Defiant Love

by Maura Seger

  Edythe nodded. She trusted the old woman and her younger colleagues who stood by to assist. The birth of her own first child had been an ordeal she did not care to remember, which she might well have not survived without the midwife's care.

  Toward dawn the decision was made that Brenna required assistance. Her body simply could not open enough to free the child. Her agony was constant now, contorting her features and draining her strength. Soaked in perspiration, lips bleeding from the sharpness of her own teeth, Brenna sobbed helplessly.

  "Just a little while longer," Edythe soothed. With mortar and pestle, she ground a paste of henbane leaves which the midwife used to numb the area she would cut. When the knife was purified, two of the other women took Brenna's shoulders to hold her still. Such precaution was not necessary. She was too far engulfed in pain to even notice that the cut was made and her blood flowed onto the linens.

  As soon as it was staunched, she was urged to her feet. "Come now, love," the midwife coaxed. "It will all be over soon. Walk, my lady. Just a little further. That's it."

  Brenna whimpered as another massive contraction struck her. She was barely aware of Edythe urging her to kneel above the birthing pit lined in kidskin and surrounded by markings meant to protect the newborn. Held upright, Brenna strained with all her might to expel her child. Her body felt as though it was being torn in two. Never had she imagined such suffering possible. A scream broke from her as she convulsed in agony.

  "That's it," Edythe urged. "Don't hold back. Push, Brenna! Push!"

  Blind to anything but the overwhelming need to obey, Brenna summoned the last of her strength. Tears mingled with sweat to sting her eyes. Her throat felt raw. Every muscle in her throbbed in torment. This was death, she thought dully, and hell, all rolled into one.

  The midwife sank to her haunches beside Brenna, ready to catch the baby. "I can see the head!"

  "Push!" Edythe demanded. Her fingers dug into Brenna's shoulders as she shared in full her sister's suffering. "Again. Push!"

  "No more..." Brenna sobbed. "Please, no more... Let me rest..." Another scream broke as the head began to emerge. "Help me! Guyon, help me! Guyon..."

  Blackness overwhelmed her. With a little whimper of welcome, Brenna slid unresistantly into the sweet release of unconsciousness.

  The fragrance of fresh-gathered flowers woke her. Turning her head cautiously, Brenna stared at the bowl of blossoms set on the table near her bed. Edythe must have put them there, knowing they were her favorites. She smiled faintly as feeling, and memory, began flowing back into her body.

  The baby! Where was it? What was it? Sitting up, she attempted to call out, only to be surprised by the weakness of her voice. Still, she was heard. The midwife bustled in, pleased to see her awake and alert.

  "Don't try to move around too much, my lady," she cautioned, fluffing up the bolster. "You're bound to be feeling sore."

  Sore did not quite express it. The entire lower half of her body throbbed to a dull ache, while the rest felt merely exhausted. But thought of the child blocked out all else. Impatient at being fussed over, Brenna demanded, "My baby? Where is he? Is he all right?"

  The midwife grinned. "Sure it's a boy, are you? Well, I'll not keep you in suspense. You have a fine son, my lady. Came a bit overdue, but strong and healthy all the same. And squawling for his mother. Soon as you're set, the Lady Edythe will bring him in."

  Brenna slumped back in the bed, smiling broadly. A son! God be praised. Already her arms ached to hold him. The agony she had passed through only hours before was all but forgotten as she gazed eagerly toward the door.

  Edythe's smile was every bit as wide when she entered with a small, swaddled bundle in her arms. Placing the baby at Brenna's breast, she said, "He's a beautiful child with all the proper accompaniment of fingers and toes. Not to mention iron lungs! Never have I heard a lustier cry."

