Chapter Eleven

Guillaume, for his part, was not in a forgiving mood.

Indeed, he ranted in Crevy’s hall as never he had ranted before. He paced and he shouted and his staff eased back against the walls, as though they would put as much distance between themselves and their raging lord as possible. Even his mother had the good sense to hold her tongue, which was something indeed.

Guillaume raved because the babe was late. Not only was it late commencing the labor, but it lingered over the task. He began to suspect that the babe had no inclination of coming forth into the world at all. Aye, this babe was taking longer than all the babes in Christendom had taken in sum!

And worst of all, there was naught Guillaume could do about it.

His wife screamed far above him, she raged in pain at a volume quite unlike her docile self, and he could do naught to make this easier.

Much less faster.

So, he paced and he growled and he snapped at anyone fool enough to venture close to his side. He had been home a fortnight, having feared the babe would have arrived sooner but powerless to free himself from the king’s grip. He had galloped through the gates, relieved to find Brigid nigh bursting at the seams. She had burst into tears at the sight of him and it had seemed the child awaited its father’s return.

But each subsequent day had made Guillaume fear that something was sorely amiss. His mother insisted that first children were apt to be tardy, but he fretted all the same.

Such was the state of his thoughts that Guillaume had barely noted how Eglantine had plundered his treasury and his stables. He had avoided his mother’s worries about his errant sister, no less her insistence that someone should ensure Eglantine was well. That last comment was made repeatedly, with hard glances at Guillaume each time, but he was preoccupied with his own concerns. He knew well enough that Eglantine was strong, Eglantine was determined, Eglantine could fend for herself.

Brigid, however, was soft and vulnerable. Brigid needed him.

And now she cried out in pain, striving to deliver the babe that he had planted in her belly. Guillaume tugged at his hair and paced the hall again. He had done all he could, he had sent for Alys and Burke, he had summoned a midwife, and now he could only wait.

’Twas not a role he relished.

“Where is Burke?” he demanded in frustration. “And why does he not hasten? Surely every steed in his stable cannot have been struck lame at this time! Indeed, a man could walk from Montvieux, or even from Villonne, in the time he has taken!”

His mother cleared her throat. “It has been but a day since you sent word...”

Guillaume flung out his hands and spun to face her. “It has been an eternity!”

She lifted one brow, as much censure as she ever granted, and pushed to her feet. “I have told you well that the first will take its own time.”

“But someone must do something! I can bear it no longer!”

Alors, I shall take a honeycomb to Brigid. ’Tis a treat she favors well enough and perhaps ’twill take her thoughts from the pain, non?”

“A honeycomb will do naught to ease her labors!” Guillaume roared, realizing only when his mother’s eyes widened that ’twas the first time he had ever shouted at her.

Her mouth opened and closed again, before she turned away. Her skirts flared behind her as she snapped her fingers at her staff and climbed the stairs, her silence as cutting as anything she might have said.

Before Guillaume could follow and apologize, his châtelain stepped into the hall. “Chevalier Burke de Montvieux, Lord de Villonne, and his lady wife, Alys, to see you, my lord.”

“Burke!” Guillaume approached his friend with open arms. “What took you so very long?”

The knight rolled his eyes and grinned. “Has she labored for more than an hour?” he jested as he clasped Guillaume’s hand.

Brigid screamed, a most effective interruption and one that had all in the hall wincing. Alys, her fair hair bound back and her belly only slightly rounded, appeared somewhat alarmed.

’Twas only then that Guillaume realized his insensitivity in summoning her of all people to a birthing. But naught would go awry here, would it? He bowed low, all the same, for it had not been his intent to recall hurtful memories to these good friends. “Alys, I do apologize...”

She forced a smile and squeezed Burke’s hand. “Perhaps the formalities are best left for later,” she suggested, visibly squaring her shoulders. “I would hasten to Brigid.”

Burke’s eyes lit with concern. “I will go with you,” he suggested, obviously following Guillaume’s thoughts.

But Alys shook her head. “Brigid would be mortified by your presence. I shall attend her myself and all will be fine.”

