Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

November 1166

English Channel

Petronilla sat up with a jerk, her heart racing. No night should have been as dark as this, and the cold was so damp and penetrating that it seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She was astonished that she’d fallen asleep, for although she’d been blessed with a strong stomach and rarely suffered from the seasickness that afflicted so many others, she loathed sea travel as much as any mortal could, feared it even more. Each time she set foot on a rolling, wet deck, she remembered the sinking of the White Ship. When it had struck a reef in Barfleur Harbor on a November night much like this one, more than three hundred souls had gone to God or the Devil, many of them highborn.

Their canvas tent was cramped and dank, the women huddled together for warmth. Gradually Petronilla could make out their hunched figures in the shadows. Few were sleeping and, as Petronilla sat up, one of her sister’s ladies moaned and retched weakly into a bucket. A stench filled the air and Petronilla wrinkled her nose; the tent was already befouled with the acrid smell of sweat and fear and vomit, stronger even than the pungent salt-brine tang of the sea.

“Aunt Petra…” A slender form swaddled in blankets stirred at Petronilla’s elbow and she patted the child’s shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Tilda. When you awaken, we’ll be in sight of Southampton.” God Willing. Her niece burrowed deeper into her nest of covers and, with the resilience of the very young, soon slept again. Petronilla did not understand what had possessed her sister to allow the girl to accompany them. Granted, Tilda would be departing in the coming year for her new life in Germany as the bride of Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, and she’d pleaded poignantly with Eleanor that they not be apart till then. Petronilla still thought the girl’s presence was a mistake. But her sister had ignored her arguments, and Petronilla knew from past experience that when Eleanor got the bit between her teeth, the only thing to do was to get out of the way.

A martyr on the cross of sisterly rivalry, Petronilla sighed and made herself as comfortable as she could on her pallet. Sleep would not come back, though. She was preternaturally aware of every night noise: the relentless creaking and groaning of the ship as it sank down into a trough, then fought its way to the crest of the next wave, the rhythmic slapping sound of waves against the hull, the flapping of the sail as the wind picked up, Tilda’s soft snoring, an occasional moan from one or another of the seasick women, muffled curses from unseen sailors. When she could endure the tossing and turning no longer, Petronilla slid away from Tilda and rose to her feet.

As she ducked under the tent flap, the ship pitched suddenly and she staggered, would have fallen if not for the boatswain, who steadied her with a helpful hand on her elbow. The smile that accompanied his chivalry was too familiar for Petronilla’s liking. He backed away when she scowled, and as she lurched across the deck, she thought she heard him chuckle. Glaring over her shoulder, she almost stumbled into the tiller, but the helmsman had observed the by-play with the boatswain and he left her to fend for herself. Keeping her balance with difficulty, she caught the gunwale for support, damning all ships and sailors to eternal hellfire.

Filling her lungs with the icy Channel air, Petronilla waited until she’d gotten her equilibrium back and then started cautiously along the deck in search of her sister. She found Eleanor standing alone near the bow. She did not turn her head as Petronilla approached, and they stood in silence for a time while Petronilla tried to think of some way to narrow the distance between them.

“That bobbing light to starboard… is that our other ship?” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she winced at the fatuous nature of her query; of course that was their ship! But conversation with Eleanor these days was like venturing into perilous terrain; she seemed to make one misstep after another. “You ought not to tarry out on the deck like this, Eleanor. This cold is not good for either you or the babe.”

The corner of Eleanor’s mouth tightened noticeably, but she made no other response, keeping her eyes upon the surging black barrier of water that stretched toward the horizon. Conceding defeat, Petronilla retreated into a brooding silence. When she’d told Eleanor of the rumors she’d heard-the salacious, gleeful gossip about Henry and Rosamund Clifford-it had never occurred to her that her sister would act so impulsively, so unpredictably, so recklessly. But Eleanor had the right to know that her husband was lusting after Clifford’s daughter. She needed to know that he’d even dared to bring Rosamund to Woodstock’s royal manor. Surely she’d want to know that she was in danger of becoming a laughingstock? Watching as her sister gazed toward the night-cloaked alien shores of England, Petronilla sought to convince herself that it would all work out for the best. She’d begun to shiver, though, and it was not entirely due to the stinging winter wind.

After a night in the castle at Southampton, Eleanor’s party rode north to Winchester, and then on to Newbury. Theirs was a sedate, excruciatingly slow pace that soon depleted Eleanor’s small store of patience, but her midwife, her sister, and even her own common sense all counseled traveling without haste. It was four days, therefore, before they finally reached Oxford.

