Madeleine nodded. The smell of birthing—earthy as root vegetables—filled the cell. Outside the dogs barked and oxen lowed. The matrone held a cold rag to Madeleine’s forehead, and Bertrad hummed softly.
Madeleine folded into the soft contours of Marie’s breasts and belly and listened to the soothing thrum of her big heart. Madeleine’s womb clenched with the next contraction and Marie tightened her hold, pressing her arms down hard against Madeleine’s belly until she cried out in agony.
“Work with it, Maddy girl. Work with it.”
Madeleine bore down. The child turned and dropped into place. The matrone lifted the drape of Madeleine’s chemise. “By the blessed Gabriel,” she said, “the babe’s crown is visible.”
“One more time, Maddy, give it everything you’ve got,” Marie said.
And so she did, calling upon strength she did not know she possessed.
“It’s a girl!” The matrone announced, lifting the squalling infant from between Madeleine’s legs.
Marie’s colors—exhausted grays and sickly yellows—flickered and dimmed beside the rainbow wail of a new soul. The child’s face was squeezed into a howl that obscured her features, but she appeared whole and healthy.
“The child is small but fit,” the matrone announced before cutting the cord and tying it with linen thread. “This will dry and comfort her limbs and members,” she explained, smearing the child with a mixture of salt and honey.
“Oh, Maddy, your daughter has a fine set of lungs! And look at her hair,” Bertrad said, laughing and combing the tips of her fingers through thick, dark hair that was long enough to mat at the crown.
“Let’s get you settled,” the matrone said, turning her attention to Madeleine. “Lean forward so Marie can slide free.”
While Bertrad swaddled the child, the twins silently reentered the hut, careful to stay clear of Marie, who placed her finger in the baby’s hand and laughed as she grabbed hold. “It’s good she’s strong,” she said. “A woman needs to be strong in this world.”
“Oh, but she’s a beauty!” Bertrad said, holding up the child for Madeleine to see.
Perhaps too pretty, Madeleine thought, noting the arched brows and plumb lips. The child blinked and Madeleine covered her mouth with her hand.
“Why, look at her eyes!” Arsen whispered, nudging her sister. “One is blue, and the other is hazel!”
“The babe has two fathers!” Agnes said.
Madeleine turned to Marie, but before she could say a word, she felt a warm rush of fluid between her legs.
“May the saints protect her,” the matrone said in a trembling voice.
Madeleine saw the blood, clotted purple red and blossoming the length of the cot, and felt suddenly weak, as though the life were spilling out of her.
“Do something, fool!” Marie said to the matrone before bringing her face to Madeleine’s. “Stay focused, Maddy. Don’t go drifting off.”
The matrone hastily splashed vinegar from a slender vial into a shallow bowl. The pungent aroma pickled the air and made it difficult to breath. “This,” she said, soaking a square of linen, “will stop the flow of blood.” But her trembling hands did not inspire confidence and her quivering voice no longer reminded Madeleine of Hersend. Using the full force of her fist, the matrone thrust the cloth deep inside Madeleine.
Narrow bands of winter light spilled through the turret windows of Lady Philippa’s chamber, casting an underwater glow onto the whitewashed stone and wall hangings. Most of the tapestries, Robert noted, displayed coats of arms and battle scenes. Two, however, appeared designed to please children. In one, a colorful flurry of birds soared a purple sky. In the other, an ark of paired animals floated a turquoise sea. Two large standing candlesticks flickered an insubstantial light onto a pile of stacked ledgers and parchment.
The Duchess entered the room. Robert saw past her gracious façade to the sorrowful woman beneath. He thought immediately about the letter that had brought him there, a carefully worded document that hinted at marital problems.
“Master Robert, thank you for coming. Please join me by the fire,” she said, motioning to two armchairs angled before the hearth. Above the carved mantle hung a sculpted crucifix held aloft by three angels. “You are well? And the abbey is coming along?” she asked.
