by Lisa Hendrix
She awoke much later, fuzzy-headed but otherwise fine, and all she could think was that her foolish crying had made her ill—yet another reason she needed to figure out what had suddenly made her so prone to tears and make it go away.
ALAIDA LOST HER stomach a few more times over the next fortnight, always for different reasons. Mostly it was smells that set her off—the scent of fish cooking, a measure of wine gone musty, a too-strong whiff of the pigsty when the wind changed. But once she got dizzy looking out the window, and a time or two she simply woke up feeling queasy. Fortunately, she managed to find some privacy each time, so her illness, whatever it was, remained her business and not the entire hall’s … until one Sunday at Ivo’s evening Mass.
She was kneeling for prayer when the incense began to overpower her. She held out ’til the “Amen,” but suddenly the odor went foul, and before she could do more than push to her feet, she vomited onto the stone floor, barely missing Father Theobald’s toes and sending everyone scattering back against the walls.
All she could do was stand there after, covering her face and repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hush,” said Ivo. He scooped her up and started back for the house as Bôte fretted along behind. “Illness is nothing to be sorry for.”
Mortified, Alaida clung to him, her face buried against his chest. “But in church …”
“Hush. The chapel can be cleaned. I will get you to bed, and Bôte will take care of you. Everything will be fine.”
He took the stairs as though she weighed no more than a scrap, then lingered long enough to press a kiss to her forehead and see her tucked in.
The odd thing was, she felt fine by the time he left, just as she had felt fine soon after the other incidents. However, Bôte was already heating water and fussing with her herbs and ordering everyone else away, so Alaida let her fuss, and soon she had a stack of pillows to prop her up and a cup of some posset or other in her hand.
Alaida sniffed at the liquid. “Mint and chamomile?”
“Aye, and other things to ease a sick stomach. Drink slowly. Tiny sips.” Bôte sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back Alaida’s hair. “I’ve seldom brewed that for you, lamb. You never were one to lose your supper.”
“Fortunately, I had no supper to lose tonight.”
“For which Father Theobald should be grateful. I’d no idea the man could dance.”
Bôte’s wicked chuckle drew Alaida along. She recalled Father Theobald in that first instant, aghast and disgusted, and despite her part in it, the chuckle quickly grew into a giggle, then to a full-bellied laugh that ran on too long.
“’Tis not that funny, my lady,” scolded Bôte.
“I know,” gasped Alaida, and she tried to stop, but the laugh had taken on a life of its own. It possessed her, feeding on her efforts to quit, which tickled her more, until her sides ached and tears ran down her cheeks and Bôte took away the cup for fear she’d spill it, and still it went on. Then suddenly, when Alaida could bear it no longer, the tears became real tears, stupid tears for no reason at all, and she was sobbing.
“Ah, lamb.” Bôte gathered Alaida into the comfort of her familiar arms. “Hush. Shh.”
“It was so hu-humiliating.” Her voice caught on the word and broke through as a half-sob. “W-what is w-wrong with me? V-vomiting. Crying. I n-never cry, you know that.”
“Aye. Aye.”
“Yet now I c-cry all the time. I feel like I’m going mad. Or d-dying.”
“Nonsense.” Bôte laughed gently. “You are no more mad than I. Tears and laughter and even your sick stomach are signs of life, lamb, not death.”
Alaida wiped away tears with the edge of the sheet. “What are you t-talking about?”
Bôte took Alaida by the shoulders and held her out at arm’s length. “Think, lamb. When were your last courses?”
“I don’t know. About …” She thought back, and the tears dried instantly as what Bôte was saying hit her. “No. I cannot be. I had a flow after we wed. About the time Sir Brand was hurt.”
“Only a tiny one that would hardly signify, and more than a month has passed since that.”
“But we never …” Alaida stopped herself. She still had yet to tell Bôte that her husband never touched her, keeping the secret as the only thing she and Ivo truly shared. “I mean, I have never been moon-steady. I skip months now and again, or it comes late.”
