by Jo Beverley
The queen spoke up testily. “Stop talking about me as if I were a child. I will tell you when I am in labor. Who better to know?”
Madeleine and Adele both knew the queen would lie if it suited her. She was desperate to make it to York, a mere twenty miles away.
Aimery came to speak to the queen, then drew Madeleine apart. “Can she travel? I will refuse to go on if you think it best. The weather’s none too promising anyway.”
Madeleine looked out to see dull, low clouds. “You’d have to tie her up.”
He beat his fist softly against a post in his concern. “She’s not in labor yet?”
“Adele’s sure.”
“When labor starts, how long should it take?”
“Many hours. But we can’t tell, when a woman’s had so many children. It can be fast. But fast is usually good.”
“The people here say this weather shouldn’t amount to much, but I’m not sure they’re telling the truth. They owe no allegiance to William, or Gospatric for that matter. Their loyalty is all to Waltheof. I find myself wishing we had him with us, but then I’m not sure whose side he’s on either . . .” He shook his head. “York is looming in my mind as the promised land for more reason than one. Let’s go.”
Matilda surprised everyone by walking lightly to her barge. Her eyes were bright, and she was smiling. “See,” she said to Lucia. “I said I would make it to York. A good omen. A good omen.”
Lucia pulled a face as she followed the queen, but she winked at Madeleine and said, “Never underestimate the strength of female determination.”
The air was chill with misty droplets which grayed cloaks and armor. As the day progressed, the mist thickened until they could hardly see the riverbanks. The fog muffled sound. It became hard to believe that there were people elsewhere in the world, or colors other than gray.
Despite the fact that they were on the river and could not be lost, Madeleine found herself murmuring prayers that they would arrive somewhere, anywhere . . .
She wondered how far the mist spread and what was happening to Odo and Allan. Their mere existence was an act of faith, for it was difficult to imagine there was more to the party than the barge in front and the barge behind. Madeleine shivered when she remembered this was a land of myth and magic. This was the homeland of Waltheof, who didn’t laugh at the notion that his grandmother was a faery-bear.
The queen’s cry seemed, in retrospect, inevitable. Madeleine squirmed through the ladies to the queen’s side and heard curses. She realized then that what she’d heard was not a cry of pain but of rage.
“What is it?” she asked.
Adele looked up. “Her waters broke.”
Matilda lay back, muttering. “A few more hours. That’s all. Just a few more hours.”
“You don’t have a few more hours, and you know it,” snapped Adele. “You’ve been lying to me all day.”
Matilda smiled. “Has there been anywhere suitable to stop?” Then she caught her breath and clutched at Adele’s hand.
Madeleine could see the ripple of the tightening womb. Labor was well-advanced. “We’ll have to stop.”
She worked her way forward to where Aimery stood by Fulk, both scanning the mist for hazards, and gave him the news. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. He consulted with one of the boatmen.
Aimery turned back to Madeleine. “As best we can tell in this, we’re close to a hamlet called Selby. We should be able to find shelter there. Can we make it?”
Madeleine shrugged. “If not, the babe will be born on the boat.” She smiled at him wryly. “Believe me, in matters such as this women know well the meaning of wyrd.”
She went back and had the ladies search through the baggage for the pads and cloths prepared for the birth. The labor had speeded with the breaking of the waters, and no force on earth would stop the babe from being born within hours.
As always with birth, it was now a matter between Matilda and God.
The boats pulled to the western shore. The abrupt sight of buildings was a shocking relief, and a reaffirmation that civilization still existed. Then, as they tied up at a small wharf, the relief evaporated. The place was deserted, the buildings battered and burned.
They disembarked. The men stood guard with bared swords, but the menace had come and gone from this place.
“Who?” asked Madeleine of Aimery.
“It’s recent, but it could be the rebels or the king. Whoever it was has not left much intact to serve as shelter.”
Then a voice came out of the mist, followed by a dark shape.
Aimery strode forward. “Who are you?”
Madeleine could see now that it was a man—a strange man with flowing hair and a beard, and coarse clothing. Was this the style of the people of Northumbria?