“I am quite well,” he said. “And thanks to your generosity and the generosity of your friends the abbey is thriving.”
“And how is Brother Girard?” she asked, settling into the armchair beside Robert. “He was kind to me after my father died, and I have thought of him often with gratitude in my heart.”
“He is hard at work illuminating manuscripts,” Robert said.
A maid entered with a tray holding two mazers, one carafe of water and another of wine. An old bloodhound with a white muzzle and labored gait followed behind. Loose hanging skin gave him a serious, preoccupied expression. Once he spotted Philippa, however, he danced about, hindquarters wriggling ecstatically, nails clicking against stone.
Leaning forward in her chair, Philippa cupped the old hound’s muzzle in her hands, and whispered, “Hey Snout, hey boy,” against the dome of his head. The animal responded with a resounding bark that made Philippa throw back her head and laugh aloud. At least for a moment the Lady’s sorrow was held at bay.
Placing the tray on a round table between the two armchairs, the maid curtsied slightly before leaving the room.
“He was William’s dog before he was mine,” Philippa said. “A good tracker in his day. The best. He could locate a deer or boar before the other noblemen mounted their steeds and let loose their hounds.” Tilting her head, she spoke in a hushed voice. “Couldn’t you, boy? Couldn’t you?” The animal’s tail thumped against the floor. Philippa gathered his long velvet ears in her palms. “After William left for the crusades Snout accompanied me on my journeys.”
Philippa dropped her hands, and the hound settled with a sigh at her feet. Philippa indicated that Robert should take one of the mazers from the serving tray. He mixed a little wine with water and then sipped sparingly from his drink, for he had not eaten all day and feared that the wine would muddle his mind.
“On the day of William’s return, Snout greeted him half-heartedly and then quickly bounded to my side where he remained. William said it looked to him like the old hound had switched his allegiance. I felt guilty… but also pleased.” She frowned and poured a full and undiluted mazer of wine for herself. “You see, William thought he could be absent for two years and everything would be the same. Well, it wasn’t. It just wasn’t,” she said.
Robert knew that Philippa had not asked him here to discuss her old hound, so he waited patiently for her to put words to her distress.
“My husband, Duke of Aquitaine, has forsaken me for another woman,” Philippa said. “The Viscountess of Châtellerault has taken my place in his bed.” She lifted her glass and drank deeply.
Robert never grew accustomed to these moments of sudden intimacy. He understood it was the priest with the honeyed voice to whom she spoke and not the flesh-and-blood man who knew temptation and self doubt every day of his life, and he prayed that his own spiritual fatigue would not interfere with his obligation to comfort and direct her, for as soon as he had taken his first sip of watery wine, he had relaxed enough to feel his exhaustion.
Placing his mazer on the end table, he harnessed his remaining energy and offered up his full attention. William’s infidelity did not surprise him. Men, even those married to beautiful women, were weak of flesh.
Robert considered the proud, practical woman before him. She likely knew which herbs to use for colic and how to trade two stallions for a parcel of fertile valley land, and he did not think that she would find solace in his sympathetic words. She would want to understand both the reason for and the solution to her husband’s infidelity. Yet Robert felt that some w
ords of understanding and compassion were appropriate and perhaps even necessary for establishing trust between the two of them.
“I am sorry, Lady Philippa,” he said. “These must be painful times for you.”
Gazing at the tapestry of paired animals, she whispered, “Why? Why did he do this to me?”
The old hound whimpered in his sleep. Philippa leaned forward and stroked his belly until his breathing calmed and he settled back into a husky snore.
“Men are more susceptible to the sins of the flesh than women,” Robert said, and just like that, an image of Madeleine’s fingers brushing her hair away from her face sent a surge of heat through Robert’s body.