“You will be far from alone in that chamber,” Guillaume tried to jest. “There must be a fair crowd there by now. Indeed, my mother intended to feed Brigid honeycomb.”

“In this moment?” Alys’ eyes widened in surprise, then she shook her head. “Only the Lady of Crevy would do as much,” she murmured with affection, then bustled to the solar. Burke’s gaze followed his wife’s progress and his eyes narrowed.

“Burke, in my haste, I forgot...”

But Burke held up a hand. “Alys would not have missed this.” A smile touched his lips. “She had a fondness for Brigid that no sorry event can undermine.”

The small boy beside Burke, no more than three summers of age, watched Guillaume solemnly. He was a handsome boy and shared his father’s coloring, though his eyes were the clear green of his mother. “Why does the lady scream, Papa?”

Burke ruffled his son’s hair. “Ah, because she labors mightily. ’Tis not for you to concern yourself, Bayard. You remember Guillaume, do you not?” Guillaume appreciated that his old friend tried to distract both the child and himself from the proceedings above. “You may not recall this, Bayard, but Guillaume is your godfather.”

The boy bowed low, his father beaming at his fine manners. “’Tis an honor to make your acquaintance once more, my Lord de Crevy-sur-Seine.”

Guillaume smiled. It seemed but yesterday that he and Brigid had pledged to raise this boy as their own should the need arise, that Guillaume had pledged to ensure the true faith burned bright in this small soul. How the years had flown!

“I believe you might call me your Uncle Guillaume,” he suggested, hunkering down before the boy. “Has your father taught you to play draughts?”

An impish grin lit Bayard’s features and he leaned closer to whisper. “Aye and I best him most every time!”

“Ah, well, your father was always a poor player,” Guillaume declared even as Burke choked at this undeserved assault on his skills. Guillaume winked. “For I used to best him most every time as well.”

“You cannot best me, sir,” the boy claimed with confidence.

Guillaume grinned, guessing this would pass the time admirably. “Aye? It shall not be for lack of trying!”

* * *

Alys paused on the threshold of the solar and took a deep breath. She would not remember, she would not think of her own ordeal with her first.

She would not think of that tiny little girl, that impossibly small babe, drawing her last breath in her own arms. Brigid would bear a healthy child, she knew it well, and naught would go awry.

But Alys’ palms were damp as she stepped into the chamber. She was not unfamiliar with birthing and its ordeal, but she was shocked by what she found in the solar all the same. Her cousin was as pale as a winter moon and there was an astonishing amount of blood upon the linens. The portly midwife sat back, her expression grim, and wiped her brow with the back of one hand.

“’Twill be one or the other of them,” she informed Alys tartly. “Or perhaps neither at all.” She pushed to her feet and wiped her bloody hands upon her apron. “’Tis in God’s hands now.”

’Twas clear the woman meant to leave. “What nonsense is this?” Alys demanded, seizing the woman’s elbow. “She has not labored long, has she?”

“One night and one day,” Lady Crevy supplied. That lady sat on the windowsill, nibbling worriedly on a honeycomb. Her eyes were wide, her expression uncommonly sober.

Alys gave the midwife’s arm a shake. “You cannot leave her!”

“There is little point in my lingering.”

“But what is amiss?”

The woman shrugged. “I do not know. I am only recently come to this task. ’Twas Berthe of the village who deigned to teach me, but she has gone and died afore my apprenticeship was done.” She shrugged again. “The easy ones, they are no trouble to me. Out they come and a body has but to catch them and cut the cord.” She looked to Brigid and shook her head. “This one does not come out.”

Alys muttered a curse and bent to touch Brigid’s cheek. Her cousin was pale, too pale, and her breathing was shallow. Brigid’s pulse was strong at her throat, though, and her lashes fluttered for only a moment before she opened her eyes.

“Alys.” The name left her lips like a sigh. “I am so glad you are here.” She licked her lips and her voice was uncommonly soft. The stutter that had once plagued her speech had faded to naught beneath Guillaume’s affection. “You have traveled far—did Guillaume grant you a cup of wine to parch your thirst?”