He was unafraid. “I am Benedict of Auxerre, a humble hermit,” he said in courtly French. “How can I help you?”
Aimery said, “Where are the people of Selby?”
“Fled like sheep before wolves.”
“And you?”
“I am a holy hermit, and thus safe from wolves.”
Aimery hesitated, then said, “We have a woman in childbirth and need shelter.”
The hermit smiled. “What a pity it is not Christmastide. Come. My hut is a simple place, but secure from the weather, and I have a fire burning.”
“How far?” asked Aimery.
“Just beyond the houses, at the edge of the village.”
Fulk directed his men for the security of the hamlet, and Aimery came to carry Matilda to shelter. He waited a moment for a contraction to pass, then gathered her up.
“I’m a fine mess,” said Matilda ruefully, then caught her breath and clutched at him.
Aimery looked at Madeleine in alarm. “If you wait till the tightenings are over,” she said, “you’ll wait till the babe’s born. Go!”
He went, with Adele hurrying alongside. Madeleine ran off to collect the birth requirements, and directed the women to find clean clothes for the queen for after the birth. She looked around. It was difficult to tell in this gray mist, but the afternoon must be well-advanced. The mist had slowed them. She wondered how close they were to York. Even if the queen could travel after the birth, would they be able to reach the city before dark? Her skin crawled at the thought of spending the night in this skeletal village.
Once in the hermit’s hut, however, she felt better. It was a small, simple stone building with a beaten earth floor, but there was a fire in the central hearth, and it was cozy. People were already scurrying in and out with supplies. The queen was sitting on the hermit’s simple straw mattress, which was now covered with fine linen sheets. She was sipping wine from a silver goblet between the squeezings of her womb. A man was setting up a branch of candles to provide light. Neither Aimery nor the hermit was to be seen.
Soon the place was as suitable as possible, and everyone was sent off to fend for themselves—other than Adele, Madeleine, Lucia, and Matilda’s favorite lady, Bertha. The room was crowded.
At Matilda’s request, Bertha and Lucia took turns reading from a history of Charlemagne. Madeleine rubbed the queen’s back, while Adele kept watch over the progress of the birth.
Matilda groaned and grunted, and occasionally cursed, but there was none of the wild screaming Madeleine had sometimes witnessed. She wondered how she herself would behave when her time came.
Matilda lurched onto her knees, resting her hands on the mattress. “Press harder, girl,” she snapped. “Harder!”
Madeleine knelt behind her and pressed on the queen’s back with all her might. “Better,” grunted Matilda.
Madeleine looked up at Adele, and the woman nodded. “That’s right. Always takes her in the back, it does.” She stroked the queen’s belly. “Not long now, lovey,” she crooned.
Madeleine pressed and pressed, thinking that in this situation, as in most of importance, it mattered not if one was queen or peasant. It was all the same.
The queen suddenly ga
ve a new and different cry, and collapsed down to lie on her side. “At last,” she gasped.
“Aye, at last,” said Adele, suddenly purposeful. She pushed back the queen’s stained and soaked skirts. “Here, Lady Madeleine, come hold up her leg.”
When she obeyed, Madeleine could already see the bulge of the baby’s head.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” said Adele. “Lovely sight. Everything’s fine, everything’s fine . . .”
Madeleine looked at the queen’s sweaty face. Matilda’s mouth was slack as she breathed fast and shallow, her eyes half-closed as if she dozed. Could she hear the reassuring murmur? Madeleine was sure she could. Then Matilda strained and grunted. The bulge between her legs grew.
There was a cry. It came not from the queen, but from outside. A battle cry. The ringing clash of arms.
Madeleine looked at Adele in alarm, but it was as if the woman didn’t hear. Bertha had paled, but she read steadily on. Lucia met Madeleine’s eyes calmly. “There is nothing to be done. Trust Aimery.”
Trust Aimery. Madeleine looked at the first sign of the baby’s hair and did just that.