It snowed during the night, but the next day dawned clear and cold, and by midmorning, Eleanor was on the road again. Five miles lay between Oxford and Woodstock, just five miles, but it turned into one of the longest journeys of Eleanor’s life. The swaying horse litter unsettled her stomach and the glare of sun on snow soon gave her a throbbing headache. Not for the first time in the past fortnight, she wondered if she’d gone stark raving mad. Why had she listened to Petra’s foolish gossip? Of course Harry strayed from time to time; he was no man to live like a monk. He probably did bed Clifford’s daughter, as rumor had it. After all, they’d been apart for months. But he would not flaunt a concubine before the world, and he would never have taken the wench to Woodstock, one of their favorite manors. So what was she doing on this rutted, snow-glazed road in the middle of nowhere? Why had she felt such an overpowering need to see for herself that the gossipmongers lied?

The gates of Woodstock were shut, but after a shouted command from one of Eleanor’s household knights, they were hastily flung open. As the party passed into the bailey, Eleanor caught a glimpse of astonished faces avidly gawking down at her from the manor walls. She sank back against the cushions, not moving until her sister dismounted and leaned anxiously into the litter.

“Eleanor? Are you ailing? All this jolting around has not brought on your birth pangs, has it?”

“No.” Eleanor held out her hand, allowing Petronilla to assist her from the litter. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she turned then toward the great hall, running the gauntlet of stares and whispers with the aloof inscrutability she’d had a lifetime to perfect. From the corner of her eye, she saw the steward hurrying toward her and she released her sister’s arm, moved to meet him.

She’d been coming to Woodstock for eleven years now, and Master Raymond had always been there to greet her, a tall, lanky, slightly stooped figure who put her in mind of a sober, very dignified crane. For once, his aplomb had deserted him; his face was flushed with uneven color, his mouth slack at the corners, downturned in dismay. “Madame…,” he stammered, dropping to one knee in the snow, “Madame… I… I…”

Eleanor had traveled over a hundred miles in the dead of winter, only to find there was no need to pose a single question; the answer was writ plainly in the horror on the steward’s face. Master Raymond’s consternation was merely confirmation, though, of what she already knew, had perhaps always known, even before she’d seen those smirking and gaping guards.

Eleanor kept her voice low, pitched for the steward’s ears alone. “Where does she sleep, Master Raymond?”

He made no pretense of misunderstanding. “Oh, no, Madame! Not in your chambers, never!” Hoping fervently that she’d heard nothing of the king’s plans to build a manor nearby at Everswell for Rosamund Clifford’s private use, he hastily averted his eyes, lest she read in them the one emotion she’d never forgive-pity.

He wasn’t fast enough, though, and Eleanor drew a breath as sharp as any blade. “Where is she now, Master Raymond?”

“I saw her walking toward the springs nigh on an hour ago. Shall I

… shall I have her fetched for you, Madame?”

“No,” Eleanor said tersely. “My men need to be fed and our horses cooled down. See to it, Master Raymond.” When the captain of her household knights would have followed, she halted him with an abrupt gesture. She did not object, though, as her sister fell in step beside her, for it would have been foolhardy to trek alone to the springs when she was less than two months from her confinement. As it was, the walk was more taxing than she’d expected. She was soon panting, leaning reluctantly upon Petronilla’s supportive arm, her skirts dragging through the snow as she silently cursed the unwieldy, weak vessel her body had become, little more than a walking womb, heavy with this burdensome pregnancy that had seemed unblest from the very beginning.

Petronilla for once was exercising discretion and they walked without speaking. The snow crunched underfoot and there came clearly to them the cawing of crows perched in trees barren of leaves, the barking of an unseen dog, and then the sound of a woman’s laughter.

Eleanor saw the dog first, a wolflike, sturdy creature with a jaunty, curling tail. An uncommon breed, but one she recognized as a Norwegian dyrehund. A few years ago her husband had imported some from Oslo, nostalgic for the dyrehunds bred by his uncle Ranulf. She stopped abruptly, hearing again Henry’s fond boasting about the wondrous Wolf, his cherished boyhood pet, and there was no surprise whatsoever when a female voice now echoed that very name.