“I’m not so sure,” Philippa said. “I myself…” Pursing her lips, she grabbed tight the arms of her chair, drew herself up and stared into the fire. “When I was betrothed, my aunts explained that my duty as a wife was to satisfy my husband’s needs. They told me that ladies did not feel the same desire as men. Children, they said, were the pleasant result of an unpleasant situation. This,” Philippa said, dropping her voice slightly, “was not my experience.” She refilled her mazer and took several sips while studying the crucifix above the mantel. “William’s lovemaking was a secret pleasure that filled me with joy.”
Robert recalled his first meeting with Madeleine, how she had loosened her braid, bathed his feet, and pressed her lips against his ankle. “Perhaps God has sent this woman as penance for my sinful ways,” Philippa said.
Robert chastised himself for pursuing his own thoughts while Philippa anxiously waited for a priest’s direction. “Lady Philippa,” he said, “there is no sin in the love exchanged between a married man and a woman. It has purposes beyond generation: it preserves… and intensifies the love between husband and wife.”
“If the pleasure of love is no sin, then the question remains—Why did William leave my bed for the bed of another woman? What did I do to deserve such shame?” Philippa said, looking at Robert with beseeching eyes.
“Do not blame yourself for your husband’s indiscretions. There are pressures in a man’s life, enormous obligations…” Robert faltered, unsure of his words, fearful that it was his own transgressions he was fumbling to defend.
“I am not a man, but I have known a man’s responsibilities,” Philippa said, her voice deep and brash with authority. “I have managed an estate and made decisions that affect hundreds. Yes, a man’s responsibilities are daunting, but no less so than a woman’s. Motherhood, above all else, requires constant vigilance and allows no time for hunting parties and mistresses.”
“I did not mean to denigrate a woman’s role nor to excuse William’s behavior,” Robert said. “I meant only to explain that your husband, like all men, is weak, unable to resist the smooth tongue of an unfamiliar woman.” Robert laid his hand on Philippa’s forearm. “Lady Philippa,” he said, “consider your husband’s mistreatment as your martyrdom and penance. Your pain will only make you strong and worthy of a place in heaven.” He leaned back into his chair. Her hands, palms down against the arms of the chair, moved absentmindedly against the woven brocade. “I know you are right, Father,” she said, one finger worrying a loose metallic thread. “But I am angry and hurt…” Crossing her arms, she sunk into the chair, her voice suddenly tired.
The cry of a child rose from the nearby nursery. Philippa tensed, turned her head, and waited for the wail to hush before continuing.
“Lady Philippa, is it possible for you to find forgiveness in your heart?”
The maid entered the room, added several logs to the fire and left again. “Forgiveness?” Philippa said. “I have birthed William’s children and managed his estate. And while I long to do the right thing, I find it difficult to forgive a man who’s admitted no wrongdoing. I’m ashamed to admit that part of me wants to hurt him as much as he has hurt me.”
She shook her head in exasperation, and Robert struggled to think how to direct her energy into something more productive than revenge.
“I have been a good wife, and I do not deserve this abuse!” Philippa stood and walked to the window. “I shall not be mistreated!” she declared.
“No,” Robert said. “You should not tolerate mistreatment. But, perhaps, you could be… gentler, more compassionate? Remember, Philippa, none of us is perfect. We have all sinned and fallen short of God’s glory. Keep in mind the words of Blessed Augustine, ‘Through a faithful wife an unfaithful man is saved.’”
One of the servants called out and another sang a lullaby in a quivering falsetto. Philippa returned to her chair and seemed to consider Robert’s words.
“It’s possible,” she said, “that I am more—” she paused, searching for the word, “spirited than most women. My father saw to it that I was educated and encouraged me to speak my mind. Is it possible these qualities have rendered me flawed and unattractive in William’s eyes? And yet,” Philippa continued, her hand clutching the armrest of the chair, “William did not hesitate to take advantage of my so called manly qualities when he left me in charge of his estate.” She drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I am rambling,” she said. “You will forgive me. I am not myself.”
Once he saw that Philippa’s bitterness ran deep and was based on far more than her husband’s relationship with the viscountess, Robert proceeded cautiously. “Philippa,” he said, “you must fight against your anger, if not for William’s sake than for your own, for the Lord forbids us to become angry, commands us to present the other cheek to the person who strikes us.”