  Eyes widening in awe, Brenna gazed down at the tiny morsel of humanity that was her son. Feathers of golden hair lay against his well-shaped head. Lashes as thick as his father's cast shadows across down-soft cheeks. His features were unmistakably Guyon's from the broad forehead and straight nose to the chiseled lips and square jaw. But his chin was Brenna's, she saw with delight, wondering if he had also inherited her stubbornness. She watched enthralled as the baby awoke. His eyes were the same blue as all infants', but already she could see tawny streaks that showed what they would become. Lost to the wonder of it all, she was abruptly recalled to reality by her son's frustrated cry.

  "He's hungry," Edythe said, patiently pointing out what should have been obvious. She stood by to offer any instruction that might be needed as Brenna shyly opened her sleeping gown. After rooting around blindly for a moment, the baby latched onto her nipple with unerring accuracy. His fierce grip made her yelp, but she settled down quickly as her first milk began to flow.

  Reassured that the child's feeding was well in hand, Edythe perched on the edge of the bed. Her fond expression hid not a little relief that Brenna had come through the ordeal safely. "Have you thought of a name?"

  Brenna hesitated. It was a father's province to name his son. In Guyon's absence, she could only do her best. "I thought he would be called Alain."

  Edythe was pleased at the choice. The old Celtic name meant "harmony." At a time of such uncertainty and danger, nothing greater could be hoped for a child. Watching the mother and infant so peacefully occupied, Edythe wished she could shelter them both from the onrush of events. But that was not possible. Brenna, no more than herself, would appreciate being kept in the dark.

  "There is more news," she said reluctantly.

  Fascinated though she was by her son, Brenna's attention turned instantly to her sister. Something in Edythe's tone hinted that the news was not good. "What has happened?" she asked softly.

  Edythe looked down at her hands held firmly in her lap. "Duke William has sailed. He left Normandy the middle of last month with a vast fleet, many men, and even horses. A sudden storm caught him near mid-Channel and he was driven back. Since then, he has remained at the port of St. Valery, repairing the damage and making plans for another attempt. Some of Harold's agents saw him there and were able to report his condition."

  "A storm," Brenna repeated faintly, unconsciously tightening her hold on the baby. "Then there must have been deaths."

  Edythe nodded. "No one knows how many, but it is said many bodies were washed up on the coast and hastily buried. But you must not think Guyon was among them. We can't even be sure he sailed with the Duke."

  Brenna wanted desperately to believe her sister. But she knew there was little chance Guyon would have remained in Normandy. He was simply too trusted and valued to be left out of any such expedition. Knowing that, she still clung to the conviction that he was unharmed. "He must be all right," she murmured, "or I would surely know."

  Edythe understood the sense of being so closely tied to another person that his death would resonate through her soul. She was willing to believe that Guyon was well, even as she privately wondered how long that condition would endure. Running a gentle finger along Alain's cheek, she said, "There is more. Hardrada is dead, at Harold's hand."

  "He came ashore near York," Edythe explained, "and met the townspeople in battle at a place called Fulford. Tostig was with him. They killed many and won a great victory. Word of it reached Harold in London a few days later. He immediately gathered what men he could and marched north." The wide sapphire eyes unfocused, looking far beyond Brenna. "I have waited for him so many times, after so many battles. Always he returned unharmed, or at worst only slightly wounded. I tell myself it is the same this time, since the message says he is well. Yet somehow I feel... I don't know what exactly... a sense of something ominous... some fate that cannot be evaded."

  "It is Hardrada's fate you feel," Brenna insisted, pulling herself higher in the bed to face her sister. "He is dead on English soil, possessing no more of the land he sought to seize than what was needed for his grave. H
is death will be a warning to all who dare even to think of invading." Taking her sister's hand, she squeezed it lovingly. "Don't you see? This fight with Hardrada could be God-sent. He was certainly as strong an opponent as William, yet he fell quickly. The Duke will have to recognize England's ability to defend itself. He will give up his dreams of conquest and Harold will be able to rule in peace."

  "Pray God you are right," Edythe sighed. "Surely something good must come from this. I know Harold admired the Norwegian King, but he would not hesitate to kill him in fair combat. Tostig, however, was another matter."