“Wolf!” Still laughing, a young woman came into view. She was well dusted with snow and her veil had slipped, revealing lustrous blond braids. She had high color in her cheeks, skin as perfect as that newfallen snow, and she was young enough to take the sunlight full on, with no need for the kindness of candlelight. At the sight of Eleanor and Petronilla, she stopped in surprise, and then came toward them, smiling as she brushed at her mantle. “Wolf is friendly,” she assured the women, “too much so. He just coaxed me into a romp in the snow and knocked me right off my feet!” Still seeking to tidy herself up, she shook her head ruefully. “I know I’m too old for such antics, but come the first snowfall of the winter, I find myself playing out in it like a little lass.”

“How old are you?” Eleanor hardly recognized her own voice, toneless and detached, utterly without inflection.

Rosamund Clifford seemed startled by the question, but she answered readily enough, saying that she was nineteen. Younger even than Marie, Eleanor’s eldest daughter by the French king.

“My lady?” A second woman was approaching, coming from the direction of the springs. She had a pleasing face, plump and good-humored, flushed now from her exertion and the cold. “Did you find that silly beast? Most likely he took off after a rabbit…” Her cheerful monologue trailed off as she realized they were no longer alone in the deer park. Her smile was warily polite, far more guarded than the girl’s, and it was easy enough for Eleanor to guess her role: Rosamund Clifford’s watchdog.

These intruders were very well dressed and Meliora dropped a quick curtsy in deference to their obvious rank. But as she straightened up, she saw Eleanor clearly for the first time. The color drained from her face, leaving her sallow and shaken. She fell to her knees in the snow, saying in a strangled voice, “My lady queen!”

Rosamund’s head swiveled toward Meliora, then back to Eleanor. Hers was an easy face to read; Eleanor saw her puzzlement give way to realization and then, horror. She, too, dropped to her knees, staring up at Eleanor in mute despair, for she knew that there was nothing she could say in her own defense.

Eleanor was aware, then, of an overpowering exhaustion, unlike any fatigue she’d ever experienced. She was suddenly so weary in body and soul that she could almost believe she might sicken and die of it. There was a hollow sensation in her chest and a lump in her throat, a bitter taste in her mouth. Her gaze flickered over the girl kneeling in the snow and she could no longer remember why it had once seemed so important to seek Rosamund Clifford out, to learn the truth.

When she turned and walked away, she took them all off balance. Rosamund and Meliora stared after her in disbelief and Petronilla, no less dumbfounded, scurried to catch up to her sister.

Meliora heaved herself to her feet, but Rosamund stayed on her knees. “God in Heaven…” The face she raised to Meliora was streaking with tears. “She is great with child, did you see? I felt so shamed, so foul… But I did not know, Meliora, truly I did not!”

“Know what, lass?”

Rosamund stifled a sob. “I did not know that she loves him. But you saw it too, did you not? That she does love him?” She gave Meliora a beseeching look, and the older woman understood what she was really asking-for reassurance that Meliora could not offer. Her silence was an answer in itself, and after a few moments, Rosamund rose, began to brush the snow from her skirt. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she managed a wan smile. “Do I look presentable enough for an audience with royalty?”

“I hope to God you do not mean what I think you do!”

“What would you have me do, Meliora? I have to face her sooner or later. And if she wants to shame me before every living soul at Woodstock…” Rosamund’s voice faltered, and then she said, “Well, she… she has that right.”

“Child, she is more than a jealous wife. She is a queen twice over, Duchess of Aquitaine in her own name, and you have given her no reason to feel kindly toward you. Trust me, you do not want to face her while the memory of the king’s betrayal is still so raw. Better that we seek shelter in the nunnery at Godstow and send urgent word to the king-”

“No!” Rosamund shook her head so vehemently that her veil lost the last of its pins and fluttered to the ground at her feet. “I cannot do that, Meliora. I cannot burden the king with this-”

“Mary, Mother of God! You have to tell the king, and not just for your own protection. This woman is not a shunned wife to be put aside at a whim, nor is she one to suffer in silence. You truly think she will not confront the king? Better he be forewarned by you than ambushed by her!”

Rosamund opened her mouth to protest, closed it again as the logic of Meliora’s argument prevailed. “You are right,” she said softly. “He must know. But I will not take refuge with the nuns at Godstow. I owe the queen more than that. I owe Harry more than that.”

Meliora blinked, for that was the first time she’d heard Rosamund call the king by his Christian name. “I do not understand you, child, and for certes, you do not understand Eleanor of Aquitaine!”

