Epic Historial Collection (221 page)

He must have taken his coat off to go to the privy, she thought, then forgotten to put it on again. Was that just his age? He was only forty-eight, and besides, it seemed worse than mere forgetfulness. She felt unnerved.

He returned normally dressed, and they crossed the main street together and entered the priory grounds. Edmund said: “Did you tell Merthin about the money?”

“Yes. He was terribly shocked.”

“What did he say?”

“That he could spend less by slowing the pace.”

“But then we wouldn't have a bridge in time for next year.”

“But, as he said, that would be better than abandoning the bridge half-built.”

They came to the stall of Perkin Wigleigh, selling laying hens. His flirtatious daughter, Annet, had a tray of eggs held up by a strap around her neck. Behind the counter Caris saw her friend Gwenda, who was now working for Perkin. Eight months pregnant, with heavy breasts and a swollen belly, Gwenda stood with one hand on her hip, stretching in the classic pose of the expectant mother with an aching back.

Caris calculated that she would now be eight months pregnant, if she had not taken Mattie's potion. After the abortion her breasts had leaked milk, and she could not help feeling that this was her body's reproach for what she had done. She suffered pangs of regret but, whenever she thought about it logically, she knew that if she had her time over again she would do the same.

Gwenda caught Caris's eye and smiled. Against all the odds, Gwenda had got what she wanted: Wulfric for her husband. He was there now, strong as a horse and twice as handsome, lifting a stack of wooden crates onto the flatbed of a cart. Caris was thrilled for Gwenda. “How do you feel today?” she said.

“My back's been hurting all morning.”

“Not long, now.”

“A couple of weeks, I think.”

Edmund said: “Who's this, my dear?”

“Don't you remember Gwenda?” said Caris. “She's been a guest at your house at least once a year for the past ten years!”

Edmund smiled. “I didn't recognize you, Gwenda—it must be the pregnancy. You look well, though.”

They moved on. Wulfric had not been given his inheritance, Caris knew: Gwenda had failed in that task. Caris was not sure exactly what had gone on last September, when Gwenda had gone to plead with Ralph, but it seemed Ralph had made some kind of promise then reneged. Anyway, Gwenda now hated Ralph with a passion that was almost frightening.

Nearby was a line of stalls at which local cloth merchants were selling brown burel, the loosely woven fabric that was bought by all but the rich for their homemade clothing. They seemed to be doing good business, unlike the wool merchants. Raw wool was a wholesale business—the absence of a few big buyers could ruin the market. But cloth was retail. Everyone needed it, everyone bought it. A bit less, perhaps, when times were hard, but they still needed clothes.

A vague thought formed in the back of Caris's mind. When merchants could not sell their wool, they sometimes had it woven and tried to sell it as cloth. But it was a lot of work, and there was not much profit in brown burel. Everyone bought the cheapest, and sellers had to keep the price down.

She looked at the cloth stalls with new eyes. “I wonder what fetches the most money,” she said. The burel was twelve pence per yard. You had to pay half as much again for cloth that had been fulled—thickened by pounding in water—and still more for colors other than the natural dull brown. Peter Dyer's stall featured green, yellow, and pink cloth at two shillings—twenty-four pence—per yard, even though the colors were not very bright.

She turned to her father, to tell him the notion that was forming in her mind; but, before she could speak, something happened to distract her.

 

Being at the Fleece Fair reminded Ralph unpleasantly of the same event a year ago, and he touched his misshapen nose. How had that occurred? It had started with him harmlessly teasing the peasant girl, Annet, then teaching her oafish paramour a lesson in respect; but somehow it had ended up in humiliation for Ralph.

As he approached Perkin's stall, he consoled himself by reflecting on what had happened since. He had saved Earl Roland's life after the collapse of the bridge; he had pleased the earl by his decisive behavior at the quarry; and he had at last been made a lord, albeit over nothing more than the little village of Wigleigh. He had killed a man, Ben Wheeler—a carter, so there was no honor in it, but all the same he had proved to himself that he could do it.

