by Anya Seton
She ran to the door and down the stairs calling “Milburga!” There was no answer; no lights in Hall or empty kitchen, where the embers had been raked under the curfew for the night. She went out into the quiet court and clenched her hands while another pain came and went. “Toby!” she shouted underneath the gatehouse windows. Though the bridge was down the keeper was not there.
She stumbled to Gibbon’s hut, and flung the door open.
“God’s wounds, what is it?” cried the man’s slow voice in the darkness. “Is it you, my lady? Open the shutter.” After a moment she obeyed, and he saw her in the gloaming light. She was crouching, her arms laced tight across her belly.
“Jesu - ” whispered the sick man. “Poor creature, so your time has come - but lady, go up to bed, send for the midwife. Oh ay - I’d forgot - God blast them all - they’ve gone to Ket’s hill.” A spasm twisted his yellow face. “Is no one here?”
“No - one,” she gasped, “and I dare not try to reach the village.”
” ‘Twould do no good, there’d be nobody there. I heard them go - they were laughing, shouting drunken songs.” The veins corded on his forehead. “Devil take this stinking useless body of mine - “
“What shall I do, Gibbon?” she asked dully.
“Go to your bed.” He spoke briskly to hearten her. “It can’t be long before they come back. I’ll listen and shout, send someone to you. Be brave for a little while, it won’t be long.” Though he knew well that last year they had stayed the night through at their wicked rites.
“Ay,” she said, “I’ll go to bed. That would be best.” She could not think for herself, and Gibbon’s words brought her relief. “The pains’re not so bad,” she added, trying to smile. “Not near so dreadful as I’d heard.”
Not yet, poor lady, he thought, turning his head from her innocent face. She groped her way through the door. She crept up to the solar and throwing off her gown lay on the sheet in her shift. The night was warm, but had it not been, she would have needed no covering, for soon the sweat began to pour off her heaving body.
Towards midnight Gibbon, lying in the hut, heard the first scream shrill down across the courtyard, and slow tears oozed from beneath his shut lids. In her tower - room, the Lady Nichola too heard the scream, and raised her head, wondering. She had been dripping water from a flagon into a clay pot and carefully greeting the drops as they fell.
This mater for self, this water for elf,
Nixie, pixie, kelpie, sylph.
She was about her own May Eve rites. The cat, a full - grown tabby now, lay curled on the bed, purring lazily.
When Nichola heard the strange sound again, she put the flagon down on the hearth and spoke to the cat. “Are they calling me, sweeting, d’you think? Is it She Who Lives in the Holy Well?”
Then she shook her head; into her staring dark eyes there came a look of anxiety, for dimly through the floating mists she felt the hard stab of human urgency. She smoothed down her rumpled widow’s weeds and bound her greying hair into a must - stained coif. She picked up a twisted rush and lit it at the fire. “I must see what they want,” she said, stroking the cat. “I’ll not be long - - “
She wandered down the stone steps in the tower and across the guard - room to the outside stairs, when she heard the sound again. She knew it came from the solar and was puzzled. She pushed the door slowly open and stood holding the rush dip high, gazing into the dark room.
The sounds came from something on the bed where she had once slept herself with her lord. What was it on the bed that writhed and tossed, and ever and again gave forth a wailing cry?
She moved nearer and saw a mass of tangled hair and two wild eyes in a glistening face.
“Hugh’s bride?” she whispered, unbelieving. She blinked, leaned over the bed and seeing red stains, cried, “What has been done to you, Hugh’s bride?”
“For the love of God, lady!” cried Katherine, ” ‘tis my baby that will not be born.” She grabbed at Nichola’s hand, clenching it until the bones cracked, and with the pain from that desperate grip the shadows receded in Nichola’s mind.
She had borne no child herself but she had seen birth once long ago on her father’s manor. She sat on the bed and held Katherine’s hands, nor winced when the girl pulled on them frantically; and between the pains she murmured soothing words and wiped the sweat - drenched face with a corner of the sheet.
