the other of them,” she informed Alys tartly. “Or perhaps neither at all.” She pushed to her feet and wiped her bloody hands upon her apron. “’Tis in God’s hands now.”

  ‘Twas clear the woman meant to leave. “What nonsense is this?” Alys demanded, seizing the woman’s elbow. “She has not labored long, has she?”

  “One night and one day,” Lady Crevy supplied. That lady sat on the windowsill, nibbling worriedly on a honeycomb. Her eyes were wide, her expression uncommonly sober.

  Alys gave the midwife’s arm a shake. “You cannot leave her!”

  “There is little point in my lingering.”

  “But what is amiss?”

  The woman shrugged. “I do not know. I am only recently come to this task. ‘Twas Berthe of the village who deigned to teach me, but she has gone and died afore my apprenticeship was done.” She shrugged again. “The easy ones, they are no trouble to me. Out they come and a body has but to catch them and cut the cord.” She looked to Brigid and shook her head. “This one does not come out.”

  Alys muttered a curse and bent to touch Brigid’s cheek. Her cousin was pale, too pale, and her breathing was shallow. Brigid’s pulse was strong at her throat, though, and her lashes fluttered for only a moment before she opened her eyes.

  “Alys.” The name left her lips like a sigh. “I am so glad you are here.” She licked her lips and her voice was uncommonly soft. The stutter that had once plagued her speech had faded to naught beneath Guillaume’s affection. “You have traveled far - did Guillaume grant you a cup of wine to parch your thirst?”

  “Brigid, I have come to aid you, not to drink your wine.” Alys leaned closer. “How do you feel?”

  “Oh, it hurts.” Brigid gripped Alys’ hand, a flicker of fear in the depths of her eyes. “Something is amiss, Alys.” She whispered, as though she feared to frighten the others in the solar. “It hurts overmuch and naught is changing. Should the babe not come forth? I am so very tired.”

  Alys’ heart clenched, but she forced herself to smile cheerfully. “It always hurts, Brigid. And it always takes longer than can be believed.”

  “Alys.” Brigid’s eyes flew open and tears shone within them. “Alys, aid me. Do not let my babe die. Guillaume is so anxious for a son.”

  Alys blinked back tears of her own and she squeezed her cousin’s hand tightly. “Let me see what can be done.”

  Brigid’s features contorted as another contraction seized her. Her hand clenched around Alys’ fingers and her scream nigh rent the walls.

  But even as she moved to look, Alys knew it had been too long since the last contraction. By now, with this much blood, the contractions should be close together, one fast after the other, and the babe should be showing its crown.

  “I cannot bear the sound,” the midwife muttered as she covered her ears.

  “Do not let her leave!” the Lady Crevy cried, but Alys cared naught for that one’s aid.

  “It matters not,” she said crisply and reached beneath the blood-soaked linens. She would have much to say to Guillaume later over the fitness of that midwife - indeed, she would not allow the woman into Villonne’s stables.

  Something was amiss - and Brigid grew too tired to aid herself. ‘Twas clear her womb despaired of bringing the child forth. But why?

  And if the choice truly must be made between mother and babe, which would Guillaume have her choose? Brigid, Alys decided, Brigid without a doubt. But she eyed her cousin’s pallor and feared they might not have even that choice. Alys looked, but there was indeed no sign of the babe.

  ‘Twas no time to be squeamish, if she meant to ensure that this babe survived as her own first had not. Alys gritted her teeth and reached into her cousin’s warmth. She cooed to Brigid, making reassuring noises, though she was unaware whether it made any difference. The sound of Brigid’s heavy breathing filled the solar.

  Alys closed her eyes, feeling her way, her heart skipping as she felt the curve of the babe’s head. ‘Twas so still, she feared ‘twas too late for the child.

  But Brigid’s belly rippled, another contraction gathering, and the child squirmed against Alys’ hand.

  Her own heart leapt with hope and she patted her cousin’s belly. “Do not push, Brigid - scream, scream down the walls, but hold the babe tight within you for a moment.”

  “Aye, Alys,” Brigid huffed, then another cry of pain was torn from within her. The midwife cursed and fled at the sound and Guillaume was probably green about the gills. Lady Crevy came anxiously to Alys’ side. Alys felt their movements, she sensed the maids drawing closer in dismay, but her attention was fixed on the child.