“Controlling my anger feels like one more responsibility heaped upon my shoulders,” she said, then turned her head and stared, mute and desolate, into the raging fire.
The sound of noisy bartering between a servant and a fishmonger could be heard through the window, the servant’s shrill offer—“Two deniers!”—eclipsed by the booming response of the fishmonger.
“The haddock was fresh-caught this morning! Four! Take it or leave it!”
“I will take it, but someday you will pay a steep price for your thievery!” The exchange concluded with the bang of a door.
“Philippa?”
She blinked, as though blinded by a sudden and vivid realization. “I’m sorry, Master,” she said, “but I do not wish to save my husband.” Rising Philippa grabbed a fire iron and stabbed at a log. “I wish to punish him as the Pope has punished the King.”
“Surely you don’t want William excommunicated?!” Robert asked, stunned by the depth of her rage. If he did not intervene, he feared that her actions would humiliate her entire family. Perhaps if she were to witness first hand the spectacle of excommunication, she would see with her own eyes that revenge would not be satisfying. He waited for her to compose herself and return to her armchair before speaking.
“Lady Philippa, I must go now, for I must meet with a number of prelates before the council next month. But if you would like, we could talk after the council. You will be at the council?”
“I hadn’t thought…” She glanced at the stack of ledgers on her desk and then back at Robert, her brow furrowed, a look of confusion on her face.
“I think you should attend,” he said, his voice firm with resolve. “Afterwards we will talk. Until then, I would like you to consider your duty to William.” Then because he wanted his words to inspire rather than admonish, he spoke in a gentler tone, “Remember, Philippa, a wife with strength of character does her husband good and not harm all the days of her life.”
“Very well, Master Robert,” she said, rising from her chair and taking his hand in hers. “You are kind and thoughtful. I will reflect upon your words.”
A servant escorted Robert to the door. Outside, a bank of clouds stuttered across the sun, turning the stark winter sky a muddy-red.
The matrone stopped the hemorrhaging, but it was weeks before Madeleine regained her strength. Then her milk failed. Marie fed
her beans, peas, and gruel boiled in cream, while Bertrad suggested more frequent nursing to increase her milk supply. Madeleine nursed Little Marie every two hours, but produced only a few swallows of milk. After Madeleine’s nipples cracked and bled, Bertrad threw up her arms in exasperation. “Enough of this!” she declared. “It’s hopeless!” Madeleine winced and Bertrad dropped her voice to a whisper of comfort. “It’s not your fault. It’s your illness that’s to blame. Oh, but we came close to losing you!” she said, crossing herself. “Never you worry. I’ve milk for two little puppets.” She patted her generous breasts and took the child from Madeleine’s arms.
Madeleine felt both guilty and relieved. Even if her milk had been as plentiful as Bertrad’s, she was too tired to take on any responsibilities beyond her own recovery. She did not share her feelings with anyone but, of course, Marie discerned them all on her own.
Marie spent most of her day in a rustic but serviceable rocking chair that Moriuht had fashioned from green pine. Wrapped in a ragged shawl, she sat holding her namesake, rocking comfortably a foot from Madeleine’s pallet. “When a birthing is particularly difficult,” she explained, her voice rising and falling in cadence with the slight groan of the rocker’s wooden spindles, “the bond between mother and child is sometimes strained.” She looked up from Little Marie’s face to study Madeleine’s. “But love is resilient, Maddy.”
Madeleine suspected that in this, as in most other matters, Marie was right. Still, she worried that she did not feel that exuberant rush of tender affection she saw reflected in the faces of other mothers. Sometimes she blamed her detachment on Little’s anxious nature. Other times she wondered if the mothering part of her had been irrevocably damaged by the life she had led in Rouen. Only when Little’s body was molded against Marie’s diminished but still substantial curves, did Madeleine experience a drowsy peace that might be called love.
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