“Brigid, I have come to aid you, not to drink your wine.” Alys leaned closer. “How do you feel?”

“Oh, it hurts.” Brigid gripped Alys’ hand, a flicker of fear in the depths of her eyes. “Something is amiss, Alys.” She whispered, as though she feared to frighten the others in the solar. “It hurts overmuch and naught is changing. Should the babe not come forth? I am so very tired.”

Alys’ heart clenched, but she forced herself to smile cheerfully. “It always hurts, Brigid. And it always takes longer than can be believed.”

“Alys.” Brigid’s eyes flew open and tears shone within them. “Alys, aid me. Do not let my babe die. Guillaume is so anxious for a son.”

Alys blinked back tears of her own and she squeezed her cousin’s hand tightly. “Let me see what can be done.”

Brigid’s features contorted as another contraction seized her. Her hand clenched around Alys’ fingers and her scream nigh rent the walls.

But even as she moved to look, Alys knew it had been too long since the last contraction. By now, with this much blood, the contractions should be close together, one fast after the other, and the babe should be showing its crown.

“I cannot bear the sound,” the midwife muttered as she covered her ears.

“Do not let her leave!” the Lady Crevy cried, but Alys cared naught for that one’s aid.

“It matters not,” she said crisply and reached beneath the blood-soaked linens. She would have much to say to Guillaume later over the fitness of that midwife—indeed, she would not allow the woman into Villonne’s stables.

Something was amiss—and Brigid grew too tired to aid herself. ’Twas clear her womb despaired of bringing the child forth. But why?

And if the choice truly must be made between mother and babe, which would Guillaume have her choose? Brigid, Alys decided, Brigid without a doubt. But she eyed her cousin’s pallor and feared they might not have even that choice. Alys looked, but there was indeed no sign of the babe.

’Twas no time to be squeamish, if she meant to ensure that this babe survived as her own first had not. Alys gritted her teeth and reached into her cousin’s warmth. She cooed to Brigid, making reassuring noises, though she was unaware whether it made any difference. The sound of Brigid’s heavy breathing filled the solar.

Alys closed her eyes, feeling her way, her heart skipping as she felt the curve of the babe’s head. ’Twas so still, she feared ’twas too late for the child.

But Brigid’s belly rippled, another contraction gathering, and the child squirmed against Alys’ hand.

Her own heart leapt with hope and she patted her cousin’s belly. “Do not push, Brigid—scream, scream down the walls, but hold the babe tight within you for a moment.”

“Aye, Alys,” Brigid huffed, then another cry of pain was torn from within her. The midwife cursed and fled at the sound and Guillaume was probably green about the gills. Lady Crevy came anxiously to Alys’ side. Alys felt their movements, she sensed the maids drawing closer in dismay, but her attention was fixed on the child.

And then she felt the cord.

’Twas wrapped around the babe’s shoulder, as it should not be, keeping the child from leaving the womb. Alys felt a surge of relief that matters were so simple.

“Brigid, the cord is around the babe’s shoulder. I shall ease it aside, but you must aid me. Do not push until ’tis done.”

“Aye, Alys, aye, Alys.” Brigid puffed, her fingers clawing at the linens as another contraction gathered.

“Lady Crevy, you might hold her hand. And someone bathe her brow, for ’twill aid naught if she grows too hot.” All leapt to do Alys’ bidding, no doubt grateful for any task to occupy their hands.

But the cord was not so readily moved as that. Alys eased its thickness over a slick shoulder, amazed at the size of the child. There was little room to work, to be sure, and the cord seemed to fight her efforts. The babe, though, struggled beneath her hands, as though it too would choose to survive. ’Twas stronger than she had hoped, even after all of this, and Alys’ hope flared.

It took her two contractions to work the babe’s shoulder free and she was trembling when the next contraction gathered. “Now, you must push, Brigid, push with all your strength. Spare naught to scream.”