  Brenna's throat tightened at the implication of this. "He died, too?"

  Edythe's lovely features darkened as she nodded. Harold's traitorous brother had at last gone too far. "His life was forfeit. My lord killed him himself in single combat."

  A shiver of superstitious dread ran through Brenna as she thought of what it meant to kill one's own brother. Political expediency notwithstanding, Harold would be tarred with the same brush as Cain. Yet what else could he do? Tostig had already violated the peace of the land far too many times. As a rabid dog must be put down, he had to die.

  Easing the still suckling infant to her other breast, Brenna sought for some way to comfort her sister. "With William's fleet damaged and Hardrada defeated, Harold's power will be greater than ever. He will be able to spend more time here with you and the children."

  Edythe brightened slightly, although the shadows remained in her eyes. Smiling at Alain, she said, "I would like to have another babe. It has been three years since little Gunluld's birth. For a while, I thought I could not conceive again. But now... I feel if only he comes back, together we will be able to do anything!"

  Silently admiring her sister's strength and courage, Brenna turned the talk to children. By pretending greater ignorance of their care than she really possessed, she managed to keep Edythe well-distracted through the remainder of the day. Only once did the conversation falter, when a sudden gust of wind struck the bower. Unusual for that time of year, the wind came from the south, crossing the Channel to strike with rare strength against the coast of England. Brenna's smile faltered as she considered what might come on that wind.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alain was asleep again, oblivious to his mother's loving gaze. He was a good baby. Barely a week since his birth, he already had a solemn-eyed curiosity about the world that never failed to make Brenna smile. She spent hours playing with him, holding up interesting shapes and colors for his inspection and talking to him quite matter-of-factly about the strange place where he now found himself.

  Edythe teased her about it. "He can't understand anything you say," she insisted laughingly.

  "Of course he can," Brenna protested. A fat baby fist waved in her face made her beam with delight. "Look, he's smiling."

  "He has gas," Edythe debunked, although she couldn't resist a closer look at her nephew. He was an unusually alert child. Already he could differentiate his mother from any other woman who held and cared for him. He never cried except for those times when he needed to be changed or fed, when he let the whole world know his requirements in no uncertain terms. Despite his voracious appetite, he slept through most of the night without disturbing Brenna, who was recovering swiftly from his birth.

  Without taking her eyes from him, his adoring mother said, "Admit it, Edythe, this is a paragon among babies. A tiny morsel of perfection somehow fallen into our midst." She was only exaggerating slightly. Born of exquisite ecstasy and equally profound sorrow, Alain would always be a miracle to her. She still could not quite believe that he had grown inside her body. Already it was only too easy to imagine him as a man as fierce and proud as his father. If only Guyon could see him...

  Sadness darkened Brenna's eyes. It hurt her deeply that she could not even send word of the child to Normandy. Of course, even if she should somehow get permission for such a message, she had no clear idea of where Guyon might be. With Duke William still believed to be in St. Valery repairing his fleet, Guyon might well be there. Or he could have returned to his own lands to oversee the harvest. She could not bear to think of him at Falaise with the Lady Elene. That evoked images far too painful to contemplate.

  Guessing the reason for her sudden silence, Edythe said gently, "Once all this talk of invasion has died down, perhaps Harold will send emissaries to Normandy. One of them could carry word to Guyon. It might even be possible for him to come here."

  Brenna appreciated her sister's reassurance, but she doubted there would be good relations between England and Normandy for some time yet. Certainly, Harold would not be eager to allow any of the Duke's barons into his kingdom, for any reason. Her best chance would be to try to return to Normandy herself, but that posed problems she could not yet begin to solve.

  "You should try to rest more," Edythe went on. "I know you feel very well now, but there's no reason to rush your recovery."