“Aye, but as you say, you’ve been getting sick.”
“Not in the mornings, though. Not always.”
“Some have trouble at other times. But it makes no mind. I’ve known for a while now.”
“How?” Alaida challenged.
“Have you not looked at your own teats?”
Alaida crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously. “You told me a woman’s breasts bloom after she’s wed.”
“Aye, but not that much, nor with such veins. Even Hadwisa noted it, though thick as she is, she has no idea what it means. They’ll be hard and sore for a time as well.”
Like rocks with bruises, and they had been for weeks, but Alaida shook her head. “I’m not breeding. I cannot be.” Not from one night.
“With a husband like Lord Ivo, you could hardly not be.”
A husband like Lord Ivo, Alaida thought. And what was that? One who left her every day and avoided her every night? Surely this was why he kept himself from her—because he didn’t want her to bear children. How would he respond if she came up breeding from just that one night?
“Do you not see, lamb?” continued Bôte, apparently crediting the look on Alaida’s face to her sick stomach. “The teats, the sickness, the missed flow. It all leads to the same place.”
Alaida shook her head, not wanting to admit the possibility. “The crying and laughing do not.”
“But they do, my lady. The babe takes over your heart with its spirit. Many a woman spills tears like the child she carries, and some cannot stop laughing once they begin. Be glad you are one of those—it means the babe will be merry.”
Alaida hugged herself more tightly. “There is no babe.”
“But there is, my lady. Ah, lamb, I know you are frightened of birthing, but that will fade as the time nears.” Bôte stood up and began tidying up her herbs. “I will fetch Lord Ivo so you can tell him. He will be greatly pleased.”
Panic shot through Alaida. “No!”
“My lady …”
“Not yet. None of this is certain. All these … ailments can have other cause.”
“Aye, apart. Together they mean but one thing.” Bôte reached over and curved her hand low over Alaida’s belly. “You will see soon enough.”
“Until I do, my lord need not hear. No one need hear.”
“But, lamb …”
“No one,” repeated Alaida. “I mean this, Bôte. Swear to me you will tell no one ’til I’m certain.”
Bôte’s lips went as tight as an oyster, but she nodded. “I swear it. And I will see that Hadwisa keeps her tongue as well, if she works it out.”
“Good,” said Alaida, and then she saw the disappointment in her nurse’s eyes and softened a little. “Just ’til I’m certain, and then you may cry the news from the wall if you wish. After I tell Lord Ivo.”
Bôte sighed, mollified.
“Now, hand back that posset and go have your supper,” said Alaida. “I would be alone a little.”
“Yes, my lady. I will bring you something when I return. You should not go hungry now, sick stomach or not.” Bôte put away the last of her herbs, handed Alaida her cup, and started for the door. “And if Lord Ivo asks to see you?”
He would not; Alaida knew. Even if her illness had not given him an excuse, he had already made it clear he intended to abide by the Church’s ban on relations during the forty Holy days before Easter—an odd shift for a man who had argued that there was no sin in what passed between man and wife.
“Tell him I fell asleep, and will see him tomorrow if I am well.”
Alaida waited long enough to be sure Bôte was settled at table, then set aside the posset and tugged off her chainse. She cupped her breasts in her hands, gently because they ached, and studied them. They were half-again bigger than they had been, taut as gooseberries, and so covered with blue tracery they looked like vines had grown over them. But did that mean she was breeding?
As she counted back the days once more, her hands slipped down to her belly. It felt no different, but she wasn’t sure whether it would after only two months. If only that flow didn’t confuse things, she might be certain, but as it was, there was really only thing to do: wait to see if her belly swelled and the babe quickened. The third or fourth month, she thought it happened. She counted forward this time. Easter, perhaps, or a little past.
At Easter she would know.
