Falls the Shadow (15 page)

“Have you known my brother-by-marriage very long, Your Grace?”

“We first became acquainted whilst I was still Archdeacon of Leicester, some six or seven years past, soon after Simon’s arrival in England.”

The Bishop’s eyes shifted across the hall, followed Simon as he paced restlessly back and forth. There was such obvious affection in that glance that Richard found himself thinking Simon was lucky, indeed, to have so illustrious an ally as this honored and honorable Prince of the Church. For there were other clerics who still bitterly opposed Simon’s marriage to Nell, clerics who had not been appeased by the papal dispensation.

Richard’s eyes, too, now rested upon Simon. He acknowledged that Simon’s relationship with the Bishop of Lincoln should not be suspect; a friendship of seven years was surely not open to charges of opportunism. But he instinctively searched for an element of calculation in all that Simon did, for he was still of two minds about his new brother-in-law, respecting Simon’s abilities while remaining dubious about his motives. He had, however, made his peace with Simon, and whatever his private doubts, he’d not voice them aloud. The marriage was now a fact, and Richard no more quarreled with facts than he wasted time on idle regrets.

“How fares the King’s Grace?” The query came from Peter de Montfort; he looked questioningly at Richard. “We here in Warwickshire were sorely distressed that the King might have come to harm in our very midst.”

“Come to harm?” Simon echoed, having joined them just in time to catch the last of Peter’s comment. “What harm?”

“The assassination attempt upon my brother the King this past September at Woodstock,” Richard explained. “Nell did tell you?”

“Yes,” Simon said, “she did.” So had Henry, and at great length. He’d been very fortunate, for when the would-be assassin climbed into the window of Henry’s bedchamber at his Woodstock manor, Henry was not there, having chosen to spend the night in his Queen’s bed. One of the Queen’s ladies had encountered the intruder; her screams had drawn others, and the man was quickly overpowered. But although Henry had escaped bodily harm, he’d been greatly shaken by the fortuitous nature of his deliverance, confiding to Simon that had he not fallen asleep, he’d have returned to his own bed.

Richard was telling them now of the fate of the assassin, “…taken to Coventry, where he was tied to horses and torn limb from limb. Henry chose not to witness it. Passing strange, for had it been me, I would have been there for certes.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed; the boasting rang false, for Richard’s reputation was for aloof competence, not derring-do or lordly swagger. It seemed that Richard and Henry were not as unlike as he’d first thought; they shared the same fondness for high-flown language, for suspect bravado. But no, that might well be too harsh a judgment. He did not want to be unfair to his wife’s brothers. He could not deny, though, that they puzzled him. There were but fifteen months between them, fifteen months that had cost Richard a crown. Did Richard ever resent Henry for that? Simon wondered. He did not doubt there was a genuine bond between the brothers, but neither did he doubt, too, that Richard believed himself capable of being a far better King than Henry could ever be.

As he looked at the other man, Simon suddenly found himself remembering a bleak February morning, the day he’d gone to ask Richard’s pardon for his clandestine marriage to Richard’s sister. It had not been easy for him. Even knowing as he did how crucial Richard’s support was, he might not have been able to do it had it not been for the Bishop of Lincoln. Simon respected Robert Grosseteste as he did no other man in Christendom; when Grosseteste urged him to make peace with Richard, he listened to the Bishop’s advice, and then reluctantly acted upon it. Richard was known to have an extremely healthy regard for material gain. So when Simon sought a truce, he did not come empty-handed. It had taken some finely bred stallions and silver plate, had taken some equally well-crafted words of apology and assurance, but Simon had inveigled Richard’s grudging consent. It had to be done; Simon knew that. But it was not a memory he cared to dwell upon.

Simon’s eyes strayed again toward the door. When he looked back, he discovered that they were all watching him. “Why is it taking so long?” he said, and Richard smiled indulgently.

“Let me give you some advice, Simon. I’ve gone through three such birth vigils, so I know of what I speak. You must be patient, and hope for the best, all a man can do at these times.”

“Nonetheless,” Simon said. “I think I’ll seek Elen out again.”