“I understand that she is carrying his child, that she has faced the dangers of the birthing chamber again and again to bear sons for him. And she is not young, Meliora, not any more. All my life, I’ve heard about her great beauty, but I saw none of it today. I saw a woman haggard and careworn, a woman grievously hurt by what I’ve done. I cannot change a single yesterday, cannot take back even one of those nights I spent in Harry’s bed. Nor can I make amends by vowing to sin no more. I am not strong enough to turn him away. I love him,” she said simply, as if that was a soul-bearing revelation, and Meliora groaned in frustrated futility, for by now she’d learned that Rosamund’s deceptively docile demeanor hid a stubborn streak wider than the Thames itself.

“God help us both,” she said with a grimace, and then cried out in pretended pain as she faked a stumble. Rosamund would not leave her and by feigning reluctance to put weight upon the injured ankle, she bought them both some time. Not that it would be enough. She feared that a lifetime would not be enough.

When she could delay no longer, she reached for her walking stick and followed Rosamund back along the path toward the manor. A strange silence seemed to have enveloped Woodstock. The bailey was deserted; even the gate was unmanned. Rosamund came to an uncertain halt, her resolve beginning to waver. When Meliora suggested that they go to her chamber and await the queen’s summons, she agreed hastily enough to reveal her fear. But they’d taken only a few steps before they saw Master Raymond striding toward them.

Summoning up the shreds of her courage, Rosamund moved to meet him. “I… I await the queen’s pleasure,” she said, as steadily as she could.

He’d always treated her with impeccable courtesy, but she’d sensed that he did not approve of her liaison with the king. A shadow of that unspoken disapproval showed now upon his face, confirming her suspicion that the steward was Queen Eleanor’s man. “The queen,” he said, “is gone.”

They stared at him, so obviously stunned that he felt the need to say again, more emphatically this time, “The queen and her sister and her men… they are all gone.”

Eleanor paused in the great hall to speak to her daughter, and Petronilla seized the opportunity to search for her sister’s midwife. Bertrade was not an easy woman to miss, a statuesque, handsome widow with bold black eyes, the life-loving zest of the Gascons, and little patience with fools; not surprisingly, she and Eleanor had established an immediate rapport and she had assisted in the births of the last two of Eleanor’s children. It did not take long for Petronilla to learn that Bertrade was not in the hall, but when she turned back toward her sister, she discovered that Eleanor had gone, too. With a servant in tow, she hastened across the bailey toward the queen’s chambers. As she expected, she found Eleanor in the bedchamber, slumped down on a coffer as if she had not been able to muster the energy to reach the bed. One glance at her sister’s ashen face and she ordered the servant to find Dame Bertrade and fetch wine and food. Snatching up a laver of washing water, she knelt by Eleanor’s side and began to blot the perspiration from her sister’s brow.

“You look ghastly,” she scolded. “When will you start paying heed to what I say? It was lunacy to return to Oxford, and well you know it, Eleanor. You’ve not eaten a morsel since this morn, and God’s truth, but your complexion is the color of unripe cheese. It is a miracle for certes if you have not brought on early labor.”

To her annoyance, Eleanor did not appear to be listening. But before she could resume her lecture, the door opened with a bang and Dame Bertrade swept in. “Madame, is there any bleeding? Have the pains begun?”

Eleanor shook her head, let Bertrade and Petronilla get her to her feet. Between them, they helped her to the bed, where she lay back onto the pillows, closing her eyes. Petronilla was terrified by her bloodless pallor, the damp, clammy feel of her skin. She knew women in childbirth could suffer both sweating and shivering fits, felt a great fear that Eleanor was wrong and her travail begun. It was much too soon, both for her and the babe. What if she delivered a stillborn child? What if she died? Childbed was all too often a woman’s deathbed, too. Her gaze blurred with sudden tears and she reached out, grasping the hand of this frail stranger in her sister’s bed.

“Eleanor, look what you’ve done to yourself! Why did you not listen to me and remain at Woodstock as I urged?”

Eleanor’s lashes lifted. Her face was bone-white, the pupils of her eyes so dilated that they seemed black. “I would rather,” she spat, “have given birth by the side of the road!”

Eleanor had chosen the royal manor just north of Oxford’s walls over the castle within the city for her lying-in. Her decision had been dictated by convenience; the manor was more comfortable than the admittedly old-fashioned furnishings of the castle. But she was not long in regretting it, for the manor was haunted by the ghosts of happier times. It was here that nine years ago she’d given birth to her son Richard, while her husband kept anxious vigil within the castle.

