Bella at Midnight (2 page)

Not until she had discussed the weather (it was uncommonly cold), her health (she had a terrible aching in the joints), Edward's house (it was ever so grand), and her journey there (she had lost her way; she had encountered beggars at the crossroads, filthy creatures who did not deserve one penny of her hard-earned money; she had twisted her ankle and fallen into the gutter and fouled her skirt most horribly), did she finally arrive at the subject of my sister's health. Though this was at least appropriate to the occasion, it proved to be even more intolerable.

“Now you need not fret, my lady,” she said with uncalled-for cheeriness while rubbing some oily, foul-smelling paste onto Catherine's swollen belly. “The babe is well presented, headfirst, just as we like it to be—because when they are turned around the other way, you see, feetfirst—well, that's bad. And sometimes they get wrapped up in the cord, poor little things, all strangled like. You are sure to lose the babe when that happens, and sometimes the mother, too, and there is naught anybody can do about it. But there's no sign of any of that here, my lady. No, no—not to worry! No need to worry at all. It just takes time—oh, my, yes! A good many hours with the first one—sometimes days! Why, there was this one poor lady who was in labor for nigh on a week, and—”

“Please!”
I cried. “Stop it! I will not hear another word!”

My rebuke appeared to astonish her, for her face went red with embarrassment and indignation. Still, she managed to hold her tongue after that (though sullenly) for a little while, at least. And a blessed relief it was, too.

Time passed slowly; it seemed an age before the matins bell chimed the midnight hour.

“A new day,” I said to Catherine, wiping her brow with a damp cloth.

“A new year!” added the midwife, who had recovered her spirits by then and was back to talking.

“So it is,” I agreed with a sigh. “I had forgot it.”

“And no common one, neither,” she said. “It marks a hundred years since we first went to war with Brutanna!”

“Aye,” I said. “I had forgot that, too. Not a thing to celebrate, though.”

“Oh, well, now, some say different! And if you think about it, my lady—a
hundred
years! Now that's
significant
, if you know what I mean. People say that God will send us a miracle now and bring the war to an end! There have been signs and portents!”

“What sort of signs?”

“Well, there was a farmer grew a turnip, looked exactly like the Blessed Virgin! That's one. And a calf off in Chesney was born with two heads!”

“Foolishness,” I said. “Freaks of nature.”

“Oh, no, my lady—they're signs! Everybody says so. There's going to be a great miracle. Surely you have heard the prophecy—it is on every tongue!”

“No,” I muttered, “I have not heard it.”

“Indeed! How very strange! Well, I shall tell you then. It is about the Worthy Knight—a great hero, you see, pure of heart and most virtuous. One day soon he will appear upon the battlefield, all of a sudden—in armor the color of snow. And instead of a helmet, they say, he will wear a halo of heavenly fire!” Here she demonstrated by waving her none-too-clean hands about her head while wiggling her fingers (presumably to suggest the flickering of flames). “And he won't carry a sword or a lance, neither, but
only the banner of peace
!” She raised her right arm and waved an imaginary banner. “And at the sight of him, all the soldiers will fall upon their knees and lay their weapons down. And
that
will be the end of the war!”

“Well,” I said, making the sign of the cross. “It is a pretty tale. God grant that it may be so. We could use a hero in these times.” And I meant it kindly, too, for all that the woman annoyed me. It was common folk such as her who suffered most of the death and destruction in wartime. No wonder they turned to superstition and miraculous stories.

Catherine cried out as another labor pain seized her.

“Merciful Lord,” I muttered, “will this never be over?”

“In good time, madam. In good time,” the midwife said, as though speaking to an impatient child. “All the same, it might be well to take out the pins from your sister's hair and let it lie free upon the pillow. Perhaps that will loosen things up a bit. And while you're at it, unplait your own hair, also.”

I did as she instructed and untied all the knots I could find. Then we called the housemaid and sent her out to open all the drawers and cupboards in the house. And, God be praised, just a few hours later, as first dawn began to light the room and I was putting out the candles, Catherine was delivered safely of a baby girl.

I fell upon my knees and thanked Our Heavenly Father for bringing my sister through her hour of peril. Then I bathed the child myself with salt and warmed water, wiped her dry, and rubbed her all over with rose oil till she glowed a healthy pink and was as fragrant as a summer bouquet. I put a dollop of honey into her mouth so that she would nurse heartily and grow strong. Then I wrapped her tight in clean linen, which sweet Catherine had embroidered along the hem with tiny blossoms, and carried her out to Edward.

“Catherine is well,” I told him joyfully, “and here is your new daughter.”

As you might expect, he was sore disappointed that she was not a boy. Indeed, he scarcely even looked at her. But he was most grateful that his wife had survived her ordeal and went in to her straightaway.

That night Catherine developed a fever. A physician was called, and he bled her and gave her some powders. But neither seemed to do her any good—in truth, she seemed somewhat weaker after his visit than she was before. Edward stayed at her side all that night and would not let me near her.

I roused the cook and bid her warm some cow's milk over the fire. Then I took a clean cloth and soaked a corner of it in the milk and touched it to the baby's lips. At first she turned her face away angrily, but she was so hungry that soon she was sucking at it mightily.

“In the morning you must find a wet nurse for the child,” the cook said.

“That is Sir Edward's prerogative, not mine,” I answered, dipping the rag in the warm milk again. “He would not like for me to interfere in a matter of such importance—though I suppose, things being as they are, it would not hurt to find someone to fill in, just for a while.”