Presently Katherine quietened a little, falling into an exhausted doze until the grey dawn light filtered into the solar and the larks and thrushes trilled beneath the forest window. Then the girl’s labouring body renewed its struggle.
The sun had climbed above the forest top when she was delivered at last.
“Oh, what is it?” Katherine cried when she could speak again. “Does it live? Is it all right?” She tried to raise herself and fell back panting.
” ‘Tis a baby girl,” said Nichola slowly, staring down at the bed. “It seems all right, I think - but I remember - there is something needs to be done - ” She fumbled at her girdle, where she kept the little knife she used for cutting herbs. She bound the cord tight with a strip torn from the sheet, then clipped sharply. The baby gasped and let out a wavering cry. Nichola started when she heard the cry. She pulled the linen coif from her head and wrapped the baby in it, then cradled the little bundle against her chest.
“Ah, let me see her,” Katherine whispered, holding out her arms. “Give her to me - - “
Nichola drew back a step, uncertainty came into her face, which had been sure and intent before. “What do you want, Hugh’s bride?” she asked in a high singing tone, shaking her head. “What is it that you want?”
“I want to see my baby, bring her here, lady - ” The girl, all dazed and numb, could not understand why this woman, who had been her only comfort the night long, should back away and shake her head. Neither of them heard a commotion in the courtyard below, men’s voices and the clop of horses’ hooves.
The baby whimpered and Nichola, bending quickly, kissed its face. “Ah there, my dearling,” she crooned, “my pretty one you want to see them, don’t you? We’ll go now by the river - “
Deadly fear smote Katherine. “Lady!” she cried. “Come here!” Nichola backed yet another step towards the door. She looked at Katherine slyly and said, “You’d take her from me but she’s mine -“
“Jesu, Jesu - -” Katherine whispered; she lurched upright on the bed and would have leaped on to the floor, but she dared not, for she saw Nichola glance sideways at the door and that she strained the bundle ever tighter to her chest. Katherine mastered the chattering of her teeth. “And if she’s yours lady,” she said and forced a coaxing tone, while she tried to hold the black eyes with her own, “you must tend her carefully; she may be cold, you know, so put her down a moment and stir up the fire that you may warm her - “
Nichola stood hesitant, looking from Katherine to the dark fireplace, then she shook her head again. “Nay, I think not. They of the river want to see her first. I must hasten - ” She put her hand on the door latch. Katherine stumbled from the bed - and screamed and lurched across the room. She screamed again, for Nichola ran through the door, while footsteps clattered up the stairs.
The woman shrank by the open door, cowering over the baby. A man stood on the landing staring at them with amazement.
“Oh, stop her, stop her!” Katherine sobbed. “She’s stealing my baby!” Swift as light the man leaned down and took the bundle from Nichola, who let out a long, quivering moan. He put the baby on the bed, then turned to the panting girl who had fallen to her knees on the floor. “In God’s name, Katherine!” he cried, and picking her up in his arms he laid her on the bed beside the baby. She stared up at him, seeing vivid blue eyes frowning with concern in a sun - bronzed face. “My Lord Duke,” she whispered in feeble wonder, and then his eyes and the room and Nichola’s moaning faded into greyness.
It was past high noon when Katherine came to herself again and heard the subdued mutt
ering of women’s voices, and at first she could not think what had happened, but lay in a vague dream watching through heavy lids the dance of dust motes in a sunbeam. She turned a little in the bed and her hand fell on her flat belly, then she remembered and started up with a cry, “My baby!”
The kind round face of Parson’s Molly bent over her. “Here, lady, here’s the tiny maid, all snug and swaddled and content.” She put the infant in the crook of Katherine’s arm. “As fine and fair a babe as I ever see,” and over Molly’s shoulder Milburga’s frightened, peering face nodded agreement.
Katherine looked down at the tiny head covered with darkish fuzz, the crumpled nose and moist pink lips. “Put her to the breast,” said Molly, pulling down the sheet, “let her suck to bring the milk in.” Katherine felt the hungry tug of the little mouth, and a wave of delight such as she had never known washed through her body. She felt that they two were floating in a golden bath together. The dark doings of the night before seemed a foul dream long past, neither fear nor pain could touch her ever again, for here was love come at last, incorporate in this tiny thing that breathed and nestled and belonged to her alone.