He had even made up his quarrel with his brother. Their mother had forced the issue, inviting them both to dinner on Christmas day, insisting that they shake hands. It was a misfortune, their father had said, that they served masters who were rivals, but each had a duty to do his best, like soldiers who found themselves on opposing sides in a civil war. Ralph was pleased, and he thought Merthin felt the same.

He had been able to take a satisfying revenge on Wulfric, by denying him his inheritance and, at the same time, his girl. The eye-catching Annet was now married to Billy Howard, and Wulfric had to content himself with the ugly, though passionate, Gwenda.

It was a pity Wulfric did not look more crushed. He seemed to walk tall and proud around the village, as if he, not Ralph, owned the place. All his neighbors liked him, and his pregnant wife worshipped him. Despite the defeats Ralph had inflicted, Wulfric somehow emerged as the hero. Perhaps it was because his wife was so lusty.

Ralph would have liked to tell Wulfric about Gwenda's visit to him at the Bell. “I lay with your wife,” he wanted to say. “And she liked it.” That would wipe the proud look off Wulfric's face. But then Wulfric would also know that Ralph had made a promise and, shamefully, broken it—which would just make Wulfric feel superior all over again. Ralph shuddered when he thought of the contempt Wulfric and others would feel for him if they ever found out about that betrayal. His brother, Merthin, in particular, would despise him for it. No, his tumble with Gwenda would have to remain a secret.

They were all at the stall. Perkin was the first to see Ralph approaching, and greeted his lord as obsequiously as ever. “Good day, Lord Ralph,” he said, bowing; and his wife, Peggy, curtseyed behind him. Gwenda was there, rubbing her back as if it hurt. Then Ralph saw Annet with her tray of eggs, and he remembered touching her small breast, round and firm like the eggs on the tray. She saw him looking, and dropped her eyes demurely. He wanted to touch her breast again. Why not? he thought—I'm her lord. Then he saw Wulfric, at the back of the stall. The boy had been loading crates onto a cart, but now he stood still, looking at Ralph. His face was carefully expressionless, but his gaze was level and steady. His look could not be called insolent, but for Ralph there was no mistaking the threat. It could not have been clearer if Ralph had said,
Touch her and I'll kill you.

Perhaps I should do it, Ralph thought. Let him attack me. I'll run him through with my sword. I will be completely in the right, a lord defending himself against a peasant maddened with hatred. Holding Wulfric's gaze, he lifted his hand to fondle Annet's breast—and then Gwenda let out a sharp cry of pain and distress, and all eyes turned to her.

31

C
aris heard a cry of pain, and recognized the voice of Gwenda. She felt a throb of fear. Something was wrong. In a few hurried steps she was at Perkin's stall.

Gwenda was sitting on a stool, looking pale, her face twisted in a grimace of pain, her hand on her hip again. Her dress was wet.

Perkin's wife, Peg, said briskly: “Her waters have broken. Her labor is beginning.”

“It's early,” Caris said anxiously.

“The baby is coming anyway.”

“This is dangerous.” Caris made a decision. “Let's take her to the hospital.” Women did not normally go to the hospital to give birth, but they would admit Gwenda if Caris insisted. An early baby could be vulnerable; everyone knew that.

Wulfric appeared. Caris was struck by how young he looked. He was seventeen and about to become a father.

Gwenda said: “I feel a bit wobbly. I'll be all right in a minute.”

“I'll carry you,” Wulfric said, and he picked her up effortlessly.

“Follow me,” said Caris. She walked ahead of him through the stalls, calling: “Stand aside, please—stand aside!” In a minute they were at the hospital.

The door was wide open. Overnight visitors had been tipped out hours ago, and their straw mattresses were now piled high against one wall. Several employees and novices were energetically washing the floor with mops and buckets. Caris addressed the nearest cleaner, a middle-aged woman with bare feet. “Fetch Old Julie, quickly—tell her Caris sent you.”