And she would have her husband back then, too, by the saints, and a father for this child if there was one. If Ivo would not lie with her of his own accord, she would find some way to make him. He had overcome her reluctance on their wedding night—her body still flushed with the memory of how thoroughly—and she could surely overcome his.
Seduce her own husband. She wondered why she hadn’t made the decision before.
She wasn’t sure how, but she had a bit over a month to figure it out. Until Easter.
CHAPTER 18
THE CHURCH’S BAN against swiving extended through the week after Easter, but it did eventually end, and as every man with a wife headed off to make up for lost time, Ivo was forced back into Alaida’s bed. She snuggled up to him with an expressive “Aaaah.”
“You sound content, sweet leaf,” he commented as he wrapped his arms around her.
“I am. Egg custard for dinner, and cheese tart for supper.” She sighed again and rested her hand on his chest. “It was a very long forty days this year. It seemed we would never see eggs and cheese again, and now they are back, I cannot have enough of them.”
“’Twas the pork for me.” Ivo had tired of pease and beans and nuts in all their forms within the first week. He wasn’t sure how these Christians did it every year. “Give me meat any day.”
She rose up on one elbow and studied him carefully. Her fingers drifted lazily across his bare skin. “Was meat all you missed, my lord?”
His entire being narrowed to the path she traced.
“What do you mean?” he asked carefully. His gaze wandered to the curve of her breasts, rising so temptingly within reach. He’d forgotten how full they were. How ripe for his mouth.
“There is so much forbidden during the season.” She shifted, and when the covers slipped, he nearly groaned. “Surely there are other pleasures you wish to enjoy, now it is ended.”
She wasn’t trying to seduce him, he told himself. She probably didn’t even realize what she was doing to him. She was, after all, innocent, save that one night.
“I have not thought on it,” he lied.
She leaned over him, just enough that her breasts grazed his ribs. The contact made him close his eyes as he sought the will to keep his hands to himself. Frey’s pillock. It was difficult enough to withstand this torture at the best of times. If she suddenly mastered the art of seduction, he wasn’t certain, even after these several months, that he could keep himself from her.
“You should, husband,” she murmured, and when he opened his eyes, she was right there, her gaze mysterious and shrewd as it met his, not innocent at all. “You should think on it in great detail.”
Then she rolled away from him to go to sleep, leaving him alone on his side of the bed to do exactly that.
In great detail.
ALAIDA’S EFFORTS TO seduce her husband were a failure.
After that first night, Ivo went back to his old ways, dragging Brand along each night he bothered to come up, and lingering over chess until Alaida all but collapsed in exhaustion. On the single occasion he came to bed while she was still awake, naught she did had any effect.
“All I have to do is lie down and he’s on me,” one of the village women said when Alaida turned conversation toward men. “Just let him catch a peek of my teats and he’s ready in a trice,” said another. A third had mentioned that, “Bawdy talk stiffens my Deagmund’s pole faster than anything.”
Phfft. She had been practically lying on him last night, dangling her breasts in his face, speaking so suggestively she barely kept from blushing. He’d been so hard that it might have been a tent pole in bed with them—and still he’d pushed her away. Surely no priest was more dedicated to keeping himself from women than her husband was to keeping himself from her. She clearly needed more than bosoms and bold speech.
So after dinner one day, she distracted Bôte with some mending, borrowed Tom from Oswald, and set out with him and Hadwisa for a walk that led, after some meandering, to Merewyn’s.
They found the healer in her clearing, speaking to the rowan bush growing near her door. Without turning, she held up a finger to still them. It took Alaida a moment to spot the missel-dick sitting in the branches, its brown head cocked.
“She talks to a bird!” exclaimed Hadwisa.
“Hush,” said Alaida, but it was too late. The bird rattled its irritation and flitted off. Merewyn turned, smiling.
“I fear we frightened it,” said Alaida.
“He will come back. Welcome, my lady. You want to come in, I think.”
Alaida nodded and turned to Tom and Hadwisa. “Find something useful to do and stay well away from the cottage so I may speak in private.“
Merewyn led her inside and offered her a seat at the table, where a jar of ale sat next to a board of bread and cheese, already cut.
