Chapter 13
The winter dawn had been sluggish and accompanied by a deluge of icy rain.
Jeanette listened to the drops striking the leaded glass panes in the tower windows of the castle keep.
Edward was absent in Bordeaux, about the business of governing Aquitaine, but being in the ninth month of pregnancy she had remained at Angoulême and, following the Feast of St Edward, had retired to her confinement chamber to await the birth of the baby conceived last spring.
‘This feels like an English day,’ she remarked to her ladies as she eased her aching spine against a plump cushion. Her womb was so full of baby there was no room in her body for anything else.
‘It certainly does, my lady,’ said Marjorie de la Mere. Jeanette had recently requested a dispensation for her chamber lady to consume cheese and milk during Lent, because fish disagreed with her and brought her out in a scarlet rash. ‘We should call such days “English days” from now on.’
‘Yes, we should.’
‘Do you think it will snow?’ Alys FitzAlan asked.
She was busy making a shirt for Tom with exquisite white work embroidery.
Her sewing skills were spectacular, and she was neat, meticulous and swift.
She had made two beautiful bonnets for the expected baby, with lace work of her own design.
Alys could be giggly and silly like any girl of her age and was moody around the time of her monthly flux but was generally good-natured and practical, although Jeanette knew that beneath the smiles, the young woman missed her home and family, and still cried in private.
Jeanette tried to ensure that Alys and Tom had moments to be together.
They played chess and other games in the hall.
They hunted with hawks, rode out under supervision and dined side by side, but it was observed and formal, and sometimes, like now, they did not see each other for days or even weeks on end if Tom was absent with the Prince.
‘It might snow indeed,’ Jeanette replied, ‘but it will have to grow colder first, otherwise it will just be rain.’
She had conceived almost immediately following her new ‘wedding night’ with Edward and had felt a profound sense of relief and joy – fear too.
What if the seed did not take proper root in her womb?
What if she was already too old? She had waited to tell Edward she was with child until after she had felt the baby’s first kicks within her womb, and she had dissuaded him from writing to tell his parents until the autumn leaves were flying ragged and golden from the trees.
Now it was late January, and each day she woke up she wondered if this was the day she would give birth.
In England, Edward’s mother remained in variable health, sometimes able to perform her duties, sometimes confined to her bed.
The King’s affair with Alice Perrers continued to go from strength to strength, and she was with child again, which was cause for concern.
News of personal grief had come from Edward’s brother John, whose little son and namesake had died of a winter fever.
Blanche’s third baby, Elizabeth, was thriving, and Blanche was yet again with child.
What a fickle, fleeting world it was, Jeanette thought. All a mother could do was cherish her offspring every day, equip them as best she could to live their lives, and pray for their well-being.
The women’s morning was broken by the arrival of a messenger bearing letters and gifts from Edward.
There was an eagle stone on a red silk ribbon to assist in childbirth without pain, jewels and silk cloth and a pot of rose-water unguent for Jeanette’s hands.
There were delicious almond sweetmeats, flavoured with cardamom sugar, and Jeanette had to sample them immediately.
As her pregnancy had advanced, so had her desire for sweet foods until it had become a wild craving.
Tom had written to Alys under his own seal, and Jeanette presented her with the letter, feeling a little wistful and amused at this sign of chivalry and courtship.
Flushed and bright-eyed, Alys went to sit in a corner to read what he had written to her.
Rohese approached and leaned in to look. ‘What does he say?’ she asked eagerly.
‘He says I am his flawless rose and begs me not to wound him with thorns,’ Alys shared, giggling to release her tension. ‘He says he misses me with his heart and soul, and see, he has drawn a rose in the corner, and a little dog – he’s not used a scribe!’ Her eyes shone.
Jeanette looked up from reading her own correspondence from Edward.
Other girls had been attracted by Alys’s letter and had gathered around, giggling and exclaiming, everyone wanting to be part of the romantic drama.
Jeanette was fond of Alys, and prepared to make allowances, remembering when she had been that age and prone to such moments, but a husband’s letters were private, intimate things, not trophies for all to relish.
She would have to have gentle words later and deal with Rohese, who needed a firm hand.