As the Countess of Chester dismounted, Petronilla darted out of the door of the great hall. “My lady countess, your visit pleases us greatly.” The formalities observed, she embraced Maud, brushing her cheek with a perfunctory kiss as she hissed in the other woman’s ear, “You must have come by way of Scotland, judging by how long you took!”

Maud looked at her in astonishment. So swiftly had she responded to the summons that she had celebrated Christmas on the road-no small sacrifice, in her opinion. She did not take Petronilla seriously enough to be genuinely vexed with her, though, and she contented herself with saying mildly, “I would have been here much sooner if only I’d known how to fly.”

Petronilla did not look amused. The truth was that neither woman liked the other one very much, and Maud knew Eleanor’s sister must be despairing indeed to turn to her for help. Sending her ladies and her escort into the hall, she stopped Petronilla when she would have followed. “We’ll have no privacy inside. Tell me now why you are so fearful for the queen.”

“Eleanor is forty-four years of age and this will be her tenth time in the birthing chamber,” Petronilla said waspishly. “I should think that would be reason enough!”

“Yes, I would agree… if not for the fact that Woodstock is but five miles away.”

Petronilla had hoped to ease into the subject. “God Above, is there anyone left in England who does not know about that Clifford slut? How did you hear?”

Maud gave a half-shrug. “There has been talk for some months.”

“If you knew, why did you not tell Eleanor?”

Maud stared at her. “You were the one who told Eleanor? Christ on the Cross, Petra!”

Petronilla blushed. “She had a right to know. People had begun to snicker behind her back, and Eleanor could never abide that.”

“And did it never occur to you that the timing might leave something to be desired?”

Petronilla’s flush deepened. “I find your sarcasm offensive. I did not expect her to go running off to England!”

Maud bit her lip, figuratively and literally. What good did this serve? What was done was done. “Be that as it may, she did. I take it that she went to Woodstock and confronted the girl?”

Petronilla nodded. “Although I am not sure if confrontation is the right term for it. She said not a word to the little bitch, Maud, not a word! And since then, she has refused to talk about it at all.” Her shoulders slumped, the anger draining away. “I have never seen Eleanor like this, never. When she is wroth, the whole world knows it. Mayhap it is because of the babe… I only know that I would feel much more at ease if she were screaming and ranting and vowing to geld Harry with a dull spoon. This frozen silence of hers… it frightens me.”

It troubled Maud, too. But before she could respond, a door slammed and a young girl came flying down the steps. “Cousin Maud, I am so very glad to see you!”

“And can this be Tilda? I vow, child, you get prettier every time I see you.” Enfolding the girl in an affectionate embrace, Maud saw Petronilla signaling frantically that nothing should be said in front of Tilda, and she wondered, not for the first time, how Eleanor could have been cursed with a sister so lacking in common sense. She was genuinely pleased to see the child, for she’d stood godmother to Tilda. Keeping her arm around Tilda’s slender shoulders, she headed for the warmth of the great hall, leaving Petronilla to follow or not, as she chose.

The hearth had burned low, providing little heat or light. Maud wasted no time summoning a servant, for it was faster to do it herself. Reaching for the fire tongs, she quickly rekindled the flames.

Eleanor watched with an oblique smile that was more ironic than amused, knowing full well that Maud would soon be prodding the embers of her marriage for signs of life, too. “So what now? How do you intend to exorcise my demons?”

Maud sighed. “Could you at least let me thaw out ere you throw down the gauntlet?”

“You’ll forgive me if my manners are ragged around the edges, Maud.” Adding a laconic, “ Pregnancy will do that to a woman.”

“So will an unfaithful husband.” Eleanor’s head jerked around, her eyes suddenly as green and glittering as any cat’s, but Maud staved off her rebuke with an upraised hand. “I ask you to hear me out, for the love I bear you as my queen, my cousin by marriage, and my friend,” she said quietly. “As you clearly guessed, I am here in answer to Petra’s summons. But I would have come on my own, ready to staunch the bleeding or to…” She paused very deliberately. “… plot regicide.”

Eleanor said nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, and Maud took that as a good sign. “I know about Harry’s dalliance with the Clifford girl. If you want to talk about it, whatever you say will go no farther than this chamber. If you do not want to talk, I’ll say no more on it.”

“I do not.”

Maud inclined her head. “As you wish.”

Eleanor did not trouble to mask her skepticism. “Since when are you so biddable?”