Caris found a reasonably clean mattress and spread it on the floor near the altar. She was not sure how effective altars were at helping sick people, but she followed the convention. Wulfric put Gwenda down on the bed as carefully as if she had been made of glass. She lay with her knees up and her legs parted.

A few moments later Old Julie arrived, and Caris thought how often in her life she had been comforted by this nun, who was probably not much past forty but seemed ancient. “This is Gwenda Wigleigh,” said Caris. “She may be fine, but the baby is coming several weeks early, and I thought it a sensible precaution to bring her here. We were just outside, anyway.”

“Very wise,” said Julie, gently pushing Caris aside to kneel by the bed. “How do you feel, my dear?” she said to Gwenda.

While Julie talked to Gwenda in a low voice, Caris looked at Wulfric. His handsome young face was contorted with anxiety. Caris knew that he had never intended to marry Gwenda—he had always wanted Annet. However, he now seemed as concerned for her as if he had loved her for years.

Gwenda cried out in pain. “There, there,” said Julie. She knelt between Gwenda's feet and looked up her dress. “Baby's coming quite soon,” she said.

Another nun appeared, and Caris recognized Mair, the novice with the angel face. She said: “Shall I get Mother Cecilia?”

“No need to bother her,” said Julie. “Just go to the storeroom and fetch me the wooden box with ‘Birth' written on the top.”

Mair hurried away.

Gwenda said: “Oh, God, it hurts.”

“Keep pushing,” said Julie.

Wulfric said: “What's wrong, for God's sake?”

“Nothing's wrong,” said Julie. “This is normal. This is how women give birth. You must be the youngest of your family, otherwise you would have seen your mother like this.”

Caris, too, was the young sibling in her family. She knew that childbirth was painful, but she had never actually watched it, and she was shocked by how bad it was.

Mair returned and placed a wooden box on the floor next to Julie.

Gwenda stopped groaning. Her eyes closed, and she looked almost as if she might have been asleep. Then, a few minutes later, she cried out again.

Julie said to Wulfric: “Sit beside her and hold her hand.” He obeyed immediately.

Julie was still looking up Gwenda's dress. “Stop pushing now,” she said after a while. “Take lots of short breaths.” She panted to show Gwenda what she meant. Gwenda complied, and it seemed to ease her distress for a few minutes. Then she cried out again.

Caris could hardly stand it. If this was normal, what was childbirth like when there were difficulties? She lost her sense of time: everything was happening very quickly, but Gwenda's torment seemed endless. Caris had the powerless feeling that she hated so much, the feeling that had overwhelmed her when her mother died. She wanted to help, but she did not know what to do, and it made her so anxious that she bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Julie said: “Here comes baby.” She reached between Gwenda's legs. The dress fell away, and suddenly Caris could clearly see the baby's head, facedown, covered in wet hair, emerging from an opening that seemed impossibly stretched. “God help us, no wonder it hurts!” she said in horror.

Julie supported the head with her left hand. The baby slowly turned sideways, then its tiny shoulders came out. Its skin was slippery with blood and some other fluid. “Just relax now,” Julie said. “It's nearly over. Baby looks beautiful.”

Beautiful? Caris thought. To her it looked horrible.

The baby's torso came out with a fat, pulsing blue cord attached to its navel. Then its legs and feet came all in a rush. Julie picked up the baby in both hands. It was tiny, its head not much bigger than the palm of Julie's hand.

Something seemed wrong. Caris realized the baby was not breathing.

Julie brought the baby's face close to her own and blew into its miniature nostrils.

The baby suddenly opened its mouth, gasped air, and cried.

“Praise God,” said Julie.

She wiped the baby's face with the sleeve of her robe, tenderly cleaning around the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. Then she pressed the newborn to her bosom, closing her eyes; and in that instant Caris saw a lifetime of self-denial. The moment passed, and Julie laid the baby on Gwenda's chest.