When the baby fell asleep, she moved it so that its head lay against her cheek and slept too. The women let her be while they whispered fearingly together.
No one knew what the Duke would do to them. His anger had been terrible as he came down the solar stairs into the courtyard when the housefolk came stumbling and lurching back across the drawbridge from Ket’s rites. He had not whipped them nor berated, but his eyes had flashed like swords and the tone of his voice as he gave them orders banished their drunkenness like a purge.
They had run frantically to obey him, themselves appalled when they found out what had happened in their absence. The Lady Nichola, sobbing and beating her breasts, had been already chained to her bed in the tower by the Duke’s men, for he had brought five with him.
And when Parson’s Molly came running to the manor from the village, they found what sad plight their little mistress was in, wallowing unconscious in fouled sheets and the stench of birth - blood, while the babe lay naked, though unhurt - praise be to the Blessed Virgin!
The women now heard the shouts of men - at - arms below, and a squeal of pain from Toby as one of the Duke’s retainers cuffed him; and they huddled by the fire, glad of the sanctuary of the birth - room. Then they heard footsteps on the wooden landing and a knock outside. Molly’s fat cheeks mottled, but she went to the door and opened it bravely. She curtsied as she said low, “Our lady sleeps, my Lord Duke, but we’ve washed her and the babe.”
John pushed her aside and strode to the bed. He stood looking down at Katherine. White and spent as a plucked windflower she seemed to him, lying there defenceless with her baby next her cheek. And the small happy smile on her pale lips increased his pity. It was pity that he felt and again that strange urge to protect that he had known when he had kissed her a year ago, but now there was no desire mingled with this other feeling. She seemed to him as childlike and pure as his own daughters. Her long lashes quivered and she opened her eyes. They no longer reminded him of Isolda’s for there was in them no urgency, no appeal - clear and untroubled they looked up at him.
She saw him through a dreamy haze, so big and shining with his tawny head, a topaz velvet tunic over powerful chest and shoulders, and eyes blue as speedwells against his sunburned skin.
“I don’t wish to disturb you, Katherine,” he said gently. “I came to see how you did - and the babe.” He took her hand, noting with tender amusement that it was still somewhat rough and the nails bitten.
“I do well, my lord.” She let her hand He trustingly in his, scarcely aware that it did. “Is she not lovely?” - she nuzzled the baby’s head.
John smiled assent, though the infant looked like all others to him and not nearly so comely as his own son, who had lost the new - born pulpy redness.
“How came you here, my lord?” she asked, drawing her arched brows together. “It seems strange - now I begin to - to wake.”
“Having business in Lincoln, I thought to pay you a May morn visit, and - I scarce expected to be so opportune.” He frowned, glancing at the frightened women by the fire. “I thought you might like news of Hugh.”
“Ay - where is Hugh?” she murmured.
“Still in Castile, at Burgos with my army but unharmed. I’ll send him back soon. I see you sorely need him.”
“But you’re here,” she whispered smiling, drugged with the torpor of exhaustion and peace.
“Not for long - my ship waits for me at Plymouth. I came back because I have a son.”
“Ah yes,” she said. “I knew - I had forgot - how does my Lady Blanche - - “
“Fairly,” he said and no more, seeing that Katherine was not fully awake and making an effort to be courteous. He dropped her hand and turned to the window.
Blanche was not churched yet. He had returned to find her very ill with milk fever and one of her legs so red and throbbing that she cried out when it was touched. But the blissful shock of his unexpected return had improved her at once.
She had been well enough for him to leave Bolingbroke and make this hasty trip to Lincoln to inspect its castle, which he owned. Conferences with the constable had taken little time and it had been on impulse that he decided this fine May Day morning to ride on to Kettlethorpe and see Katherine. In truth, he had not thought of her at all these last months - - months of triumph, culminating in the glorious victory at Najera on Saturday, April 3. The memory of that arid sunbaked Castilian plain gave him sharp joy.
