by Nina Clare
“You’re to take it to the physician,” Kat told him. And then you’re to go to the midwife in the woods and ask her to call upon my lady straight away. And you’re to take a pony for her to ride on. But it’s all a secret.”
Bellchior tucked the letter into his coat and turned back to attend to the marquess’s horse.
“It’s very important,” Kat called after him. She was not sure how well Bellchior understood Anglianese, for she had rarely heard him speak it. “You have to go straight away,” she urged. But Bellchior had turned his back to her and resumed his grooming. Kat could do no more, so she picked her way through the wintry mud of the stable courtyard and returned to the kitchens.
“Where have you been?” demanded Mistress Catchpole when Kat entered the kitchen by the outer door, shivering from the cold outside.
“Madame Labelle had me take a message from my lady to Bellchior.”
“What message?”
“I...I am not allowed to say.”
Mistress Catchpole’s eyes narrowed and her chin jutted out at Kat’s reply. Kat felt dismay seep into her, for when Catchpole’s chin stuck out it meant trouble.
The sudden blow to the side of her head was half expected, but it came so fast that it knocked Kat off balance, and she staggered backwards, hit the coal scuttle, fell to the floor and sat there dazed with two lumps of coal in her lap.
“Get up you clumsy oaf,” growled Catchpole. “Look at the state of your apron!”
Kat looked in dismay at the smears of black coal dust.
“We take you from the nuns, and give you a roof over your head, you and that dim-wit sister of yours, and you sneak about pretending to be giving messages and messing up a clean apron every day!”
Catchpole picked up her large eggbeater from the kitchen table and moved towards Kat as though to give her a beating with it. Kat scurried backwards, trying to get to her feet. The outer kitchen door behind her opened, and Bellchior appeared.
The sight of him caused Mistress Catchpole to freeze, her egg whisk raised. The sight of Bellchior always disturbed her; black was the colour of demons, she had often been heard to mutter behind him. His dark eyes swept over the housekeeper and her utensil. Kat got to her feet, futilely trying to brush the coal dust from her apron while blinking back tears of shame and injustice.
“I must go on an errand for my lady,” said Bellchior slowly, not looking Catchpole in the eye, but looking to the side of her. “Master’s horse is ready. Someone must hold him for Master to mount.”
“What’s that to do with me?” snapped Catchpole. “Get one of the other stable hands. Get Ned or Tall Harry.”
“They have gone to the horse market for Master,” answered Bellchior in his slow, deep voice.
Catchpole snorted. She put the eggbeater down. “Get Red Harry,” she ordered Kat.
Kat gladly fled the kitchen.
The physician was the first of the summoned visitors to attend that day. Kat was drawing water from the well in the courtyard, and saw him arrive looking chilled and red-nosed on his chestnut bay with his wooden box strapped behind him.
Bellchior met his horse, holding the harness while Dr Scroope swung down from the saddle and unstrapped his box. He disappeared from Kat’s view, hurrying away along the pathway to the manor entrance.
By dinnertime everyone in the manor knew that the physician had called upon Lady Beck, and speculation was rife as to what the purpose of his visit could be, for the mistress rarely called upon him. She was known for having an unusually strong constitution for a woman, not like the Anglianese ladies, who relied heavily upon their tonics, boluses and powders.
Kat listened to the chatter about her as she sat at the table waiting for her dinner. She was famished after her long morning of fetching and carrying since dawn, and she was looking forward to the hot stew she had smelled cooking. She had become chilled going outside repeatedly for water and wood, and to speak to Bellchior, and the anticipation of something hot to eat was very welcome. But the moment the steaming bowl of stew was passed to her, Mistress Catchpole snatched it from under her nose and deposited a bowl of acorns before her instead.
Penny, sitting opposite her sister looked more dismayed than Kat did. The chatter and gossip died away as everyone glanced at Kat with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity as to her crime.