Alaida smiled. “You always seem to know I am coming.”
“I hear you on the path, my lady.”
“Am I so noisy?”
“You speak with your servants, and I am always pleased to hear your voice. I was coming to meet you when the storm-cock called.”
“And what did he have to tell you today?”
Merewyn’s smile spoke of a secret held close. “Something I already knew. The true question is, what do you have to tell me, my lady? Or rather, to ask me?”
“I …” Now the moment was here, Alaida found herself hesitant. “I came to thank you for caring for Sir Brand.”
“I have been thanked already, my lady, so well I grow embarrassed by it.”
“Still, I wish to add my own.”
“And they are welcome, but you are not truly here about Sir Brand.”
“No.” Alaida studied the crumbs on the breadboard until Merewyn said, “My lady?”
“I do not know where to begin.”
“Then let us begin with the babe.”
Alaida started. Surely it couldn’t be seen yet. “How … ?”
Merewyn only laughed. “Your face glows with it, my lady. I have had signs for some weeks now and only waited to see which woman had been blessed. When I heard you on the path, I knew. What I do not know is why you come to me when you have Bôte.”
“To be certain, and to …” A babe! Hearing it from Merewyn made the news fresh. The tears ambushed her again and she choked them back and took a moment to compose herself. “To find out what to do about that, for one thing. The tears.”
“Cry them, my lady. That is all I know.”
“I would be crying all day some days, even when I am happy. Unless I start laughing, which is nearly as bad.”
“Both will ease as your body grows accustomed to the child, as will the sickness.”
The child! Alaida nodded, still fighting the lump in her throat. “That, at least, has begun to fade.”
“Good. Having it means the babe is strong, but ’tis a relief when it goes. And now the other thing,” prodded Merewyn, and when Alaida looked confused, she said, “You said, ‘For one thing, the tears.’ What is the other thing?”
The other thing. Embarrassment pushed Alaida to her feet and set her circling the tiny room, touching clay pots and dry herbs, looking for anything
to distract her from what she needed to ask.
“My lady, whatever it is, you will not find the answer on my shelves.”
“In truth, I might, though I would not know it.” With a sigh, Alaida returned to the table. “I … I do not know how to ask this. I need a … something to make my husband love me. Or at least to lie with me.”
Merewyn glanced to her belly. “Surely you have accomplished that, my lady.”
“Only once,” said Alaida, and the entire story poured out, from her husband’s strange absences to his stranger disinclination to bed her again. It was a relief to tell someone at last, to have Merewyn nod and ask questions and listen with sympathy.
“I do not wish to distress you, my lady, but does he perhaps take his pleasure elsewhere?”
“I once thought so, but now …All I am certain of is that he does not take it with me. ” Alaida rose and paced the room again. “As the nights grow shorter, he spends less and less time at home. Summer is nearly on us, and the sun will barely set before it rises again. If I do not capture his affections soon, I will have no chance at all until I am so far gone with child I can do nothing. And by the time I am able afterwards, I fear it will be too late.”
“By the Church’s law, my lady, it already is. The priests teach abstinence while with child.”
“And on feast days and fast days and Sundays and Wednesdays and Fridays and Quadrigessima and Advent and and and. Even last week was forbidden, though we just had forty days without. If I bow completely to the Church’s teachings, I will never lie with my husband again. It cannot all be sin.”
“None of it is sin in my mind, my lady,” said Merewyn, calling up bitter memory of Ivo’s words. “I only warn you of what Father Theobald will say when you confess.”
“Then I will do penance, but at least I will have a husband,” snapped Alaida, and immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry, Merewyn. This has become a sore subject. Can you help me?”
“Perhaps.” Merewyn traced some unknown figure on the table with her fingertip as she considered. “How do you feel about Lord Ivo, my lady? Do you care for him?”
“He is my husband.”