Then she heard it: the cry of a baby, her baby. The wail died away almost at once. Was Eda in there? Had she picked up Oswin to comfort him? Rosa had been sent packing. Who else would be minding him? Her nerve almost failed her and she might have retreated to the turret had not a worse fear suddenly seized her. Suppose it was Eda who had stopped him crying – stopped him for ever! She might be on the other side of that door, pressing a cloth over his mouth, smothering the life out of him. Christina flung the door open and rushed in, ‘Stop! Don’t you . . .’
But it was Christina who stopped. A woman she did not recognise was sitting on a stool, cradling Oswin in her arms. He was sucking contentedly on a bladder tied around the tip of a hollow horn half filled with creamy-white milk.
The woman glanced up, frowning. ‘Draught from the door makes the fire gutter. I need a steady flame for my pot.’
Christina was staring at her son, watching his tiny mouth suck, the muscles flex in his throat as he gulped the milk. His wide blue eyes were not gazing up into her face, but the face of the woman who held him in her arms, and she felt a pang of jealousy. She ached to snatch him back, but she knew he’d cry.
‘Close the door, m’lady,’ the woman said sharply. ‘The smoke . . .’
Christina jerked, swiftly pushing the door closed as she realised that anyone passing the hut might see her. The room was bathed in the soft red-yellow glow of the firelight and a single rush candle that flickered on an iron prick on the wall.
‘I . . . was looking for Eda.’
‘She will be eating in the great hall at this hour. Did you not see her there, m’lady?’
‘I have my meals in my chamber. I am unwell.’
‘You are the Lady Christina. Eda told me she waits on you there. Shall I fetch her?’
‘No!’ The word burst from Christina’s mouth more vehemently than she intended.
Startled, Oswin turned his little head and the bladder slipped from his mouth. His face crumpled. But the woman gently rubbed his plump soft lips with it, until he fastened on it again. As soon as he was sucking once more, the woman raised her head.
‘I am Rosa, m’lady. If you do not want Eda, can I fetch something for you?’
‘The stillroom maid? Eda said you were dismissed.’
‘I am the new Rosa.’ She pronounced the name slowly as if she was trying out an unfamiliar word. ‘You want to hold the baby?’
She rose, and before Christina could reply, she’d laid him in her arms, and guided Christina to the stool, steadying her as she sat. Christina winced as Oswin wriggled against her breasts, but she took the cow’s horn and let him suck the last spoonful. Then tipping the child across her shoulder, she rubbed his back and snuggled the soft down of hair as she rested her chin on his warm head.
‘See, he is content. A lamb always knows its dam,’ Rosa murmured, smiling.
For a moment Christina paid no heed to the words, revelling in the weight and warmth of her son in her arms. Then she realised what the woman had said and her cheeks flushed hot. ‘I’m not his mother,’ she said, standing up and thrusting Oswin back into Rosa’s arms. ‘Why would you think such a thing? Didn’t Eda tell you? This is her dead niece’s child.’
Rosa laid Oswin on a sheepskin that lined a small wicker crib. As she drew a coverlet over the sleeping child, she said softly, ‘If that is what you wish me to believe, then I will say it is so, as I say I am Rosa.’ She swung round, her eyes bright in the firelight. ‘But your dugs pain you. Let me see them.’
Christina backed towards the door. ‘You’re mistaken. I have no pain. Why would I?’
Rosa made no move to stop her, but as Christina put her hand to the latch she said quietly, ‘Women die of milk fever. It is an agonising death, almost as bad as the Great Pestilence. You are already sickening. Your eyes are feverish. Daylight hurts them. Your head aches. You feel hot and dizzy. Your dugs throb and burn. Come, sit.’
Even as she said it, Christina felt the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. The pain in her breasts seemed to grow more intense, more unbearable. She fumbled with the laces on her gown, but only succeeded in making herself hotter and more exhausted, till she was almost crying with pain and frustration.
Rosa unlaced her gown and began to unwrap the linen. The relief as the tightness eased was swiftly followed by a wave of pain from the movement. Rosa dipped a cloth in water and gently wiped away the green mess of poultice. Though the slightest touch hurt her, Christina was grateful for the blessed coldness on her burning skin.