“Them who act like pigs that can’t stay clean, can eat like pigs,” stated the housekeeper, taking her place at the foot of the table opposite the butler. Kat put down the wooden spoon she had been about to eat with. She concentrated very hard on not showing how upset she was, she would not give Catchpole that satisfaction, and she would not give Penny more reason to be grieved on her behalf. She knew this was punishment for not telling Catchpole what the letter was about. She remembered the pilfered slices of cake she had hidden earlier, and was somewhat comforted, and gave Penny a surreptitious wink.
Mistress Wheedle came clattering into the yard on the piebald pony Bellchior had taken her. She did not wait for one of the stable hands to come, but slid off the small horse, landing heavily in a puddle of mud and cursed loudly at the mess it made of her old, brown woollen gown and patched up boots. She gave the pony a slap on the rear to send it in the direction of the stables. She walked with a lurching manner, swaying from side to side as though she’d been at the ale, her skirts raised up to keep out of the rest of the puddles. She was still muttering and cursing all things wet and muddy as she entered the back door into the kitchens where a startled Cook was at the ovens taking out the currant cake for Lady Beck’s supper.
“Why, Mistress Wheedle!” exclaimed Cook. “Whatever brings you to my kitchen?”
Mistress Wheedle lurched to the fireplace dropped heavily onto a stool and stuck her feet onto the fender in an attempt to dry them.
“Her ladyship sent for me,” she replied, hitching up her skirts to expose her sodden legs to the heat.
“What can my lady have sent to you for?” queried Cook, but already she was considering the morning visit of the physician followed by this afternoon visit of the village wise-woman and midwife. It did not take Cook many moments to consider that a physician and a midwife calling on the same day could only mean one thing.
“How should I know what she sent me for?” snapped Mistress Wheedle. “ ‘Twas a cold, bone shaker of a ride through mud, is what I do know.”
Cook pursed her lips, but said nothing. It did not do to get on the wrong side of Mistress Wheedle; many were the village tales of how she could make your cows give milk that would not churn, and your chickens lay eggs that would not hatch, and it was even said that she could make a woman’s teeth and hair fall out if she were to put an evil eye on her.
“That cake ready for eating?” said Mistress Wheedle, spying the steaming fruit loaf. Cook was about to say that it was especially made for my lady, and not for the likes of Mistress Wheedle, but thought better of it and cut a modest slice for the gnarly faced old woman.
“Spoonful a cream on top?” requested Mistress Wheedle. “Drop a small beer to wash it down? Is that a new cheese and a bite a roast fowl I see in your pantry?”
When Mistress Wheedle had eaten and drunk her fill and mostly dried her feet and skirts, she lurched her way up the servants’ stairs. Kat led the way, knocking on Lady Beck’s chamber door and waiting for Madame Labelle’s voice to call out, “Entrez!”
She held the door open for the old woman who smelt of beer and cheese and herbs and unwashed clothes, then closed the door again, wondering why Madame Labelle had insisted on secrecy when everyone in the manor knew exactly who had visited that day, excepting the marquess who had left home early that morning and was not yet returned.
Mistress Wheedle reeled into the chamber and approached the bed where Lady Beck had remained all that day.
“At last – you come at last!” exclaimed Lady Beck, Come! Sit!” She beckoned the old woman to the chair near her bedside. Madame Labelle, wrinkling her nose at the mud-spattered clothes of the
visitor, whisked the embroidered feather cushion from the proffered chair before the old woman reached it.
“You sent for me, your ladyship?” said Mistress Wheedle, seating herself with a grunt.
Lady Beck motioned to Madame Labelle who disdainfully held out a cup to the old woman.
“Worrywort leaves?” said Mistress Wheedle, stretching out a liver-spotted hand with dirty fingernails to take the proffered cup. “My lady wants to know her future?”
Lady Beck nodded, her dark eyes wide with expectation.
Mistress Wheedle narrowed her own eyes as she studied Lady Beck’s face. Her knowing eye noted the tiny changes in her countenance, in the light of the eyes, in the softening of the cheek, and the rounding of the jawline. Imperceptible changes that spoke volumes to the old woman.
