The Autumn Throne (57 page)

That night she slept in a large bed piled with swansdown mattresses and dressed with the finest linen sheets, Joanna one side of her and Richenza the other. Her slumber was deep and dark, without dreams. She was slow to wake in the morning and stiff because she had barely moved all night. Richenza was already up and about, but Joanna was still abed and slow to her own stirring. She gave Alienor a sleepy smile and yawned widely like a cat.

‘I think there must have been something in the wine last night,’ Alienor said, opening and closing her right hand to restore feeling because she had been lying on the limb all night.

‘I woke up to use the pot and you never stirred. The child was restless and kept me awake.’ Joanna flapped aside the covers, and as she left the bed Alienor noticed a few fresh red blood spots on the back of her chemise, and a small mark on the sheet.

Joanna turned at Alienor’s murmur of concern and the daylight from an open shutter shone through her fine linen chemise and illuminated her swollen belly.

‘I think we should send for the midwife and the physician,’ Alienor said gently so as not to alarm her. ‘There is a little blood on your chemise.’

Joanna twisted and grasped the back of the garment to look at the marks.

‘Are
you in pain?’

‘No, Mama.’ She lifted the garment to reveal a few further smears on her upper thighs and staining her pubic hair. ‘It happened before, two days ago, but it was like this and only a little.’

The physician and the midwife arrived and gently examined Joanna. The former studied a sample of her urine and declared her to be healthy but that a tisane of camomile in wine would be advisable for her to drink. By now the bleeding had stopped and Joanna, although a little puzzled and anxious, was not in discomfort. Both the physician and the midwife were confident that the baby was alive and vigorous.

While Joanna took a warm, prescribed bath in salt water, Alienor drew the midwife, Dame Hortense, to one side and demanded more detail.

‘It is too soon to tell, madam,’ said the woman with careful neutrality. ‘It depends upon the Countess of Toulouse’s progress from now until the birth. She should rest in bed for a few days and not do anything to exert herself.’

‘What do you mean “too soon to tell” – to tell what?’

The midwife folded her hands. ‘Madam, the child is lying sideways, but there is time for him to turn. It usually happens, but …’ She hesitated. ‘But many times when a child lies sideways, there is bleeding before the birth.’

Alienor’s stomach flipped with fear. ‘And if the child does not turn?’

Dame Hortense’s brown eyes were steady and compassionate. ‘If all is well then the child will turn of his own accord and will be born living and breathing, but the spots of blood indicate that the Countess may bleed a lot at the birth and should be nourished and cared for so that she is strong.’

‘And if all is not well?’

The woman’s shoulders tightened, but she continued to hold Alienor’s gaze. ‘Then the bleeding will worsen and when true labour begins only a miracle will save the Countess and her child.’

Chills shivered
up and down Alienor’s spine. ‘Leave me,’ she commanded. ‘That is enough. Go.’

The midwife curtseyed and left, followed by the physician. Composing herself, Alienor went to Joanna who had just stepped from the bath. Her hair was piled on her head in two heavy bronze-brown plaits, and small, wet strands curled at the nape of her neck. Her breasts were round and full, her belly too, of life … and potential death.

‘Well,’ said Joanna with a strained smile, ‘I can now be utterly lazy and not be castigated for it. You must all come and fete me at my bedside.’

Alienor forced a smile in return. ‘Just because you have to stay in bed does not mean you cannot sew and dictate letters, my girl. I intend to keep you very busy.’

Joanna made a face at her and laughed. ‘I suppose not. In truth such work will keep me from becoming bored. I had better write to my husband, wherever he is, and let him know.’

‘Indeed, it should be your first task. Come, I will dress your hair.’ Alienor picked up an ivory comb from Joanna’s toilet items.

‘I always loved it when you combed my hair when I was a little girl,’ Joanna said as she sat down to let Alienor work. ‘You were better than any of the maids.’

‘Yes, you would have sat for ever if I had let you.’

Alienor’s throat tightened as she worked on Joanna’s thick tresses, shining with life. They were nowhere near the magnificence of Richenza’s blazing wildfire, but still truly beautiful, and Alienor was filled with terror and the desire to protect her daughter, while knowing that everything was in God’s hands.

