The Fatal Crown (39 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING ALDYTH
appeared with a tankard of warm wine mixed with evil-smelling herbs. A crowd of twittering Angevin women followed on her heels.

“All is well, I hear,” she whispered to Maud, who lay in bed propped up against an army of pillows.

“How do you know?” Maud took the tankard and sipped it, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“Geoffrey’s squire told the steward who told the chef who told me that when the Count came into the great hall this morning to break his fast, he was singing! The castle folk have apparently taken this as an excellent omen. You should see them, my lady. Knowing winks, leering smiles, rude jests.” She pursed her lips in disapproval, watching the Angevin women unpack boxes and shake out garments.

Maud smiled. “Yes, the night was successful, thank the Holy Mother. Must I drink this witches’ brew?”

Aldyth sat down on the bed. “Indeed you must. This posset is very beneficial for women in your condition. By the Rood, I will light a special candle to Our Lady, who clearly has your welfare in mind.”

“One hurdle crossed and so many more still to go,” Maud whispered, pulling herself upright against the pillows. “The queasiness starting so early; then I will look six months big with child when I am only supposed to be five. “She took another sip of the wine. “Then the child will be born four weeks early and yet be of normal weight and appearance!” She clutched Aldyth’s hand. “How will I ever manage it?”

“Hush, my poppet,” Aldyth crooned, patting her hand. “You mustn’t upset yourself. We will trust the Holy Mother to help us, as she already has.” She smiled, stroking the damp tendrils of russet hair back from Maud’s forehead. “The first and biggest obstacle has been overcome, has it not?”

“Yes,” Maud sighed. The events of the previous night passed like a dream before her eyes. The unexpected tears, the impossible moment of madness when she had actually thought Geoffrey was Stephen—yet it had all worked wondrously to her advantage. “Yes,” she repeated. “My husband will not be surprised when I tell him I am with child in a month’s time.” She laid protective hands over her belly. “This will be a splendid son, I feel it in my bones.”

“You’re so sure it will be a boy?” Aldyth teased.

“Positive,” Maud responded, her eyes shining. “Think of it, Aldyth, born of a great love, the grandson of a mighty monarch, a great-grandson of the Conqueror on both sides! Oh, what a magnificent king he will be!”

Seven months later Maud sat in her solar playing a game of chess with Geoffrey, whom she had just backed into a corner. Her Angevin women sat grouped around the charcoal brazier embroidering linen garments for the babe that would be born in two months’ time, so they reckoned, and a huge child by the look of Maud’s belly at seven months. A trouvère from France gently strummed his lute in one corner of the large chamber as he sang a melodic
joi d’amour.
Outside, a February wind beat against the castle walls.

“You must give me a moment, Wife.” Geoffrey, chin in hand, bent his head over the silver and gilt chessboard set up on a low trestle table.

“Of course, my lord,” Maud replied, settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. The minstrel’s song was a favorite of Stephen’s, one he had often sung to her when they were alone.

“Some wine, Countess?” the Bishop of Angers’ voice broke into her thoughts.

A page stood in front of her with a silver pitcher of wine and a goblet.

“Not for me, but you have some,” she said, noting that the Bishop was staring at the chessboard with a slight frown on his face.

The Bishop shook his head, the frown deepening. Maud knew that His Grace of Angers considered chess both vain and sinful, as reprehensible as gambling. He had even warned both her and Geoffrey that too much chess might prevent them from going to heaven. But Holy Church only forbade clerics to play the game, so he could do no more than voice his disapproval.

“The Holy Roman Emperor actually taught you chess himself?” the Bishop asked Maud—for the third time in as many weeks.

“As I have already told Your Grace,” Maud replied, not at all put out, for the Bishop, despite his prejudices, had been a good friend to her. “My late husband was an expert—and he taught me from an early age so that one day I would offer him a real challenge.”

“I cannot concentrate, Wife, with all this chitchat,” Geoffrey said, his eyes flicking over the gold and ivory chessmen.

“Forgive us, my lord,” the Bishop said, bowing his head.