“If you keep running back and forth in the rain, you’ll catch your death of cold,” Richard predicted, “whilst getting nothing from Elen. Women like to make much mystery of the birthing process; they give away no female secrets. In truth, Simon, you need not fret so. Nell may look as fragile as gossamer, but as her brother, I can assure you she is actually as tough as hemp! She—” He stopped, for Simon was no longer listening; he’d already turned away.

Nell had chosen the main room of the castle keep for her lying-in chamber, so each time Simon went to check upon her progress, he had to cross the bailey. The rain was falling heavily, and he was shivering by the time he reached the forebuilding. He rapidly mounted the stairs to the second story. It held a small chapel, but he did not pause there, moved toward the door of Nell’s chamber. He had to knock several times before it opened, just a crack. Mabel peered out, eyeing him warily. It seemed to Simon that it took an inordinately long time before Elen joined him in the chapel.

“I’m beginning to think,” he said, “that I’d find it easier to gain entry into a convent of Benedictine nuns.”

Elen laughed. “You make them nervous, Simon. Whilst I do understand your concern, there is nothing yet to tell you.”

“But it’s been nigh on eleven hours!”

“The babe will come in its own good time, Simon. All is progressing as it ought, truly. And it should not be long now. Nell’s water has broken,” she said, having earlier explained the significance of that to Simon. “You’d best go back to the hall. I shall send for you as soon as the babe is born, I swear it.”

“I would rather wait here, in the chapel,” he said, and Elen gave him a sympathetic smile, vanished back into his wife’s chamber. He stood there for a time, and then crossed to the altar, where he knelt and prayed for God’s forgiveness if he had indeed sinned by marrying Nell, prayed that if punishment was due, it should fall upon him and not upon Nell, not upon their innocent child.

As the pain subsided, Nell looked over at Elen, and the other woman reached for a soft cloth, began to blot away the sweat streaking Nell’s face. “Simon is in the chapel,” she said. “I think he is having a harder time than you are, Nell!”

“Indeed, Madame,” Mabel chimed in. “Each time he knocks on the door, I fear he will come bursting right in!”

Between pains, Nell had been sipping wine laced with feverfew. She took a swallow, tried to smile.

“My father actually did that,” Elen said. “My mother had been in labor with my brother Davydd for fully a day and night, and she’d begun to lose strength, to lose heart. When one of Mama’s ladies told Papa that she’d begun to bleed, he forced his way into the chamber, stayed with her till Davydd was safely born.”

Mabel and the midwife looked so appalled that Elen laughed. Nell managed another smile, this one more convincing; that story was folklore in her family. “Only Llewelyn would have dared,” she whispered. “Or Simon—” She gasped, and the women hovered helplessly around her, waiting for the pain to pass.

“Soon, Madame,” the midwife soothed. “Soon now. Here, take this.” She thrust a small, silvery rock into Nell’s hands. “Eaglestone has wondrous powers, my lady. Hold it tight when the pains come.”

In the corner was a shaft, leading down to the cellar well. Mabel crossed to it, helped a young maid servant to operate the pulley, to draw up another bucket of well water. Elen stayed by Nell’s side, offering what small comfort she could, words of encouragement and affection. The midwife poured thyme oil onto her hands, knelt before the birthing stool, and raised Nell’s skirt.

“It is coming, Madame! I can just see the crown of its head,” she exclaimed, and made haste to pull off Nell’s soiled and bloodied chemise. Nell was groaning, writhing upon the stool; the eaglestone had fallen into the floor rushes. The contractions were constant now, and the midwife put her hands on Nell’s thighs, spread them farther apart.

“No, lass, no,” she warned. “You must not bear down, now, lest you tear yourself. Do not fight the pain, my lady. Let the babe do the work now…”

She kept up these continuous murmurings, seeking to lull Nell with the rhythm of her words, knowing the sound was as important as the sense. Nell groaned again, and the midwife gave a triumphant cry, for the baby’s head was emerging. She swiftly leaned over, made sure that the navel cord was not caught around the infant’s neck, and Nell had the first glimpse of her child, saw a small, wet head, surprisingly dark.

“It’s Simon,” she gasped, and then her body contorted again, and the child’s shoulders were free. The midwife held out her hands, caught it deftly as it began to cry.

“You are right, Madame,” she said, and turning the child over, she cupped the small genitals for them all to see. “It is indeed a son!”