“I have more than my share of failings-or so I’ve been told,” Maud said dryly. “But for all of my indiscretions, I am never indiscreet.” Thinking it a pity that the same could not be said for Petronilla.

“Petra meant well,” Eleanor said, and Maud acknowledged her mind-reading with a wry smile. For a time there was no sound in the chamber but the hissing and crackling of the fire. Maud studied the other woman covertly through her lashes, not liking what she found. Eleanor’s skin was a waxen white, almost transparent, a pulse throbbing erratically at her temple, another at her throat, deeply etched evidence of exhaustion in the taut set of her mouth, in the furrows on her brow, and most conspicuously in the lurking shadows under her eyes, the bruises of the sleep-starved. Ah, Harry, what have you done?

She let Eleanor control the conversation and they talked of the latest rumors to spill out of the queen’s restive homeland: that the Counts of Angouleme and La Marche were supposedly conspiring to disavow Henry and offer their allegiance to the French king. Maud was not surprised when Eleanor complained caustically about the difficulties she’d encountered as regent during Henry’s extended stay in England that past year. She did not doubt that Eleanor was genuinely concerned about the spreading discontent in her domains, but her political grievances were stoked now by private pain, and Maud could think of few fuels more combustible than a sense of humiliation and betrayal.

Eleanor was fuming about a petition recently circulated at the papal court by some of the more disaffected Poitevin barons. They’d actually dared to claim that their duchess’s marriage to the Angevin interloper was invalid because she and Henry were distant cousins, reminding His Holiness that these were the very grounds for dissolving her union with the French king. There was no chance that the Pope would heed their appeal, but Eleanor was infuriated by their effrontery, by the very suggestion that she was subservient to Henry’s will. Maud listened and murmured sympathetic agreement where appropriate, all the while wishing that the wronged wife could speak as candidly as the aggrieved queen.

It was then that they were interrupted by Eleanor’s daughter. Tilda was apologetic yet insistent, entreating her mother to help her write to her grandmother, the Empress Maude. She was being tutored in German, she explained to Maud, for that was the tongue of her husband-to-be, and it had occurred to her that the Empress might be pleased to receive a letter in the language of her long-gone youth. Maud understood what the girl was really seeking-some rare time alone with her mother-and excused herself.

This must have been a wretched Christmas for poor little Tilda. The child was probably anxious about her new life looming in Germany, and at ten, she was old enough to sense her mother’s profound unhappiness, old enough, too, to understand some of the gossip she’d inevitably overheard. Maud gave her a quick hug as she headed for the door, hoping that Tilda would find more happiness at the German court than her grandmother the empress had.

As soon as she stepped out into the stairwell, she was pounced upon by Petronilla. “At last! Well? Did Eleanor talk to you about Harry and his whore?”

“No, she did not.”

“Hellfire and all its furies! I was so sure she’d confide in you..” Giving Maud a look of unspoken yet unmistakable reproach, Petronilla slipped her arm through the other woman’s. “Let’s hope you have better luck later. Now we need to find a quiet place where you can tell me exactly what you said to her.”

“Are you sure you do not want to hide under Eleanor’s bed the next time we talk?”

Petronilla was too worried to feel resentment. “I know you think I’m meddling, but it tears at my soul to see Eleanor so stricken and to be unable to ease her heart. First she put her own life and the babe’s at risk with that foolhardy journey to Woodstock, and now she shuts me out, unwilling to share her hurt. Thank God Almighty that Harry did not follow her to England! In her present state of mind, who knows what she might have said to him. At least they’ll have this time apart so her rage can cool.”

Maud stopped so abruptly on the stairs that she nearly lost her balance. Jesus wept, was the woman serious? Nothing could be worse for the marriage than time apart. How could Petra be so blind? But she had no chance to respond, for a door banged above them and Tilda’s frightened cry froze both women in their tracks.

“Aunt Petra, hurry!”

Tilda was hovering in the doorway, staring in horror at the wet stain spreading rapidly across her mother’s skirt. One glance was enough for Maud. Giving the girl a gentle push, she said with quiet, compelling urgency, “You need not fear, lass. Her waters have broken, that’s all. You’d best fetch the midwife straightaway.” Tilda took off and Maud moved swiftly into the chamber, pausing only long enough to close the door. Petronilla was already kneeling at her sister’s side.

“Jesu, Eleanor! Why did you not tell us that your pains had begun?” Eleanor grimaced, her eyes meeting Maud’s over Petronilla’s bowed head. “They had not,” she said, sounding edgy and out of breath. “The waters have broken too soon.”

