When Christ and His Saints Slept (11 page)

“You read people like monks read books,” Stephen said admiringly, and agreed readily when she suggested they go to the castle chapel to pray for Maude and her child. Once there, though, he found himself assailed by conflicting urges. Maude’s claim to the crown would be strengthened if she gave birth to a son. For England’s sake, it might well be best if she birthed a lass. But as he approached the altar, he seemed to hear again Maude’s voice, “I want no daughters,” and after a brief struggle with his conscience, he knelt and offered up a prayer for Maude, that she should be blessed with a son.

WHEN
the pains got too bad, Minna and the midwife urged her to scream, but Maude would not do it. Instead, she stifled her cries by biting down on the corner of a towel. It made no sense to her that she could be shivering and sweating at the same time. The midwife insisted, however, that nothing was amiss. She’d been worried, she confessed, about Lady Maude’s water breaking so soon, for that might well have prolonged the birthing. But the pains were coming sharp and strong, and the mouth of her womb was opening as it ought. It would not be much longer.

Maude tilted her head so Minna could spoon honey into her mouth, fighting back her queasiness. “You said…,” she panted, “said it would take about twelve hours…”

“Most often that is so, my lady,” the midwife said, and then grinned. “But this babe of yours is not willing to wait!”

When Minna briefly opened the shutters, Maude caught a glimpse of the darkening sky. Night was coming on. The women did what they could to ease her suffering, gave her feverfew in wine, fed her more honey to keep her strength up, brought a chamber pot when she had need of it, blotted away her sweat, cleaned up her bloody discharge, prepared a yarrow poultice in case she began to bleed heavily, and prayed to St Margaret and the Blessed Virgin for mother and child.

In the distance, a church bell was pealing. Was it a “passing bell” tolling the death of a parishioner? A bell to welcome into the world a new Christian soul? Or was it the sound of Compline being rung? Maude had lost all track of time. And then the midwife gave a triumphant cry, “I see the head!”

Hastily pouring thyme oil into the palms of her hands, she knelt in the floor rushes at Maude’s feet, gently massaging the baby’s crown. Maude braced herself upon the birthing stool, groaning. The contractions no longer came in waves; she was caught up in a flood tide, unable to catch her breath or reach the shore. A voice was warning her not to bear down anymore. Hands were gripping hers, and she clung tightly, scoring Minna’s flesh with her nails. Her eyes were squeezed shut. When she opened them again, she saw her child, wet head and shoulders already free, squirming between her thighs into the midwife’s waiting hands.

“Almost there, my lady, almost…” Maude shuddered and jerked, then sagged back on the birthing stool. “Glory to God!” The jubilant midwife held up the baby, red and wrinkled and still bound to Maude’s body by a pulsing, blood-filled cord. “A son,” she laughed, “my lady, you have a son!”

IT
was over. The afterbirth had been expelled. Maude had been cleaned up and put to bed. The women had bathed her son, swaddled him in soft linen, and called in the wet nurse to suckle him. Maude struggled not to fall asleep, for they’d warned her it was dangerous so soon after the birth. But she must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes again, Geoffrey was standing by the bed.

He was smiling, and after a moment’s hesitation, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You have given me a fine, robust son,” he said. “You ought to be proud.”

“I am,” she said. “Where is he? I want to see him.”

Minna emerged from the shadows, beaming, and laid a swaddled bundle in Maude’s arms. “Lord Geoffrey is right, my lady. He is a fine little lad.”

The baby was bigger than Maude had expected, and seemed to be a sound sleeper. His skin was not as red now, or as puckered. Maude touched his cheek with her finger, and it was like stroking silk. She was intrigued to see how much hair he had. Even by candlelight, it held unmistakably coppery glints.

“He looks like you,” she said, and Geoffrey peered intently into his son’s small face.

“You think so?” he asked, sounding pleased. “Maude, the priest says he ought to be christened as soon as possible. I think we’d best have it done on the morrow.”

Maude nodded. She was finding it harder and harder to stay awake, but she was not yet ready to relinquish her son, even for a few hours. “I suppose you still want to name him Fulk, after your father,” she said drowsily.

Geoffrey looked at her, then at the baby. “Well…no,” he said, and Maude’s lashes fluttered upward in surprise. “I know we’ve been quarreling over names, but I’ve changed my mind. You can name him, Maude. I think you’ve earned the right.”

Maude did, too. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled sleepily at her husband and son. The baby chose that moment to open his eyes, and startled them both by letting out a loud, piercing wail. They looked so nonplussed that the midwife and wet nurse started to laugh. And it was then that Minna opened the door and ushered Robert, Ranulf, Stephen, and Matilda into the bedchamber.

Maude was not a woman to find humor in chaos. But for once she did not care about decorum or dignity. Cradling her screaming little son, she said happily, “Come closer so you can hear over his shrieks. I want to present Henry, England’s future king.”