And so the following day, I asked around and was directed pretty quickly to a butcher's wife who had just buried a child and still had plenty of milk. She agreed to come and nurse our little babe until my sister was better and a permanent choice could be made.

But the next day Catherine was worse. I could not bear that Edward kept me away, for I know I could have comforted her. At the very least I might have told her good-bye and laid the child in her arms one last time.

But he barred the door and stayed in there three long days. He would not allow Cook to bring in food. He would not even answer when we pounded upon the door. Only on the fourth day did he come out. Catherine had been dead all that time. It was well that it was winter, for had the room been warm, her body would have begun to stink. I do not think I could have borne it.

Throughout that dark time, the child was never mentioned and little thought of, except by me. It was only after the funeral that I dared speak of her at all.

“Edward,” I said, “I know it is hard to think of such things when we are all so brokenhearted—but should we not gather the godparents now and take the babe to the priest to be christened?”

“Just take her away,” he said.

“I will carry her home with me, then, if you like. I would be right glad to do that.”

He rose to his feet of a sudden and strode over to where I stood with my back against the wall. He leaned down over me and breathed into my face. His expression was so wild, his eyes so piercing, I feared he might do me harm. But he only hissed—and I could feel drops of spittle upon my face as he spoke—“If I like? If I like? I would
like
you to
get her out of here
! I do not want that creature in this house, do you understand? Nor in
your
house, nor anywhere in this city! I will not breathe the same air she breathes!”

“Oh, Edward,” I stammered, “you must at least take her to the priest! You are obliged to do that much, surely—to look after her immortal soul!”

“Get out!”
he screamed.

And so I fled the room, my heart pounding, and hurried to the kitchen where Cook was minding the child. I gathered the wee thing in my arms and ran from that house as though fleeing from the devil.

I took her to the priest myself that very day and had her christened. I named her Isabel, after my mother, who is with the angels.

The next morning, accompanied by the butcher's wife, we set out with a small mule train in the direction of Burning Wood, Edward's country estate. It stands near to Castle Down, the great seat of the duke of Claren. And it was in the duke's village that I found a home for Isabel—in the house of a blacksmith by the name of Martin.

His wife, Beatrice, was a sensible woman, kind-hearted and clean. I liked her immensely, right from the start. And moreover, she was so well thought of in those parts that she had lately served as wet nurse to a
royal prince
!

Yes, I thought, this woman would do excellently well! And so it was with an easy mind that I left the child there, in that tidy little cottage, and returned home the next day.

I
s it not curious how noble folk are so eager to be rid of their children? I have seen it myself, for I have nursed two of their babes, one right after the other. Both of them came from the King's City—halfway across the country—and straight from the lying-in chamber, too!

Oh, I understand that great ladies do not nurse their own infants, any more than they wash them or dress them or change their dirty linen. And in the case of Isabel, of course, the poor mother was dead. But would you not think that the father, having lost his wife, would wish to keep his child close by, so that he might look in on her now and again, and take comfort from the sight of her? Surely there are nursemaids enough in the King's City.

But I ought not to judge my betters. They are highborn folk and educated, so if they think it wise to send their little ones away and leave them in the care of strangers, then I suppose it must be the right thing to do. And indeed, now that I think upon it, if those two precious babes had been kept at home, then Prince Julian and Isabel would never have met, and all the great and miraculous things that happened thereafter would not have taken place. I do not claim to understand such things, whether it was the wisdom of great folk or the hand of God that caused those events to unfold as they did. But surely all in the kingdom should be grateful for it.

Nineteen years ago, it was, that one of the ladies from the duke's household came to ask me to serve as nursemaid to little Prince Julian, the king's youngest babe. It seems the queen was not overly fond of rowdy boys always disturbing her peace and overturning the furniture. She already had three young princes running about the palace; four was one too many. And as the king's brother, the duke of Claren, had agreed to foster Julian and train him up to knighthood, the queen decided to send him to Castle Down straightaway, and not wait till he was seven, as is the common practice. That is why they were in need of a wet nurse, you see, here in the duke's village.

I told them I would be honored to serve the little prince, but I did not wish to go up and live at the castle. I had my own boy, Will, to look after, and my husband, Martin, too.

“It does not matter,” the lady said. “You may keep him here till he is weaned.”

Now this was another mystery: that they should allow a royal prince to live with the likes of
me
—a common peasant they would not suffer to sit down beside them at their own table! As if caring for their children and scrubbing their floors were much the same sort of thing!

Of course they
did
provide for the prince as was fitting—sending him all manner of embroidered blankets and lace-trimmed smocks and dear little bonnets to shade his eyes from the sun. And when he was old enough to eat a bit of porridge, he ate it from a silver dish with a silver spoon—but he ate it in a peasant cottage all the same.

Once he was weaned, Julian was taken back to Castle Down, where the women of the duke's household would see to his care. He cried when the ladies came for him, and no wonder—I was the only mother he had ever known. Yet they scolded him for weeping and called him an unmanly fellow—and he only three years old! It like to broke my heart!

We stood there in the yard, my boy, Will, and me, and watched as they carried our little prince up the lane toward the castle. I never will forget it, Julian looking back at us over the lady's shoulder, wailing and reaching out his little hand to bid us good-bye. There was naught we could do but wave back at him and throw kisses—oh, but it was dreadful sad!