Rosa gave an animal growl in the back of her throat. ‘Was it that foolish woman Eda who did this? Was she trying to kill you?’
‘I think . . . she would be glad if I died. Oswin, too. That’s why I came. I was so afraid she’d hurt him.’
Christina knew there was little point now in trying to deny that he was her child. Rosa was too shrewd to believe her; besides she found herself trusting the woman. She’d seen the tenderness in Rosa’s face as she looked at the baby, watched how gently she had laid him in the wicker cradle. If anyone could protect her child from Eda, it was this woman. ‘I thought if I could give him suck . . . when Eda wasn’t here . . .’
‘Your milk’s soured. Besides, you’d not bear the pain of it.’
Laying the cloth aside, the woman inspected the shelves of the stillroom, finally lifting down a jar and examining the fragments of dried plants tied to the lid. She untied the parchment covering the top and sniffed the contents, giving a grunt of satisfaction. She dipped her fingers into the jar and gently anointed Christina’s breasts with a thick layer of a bitter-smelling unguent, then loosely bound fresh linen strips over them. Then she studied the shelves again, selecting clay jars of herbs and standing them in a neat row on the rough wooden table.
She muttered to herself as she sprinkled pinches of each herb into a small iron pot of water that steamed over the fire. ‘Herb robert, sage, chickenwort, devil’s eye, yarrow . . .’
Stirring it carefully, she drained the liquid through muslin into a jar, keeping a little back, which she tipped into a beaker and handed to Christina. ‘Drink it. It will dry your milk and soothe your fever.’
Christina’s gaze darted towards the sleeping baby.
As if she understood the unspoken question, Rosa said, ‘You cannot suckle him again. But I will see that he is well fed. He shall come to no harm, so long as I remain here. Drink.’
She watched Christina drain the green liquid to the last foul drop. Then she handed her the jar. ‘Drink half tonight before you sleep and the rest in the morning when you wake. Return tomorrow evening when Eda goes to the great hall and I will have more ready for you. Two, maybe three days and your dugs will be dry and no longer paining you. But go now. Eda will be back soon.’
Christina bent and kissed Oswin, breathing in the scent of his skin. His eyelids, as translucent as mother-of-pearl, fluttered at her touch, but did not open.
Christina paused at the door. She should give the maid something for her care of Oswin and for her silence. She dug her fingers into the small leather purse that hung from the belt about her hips, and proffered a coin.
But Rosa did not take it. ‘I do not ask for payment in coin.’ A whisper of a smile played about her mouth before she turned away, her hands busy with her herbs.
For the first time since Christina had discovered she was with child, the dark, chill cloud of misery and loneliness that had enveloped her parted just a hand’s breadth and she found herself beaming as she closed the door of the stillroom behind her.
It was twilight outside and the burning torches were already being set in their brackets on the walls. Servants were lumbering down the steps that led from the great hall, bearing platters of dismembered birds and beasts, their white bones poking up through the remains of the sauce, like the half-submerged wrecks of old ships. Several hounds, three cats, a squabble of chickens and the two hairy pigs ran around their legs as they tried to hold the remains of the food high out of their reach.
&
nbsp; One of the scullions, who’d almost been sent sprawling by the cats, flung the contents of his platter across the yard so that it splashed on the cobbles on the far side, narrowly missing Christina as she picked her way across. The pack of animals rushed towards the mess, snarling, spitting and clucking as they snatched the fragments of meat and bones and lapped the thick gravy from the stones. The boy, who had plainly not noticed Lady Christina in the half-light, realised too late that he’d almost befouled one of his master’s guests. He gave a cry and fled, as if expecting to be dragged back and flogged on the spot.
Christina glanced up the steps towards the great hall. She knew that inside cloths were being drawn from the tables and the final wines of the meal being poured for the guests, sweet and heavily spiced, to settle the stomach for sleep. At any moment Eda would be descending those steps to return to the stillroom or, worse still, climbing to the turret to check on her. She might already be there, waiting.