She swirled the dampened herb-leaves around the cup, making a low humming noise, and swaying upon her cushion-less chair as though she were entering into some altered state of mind. Lady Beck held her breath, waiting for her to begin. Even Madame Labelle, who despised such goings, on was gripped by curiosity as to what the old woman would see.
“Hm...” muttered Mistress Wheedle, swaying from side to side. “I see a change coming to your ladyship. A change. Coming soon.”
“Lady Beck leaned forward in anticipation. Madame Labelle moved nearer to hear the old woman’s mutterings more clearly.
“I see new people coming into her ladyship’s life...”
“New people?” said Lady Beck. “What kind of people?”
The old woman swayed and hummed to string out the suspense. Folks wanted a good show for their money.
“Little people,” she said. “Especially I see...a little girl.”
“Oh!” cried Lady Beck. “Did you hear that, Ama? A little girl!”
Madame Labelle nodded. “Are you certain?” she said.
“As sure as daisies like day and toadstools like night,” said Mistress Wheedle. “By Harvest Moon there will be a girl-child in her ladyship’s home.”
Lady Beck clapped her hands together and gave an exclamation of joy. “Thank you, Mistress Wheedle, you have set my heart at ease!”
Mistress Wheedle had resumed examining the cup. She narrowed her eyes and made a low sound that disconcerted both Lady Beck and her ama.
“What is it you see now?” asked Madame Labelle.
Mistress Wheedle shook her cloth bound head. “Oh, your ladyship...”
“Tell me!” implored Lady Beck, alarmed by the look on the old woman’s face.
“I see a time of trouble ahead. But not in the near time. In the future. Trouble surrounding the girl-child.”
Lady Beck shrank back. “She will not be harmed?” she pleaded.
The old lady swayed from side to side, then shook her head. “It will end well,” she announced after some long moments of drawn out tension. “All should be well in the end, your ladyness. Though ‘twould be good to take some care. To purchase some charms to protect against evil.”
Lady Beck expelled a sigh of relief and sank back against the bed pillows.
“Yes, Mistress Wheedle, you may send me such charms.” Lady Beck motioned to Madame Labelle who reluctantly took a money purse from her belt and held it out. The old woman’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.
“If you should be needing my services again,” she said as she rummaged in her frayed, woollen bodice to make a place to pocket the purse. “You just send for Old Mother Wheedle. If you should be needing a midwife, your ladyship, for I know you’ve had sadness in the past, and oftentimes a midwife is more help than a physician who don’t rightly understand women’s goings on as well as one who’s brought more babes safe to this world than the king’s got gold coins in his coffers.
“Or if you be needing my counsel or my herbs, Old Mother Wheedle can send you herbs for sleeping well, and charms for making sure a girl has a pretty face, and a sweet temper, and only marries the man she loves.”
“The marquess would not permit anyone excepting the physician to attend upon me, I am sorry to say,” said Lady Beck. “But I should very much like such charms as you speak of.”
Madame Labelle rolled her eyes and muttered something to the heavens.
“And should you have some herbs or charms that would help me...” added Lady Beck, leaning forward, her voice becoming more heavily accented as it did when she experienced strong emotion, “...help me not to...” she paused, swallowed hard, and whispered, “...not to lose this child. For I could not bear it again...”
Mistress Wheedle’s eyes lit up again. She could see a steady run of profit to be made over the coming months.
“Most surely I can, your ladyship. I’ll be back again, quick as a hungry vixen, with them.”
“No need to travel so far yourself,” said Madame Labelle briskly. “I will send one of the servants over to collect them.”
A fleeting scowl passed over Mistress Wheedle’s face. She got up from the chair, bobbed unsteadily to Lady Beck and reeled after Madame Labelle who was most decidedly escorting her out.
The Marquess
The Marquess of Stoneyshire was wet, cold, and weary when he clattered through the darkness, past the gatehouse, and into his courtyard on Duco. It had been a long day. He was assured from the day’s inspections that the borders of Stoneyshire were well guarded, and the steward was managing the castle competently. But talk of the Duke of Glosner preparing to invade the north of the kingdom was a concern; the duke would want him to support his campaign, and riling the northerners would almost certainly result in a backlash of attacks on Stoneyshire’s borders.