Lady Crevy kissed Brigid’s hand, then held it to her heart. “I give you my strength, ma petite,” she murmured. “We push together, you and I, non? The first, it always is reluctant to see the light.”

Brigid’s body rippled with the force of the contraction before she could do more than nod agreement. She gritted her teeth and arched off the pallet, her grip so tight that Lady Crevy’s fingers turned white.

Alys pulled on the slippery child, coaxing it further than it might have come on its own. She was relieved that the cord did not seem to impede its progress any further, but the contraction ended all too soon.

“My lady, I see the head!” one maid cried and the others gathered closer. Their enthusiasm helped Brigid to rally, though her gaze fixed on Alys.

“Again, as the last,” Alys counseled. “’Tis almost done, Brigid.”

“The babe is fine?”

Alys smiled. “It fights to see the light.”

“A fighter, non?” Lady Crevy kissed Brigid’s brow. “’Tis a fine knight and heir to Crevy you carry, ma petite. Encore, we push.”

Brigid nodded, took a deep breath and bared her teeth as a contraction rolled through her once more.

And the child fairly leapt into Alys’ arms, its expression tormented. “’Tis a boy,” she cried and cleared its face with haste.

The maids hovered breathlessly. The babe’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his tiny fists clenched. He arched back against Alys’ hand and let loose a cry so hale that Alys fairly wept in her relief.

“’Tis a boy, Brigid,” she said past the lump in her throat. “A fine healthy boy, just as Lady Crevy predicted.”

The maids cheered. Brigid collapsed with a sigh, her skin nigh as pale as the linens even as the tears streamed over her cheeks. “Quinn,” she whispered weakly. “I told Guillaume we should name a boy Quinn.”

“’Tis a fine name, ma petite.” Lady Crevy wiped the tears from her own eyes, then kissed her daughter-in-law’s brow. “You have done most well,” she whispered, then barked orders for cleaning the bed, the babe and Brigid.

Ma petite must have a hearty beef broth—she has lost too much strength,” she clucked, snapping her fingers impatiently all the while. “Bring her eggs. And veal! ’Tis good for the blood, non? Tell Beauregard that his chick has need of especial care.”

’Twas well known at Crevy that the large gruff chef Beauregard had a soft spot for Brigid and the comment prompted more than one welcome smile. Alys had no doubt that the finest calf in the meadow would be slaughtered this very day for that veal.

Lady Crevy kissed Brigid’s brow. “We shall see you hale in no time at all, ma petite.” She straightened and flicked her hands at the maids. “Hasten yourselves! Clean this chamber. The babe must be washed, the mother cleaned. My son will arrive shortly to visit his son, of that you may have no doubt, and all must be made ready!”

But Guillaume was already there. He hovered in the doorway, his features haggard, his eyes filled with concern. Alys felt her tears rise as Brigid’s eyes lit at the sight of him.

Brigid offered her hand to her spouse, though it hung limply in her exhaustion. “Come see your son, Guillaume,” she said softly.

“I came to see my wife.” ’Twas clear that Guillaume too noted the toll the birth had taken on his wife. “I feared to lose you,” he whispered hoarsely, his gaze flicking to Alys. “She is fine? She will be fine?”

The cousins shared a warm glance, tinged with considerable relief. “Brigid is tired but fine. She will need to lie abed for some days, for she has lost much blood. And she has need of sleep after such a task.”

“But I will be fine, because Alys came.” The cleaned infant was laid on Brigid’s breast and she cuddled him close as yet another tear leaked from beneath her lashes. “He is big, Alys, is he not?”

“Aye, a very healthy boy.”

Guillaume sat tentatively on the side of the mattress, his eyes filled with the wonder of both wife and son, and Alys knew ’twas time she left. She spied Burke in the shadows of the corridor outside the solar and excused herself. But one glance and she knew they both recalled the arrival of their first.

At moments like this, the loss hung on Alys’ heart like a leaden weight. She would never forget that tiny girl, never so long as she drew breath.

She took shelter in Burke’s embrace, trembling only once his arms had closed tightly around her. “Oh, Burke, I feared to lose them both.”