  And then she felt the cord.

  ‘Twas wrapped around the babe’s shoulder, as it should not be, keeping the child from leaving the womb. Alys felt a surge of relief that matters were so simple.

  “Brigid, the cord is around the babe’s shoulder. I shall ease it aside, but you must aid me. Do not push until ‘tis done.”

  “Aye, Alys, aye, Alys.” Brigid puffed, her fingers clawing at the linens as another contraction gathered.

  “Lady Crevy, you might hold her hand. And someone bathe her brow, for ‘twill aid naught if she grows too hot.” All leapt to do Alys’ bidding, no doubt grateful for any task to occupy their hands.

  But the cord was not so readily moved as that. Alys eased its thickness over a slick shoulder, amazed at the size of the child. There was little room to work, to be sure, and the cord seemed to fight her efforts. The babe, though, struggled beneath her hands, as though it too would choose to survive. ‘Twas stronger than she had hoped, even after all of this, and Alys’ hope flared.

  It took her two contractions to work the babe’s shoulder free and she was trembling when the next contraction gathered. “Now, you must push, Brigid, push with all your strength. Spare naught to scream.”

  Lady Crevy kissed Brigid’s hand, then held it to her heart. “I give you my strength, ma petite,” she murmured. “We push together, you and I, non? The first, it always is reluctant to see the light.”

  Brigid’s body rippled with the force of the contraction before she could do more than nod agreement. She gritted her teeth and arched off the pallet, her grip so tight that Lady Crevy’s fingers turned white.

  Alys pulled on the slippery child, coaxing it further than it might have come on its own. She was relieved that the cord did not seem to impede its progress any further, but the contraction ended all too soon.

  “My lady, I see the head!” one maid cried and the others gathered closer. Their enthusiasm helped Brigid to rally, though her gaze fixed on Alys.

  “Again, as the last,” Alys counseled. “’Tis almost done, Brigid.”

  “The babe is fine?”

  Alys smiled. “It fights to see the light.”

  “A fighter, non?” Lady Crevy kissed Brigid’s brow. “’Tis a fine knight and heir to Crevy you
carry, ma petite. Encore, we push.”

  Brigid nodded, took a deep breath and bared her teeth as a contraction rolled through her once more.

  And the child fairly leapt into Alys’ arms, its expression tormented. “’Tis a boy,” she cried and cleared its face with haste.

  The maids hovered breathlessly. The babe’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his tiny fists clenched. He arched back against Alys’ hand and let loose a cry so hale that Alys fairly wept in her relief.

  “’Tis a boy, Brigid,” she said past the lump in her throat. “A fine healthy boy, just as Lady Crevy predicted.”

  The maids cheered. Brigid collapsed with a sigh, her skin nigh as pale as the linens even as the tears streamed over her cheeks. “Quinn,” she whispered weakly. “I told Guillaume we should name a boy Quinn.”

  “‘Tis a fine name, ma petite.” Lady Crevy wiped the tears from her own eyes, then kissed her daughter-in-law’s brow. “You have done most well,” she whispered, then barked orders for cleaning the bed, the babe and Brigid.

  “Ma petite must have a hearty beef broth - she has lost too much strength,” she clucked, snapping her fingers impatiently all the while. “Bring her eggs. And veal! ‘Tis good for the blood, non? Tell Beauregard that his chick has need of especial care.”

  ‘Twas well known at Crevy that the large gruff chef Beauregard had a soft spot for Brigid and the comment prompted more than one welcome smile. Alys had no doubt that the finest calf in the meadow would be slaughtered this very day for that veal.

  Lady Crevy kissed Brigid’s brow. “We shall see you hale in no time at all, ma petite.” She straightened and flicked her hands at the maids. “Hasten yourselves! Clean this chamber. The babe must be washed, the mother cleaned. My son will arrive shortly to visit his son, of that you may have no doubt, and all must be made ready!”

  But Guillaume was already there. He hovered in the doorway, his features haggard, his eyes filled with concern. Alys felt her tears rise as Brigid’s eyes lit at the sight of him.