The king was rumoured to be failing in health, and the duke was taking it on himself to act as if he himself were the heir, so it seemed to the marquess, though it would be very dangerous to voice such thoughts.
It did not cheer the marquess to see the face of Bellchior coming forward to take his horse. The marquess hated all things foreign, but darn it if this blackamoor slave who had been part of his wife’s dowry wasn’t the best horse handler he had ever known.
His valet came striding forward, bearing a lamplight to light his master’s way. The butler met him in the great hall with a goblet of fortified wine, which the marquis drained in one long draught, feeling some relief at the fire that seared his belly as the dark red liquid reached it. The valet removed the marquess’s drenched cape and the butler disappeared to fetch his master’s supper, which he would lay before the crackling fire in the hall.
“Where’s my wife?” demanded the marquess when he had eaten a whole game pie and finished the jug of wine.
“My lady has kept to her bed chamber this day, milord,” answered his valet.
“Kept abed! Is she ill?”
“I could not say, milord. Though the physician was sent for this morning.”
The marquess grunted. “My wife is never ill. Has the constitution of a champion heifer.”
“Perhaps the physician was for someone else,” the valet murmured, not daring to contradict. “Would milord care for some entertainment this eve?” he queried. A small knot of musicians and a madrigal hovered in the shadows of the hall for their signal.
“No,” was the brusque reply. “I shall drag my sodden bones to bed.”
“Then I shall prepare your chamber directly, milord.”
The marquess paused outside his wife’s chamber. He felt too darned tired to speak to her, but he wanted to know why she hadn’t been about her duties that day. He grasped the door handle and flung the door open.
“Qui est-ce?” came Madame Labelle’s startled cry at the sudden entrance. The marquess scowled at the sound of her voice. She started up from her seat near Lady Beck’s bedside, dropping her embroidery. Lady Beck lifted her dark head from her pillow and forced herself to give her husband a faint smile of greeting.
“What’s all this?” demanded the marquess. “Why are you abed this day, madam?”
“My lady has had a nervous shock,” answered Madame Labelle.
&
nbsp; The marquess ignored her. “What’s the meaning?” he asked his wife.
“I have had some news, my lord,” said Lady Beck.
She sat up, her long hair tumbling about her shoulders and face, the candlelight casting a golden glow to her deep-olive skin. She looked younger than her twenty years with her hair loosened. She searched her husband’s face to read his mood. The lamplight his valet carried by his side showed the bleary eyes that told her that he had drunk the whole jug of wine again. The past five years of their marriage had not been kind to his face. His deep lines and sagging jowls caused him to look older than his eight and forty years.
“Well?” he demanded.
Lady Beck looked pointedly at Sir Ambrose. She did not want to have to speak her news before the servants.
The marquess disregarded her look. “Well?” he repeated, “Spit it out, woman!”
Madame Labelle quivered in indignation at such coarseness of speech towards her lady.
The native fire in Lady Beck’s eyes sparked up. She sat upright, her head held high. “The physician has informed me that I am with child,” she announced.
The marquess stared at her for a long, silent moment. “Another son,” he commented. “A man cannot have too many arrows in his quiver. You do your duty well, wife. If you can bring this one out alive.”
Lady Beck’s dark eyes flashed by the candlelight. “I believe the heavens have set their face against me having a living son,” she said decidedly. “And so I have hopes of a daughter.”
The marquess stared at her again. “Why? Of what purpose? A girl can’t keep the borders, lead knights, oversee lands, gain influence at court, win glory to the name of Beck in battle. Do your darnedest to produce a living boy, madam, or I must consider that the heavens are against me mixing my noble blood with a foreigner’s! If I cannot put a barren wife away, you can be sure I will send her foreign appendages back to where they came from,” he gave an ugly leer at Madame Labelle. “Be about your duties tomorrow,” he said in parting. “I’ve a guest arriving.”