Maud concealed a yawn. A sudden movement inside her belly made her gasp. Smiling, she glanced down at the swollen mound covered by her deep blue gown. Be gentle, my son, she thought, stroking her belly with tender fingers, but she knew already from the abrupt restless stirring within her that he would be a fighter, strong, and impatient of his rights. His father’s son. In one month’s time, she would give birth, and the long period of waiting would be over. If only Stephen could be here to share the joyous moment with her. Stephen, not Geoffrey.

Not that she had anything to complain of since her return to Anjou. On the contrary, Geoffrey had been delighted to find himself a father so quickly, and, despite their occasional quarrels, had been on his best behavior ever since: attentive, solicitous of her welfare, heaping her with gifts “to sweeten her disposition and her milk.” In fact the only thing she really had against him was that he was not Stephen.

For the first three months of her pregnancy Maud had suffered Geoffrey in her bed, although there had never been a repeat of that night when she had imagined he was Stephen. Then she told him that Aldyth had advised against further conjugal relations lest it hurt the unborn child. He had caused no difficulty, and Maud assumed that he solaced himself elsewhere. She had breathed a sigh of relief for she had started to find his physical attentions unbearable.

Certainly there were many advantages to being pregnant, Maud decided. Even her father had become attentive, writing her long missives with as many admonitions as a midwife on how to care for herself. The King, troubled by ill health, remained in Normandy, and every three weeks a herald made the journey from Rouen to Angers to see for himself the state of the Countess of Anjou’s health and report back to his master.

The castle folk and neighbors petted and praised her, filling her ears with hours of old midwives’ tales: To have a boy she must sleep only on her right side, for the babe to be healthy she must not bathe often, eat plenty of white bread, lettuce and almonds, avoid garlic, onions, and vinegar.

Although she was resigned to life at Angers, enduring the tedious hours with stoic grace, not a day passed when she did not think of Stephen with love and longing. Everything reminded her of him: the trouvère’s song, the turn of a man’s head in the sunlight, a passing phrase he had used—

“Check!” With a triumphant look at Maud, Geoffrey sat back. “I have you mated there, Madam.”

Maud looked down at the chessboard, her face impassive. In fact, there was a move she could make that would win her the game. She lifted her hand to move the ivory queen, then felt the Bishop of Angers’ eyes on her and thought better of it.

“My Lord, you have won indeed. I concede defeat.”

Geoffrey beamed, the Bishop looked relieved, and in the corner the trouvère began to play a merry air from Aquitaine.

One month passed and February became March. In the lavishly appointed birth chamber in the castle at Le Mans, Maud gasped, bent double with pain tearing at her body. She bit her lips until they bled to keep from crying out her agony.

“Not long now, my lady,” the midwife reassured her, “Keep walking and you will bear it in no time. The pain must get worse before it gets better.”

Maud straightened up as the spasm passed and Aldyth squeezed her arm reassuringly. Although Aldyth said she was competent and could be trusted, the midwife reminded Maud of a witch with her toothless gums, long nose, and curved back. But she knew that the midwife’s goodwill was essential in order to maintain the illusion that this was an early birth. Despite the fact that the old trot had been heavily bribed to say whatever was necessary to convince Geoffrey she had given birth a month early, it would not do to antagonize her.

Once the baby was in swaddling clothes no one would be able to tell how large he might be, and after the first few weeks it would no longer matter. It was the first moments after birth, as well as the christening, that were vital, especially if the father wished to see the child naked and assure himself that he was not deformed. With that in mind, Maud had decided to have only Aldyth, the midwife, and a stolid, incurious wet nurse—a woman handpicked by Aldyth herself—to attend her. A young servant maid was available outside the chamber to fetch and carry whatever was needed to assist the midwife, but would not be present at the birth. Everyone else was excluded.

Maud’s attendant Angevin ladies were mystified by her attitude for it went against all custom and tradition. Men were not permitted in the birth room but most women bore their children surrounded by a roomful of other females. However, the Countess Anjou was known to be different—a Norman, after all—and a law unto herself.

Maud resumed pacing up and down the chamber, which had been carefully prepared for the birth. A cauldron of water sat on a trivet next to the fire. A stack of white linen cloths rested on a small oak table along with jars of oil, a pitcher of wine, goblets, two feathers, a wooden bowl, pots of herbs and butter, a sharp knife, and a stone mortar and pestle.