Although no one acknowledged it, fear was a palpable presence in the birthing chamber. Eleanor’s labor had begun the evening after the premature rupture of her membranes. A day later, the contractions were coming sharp and short, agonizing but ineffective, for she should have been almost fully dilated by now and she was not.

Beset by bouts of nausea, Eleanor could not swallow the honey and wine she needed to keep her strength up; even water sometimes made her gag. By turns, she shivered violently and then broke out in a cold sweat. They felt the sharp edge of her tongue as the hours dragged by, enduring her outbursts with a stoicism that could not completely camouflage their misgivings. They were all veterans of the birthing chamber, familiar with the instinctive panic that could overwhelm a woman who knew she must either deliver her babe or die.

It was, Maud thought grimly, the ultimate trap, and a woman in hard labor did not even have the option that a snared animal did, of chewing off its own foot to make a desperate escape. The Church’s position was unambiguous and immutable: if necessary, the mother must be sacrificed to spare the child. Fortunately for women, they were attended in the birthing chamber by midwives, not priests, and Maud had never known one who would not act first to save the mother.

Eleanor was vomiting again, tended by her sister with so much tenderness that Maud could almost forgive her. For one so given to posturing and frivolity, Petronilla was surprisingly capable in a crisis, showing flashes of tempered steel beneath the superficial surface gloss. Maud reminded herself that the self-indulgent Petra had endured more than her share of sorrows-the loss of an adored father, a beloved husband, and an only son, stricken with that most feared of all mortal ailments, leprosy. She was not about to lose a sister, too, not as long as she had breath in her body, and she was winning Maud’s grudging admiration, both for her demeanor and her gritty determination to banish the shadow of death from the birthing chamber.

Bertrade had taken a short break, was just emerging from the corner privy chamber. Her face was blank, for she was too experienced to reveal her own anxieties or dread. Her fatigue she could not hide, however, and she seemed to have aged years in these post-Christmas hours. Untidy black hair defied its pins, revealing a smattering of grey that Maud had never noticed before, and there was such a prominent slump to her shoulders that her body was conveying her distress more eloquently than words could have done. Eleanor was caught up in another contraction, and Maud took advantage of the moment to draw Bertrade aside.

“Why is the mouth of her womb not open by now?” she asked quietly, the low, even pitch of her voice belied by the fingers digging into Bertrade’s arm. “She has always delivered her babies more easily than this.”

“When a woman gives birth again and again, her womb can become weak and feeble. I’ve also seen this happen when the waters break too soon, but I do not know why.”

Maud had learned that midwives, like doctors, were usually loath to admit their lack of knowledge, and she would have given Bertrade credit for her candor if it were not Eleanor in travail. “In all the birthings I’ve witnessed, the waters were either clear or light reddish in color. Eleanor’s were dark, a murky greenish brown. What does that mean?”

Bertrade glanced across the chamber at the woman writhing on the birthing stool, then dropped her voice so her words barely reached Maud’s ear. “I am not sure, my lady. I’ve seen it but rarely. It can mean that the babe will be stillborn.”

Maud was expecting as much. “If she cannot deliver the child, what will you do?”

Bertrade could not repress a superstitious shiver. Why tempt fate? But she was not about to rebuke the Countess of Chester, the king’s cousin, and she said reluctantly, “There are herbs I can give her, dittany and hyssop and others. Or I can make a pessary with bull’s gall, iris juice, and oil, and that will usually expel a dead child. God Willing, it will not come to that.”

“God Willing,” Maud echoed dutifully, keeping to herself her blasphemous thought that the Almighty too often seemed deaf to prayers coming from the birthing chamber. Just then Eleanor cried out, an involuntary, choked sob that sounded as if it were torn from her throat. Maud had attended three of Eleanor’s birthings and never had she heard her scream like that. The Latin words came unbidden to her lips, so soft and slurred that only Bertrade heard.

“O infans, siue viuus, aut mortuus, exi foras, quia Christus te vocat ad lucem.”

The midwife looked at her intently. “What does that mean, Lady Maud?”

Maud swallowed with difficulty. “It is a prayer for a child whose birthing goes wrong. ‘O infant, whether living or dead, come forth because Christ calls you to the light.’ ”

Bertrade nodded slowly. “Amen,” she said succinctly, and moved in a swirl of skirts back to Eleanor’s side.

