"You are to come at once, Mistress Rosalba." The page stood in the door, lit by a harsh spring moon. "The duchess needs you."
My Alkelda shifted in her sleep, but quickly found her thumb. Our three colored cat, alarmed, leapt from the foot and dove under the bed as I climbed out. "Shut the door, Master Geoff!" I groaned. The chill of that cold night rushed straight inside.
Hugh bolstered our girl with a pillow so our daughter would not roll out, then thrust his legs out of the other side and sat, his sparse blond hair standing up around the bald spot like a young duck's. The whole house sighed. At 3 o'clock, sleep is either absent or deep. Tonight snores were the rule, both in the loft and down here by the fire.
The woolen shift I wore to bed was crumpled and a little milky, for I had nursed there before sleeping, but the anxiety in Geoffrey's voice was plain. I had better simply throw a dress over my undergarment and go.
I pulled the first thing off the peg and began to slip it on. Hugh came behind and gave a hand, holding out a sleeve. A-bed in his tunic and baggy hose, but willing to help, even when I knew he was as tired as I. Tying the belt over my own belly, I hoped faithful use of mother's measures would keep me from soon again being in a fix. It was, of course, different for Anne. Noblewomen were expected to breed regularly.
My hose, hung by the hearth after a good rinse, were plucked from the line, still damp. I sat, tugged them on and then stepped into my shoes. At the door, Hugh handed me first my basket of supplies which I kept ever handy by the door, next my shawl, and then gave me a peck on the cheek.
"May the Holy Mother lend her grace."
"Indeed! Narrow as Milady's hips are, we shall need her aid."
We went, Master Geoff and I, to the castle. There were fires here and there along the curtain wall, marking the posts of guards. In the west tower, lights burned brightly.
I was—thank the Blessed Mother—not alone. Mother Ash had been summoned. Earlier we’d agreed that Anne was probably much like her sister. The long process of bringing forth through such a narrow gate would be a painful and dangerous process for mother and child alike.
* * *
The birth was as we’d feared, long and difficult. The baby presented head first, no difficulty there, but it took the poor duchess a wretchedly long time to get the job done. Grace and Margaret were present as well as Ash and I and two senior housemaids. I felt a bit like a fifth wheel, but Anne was glad to see me. She greeted me with a wan smile.
"Rosalba! I am so glad you have come."
Grace gave me a worried look, but stepped aside so I could hold the pretty hands which reached for mine. The duchess wanted me right by her side, so I held her hand and soothed her brow. Occasionally, Ash and I consulted, although I had nothing to add to her understanding. I would rise from my place, leave Grace holding her Mistresses' hand, and go down to have a look with Ash. Together we exchanged hot cloths soaked in preparations of said to ease birth. The little crown with its bloody, brown fuzz, presented again and again, like a fierce eruption attempting to burst through her reddened skin, but she could not pass it. The color of what baby flesh we could see stayed high, but Ash and I both knew a long travail would do the child's brains no good, not to mention the fact that the precious infant might strangle in the cord.
Herbal infusions and wine, a sip here and there we gave, to help our Lady endure what was for all of us a very long day. We prayed over Anne, and secretly I thanked the Virgin that my own travail had passed so easily. Ash and I went out at different times, and there, by the head of the stairs, stood Duke Richard, solemn in his red robe of office, a great chain of gold about his neck, paler than usual, eyes burning with anxiety. A Book of Hours was tucked beneath his arm, so I knew he’d kept to his usual schedule, taking time from business to recite prayers from The Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
I could see him attempt to remove himself, knowing that this was woman's work, as declared by Nature and God Almighty. He was patient, for our suffering is ordained. At the same time, knowledge of Anne's danger, of his part in her agony, of his helplessness, gnawed at him.
Three of the clock came again and passed. I fretted, worrying about whether Alkelda was being a good girl, if there was milk enough to spare among my neighbors. I hoped that she would not tumble into the fire. It was odd to think that since I had come to live here, I had never been away from my own hearth for more than half a day. How dear my humble home had become!
About evensong the Duke of Gloucester's heir came forth, a boy of proper size with a strongly molded head. He was as tired as his poor mother and the cry he gave was little more than a thin bleat, but his color was not bad.
"You have a fine son, Milady, a fine son!" Voices came from every side, encouraging and congratulating. Anne slumped on the pillows, tears pouring down her cheeks. She had entered that perfect moment of body joy, the peace and silence which follows the storm of birth.
No sooner had Mother Ash and I begun to congratulate ourselves, I assisting at the basin as she cleaned the child, then Anne and Lady Margaret, as one, gave a hideous shriek. Mother Ash shoved the son and heir at me and ran. I, in turn, laid the child in the arms of the wet nurse, who stood behind me, eagerly waiting for her most noble charge.
I grabbed wads of wool from our store. Anne had delivered the afterbirth and begun to bleed like a fountain. I had heard my mother tell of this, but had never seen it. Sometimes a woman, long in labor, may deliver all and then find a swift and bloody death by expelling her own uterus.
Mother Ash’s ancient hand was in now, deep, still the bright blood came, pooling between her legs. Anne shrieked with what remained of her voice.
“Hold her, Margaret! Hold her! She must swallow this."
Margaret was attempting to do as she was told, but her terror had overpowered her. She was sobbing near as loud as her mistress. I rushed to the head of the bed. Margaret was easily moved aside, while I caught Anne's thin, seizing form in my arms.