With the always able help of Sir John Chandos, and his English bowmen, the Duke had led the shock troops in the vanguard of the Prince of Wales’ army, and they had loosed a barrage of whirring arrows that turned the tide almost at once. The Castilians fell back, they disintegrated, they ran, and, forced into the flood - swollen river Najerilla, they drowned - twelve thousand of them. The rushing waters had turned red as wine. By noon the battle was over and King Pedro, sobbing with gratitude, had kissed his champions’ hands, had knelt on the blood - soaked earth before the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster.
It was unfortunate that amongst the bodies of the Castilian slain they could not find that of the bastard Trastamare, but otherwise the victory had been complete even to the capture of the redoubtable Sir Bertrand du Guesclin. All the victors had held high feast in Burgos, Castile’s fair capital. And there, when the messenger from Bolingbroke found him ten days later, John discovered that he had fresh cause for exultation. His son Henry had been born on the same day as the triumph at Najera, surely a most auspicious bit of fortune. He gave thanks in the cathedral and determined to make a quick trip home to see his son - and Blanche. But neither sentiment nor paternal pride alone could justify the time expended on such a voyage, for there were still angry matters to smooth out in Castile and his brother needed him. So John bore letters to the King at Westminster and, more important, had seized the opportunity to replenish his purse from funds held by his receiver - general at the Savoy. The campaign, however glorious, had been expensive.
These matters passed through his mind as he stood by the window and he almost regretted the impulse that he sent him here this morning; for he saw that he could not leave at once as he had planned, while Katherine lay helpless, at the mercy of her serfs and the mad woman Nichola. Yet he was sorely pressed for time and turned plans over in his mind which might best ensure her safety until he could send Hugh back.
He returned to the bed and saw that she had awakened, and was softly kissing the baby’s head. “Your villeins must be punished, Katherine,” he said, smiling at her. “I understand from your bailiff that you and he forbade their extraordinary rites last night and yet they left you here alone.”
“That was my fault, my lord.” Through this dreaming bliss she felt no anger towards anyone. “The midwife would have stayed with me but I wouldn’t let Milburga fetch her.”
The two listening women
looked at each other. Molly whispered, “Our little mistress is kind.” Milburga shrugged. They held their breaths.
John shook his head impatiently. “These serfs cannot be permitted to defy you - there’s no strong arm on this manor, that I see well, nor can I forgive Swynford for leaving you in charge of such a bailiff - a dead man - it was dangerous folly - - ” His anger rose at Hugh, though in Castile he had felt none, for Hugh had again proved himself a powerful fighter.
“Poor Gibbon does the best he can,” said Katherine softly. “It’s I who have been lax.”
“Nonsense, child! It’s only that you’re far too young to have learned the arts of ruling and you must have help. I’ve decided what shall be done.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Katherine, humbly. Though he was but twenty - seven he seemed to her the embodiment of unquestioned authority as he stood there, his shining head thrown back, his eyes stern. He spoke to her as her father had used to long ago. There was no tension between them now, nor did she remember that there ever had been. He was but her overlord and her rescuer.
“I shall leave one of my men here to guard you. A Gascon named Nirac de Bayonne and - for a Gascon - trustworthy.” John smiled suddenly. Nirac amused him with his quick tongue, nimble wits and sly humour. Nirac was a man of many parts, he could concoct licorice potions or spice hippocras; he could fight with the dagger and sail a ship, the latter accomplishment learned during years of smuggling and freebooting between Bayonne and Cornwall. Though Gascony and the rest of Aquitaine belonged to England, Nirac had not troubled himself about allegiance, until the Prince of Wales’ officers caught him and pressed him into military service in the recent Castilian war. And that temporary allegiance would have dissolved as soon as he had been paid, except for the entirely fortuitous circumstances that John had saved his life at Najera.
This was no deed of chivalry - the Duke had simply interposed his well - armoured body between Nirac and a Castilian spear; but the fiery little Gascon had been passionately grateful and attached himself doggedly to the Duke.