4

London, England

April 1135

I
T
had been a day of chill winds and random rain showers, a day that had offered but one wan glimpse of the sun and not even a hint of coming spring. An oppressive, damp early dusk had settled over the city, and by the time Sybil neared the river, she was cursing herself for having mislaid her lantern, for the night sky was starless and the narrow, twisting streets were deep in shadow. Ahead lay the bridge. As she approached it, church bells began to toll; off to the west, St Martin Le Grand was chiming the curfew. Sybil swore under her breath, quickening her step, for the city gates would now be closing.

Fortunately, the guards were young, and she won their sympathy with a pretty smile, a lie about seeking a leech for her fevered child. She was the last one allowed through the gate, out onto the bridge.

The wind was gusting, the river surging against the wooden pilings, and Sybil was thankful when she reached the far shore. Turning west along the priory wall of St Mary Overy, she headed toward the Bankside. Londoners took pride in their city’s ancient past, stretching back a thousand years to Londinium, capital of Roman Britain. Southwark’s history was more obscure, but Sybil suspected that it, too, had existed then, luring Roman soldiers across the river to drink, gamble, and sin. Long before Norman-French adventurers followed William the Bastard into his newly conquered kingdom, Southwark was notorious, a haven for fugitives and felons and those seeking whores, ale, or trouble.

Southwark, be it Roman, Saxon, or Norman, was no safe place for a woman alone, even in broad daylight, and now, with the curfew bells still echoing across the river and every alleyway black as pitch, every door bolted against thieves and drunken knaves, Sybil hastened along the Bankside, keeping to the center of the street, for she knew the shadows hid watching eyes.

Had it been daylight, the Bankside would have been teeming with raucous, ribald life—with peddlers, beggars, sailors from the quays, pickpockets on the prowl, prostitutes too old or ailing for the bawdy-houses, foraging dogs, hissing geese, even a stray pig or two. Now the street was deserted, mired in mud and strewn with rotting garbage. Detecting movement from the corner of her eye, Sybil whirled as a scrawny grey cat scuttled under a broken wagon wheel. “Fiend take me,” she said ruefully, “if my nerves are not on the raw this night! How is it that you’re so stouthearted, Emma, whilst I’m so skittish?”

She got no answer, but did not expect one, for her daughter’s cheerful babble had yet to translate into recognizable words. Shifting the baby to her other hip, she swerved to avoid a deep, muddy rut in the road, and it was then that the men stepped from the shadows, barring her way.

“What is your hurry, sweeting?” The smile may have been meant to be ingratiating, but it emerged as a leer, and as he lurched toward her, Sybil caught the reek of cheap wine. She had already marked out the other man as the more dangerous of the two, and when he grabbed for her, she sidestepped, spun out of his grasp, and backed up against the closest wall.

He smirked. “Nowhere to run now, wench,” he gloated, and lunged, only to halt abruptly, blinking at sight of the slender blade that had suddenly materialized from under her cloak.

“I do not give away free samples!” she spat. “Put your stinking hands on me again and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig!”

“Bitch!” he snarled. But he kept his eyes on her knife, kept his distance.

His partner was peering at Sybil in bleary-eyed confusion, which slowly gave way to sheepish recognition. “Sybil…? A pox on us, Wat, she’s one of the doxies from the Cock!” The leer came back. “Sorry, lass, we just meant to have a bit of fun…”

“You still can,” she said coldly, “as long as you pay for it,” thinking all the while, Not in this life or the next, for they stank of sweat and grease and spilled wine, and her gorge rose at the thought of their dirty hands and foul breath in her bed. She knew better than to trust to the honour of thieves, and kept her knife out and at the ready as she circled around them. Her heart was thudding and her face flushed, but she moved at a deliberate pace, seeking to appear unafraid, for defiance had often proved to be as effective a weapon as her dagger in fending off rape. They shouted after her, making lewd offers and then obscene threats, all of which she ignored. But she did not sheathe her knife, not until she saw ahead the whitewashed wooden houses of the Southwark stews.

She’d heard it said that the brothels were whitewashed so they’d be easily visible to would-be customers on the other side of the river, and it was true that they stood out, even on a moonless night like this one. There were more than a dozen of these Bankside bordellos; unlike the protruding ale-stakes that hung over alehouses and taverns, the brothel names were painted right on the buildings, a crudely drawn crane or bell or crown. Passing the first three by, Sybil headed for the sign of the cock, slipping in a side door.

The kitchen was a contraband chamber, for bawdy-houses were prohibited from serving food or drinks. But like most of the laws intended to regulate Southwark’s sin industry, this one was sporadically enforced, and tonight the cook was stirring a savory beef-marrow broth in a large cauldron. Dragging her makeshift cradle toward the hearth, Sybil put her daughter to bed. After tucking in the blankets, she lingered, fishing out a freshly plucked goose feather for Emma to suck upon, loath as always to leave her child. But then Berta strode in. “You’re late, my girl—Jesú, not again! This is no fitting place for a babe, Sybil! How often do you have to hear it?”

Sybil was unimpressed by the bawd’s tirade; they both knew that she was the Cock’s star attraction. “A neighbor’s lass usually looks after Emma whilst I’m at work, but she was stricken with toothache. What would you have me do, Berta…leave a babe of seven months to fend for herself?”