"There, there, dear Lady!" I used all my strength to hold her close, so her hands could not reach the vial and spill the precious liquid. "Drink it! Drink it! Now!"
She almost retched, but the stuff stayed down. Her eyes rolled wildly in her head, back and forth from me to the flood of gore between her legs. Then, abruptly, she went slack. Blonde lashes closed.
"Blessed Mother, save her!" I pressed her limp body close, as I had done during those terrible fevers of her childhood, the times when she had lost consciousness. Then, from deep inside me came the chant, over and again:
Three ladies came from Northern land,
Each with a knife in her hand,
Stand blood, stand!
Bloody wound, in Holy Mary's name,
Close!
"Snow!" Mother Ash called. "Clean snow! Clean, mind you! Dig it from a drift! Hurry!"
A housemaid went running. Margaret huddled on the floor at my feet, rocking and weeping. I lay beside my duchess, holding her close. Anne was breathing, but so lightly I could barely feel it. Whatever Ash had given, it had near killed her. I prayed her measure was good. Otherwise, I would have dealt my dear lady death with my own hand.
"Does she breathe?" Mother Ash’s old body shook with effort, her hand still deep within.
"She does. Praise Our Blessed Lady."
My teacher nodded. Slowly, she began to withdraw, inching her hand free. More blood came, but nothing like the fountain of earlier.
"Keeping saying it."
I spoke the charm again. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. Nausea rolled over me, as I remembered the rolling, claustrophobic cabin, the channel waves, Isabel's terrible screams….
Still, in this room, life went on, as it will. In the corner, close to the fire, the nurse rocked, holding the precious first born son of the Duke of Gloucester safe against her warm bare breast.
The door opened. I looked up, as did Ash, expecting the snow. That was here, but hard on the heels of the maid, came the duke himself.
"You have a fine son, Milord," said Mother Ash. “Straight as an arrow.” Sleeves up, red to the elbows, she indicated where the young goodwife sat, crooning softly to the noble child. Richard gave a cursory glance at the warm picture by the hearth, but his gaze returned at once to the blood on the old woman's hands, to the bed where I lay, holding his wife.
"The duchess lives, My Lord." It must, I thought, take a mountain of self-confidence to speak in such a manner to an anxious prince. I wouldn't have wanted to be the target of that fierce gaze.
"But things are not well. Your Lady Wife bled heavily just after delivery."
Mother Ash then went on with her business, packing the snow from the basin onto Anne's shuddering belly and groin. Richard bent over me, dark hair falling over his shoulders.
"How is my dear consort, Rose?"
"I do not know, My Lord. She is in the arms of the poppy." Suddenly, I wanted to weep exactly as her ladies were now doing.
"Poppy stills pain,” said Mother Ash, “and it will slow the blood. The Duchess is now in God's hands."
The duke’s hand passed over me, to tenderly touch Anne's brow, to graze her white cheek, where copper strands were stuck with sweat. So close to me he was, closer than he had been in years, those mobile lips, lean cheeks, and those beautiful hazel eyes with their woman's lashes. I could smell his fear.
There is no good explanation for where the mind goes, memories flitting like dry leaves. Holding Anne against my bosom in that bed filled with her blood, I remembered the night when Richard had forgotten his high estate and had taken me, Roan Rose, in his arms.
"You will stay with her until she is better, Mistress Rose." Those were his words, but his eyes saw nothing but Anne.
"Yes, My Lord." I bowed my head so he could not catch a glimpse of the feeling flooding through me.
He crossed the room to better examine his son. The nurse opened her robe. The baby was exhausted, like his mother. He was asleep, tiny face pressed against her breast. This woman had been chosen carefully and Anne had enlisted my help in the search. She was a clean and virtuous wife who had raised three fine children already. Of course, she was a last minute part of the business, for the candidates must all be recently delivered and their milk in full flow.
Mother Ash had advised Anne to nurse the baby herself whenever she could, believing this was beneficial to the womb. Anne surprised both of us by agreeing. It seemed her mother, a most sensible woman on every score, had been a staunch believer in this notion.
"An elixer is sucked in with the true mother's milk, something which cannot be obtained from surrogates." Anne had explained her mother's teaching. It was unfortunate the Countess of Warwick was still in sanctuary. I knew that she would have been a great comfort to My Lady.
I stayed on at the Duke’s request, inside the great walls of Middleham. It was peculiar to be in the castle and once again part of a noble household. I was far better pleased, I quickly realized, to be the mistress of my own humble abode.
The constant fear of overstepping bounds, the jockeying for favor, was beyond wearying. Over and over, I bit my tongue and deferred to those whose opinions I did not respect.
Besides, I feared the loss of routine which would result from my prolonged absence. Jackie and Bett—Irresponsible and Scatterbrain—would let everything fall apart. I thanked God that Hugh was given duty at the Castle, for he would keep things in order.
In the afternoons, when Anne was sleeping, Bett did bring Alkelda into the kitchen to visit. I hugged her, and then obliged with the breast. She didn't truly need it for food, just for comfort. Of course, she loved being in the castle kitchen, where everyone admired her. It was generally agreed that she was an adorable, clever little girl.
Those weeks inside the castle, I discovered I missed my bossy girl with her demands for suckling and attention. I even missed her endless prattle! I worried that she would come to grief without her mother. After all, she was just learning the ways of the world, the busy street beyond our door, the bubbling pot on the fire.
How strange it was to realize—at last—that my home was no longer this great castle! Middleham was the same stone warren in which I'd lived as a child, but now too much had changed.