The blood spotting continued intermittently over the next few days, and by the time a week had passed it was clear that the symptoms were not easing and indeed the flow had become greater despite the bedrest and warm baths that had been prescribed. Dame Hortense was reassuring and comforting when she visited Joanna, but when not facing her patient her
expression was increasingly anxious. The baby remained sideways and showed no signs of turning, and it was becoming too late for that to happen.

In the second week, with no improvement, Alienor came with Dame Hortense to Joanna’s bedside. Sitting down on the coverlet, Alienor took her daughter’s hand in hers. ‘We have something to tell you, something I wish did not have to be said, but you must be forewarned and prepared.’

Joanna looked between them, alarm blossoming in her eyes.

Dame Hortense curtseyed. ‘Madam, the child is lying sideways in your womb. His head his here’ – she indicated Joanna’s left-hand side – ‘and his feet here. The way he is lying is causing you to bleed.’

As the words sank in, Joanna’s alarm increased. ‘Can the baby not be turned round?’

‘It would be very difficult at this stage, madam, and unlikely to succeed.’

‘But if the child is not turned, then how will it be born?’ Joanna looked at her mother.

Alienor squeezed her hand. ‘You must pray to God Almighty and to the Holy Virgin and St Margaret, patron of women in travail.’

Joanna swallowed. ‘You are telling me I am doomed,’ she whispered. ‘If the baby cannot be born, then he will die, and I will die with him. I cannot give him life, that is what you are saying.’

‘Nothing is certain, my love,’ Alienor said, ‘but you must prepare for the possibility and that is why we have told you – so you may set your affairs in order.’

Joanna put her hand to her womb and touched the area where the midwife had shown her the baby’s head. ‘But there is nothing you can do.’

‘I will stay with you, I promise.’ Alienor did not think her heart could break into any smaller pieces than it had done when she lost Richard, but she had been wrong. Just now it was being pulverised. ‘You will never be alone.’ She pulled
Joanna into her arms and held her tightly as if she could protect and shield her by such an act.

That night as she lay beside Joanna in bed, neither of them sleeping, Joanna, who had been holding a cross in her hands throughout the day and was still gripping it now, said softly to Alienor, ‘If this is to be my end, then I wish to die as a nun of Fontevraud. I wish to take the veil.’

Alienor sat up and gazed at Joanna in the glow from the lamp above the bed. Joanna had insisted they keep a light burning because light meant life. Fear glistened in her daughter’s eyes, and determination jutted her chin.

‘I want to be closer to God, Mama. I want His light to shine on me when I die, and if I am a bride of Christ it will help my cause. Certainly I can no longer be a wife to my husband.’ A single tear rolled down her cheek.

‘You will need your husband’s permission to take the veil,’ Alienor said, being practical through her shock. ‘Is he likely to give it?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘I do not know, but I have to hope. It will be best for the child too, because it will convey status upon him whether he lives or dies.’ Her chin trembled. ‘I understand there is a small chance they may save him even if they can do nothing for me. Summon the scribes, Mama, and I will write to him now.’

Alienor looked at her askance. ‘It is the middle of the night.’

Joanna’s mouth twisted. ‘Soon enough it will not matter. Who knows how many more days I have?’ She set her lips. ‘I will write to the Abbess at Fontevraud too because her dispensation is necessary, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. You may go back to sleep if you wish, Mama; this need not concern you.’

‘Of course it concerns me,’ Alienor snapped, angry now. ‘I do not know how many tomorrows I have either. If you cannot sleep, then better this than lying awake and counting the hours.’

She summoned more light and gave orders. A bleary scribe
arrived, stumbling, his hair sticking out around the edges of his coif which was tied askew. Alienor gave him some of her own wine to drink and opened the window so that the fresh air would awaken him further. Outside the night was black and still, a blanket of cloud smothering the stars.

The scribe sat down at a small lectern and, opening one of the wax tablets he had brought with him, reached up for the brass stylus that was tucked behind his ear.

Joanna dictated two letters, one to her husband and one to the Abbess of Fontevraud, begging to be allowed to take the veil. A third was sent to Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, with the same request. The scribe would make fair copies which would be impressed with her personal seal and sent out at dawn.