Panicked, Christina ran to the door, but was almost dashed against the wall as someone emerging from the dark corner bumped her shoulder.
‘You clumsy ox!’ she snapped. Not content with trying to drench her in sauce, now the servants were intent on knocking her to the ground.
The man bowed low. ‘Indeed I am become an ox in your presence, Lady Christina, struck dumb by your beauty and yoked to your command.’
Christina peered through the fading light and gasped. Her stomach lurched as she recognised the features of the one man she had never expected to see in Porlock. The very last time they had been in each other’s company had been at Chalgrave on her wedding day, when he had been forced to escort the drunken bridegroom to the nuptial bed. How could he be here? Had he followed her?
‘Sir Harry? But . . . but Eda didn’t tell me . . .’
He chuckled. ‘I can hardly wonder at that. The old hen would have had me driven from the farmyard the hour I arrived if she were the cock of it. No doubt she’s already dispatched word to your mother, but since I am here at your uncle’s request, they may both cackle as much as they like for they will not banish me.’
He edged closer, and she caught the smell of powdered myrtle leaves and damask roses that always perfumed his clothing. He took her hand and raised it to his mouth. She felt the long, hot pressure of his lips, and the brush of his beard against her wrist. Conscious of the curious glances of the servants, she tried to pull away, but he was reluctant to let her go.
‘My poor sweeting, they tell me you have been ill since we were parted. And without you, I, too, sickened, like grass deprived of the sun.’ He smoothed his glossy beard with his elegantly shaped fingernails as he studied her. ‘But I confess, after such alarming rumours about your health, I am relieved, if not a little wounded, to see that you appear quite radiant despite my absence. You have grown from cygnet to swan in these last few months. What has brought about this miracle? Did you not miss me?’
Christina dropped her gaze to stare down at the great blood-red stone on his ring, but she could feel his eyes searching every inch of her face. Someone else was studying Christina too, though she did not know it. A barefoot woman was standing in the dark shadow of the archway. Rosa’s sea-grey eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the couple, like those of a wolf in a thicket waiting for its prey to run.
Chapter 19
Matilda
St Coloman of Stockerau is the patron saint of hanged men and protects against the pestilence. He was an Irish pilgrim travelling to the Holy Land, who was hanged as a spy on account of his strange appearance. But after his death, the scaffold took root and sprouted green leaves.
The horse’s hoofs clattered down the stony path as the shadow on the sundial crept towards the eleventh hour. I knew he would be here on time. Father Cuthbert never permits himself to be late.
‘Hurry, toll the bell,’ I scolded, cuffing the boy to his feet. ‘The congregation must be assembled as soon as Father Cuthbert is ready to begin. Last month they were still trailing in when Mass was half over.’
Father Cuthbert came trotting up the path on a brown and white gelding. He always looked immaculate, even after a long ride. There was not a mote of dust on his russet gypon or pied hose. His freshly shaven tonsure gleamed in the sun, while the black fringe of hair around it was clipped as neatly as a halo crowning a saint. He dismounted and waited, tapping his whip in impatience, for his acolyte, Harold, to come ambling into the churchyard on his ancient donkey.
I hurried up to him. ‘Father Cuthbert, have you had a good journey?’
He smiled graciously, his head jerking up as the chapel bell above us began to ring. I confess I had not noticed it before, but in that moment he was the very image of my statue of the young St Sebastian with his thin nose and seraphic eyes. I found myself blushing, as he turned those brown eyes once more towards me.
‘The Lord preserved our steps, I am thankful to say, Mistress Matilda. Though the road was uncommonly hard and dusty.’
He frowned as Harold awkwardly slid off his wooden saddle and heaved the pack over his shoulder, coughing and beating his tunic to remove the dust that Father Cuthbert’s horse had kicked back at him. The lank, mousy hair round his tonsure flopped across the livid pustules that always covered his forehead. Though he could have been no more than fifteen, he shuffled like an old man.
He was an indolent youth, never meeting my eyes when he spoke, as if he was trying to hide something, which I don’t doubt he was. I devoutly hoped he had no ambitions to be ordained into Major Orders, for I shuddered to think how he might serve a congregation as a priest. I couldn’t think of any trade he would be fit for, save a kitchen scullion.