Matilda gave a guttural cry. Adele rubbed the bulging skin, and slowly a scowling baby’s head appeared. “Lovely, lovely,” crooned Adele as she wiped the babe’s face with a soft cloth. “There’s a pretty angel. Just another push, lovey, then you’ll have your babe. Push well . . .”
The queen grunted and pushed. The shoulders slid out, first one, then the other, and then, in a slithering rush, the babe was born. A boy. He cried immediately.
“The atheling,” said Lucia somberly.
The sounds of battle were outside the hut now; battle cries like the howls of wolves at the door, shouts in English and French, the clang of weapon on weapon. With a whoosh an arrow flew in the high window to drop harmlessly on the floor. Madeleine heard Aimery shout a command. Her heart leaped, then twisted at the thought that he was fighting out there. Fighting whom? Hereward?
Her hands were unsteady as she helped the queen onto her back. Adele wrapped the babe and put him in his mother’s arms, then settled to wait for the afterbirth. Matilda, suddenly alert as all new mothers are, gazed at the babe for a sober moment. Then she loosened her gown, competently put him to the breast, and looked up. “Who?”
“We don’t know,” Madeleine said. “English.”
Matilda wriggled and pulled a knife from her belt, and laid it on the bed close to her hand. “Find out.”
Lucia and Bertha were both standing guard by the door. Bertha was holding a stool, but was pallid. Lucia looked ready for battle, having taken up the hermit’s sturdy pole.
Madeleine pulled out her eating-knife, wishing she had the better one, the one Aldreda still possessed. Then she opened the door a crack. It was blocked by the solid bulk of Fulk’s back. Two other guards stood beside him.
They’d built a fire outside the hut, and it lit the misty battle a sultry red. Madeleine could only see shapes, but the sounds were clearer. Swords rang against ax and shield. The occasional arrow or spear hummed through the air. There were howls of war cries and of pain.
“Mary, mother . . .” Madeleine breathed, her eyes seeking Aimery. “Who?”
“Rebels,” grunted Fulk. “How fares the queen?”
“Well, and she has borne a prince.”
Fulk nodded. “Fear not. We will keep them safe.”
Madeleine knew he would die before any intruder passed through the door, but it could come to that. How many men were involved in this attack? Where were Odo and Allan? Obliviously heading for York? Where was Aimery?
Lucia appeared at Madeleine’s shoulder. “Is Hereward out there?” she demanded.
“We don’t know whose force this is, Lady,” said Fulk.
“Get word if you can that Lucia of Mercia is here, and I’ll geld my wretched brother with his own knife if he’s responsible for this.”
Fulk laughed. “Thanks to God you’re on our side, Lady, but there’s no talking to these. They mean death.”
On the word, a spear flew. Fulk’s shield moved a second late. The spear took him in the throat, and he crumpled, choking, to the ground. Madeleine knelt quickly, but there was nothing to be done. Within seconds Fulk was dead.
She had to do something. She had to find Aimery. Before the two shocked guards moved to block the door, Madeleine darted out into the misty hell.
She slipped past the fire and crouched down behind a broken wall, looking for Aimery, looking to see who the attackers were. If it was Hereward, perhaps she could appeal to him. She had little faith in such a move, but she had to try.
Then she picked out Aimery fighting with the sword against a heavier man armed with an ax. She edged closer. His opponent was a noble, judging from the quality of his armor, and blatantly English with his flowing hair and beard. He was not Hereward.
“Keep faith with your English blood,” she heard the rebel shout as he blocked a mighty blow with his shield. “Will you let the Bastard spawn here at will?”
Aimery pushed forward. “I’m Norman, Gospatric, and I’ll kill you here unless you flee.”
The larger man laughed. “Northumbrians never flee!” He swung his great ax. Madeleine shuddered as Aimery took the blow on his shield. “You’re the one who’ll die here, de Gaillard, along with the Bastard’s bitch and whelp. You’re outnumbered with no help coming.” Gospatric stepped back and grinned. “We interfered with your messengers, Norman. Your advance guard is making full speed to York. Your rear guard is camped far back. Surrender or die.”