Maud had wanted to bear the child in the castle in Angers, a town she had grown accustomed to over the last eight months, but Geoffrey would not hear of it. He had been born in his grandfather’s castle in Le Mans and that is where his child would be born. When she had been brought to bed three and one half weeks early he had been concerned, but the midwife had reassured him that many eight month babies thrived. Especially as Maud’s belly was so large. There need be no cause for alarm.

“Ahhh,” Maud gasped as another spasm racked her.

“That’s the way, my lady, coming faster now, and regular,” the midwife noted with satisfaction. She reached up under Maud’s gown and felt her belly with experienced fingers. “Bring me a goblet of wine,” she called to the wet nurse, “and the jar of scented oil.”

“What is this?” Maud asked, almost swooning as the fumes from the goblet assailed her nose.

“Savin, gladiola, rue, dittany, hyssop, and savory crushed into three ounces of the best white wine. It will speed the birth pangs,” the midwife said, rubbing Maud’s breasts, abdomen, buttocks, and thighs with warm oil.

As Maud forced herself to down the pungent-smelling liquid, there was a pounding on the door, and Geoffrey’s voice came through the heavy oak: “What is happening? Is everything well? Is the babe born yet?”

The midwife left Maud’s side to walk to the door. “The fruit will drop when it is ready, my lord,” she called out. “Best you leave us to do our business in peace.”

Maud could not hear Geoffrey’s reply, only the sound of his retreating footsteps. Another spasm gripped her, sharper than the last, and Aldyth had to hold her up with both arms to keep her from falling to the floor.

“The draught is working. Get her onto the birth stool,” the midwife told Aldyth, observing Maud with a practiced eye. “It could be any time now.” She turned to the wet nurse. “Bring a pitcher of hot water and a pile of linen cloths.”

Lifting up Maud’s gown, the midwife placed her in the crescent cavity in the middle of the wooden birth stool.

“I need the pot of ointment, butter, and the little knife,” the midwife said to Aldyth. “Quickly.”

She began to massage Maud from the navel downward with a mixture of butter and ointment of Aragon. The pains eased and the midwife rose to her feet.

“Aldyth?”

Aldyth bent her anxious face over Maud’s. “I’m here, my poppet.”

“Suppose Geoffrey asks to see the babe without the swaddling bands?” Maud whispered, gripping Aldyth’s hand.

“I’ve told you,” Aldyth whispered back. “The midwife will say he had to be wrapped immediately because of his size. Exposure to the elements might cause him a chill or some other foul humor. Do not fret,” she soothed, “the matter is well in hand.”

“Will it be soon?” Maud asked the midwife, sweat pouring down her face as she let go Aldyth’s hand.

“Aye, only a short while now.” The midwife again knelt before Maud. “Be sure the cupboard shutters are not closed. The chamber door must be opened a crack,” she called to the wet nurse. “Nothing must be shut tight.” She turned to Aldyth. “Be sure there are no knots in the room. Untie everything.” She pressed a stone into Maud’s hand. “This be jasper. It do have powers to assist childbirth.”

She held over Maud’s abdomen what looked like the foot of a bird caked with dried blood, at the same time muttering a strange gibberish.

“What … have you there?” Maud could barely get the words out.

“The right foot of a crane. Very useful in labor.” The midwife thrust a small piece of wood into Maud’s mouth. “Bite down on this, my lady. And scream if ye need to. There be no airs in the birth chamber.”

Maud’s proud spirit rebelled against the idea of screaming aloud. She would force herself to endure this wretched ordeal in silence. But nothing had prepared her for the searing agony that now ripped through every muscle and limb, reducing her to an incoherent animal. Holy Mary Virgin, she prayed, let it be over, let my son be born.

“Push down now, my lady. Push,” the midwife commanded as she kneaded Maud’s abdomen with greased hands.

Maud continued to push as hard as she could, clinging tightly to Aldyth’s hand as if it were a spar that would prevent her from drowning in this sea of pain.

“Harder, my lady, harder,” urged the midwife.

“I cannot,” Maud gasped, bearing down until suddenly a great scream was torn from her throat.

A tremendous, final push, and then—the sound of a slap, a lusty cry of rage, and Aldyth’s jubilant voice: “A boy, my lady! A boy!” Followed by the midwife loudly proclaiming: “Small, as one would expect for eight months, but by the Mass, you have delivered a fine, healthy boy!”