Father Cuthbert flapped a hand at him. ‘Stir yourself, you idle boy. The bell is tolling. I will not have my parishioners kept waiting.’
Harold jerked his head in what might have been a nod, and sidled inside to prepare the altar for Mass.
Down at the shore, I could see the men, women and children still sorting their catch from the weirs. They would not come to Mass until that was done, however long it took. But for once I was relieved. The path leading up to St Olaf’s chapel was, as yet, deserted.
‘Father Cuthbert, I must speak with you.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘I cannot hear confessions directly before Mass, Mistress Matilda. Besides, I am sure that you can have committed no sin since your last confession so great that it would prevent your attendance at the service.’
‘It is not a sin I have committed, Father Cuthbert.’ I flushed, annoyed that he should accuse me of not knowing the proper time to confess. ‘The bailiff and the villagers are trying to conceal—’
‘Now, Matilda, don’t you go telling the priest we’ve been catching more fish than we’re letting on. He’ll start asking for more tithes.’ Abel came stomping up the path, his arms still slimy with fish guts and scales. ‘Always reckons we don’t give enough to the Church, she do.’ Abel batted at the cloud of flies that buzzed round him. ‘But, like I say to her, we’ll give him our dues, when the Good Lord gives us ours.’
Father Cuthbert drew back slightly, wrinkling his nose at the pungent odour of sweat and stale fish blood. ‘Give to God even when you have little, Master Abel, and he will prosper your work. Remember how Our Lord multiplied the loaves and the fishes. The people gave what they had and it was returned many times over.’
‘Putting honest fishermen and bakers out of work,’ Abel muttered.
I crossed myself, expecting Father Cuthbert to take him to task at once, but he merely shook his head sadly.
‘Your catches are small, so you blame Our Lord, when in truth the cause is that you have neglected Him. By good fortune that is the subject of my sermon today, and I can see it is much needed. I will see you inside.’
‘But, Father, I must speak—’ I began.
‘Later, Mistress Matilda, later. I cannot keep God waiting.’ He put his hand to the iron ring in the chapel door, then paused, wrinkling his nose again. ‘And, Master Abel, be so good as to w
ash those fish guts from your arms before you enter the holy chapel. It is the sweet smell of incense that is pleasing to God, not the stench of dead fish.’
Abel scowled. ‘Be so good as to wash yerself,’ he mimicked, as soon as the door had closed behind Father Cuthbert. ‘I reckon God ought to be used to the smell b’now. Jesus’d have been stinking of fish, if He were out in a boat with those disciples of His.’
He took several paces towards me, thrusting his grimy weather-beaten face into mine. ‘Guessed you’d be tattling to the priest. That’s why I came hurrying up here soon as I heard the bell. You were warned to say naught. This stays in the village. Keep that flapping tongue of yours still. Remember, not everything that washes up dead in the sea gets there by accident.’
‘You can’t keep this quiet, Abel. I won’t be silenced.’
He made to grab my arm, but before he could do or say more, we heard voices and footsteps approaching on the stony path. He turned away and, with a curt nod to the women strolling towards the chapel, he lurched around the corner and out of sight.
As I stepped aside to let the women pass, I found I was trembling. I was furious with myself for my weakness. I wouldn’t be threatened into silence. Father Cuthbert had a right to know what deadly secret the villagers were concealing in Sara’s cottage. He should also be told that two children had been buried in the corner of the graveyard without the offices of any priest or even the poor services of an acolyte such as Harold. I would show Father Cuthbert the graves myself just as soon as Mass was concluded and tell him all.
I slipped out quickly, as soon as Mass was ended, and waited in the shadow of the yew tree while the villagers filed out. Father Cuthbert stood at the door dutifully blessing children as they were dragged past him and asking after absent relatives. As usual, few of the villagers met his gaze, mumbling replies he plainly could not understand.
A gaggle of fishwives lingered by the wall, gossiping. They ignored me, as they usually did. ‘Didn’t see your husband at the weirs this morning, Katharine,’ one was saying. ‘Too much ale last night, was it?’