“’Twas close?” he murmured into her hair.

“Too close. The cord was tangled around the babe. If we had not come, Burke...”

“But we did come.” He tipped her chin with one finger. His lips quirked, coaxing her to smile. “We came, and you aided Brigid, and all has come aright.”

Alys shuddered. “But I could not help thinking of our first...”

“You know that my mother has said that the first often is lost. She was a fine girl, but too small, Alys.” His arms were tight around her, as they had been in that trying moment. “’Twas neither your fault nor mine that she came too soon. And now we have Bayard, as healthy and hale a child as ever there could be.”

“Aye.” Alys breathed deeply of his scent, taking reassurance as always from his strength. “And another coming.”

“Perhaps another girl.” Burke kissed her brow.

“Do you desire a daughter?”

“I desire my wife hale, first and foremost. If the babe is healthy too, then that would be also welcome. I care no more for its gender than the hue of its eyes.”

Alys leaned against the chest, savoring the thrum of his heartbeat, then realized what she did. She pulled away and surveyed herself ruefully. “I am a wretched mess.”

Burke’s eyes glowed. “Because you had heart enough to give aid.”

Alys felt her color rise beneath her spouse’s warm regard and knew he would always have this power to dispel the shadows for her. “Where is Bayard? I would hug him tightly in this moment.”

“He plays a game with the châtelain.” Burke sobered. “I was not certain what he would see here, so left him behind.” He smiled. “Though ’tis good to have one’s fears prove unfounded.”

Alys’ hand curved over her own belly, her thoughts turning in an obvious direction, and the warmth of Burke’s hand immediately closed over her own.

“’Twill not happen to you, Alys,” he said as though he alone could will it to be so. “Bayard’s birth was without incident. Such troubles are behind us.”

“It could happen to anyone, Burke, and we both know it well.” She interlaced her fingers with his own. “Thanks be to God that your service upon the king is completed and that you will be home when this one arrives.”

His lips tightened and she knew he would tell her something that she did not want to hear. “There is something I must confess, Alys,” he said heavily.

“Burke? You will be home?”

He folded her hands into his and met her gaze steadily. “Aye, I will be home, Alys, but I must leave in the interim.”

“Burke!”

“I only just pledged as much to Guillaume. His sister Eglantine has fled Arnelaine with her daughters while he was at court. She has taken much from Guillaume’s household, as though she would make a home elsewhere. He cannot understand that she would make such a choice, not unless something were terribly amiss. ’Tis not like Eglantine to be frivolous.”

“Why would she leave Arnelaine?”

Burke shrugged. “Her spouse Theobald did die last fall and Guillaume confirmed that he gambled overmuch. Perhaps her debts were too large, but I cannot fathom why she did not turn to her family. And there is an issue before the king’s own court to be resolved. One of Eglantine’s daughters was pledged to Reynaud de Charmonte and that man demands either his bride or paid restitution for the insult. Guillaume would know the truth of Eglantine’s intent before he pays the fee.”

“What manner of man is this Reynaud?”

“I know him not, though your father might be acquainted with him.”

Alys wrinkled her nose in disgust. “They are of an age?”

“I gather as much.”

“But Eglantine’s daughters are so young!”

“You know how such things are arranged in some families.”

Aye, Alys did. “But where could she have gone? One cannot simply claim land without a deed or travel incessantly. Who would shelter her? Is there more family?”

Burke shook his head. “Nay. But Lady Crevy has admitted that Theobald left Eglantine a title for lands in Scotland. She knows naught but the name of the holding and has as much as confessed that Eglantine has fled there. She did, by the way, swear Guillaume to secrecy, for she is betraying Eglantine’s trust in admitting as much.”

“’Tis her worry that broke her silence.”

“Aye and rightly so.”

Alys guessed the direction of this conversation and cared naught for it. “But Eglantine has made her choice, Burke. ’Tis none of your concern.”