“Then I salute death,” said Aimery, and attacked.
Madeleine watched the fight in horror, tears running down her face. They were all going to die here, now, when she finally had absolute proof of Aimery’s honor.
Then the sounds of battle changed. At first she couldn’t interpret it. It sounded as if more men had joined the attack. But after a moment Gospatric’s attention wavered, and the shape of the whole battle shifted.
Aimery landed a blow on his enemy’s mailed shoulder which made him howl and retreat. “Who?” Gospatric shouted over the sounds of battle. “Who comes?”
The answer floated back on the mist. “Hereward of Mercia.”
In a moment the man was there, in mail this time, his eyes bright with battle. “Go, Gospatric. This field is mine.”
Madeleine crouched down, unsure whether this was rescue or a case of wolves fighting over a kill. Aimery, too, was watching.
“Are you not with us?” Gospatric asked.
Hereward, too, was armed with an ax. He swung it lazily. “I have your interests at heart, Northumbria. William has you in the dust, my friend, but he’ll pardon you if you talk sweetly enough. But not if you kill his queen.”
The fighting had stopped as the leaders talked. There were only the groans of the wounded to break the silence.
“And what if she’s borne a son?”
“That is no longer your concern. My men outnumber yours. Allan de Ferrers makes his laggardly way here, and even now help should be setting out from York, summoned by the advance. Leave while you can. The day may come when we can fight together to drive out the Normans, but not today.”
The matter hung in the balance of fate. Madeleine could sense it was as much Hereward’s force of personality as reason that was swaying Gospatric.
Then he cursed, bellowed to his men, and was gone.
Madeleine relaxed, feeling as if she was taking her first real breath in hours. Then she noticed that Aimery was still on guard.
“No thanks, Nephew?” asked Hereward lightly.
“In due course,” replied Aimery, sword at the ready.
Hereward chuckled. “I’d like to think it was my shaping, but it’s your damned father. Reinforcements really are on the way.”
“Good. Then you can doubtless leave us to take care of matters here.”
Now that Gospatric and his Northumbrian rebels were gone, Madeleine could see the large number of Hereward’s men surroun
ding the weary Normans. Dear Lord, was it all to start again? What did Hereward want?
“And how is the Duchess of Normandy?” Hereward asked.
“The queen is well.”
“Has she delivered her babe?”
“I’ve been too busy to inquire.”
“I would be interested to know.”
Madeleine rose from her hiding place. “The queen is safely delivered of a son, and Lucia says she will geld you with your own knife if you make mischief.”
Hereward laughed. “Is my sister here then? Woden help me.” He sobered. “It’s a shame it is a boy, for I will have to take him.”
Madeleine stepped forward, knife in hand. “You can’t take a newborn from his mother!”
“I have a wet nurse ready. He will not be harmed, but he will not be an atheling either.”
Aimery spoke up. “You have little faith in your own prophecy, it would appear.”
“Who knows how it is to be served?”
“It will be served by me, then,” said Aimery calmly. He pulled off his ring and tossed it into the fire, then placed himself between Hereward and the hut.
They faced each other as the ring flared on the glowing embers.
“And by me.” Lucia appeared at her son’s side, Fulk’s sword in her two hands. It was clear she could hardly lift it, but there was nothing ludicrous in her challenge.
Madeleine moved to stand at Aimery’s other side. “And by me.”
Hereward considered them. “Is it thus? Is this the future, that English, Norman, and Norman-English stand together?”
No one answered.
“So be it,” Hereward made a gesture, and Gyrth came forward to take his ax. Madeleine let out a breath, hoping for the first time for life, for a future.
The breath was knocked out of her again when Hereward pulled a knife from his belt. A knife with a carved amber knob for its pommel. “I took this from a woman who sought to twist our traditions for her own gain, and foist a Norman bastard on my line. She will trouble you no more.”
Aimery lowered his sword tip to the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. “You killed her?”
“As was my right. Care for my daughter.”
“You claim Frieda?”