Nell held out her arms, and the midwife laid the baby on Nell’s stomach. His cries had increased in strength and volume, but as he nestled against his mother’s warm flesh, he began to quiet. Nell stroked his drenched, black hair, ran her hand along his back, reassured herself that his tiny fingers and toes were all intact, that her son was perfect in all particulars. The other women watched, sharing in the wonder. But this idyllic spell was soon broken; there was a sudden, insistent pounding on the door.

“What does that man have, second-sight?” Elen marveled, and crossing the chamber, she slid back the door latch.

“I thought I heard a babe cry. Did I?” Simon demanded, and when she nodded, he could wait no longer. Shoving the door open, he shouldered Elen aside, strode into the room.

The midwife gave a horrified shriek, sought with her own ample girth to block his view of Nell. “No, my lord, you cannot come in yet! You must withdraw; this is no sight for male eyes!”

“That is ridiculous,” Simon snapped. “I was there for the planting, so why should I not be there for the harvesting?” Thrusting her out of the way, he came to an abrupt halt at sight of his wife and child. “Is it a boy or girl? Is it whole, healthy?” he asked anxiously, glancing back toward the women.

Elen was laughing too much to talk, and the midwife and Mabel were still too flustered to respond. It was left to Nell to reassure him, which she did with a weary but elated smile. “I have given you a son,” she said, “a beautiful little son…”

Simon quickly covered the space that separated them, knelt by the birthing stool. “A son,” he said softly, staring in awe at the cord that still bound the baby to his wife; when he touched it, he could actually feel the blood pulsing through it.

“He looks as if he was dipped in wet flour, Nell. What is this white, sticky stuff?”

Nell did not know; she’d never witnessed a birth before. She glanced up at the midwife, and the older woman swallowed her resentment as best she could. “You need not worry, my lady. Babies are ofttimes born covered with this substance. I expect it must protect them in the womb.”

She’d given Nell a cup of salted water to drink; Nell took a swallow and grimaced. “Why must I—” She broke off in dismay. Her mouth twisted, and then, to Simon’s horror, blood gushed between her thighs.

“Nell! Christ, do something for her!”

But to his surprise, the women did not seem perturbed by this sudden flow of blood. Elen reached for string and scissors, saying calmly, “It is only the afterbirth coming. Simon, do step aside. I think one reason you men are barred from the birthing chamber is just to keep you from getting underfoot!” As she neatly tied and cut the cord, the midwife placed her hand on Nell’s abdomen, began to tug gently on the cord.

“It is coming,” she said, and Simon leaned forward to see, for he’d heard many stories about the mystical, magical properties of the afterbirth; it was widely believed that it could even attract demons. It was something of a disappointment, though; he thought the afterbirth resembled nothing so much as a chunk of raw liver.

While Elen and Mabel sponged the blood and mucus from Nell’s thighs, the midwife carried the baby to the table, where the maid servant had prepared a basin of warm water. Simon followed, watched his son have his first bath, so obviously fascinated that the midwife began to thaw somewhat. Laying the infant on a soft towel, she gently rubbed his skin with salt, while he proved again that his lungs were in superb operating order. When she dipped her finger in honey, Simon caught her hand.

“May I do that?” he asked, and she surrendered unconditionally. Under her guidance, he carefully inserted his finger in his son’s mouth, brushed those tiny gums and palate with honey. The baby seemed surprised at first, but soon began to suck upon his finger, and Simon burst out laughing.

The midwife laughed, too. “Whilst I swaddle the babe, my lord, will you carry your lady to the bed? And do not let her sleep for a while; that can be dangerous.”

Propped up by pillows, with her husband beside her and her son in her arms, Nell experienced a sudden sense of unease, for how could she ever know a moment of greater happiness? “I am not yet twenty-three years old,” she said, “and the rest of my life is bound to be a letdown, Simon, for nothing could possibly surpass this day for me.” And then she laughed. “Just a twelvemonth past, I had no Simons at all, and now by the grace of God Almighty, I do have two!”

They had agreed upon the names for their child: Joanna for a daughter, Simon for a son. But now Simon shook his head. “No,” he said, “not Simon. I think we should name him after the man who made this day possible for us. When I look at you, Nell, at our son, I can fully realize for the first time, I think, just how much I do owe him. I want to name our son Henry, after your brother.”