Still she was not ready to lie down. ‘I need to make my will,’ she said, ‘so that my wishes are clear.’

A small sound of grieving protest escaped Alienor’s throat before she pressed her lips together. She gave Joanna a fierce hug and sat staunchly beside her as point by point her daughter disposed of her worldly goods. A thousand marks went to Fontevraud. Her personal jewels she left to her son for his eventual wife save for a red belt sewn with small golden lions that was for Richenza.

Finally, as dawn broke over the Rouen skyline, she was finished. Eyes blue-circled, Joanna attended mass and confession, and at last, wrung out and exhausted, curled up on the bed, fighting sleep. ‘Watch over me,’ she whispered. ‘I am so afraid.’

‘Always, my love, always. You are my dearest daughter and I have so sworn.’

Exhausted herself, Alienor held Joanna’s hand until her daughter finally succumbed and slept. Alienor got into bed with her and folded her in her arms. She felt the baby kick against her, and had to suppress the howl of grief that rose out of her very core.

*  *  *

Joanna retreated
within herself, and despite everyone’s attentiveness and the spiritual comfort of her chaplains her eyes stared with fear because she knew she had but a short time to live and could not contemplate the notion of no longer being in the world. Not to taste food and wine, not to see the sky or the changing seasons. No winter for her, no Christmas feast. She would never see her little boy grow up, and the child in her womb was almost certainly doomed.

A fortnight later a messenger arrived with a letter from her husband, furious that she should speak of taking the veil and refusing his permission. He wanted her in the world, not removed from it and him. She should never have run off to her kin in the first place and it was no good making bargains with God now.

‘He can still be overridden,’ Alienor said. ‘The Archbishop of Canterbury has granted a dispensation.’

‘I knew he would refuse,’ Joanna said, swallowing. ‘He does not understand. He thinks I am pretending. Dear God, I wish I was. Mama, when I … when I am gone, will you go to him and explain?’

Alienor had no wish to do so, but she took Joanna’s hand. ‘All will be settled as you wish. Of course I shall.’

Joanna swallowed. ‘He does love me in his own way,’ she whispered. ‘I do not want you to be angry with him.’

‘Do not worry; I will do what is necessary.’ She would not be angry with him, she would damn him, but she was not going to say that to Joanna. Let all be smooth for her on this terrible path.

‘I just want it to be over,’ Joanna whispered. ‘Waiting is the worst suffering. I wish I could have seen my husband and son one last time.’

‘I will let them know you were thinking of them.’ Keeping a steady voice at this time was one of the most difficult things Alienor had ever had to do. ‘That goes without saying.’

*  *  *

Two
days later, pale as a ghost, the blood flow a constant slow trickle, Joanna’s glorious ruddy-brown hair was shorn to her scalp in the manner of a nun. Garbed in a plain dark robe she was borne into Rouen Cathedral on a litter to take the veil in the presence of Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury. September sun shone through the windows upon the tomb slab of her eldest brother, and the new marker over the lead casket holding Richard’s embalmed heart. Her wedding ring was replaced with the gold band of a bride of Christ as she made her vows and was taken into the order of Fontevraud for the succour of her immortal soul.

It was over. Alienor had hoped against hope, like playing with loaded dice and thinking that they still might fall in her favour, that the physicians and midwives had been wrong, that by a miracle Joanna might survive the bleeding and the baby be born alive. But holding her dead daughter in her arms, she had to face the truth.

‘Why, God, why?’ she demanded, tears streaming down her face. Here she was, wrinkled, brittle, old, her bony arms clutching this beautiful young woman who should be alive. She put her head down on Joanna’s cold brow. The sheets concealed what they had done to her after she had died, cutting open her womb to remove the baby. It had been a little boy, perfectly formed. The midwife had claimed to see him breathe and he had been swiftly baptised Richard for his uncle. The woman had washed him and wrapped him in swaddling and placed him at his mother’s side. The room reeked of blood, thick and heavy even though the windows were wide open on the golden September morning. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Superimposed on this ghastly moment, Alienor imagined a different outcome with Joanna sitting up in bed, proudly showing off the pink newborn baby in her arms, and tears rolled down her cheeks and were lost in the wrinkled creases of her own enduring years.