Eleanor had been clutching an eagle-stone amulet, most valued of all the talismans said to succor women in childbed. When her grip loosened, it slipped through her fingers onto the floor. With a dismayed gasp, Petronilla dropped to her knees and scrabbled about in the matted, sodden rushes until she’d recovered it. Pressing it back into her sister’s palm, she clasped Eleanor’s hand around the stone and hissed in her ear, “You must not die. You must hold on, you hear me? You cannot let that little whore of Harry’s win!”

Eleanor’s eyes were like sunken caverns, so tightly was the skin stretched across her cheekbones. To Petronilla’s horror, that familiar face had begun to resemble an alabaster death mask, and she warned hoarsely, “If you die, I swear I’ll kill you!”

The other women looked at her as if they feared her wits were wandering. But that was a childhood joke between them, and Eleanor’s cracked, bleeding lips twitched in acknowledgment of it. “I am not going to die, Petra… not today.”

Petronilla’s eyes blurred. “You promise?”

Eleanor nodded wordlessly, saving her strength for all that mattered now-survival. Bertrade was patting her face with a wet cloth, murmuring encouragements and reassurances that it would not be much longer and she must not lose heart. Eleanor knew that most childbed deaths occurred when the woman gave up, for there came a time when dying was easier than any of the alternatives. But she would not be one of them. She would rid her body of this alien intruder, this intimate enemy begotten by betrayal. She would not die so Harry’s child might live. And that the child was also hers seemed of small matter when measured against the desolation that had claimed every corner of her soul.

He was born as midnight drew nigh, bruised and blue, a small, feeble shadow of the brothers who’d come before him. They had squalled lustily, kicking and squirming as they were cleansed of their mother’s blood and mucus. He gave only a muted, querulous cry, as if to complain at his unceremonious, discordant entry into their world. The birth of a son was usually a cause for celebration. But this one was an afterthought, the fourth son, needed neither as heir nor spare.

After they’d assured themselves that he was whole and breathing, the women turned their attention to Eleanor, for she still had to expel the afterbirth, and that was often the most dangerous time of all. Bertrade had prepared a yarrow poultice and mixed a flagon of wine with boiled artemisia should Eleanor begin to hemorrhage; she also put aside a lancet and basin, in case the queen’s flooding must be stopped by bleeding her. She felt blessed, indeed, when none of these remedies were needed. After swallowing salted water, Eleanor groaned and twisted upon the birthing stool and the placenta splattered into Bertrade’s waiting hands. Hastily putting it aside for burial later lest it attract demons, the midwife rubbed her temples, leaving streaks of blood midst the sweat. “Well done, Madame,” she said proudly. “Well done!”

The baby balked at being bathed and then swaddled, but he was in practiced hands and was soon turned over to Rohese, the waiting wet-nurse. She, too, was experienced and had no difficulty in getting him to suckle. “How black his hair is,” she marveled. “Blacker than sin itself.” She had nursed several of Eleanor’s infants and could not help commenting upon the dramatic contrast between the other babies, sun-kissed and robust and golden, and this undersized, fretful, dark imp. None of the women responded to her chatter and she lapsed into a subdued silence, sensing tensions in the chamber that had naught to do with a difficult birth.

By the time Eleanor’s chaplain was allowed entry into this female sanctorum, she had been bathed and put to bed, although the women were hovering nearby to make sure she did not sleep yet, for all knew the danger that posed to new mothers. She accepted the priest’s congratulations with exhausted indifference, rousing herself to meet the minimum demands of courtesy and protocol, when all she wanted was to spiral down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

At the priest’s urging, the wet-nurse produced the infant for his inspection. “A fine lad,” he beamed. “If you wish, I will write to the king this very night. How pleased he will be to hear he has another son. Madame… the chapel is ready for the baptism. What name have you chosen for the babe?”

Eleanor did not seem to have heard his query and he cleared his throat, asked again. She regarded him in silence, and he fidgeted under the power of those slanting hazel eyes, bloodshot and swollen and utterly opaque.

It was Maud who came to his rescue. Taking the child from Rohese, she said briskly, “Since today is the saint’s day of John the Evangelist, let’s name him John.”

The priest looked relieved to have this settled. “Does that meet with your approval, Madame?”

Eleanor nodded and Maud handed the baby back to the wet-nurse. It occurred to Rohese then that the queen had yet to ask for the infant, and she moved, smiling, toward the bed. “Would you like to hold him, Madame?”

Eleanor turned her head away without answering.