“Alys, ’tis not that simple. The family fears for her survival. Guillaume would pursue her, merely to ensure that all is indeed well, but he feared even moments past to leave Brigid. Brigid’s recovery will be a long one, we both see the truth of it, Alys. And we both have witnessed the impact of Guillaume’s absences upon Brigid’s health.”

Alys felt her own tears rise. She knew Burke would do the gallant deed, she knew he would do this favor for his friend and truly she could not slight the generosity of his nature.

But still she wished he would not go. “Oh, Burke.”

“And Lady Crevy is most distressed. Alys, I would remain home by my own choice, but these are good friends, friends of a lifetime. Eglantine I have known since we were children. I, too, worry for her safety.”

“She is the one who took that wager to seduce you, is she not?”

Burke grinned and kissed her hand. “She had not a chance of success, since you already held my heart in thrall.”

Alys heaved a sigh, as she recalled more of this Eglantine. “She was the one who came to the funeral for our daughter,” she said heavily, her gaze misting with tears. “She was the one who was round with her own child and spoke so compassionately to me of the risks we all face.”

“Aye, that was she.”

There was little Alys remembered of the day they laid their first child to rest in Villonne’s cemetery, but Eglantine had touched her heart with her expression of sympathy.

’Twould not be right to reward such kindness with selfishness.

“Alys, you are stronger than Brigid,” Burke argued softly, unaware that Alys already shared his view. “You have your father at Villonne to aid you and my mother at Montvieux.”

Alys rolled her eyes, then smiled. “Do not wish Margaux upon me in this moment, I beg of you.”

Burke grinned in turn, for his mother’s sharp tongue was of wide renown. Then he sobered as he gave her fingers a squeeze. “You are but five months along, Alys. I pledge to you that I shall return before your time.”

“You shall have to ride like the wind.”

He smiled that slow smile that always warmed her to her toes. “For my lady’s favor, I could do naught less.” He caught her close, his lips against her ear. “I swear it to you, Alys, by all we both hold holy. I shall be returned, I shall hold your hand, I shall never let you face this labor alone. ’Tis wrought of the deed we shared, and I will share this with you as well.”

Alys clung to him. She knew Burke would keep his word—’twas much of what she loved about him. ’Twas not within him though to retreat on a promise made to a friend, to leave Guillaume fretting of his sister’s fate, to not make all right that he could.

’Twas another trait Alys loved about him.

“I shall miss you sorely,” she whispered, hating the unevenness of her words. She pulled back to look into his eyes, her hands rising to frame the handsome visage she knew so well. “I love you, Burke. Though your chivalrous tendencies can be vexing indeed, I would have you be no other way.”

He kissed her deeply in his relief, only the sound of a man clearing his throat drawing them apart.

“They always do as much,” Bayard told Guillaume’s châtelain.

The older man fought a smile even as he bowed. “Do you believe, my lady Alys, that my presence would be unwelcome in the solar at this time?”

She smiled. “’Tis a boy. Are you curious to see him as well?”

“Aye, that I am, but a more pressing matter calls.” The châtelain sobered. “My lord Guillaume has a guest.”

“Surely this guest could be waylaid for the moment?” Burke asked quietly.

The châtelain shook his head. “Reynaud de Charmonte is not so readily dissuaded as that. He claims he is come for his payment for Arnelaine’s seal.”

Burke and Alys exchanged a glance. Alys guessed that this Reynaud had come for more than that and she had no desire to meet him. She excused herself on the basis of her dirtied kirtle. Then she caught her son in her arms and lifted him high, waylaying his curiosity about doings in the solar with a challenge for draughts.

They adjourned to the kitchens to play a rousing game, one which Burke soundly lost by his own design. Beauregard treated them all to fresh dumplings and a new keg of ale, the cook in an expansive mood now that his mistress was well.

But there was a shadow on Crevy despite the arrival of an heir. There were men in the kitchens, strangers of Reynaud’s employ, men who said little but drank a great deal of that ale. Guillaume was cloistered long with the visiting lord, his expression strained when they met at the board that evening.

And when Alys waved farewell to Burke three days later, Reynaud was yet at Crevy, demanding better terms for Arnelaine’s seal.