She was distracted from her thoughts by a tight, dull pain in her lower spine as her womb became as hard as a drum for a moment before relaxing.
She had been experiencing such contractions for several days, but this one was stronger and lasted for a longer time.
She said nothing but returned to reading Edward’s letter with half an ear to the girls’ sparrow-chatter.
When the pain returned, tightening, squeezing and insistent, she cleared her throat.
‘Alys,’ she said, ‘put your letter away now and fetch Dame Julia.’
Having already borne four children, Jeanette’s labour was swift once it had begun, and as the winter sun declined from its zenith, sending deep golden shadows over the ground, a final push sent the baby slithering into the midwife’s waiting arms.
‘A boy, madam, you have a fine boy, praise be to God and Saint Margaret!’ Dame Julia cried as the infant immediately set up a lusty wail without any slaps or prompting from the midwives. His skin flushed with rosy life, and Eleanor de la Warre stepped forward to dry him in a warm towel.
Jeanette lay back panting, her open thighs smeared and bloody, her belly a wobbling empty mound.
The women had untied her hair so that there were no knots to impede the birth, and her tresses flowed over her breasts in heavy golden strands.
She leaned up on her elbows to look at the baby, still attached by the quivering umbilical cord.
‘Give him to me,’ she commanded.
Eleanor wrapped him in another towel to keep him warm and handed him to her.
Jeanette experienced a primal surge of love, and pride and triumph.
A strong, healthy son for herself, for Edward, for England.
‘You are born a prince, and you shall be a king in true time,’ she told his crumpled little face, and then she laughed with joy.
‘Send word to my lord immediately and tell him to come. Tell him I have borne us a fine son and heir, all praise to God!’ She kissed the baby’s damp brow, tasting him, tasting herself, before handing him back to be bathed before the fire and swaddled.
Alys had watched the proceedings wide-eyed and followed the women to see the baby have his first bath, her expression one of wondering amazement.
While Jeanette had been labouring, she had asked the girl if she had ever seen a baby born, and Alys had shaken her head.
‘Kittens? Puppies? Foals?’
‘Yes, madam, all of those, many times.’
‘A baby is not much different. You know how it comes about. You are old enough to see what happens, but if you do not wish to be here, you may go.’
Alys had swallowed but raised her chin. ‘I will stay,’ she said.
Jeanette admired the girl’s courage. She was not afraid to face the world, even if she had been sheltered. She had kept her own daughters away from the birthing chamber. At eight and six they were still too young.
Following his bath, the women brought the baby back to her.
She and Edward had agreed that if a boy, he would be named Edward too, honouring the long family lineage of that name and line of monarchs.
She stroked his little face, and he rooted towards her forefinger.
Tears filled her eyes at how perfect he was, this tiny future king.
* * *
In Bordeaux, Tom and Roger were sparring with some other squires while Edward watched and shouted instructions, occasionally stepping in to demonstrate. The youths were well matched, although Tom had a slight edge and a stronger killer instinct, whereas Roger took matters less seriously.
Edward had been busy all morning dealing with visiting lords and matters of state and the youths had been dancing attendance and performing whatever services were required, while learning by observation the conduct of diplomatic business.
Now they were expending their pent-up energy like two healthy young dogs let off the leash.
Edward smiled, remembering with nostalgia his own days in training, when Tom’s father had tutored him sometimes.
Thomas Holland had been an expert swordsman, faster than lightning, and his son was made in a similar mould.
Edward looked up as John Chandos approached him, escorting Edward’s yeoman John Delves, who had remained in Angoulême with Jeanette. Edward’s breathing shortened and he pressed one hand to his solar plexus.
Delves knelt on one knee and presented him with a sealed letter and one of Jeanette’s rings set with a sapphire. ‘Sire, God save you, the Princess your wife gave birth to a lusty, healthy son three days ago.’
Joy and anxiety in equal proportions shuddered through Edward. ‘And the Princess, is she well herself?’
‘Indeed, sire,’ Delves said, smiling. ‘I was bidden to tell you that she and the new prince eagerly await your return.’
Edward untied his money pouch with fumbling fingers and gave it to the man. ‘You bring me the greatest news – I will fill your hands with reward!’