  Brenna grimaced, impatient with the lingering weakness of her body. She no longer hurt, but even the slightest effort tired her. Yet she knew she was doing far better than many new mothers. Properly grateful for her sister's skill and devotion which made Alain's birth so much easier than it might have been, she said, "I don't know what I would have done without you, Edythe. You are the best sister anyone could have. If there is ever anything I can do for you..."

  Flushing, Edythe waved such praise aside. "Don't be silly. Just having you here is more than I could ask for." Hesitating, she added, "I know you miss Guyon dreadfully, and I sympathize with your unhappiness, but I am still selfish enough to be glad of your company. Otherwise, these last months would have been so bleak."

  Brenna nodded understandingly. Despite the continued proof of Harold's love, his marriage had struck Edythe hard. Many tears and sleepless nights put shadows beneath her eyes. Though still undeniably beautiful, she no longer possessed the radiance of a secure, content woman. Instead there was a new vulnerability about her that in some ways made her loveliness all the more poignant. In the face of her sister's travail, Brenna's love for her could only deepen. She could not ease her pain, but she could at least share it.

  "My company," she insisted, "is small recompense for all you have done. I say again, if there is ever anything I can do for you, you have only to say."

  The opportunity to fulfill that pledge came sooner than Brenna would have thought. Some two days later, as she was bathing Alain in a specially warmed and draft-free room, a great clamor in the bailey caught her attention. As the noise mounted, Brenna reluctantly turned the child over to a serving woman and went to investigate.

  The open area in front of the main hall was filled with people. They were talking urgently among themselves, some calling out the news to those just arriving.

  "There has been another battle!"

  "A big one!"

  "In the south, they say. Near Hastings."

  "Couldn't be. The King could never have gotten there so fast."

  "He was in London just days ago, to rest his men after Stamford Bridge. No way he could have put them in the field again so quickly."

  A burly blacksmith, towering above the rest, nodded sagely. "More foolish gossip. Pay it no mind. Who knows who really sent those messengers."

  "They look real enough," a breweress insisted. She regarded the two exhausted men at the center of the crowd compassionately. "Ridden hard, they have. Look like they've been in a battle themselves."

  "Don't be so quick to say the King couldn't reach the south this fast," advised a young priest, flushed with excitement. "If any man in the world could rally his force coming out of a major battle and take them the length of the country in just a few days, it's Lord Harold. He's as great a leader as we'll ever have. God keep him safe."

  "Amen!" the crowd muttered, although some with less optimism than others. All eyes were on the Lady Edythe, who had drawn the messengers same little distance off and was speaking with them quietly.

  Brenna watched, stomach slowly tightening, as he
r sister's face went as white as the veil covering her glorious copper hair. Without pausing to think, she forced her way through the crowd to Edythe's side. "What is it?"

  Swaying slightly, Edythe was not at first able to respond. The slender hand that went to her throat trembled helplessly. Only years of rigorous courage and discipline enabled her to regain control. "There has been a battle," she said slowly. "In the south. These men left before it began, so they have no word of the outcome. But they say William's second attempt to cross the Channel met with great success. He landed with many men and horses. A vast army against my lord's men... who came by forced march from London."

  Brenna struggled to digest all this. She was puzzled by why Harold would send messengers before a battle, rather than wait until immediately afterward.

  Not until she spied the boy standing next to Edythe did she understand the King's reasoning. He had sent his son back to Winchester, to his mother and the safest place he knew.

  Harold's actions spoke more clearly than any words of his concern. This was a far different matter than his rout of Hardrada at Stamford Bridge. The difficulties of the Channel crossing would not have tired William's men anywhere near as much as the forced march from London must have exhausted the already battle-weary fyrd. The English troops had a decided disadvantage in any conflict against William, one not all their training or even the fact that they fought on their own land might be able to overcome.

  Apprehensively, Brenna glanced at the messengers who were so bone-tired they could hardly stand upright. Thinking that the sooner they were removed from the crowd's view the better, she said, "I will arrange food and sleeping quarters for these men, if they will come with me...."