Chapter 38
Thirty-eight
Richard Marshal’s entry into the world was a protracted struggle.
Although he was positioned head down, the angle was difficult and he was a large baby.
Labouring to deliver him, Isabelle realised that they both might die.
She wasn’t ready to leave the world yet, but God’s will frequently took small notice of human desires.
Battling anger, fear, and self-pity, she squeezed her prayer beads in her fists and trapped a cry behind gritted teeth as another pang tightened her womb.
A midwife wiped Isabelle’s brow and murmured words of encouragement and exhorted her to direct her prayers to the wooden figurine of Saint Margaret, patron saint of labouring mothers.
The image stood on a prie-dieu surrounded by lit candles.
Twice they had burned down to the stub and been renewed.
As the contraction eased, Isabelle panted with relief.
She wanted William here for her own reassurance, but was glad in a way too that he was absent, dealing with affairs related to chancellor Longchamp.
She hadn’t seen her husband for half of the month that she had retired to her confinement in the solar chamber at Caversham, and only then in fleeting moments when he came to her between engagements to replenish himself.
Perhaps she was never going to see him again; perhaps this was her death chamber.
Unable to bear the dark, warm stuffiness of the room and the metallic stench of mortality, she spoke peremptorily to the women.
“Open the shutters, I need to see the daylight.”
“But my lady, the cold air will be bad for you and the child. You will take a chill,” protested one of her maids.
“Open them!” Isabelle repeated. “I order you. If you do not, I will rise from this bed even as I am and do it myself!”
Lips pressed together, the maid unfastened the latches and pulled back the shutters to reveal arches of blustery grey daylight.
Isabelle drew a lungful of cold, moist air.
The next contraction gathered and tightened in her loins and as she bore down, she sensed a change in the pressure against her pelvic floor.
The wind had been behind William and his mesnie all the way from London, roaring in their ears, assisting the speed of their journey. Hoods pulled up and mantles fastened against the chill flurries of rain, they rode into Caversham shortly after noon.
William’s eyes were gritty with tiredness, but as always his spirits had lifted as he approached the manor which had fast become one of his favourites.
It was close to London and to Wiltshire, convenient as a stopping point on his way to the ports of the Narrow Sea, yet despite being near the hub of activity, it was a tranquil haven too—somewhere he could relax his vigilance and let the weight slide from his shoulders.
As he dismounted from his blowing courser and tossed the reins to his groom, he noticed that despite the inclement weather, the shutters and casements were open at the upstairs chamber windows.
While he was frowning over the detail, an agonised cry flew down to him from the aperture and froze him to the marrow.
He took the outer timber stairs to the hall two at a time, bursting in on the room like a Viking through a monastery door.
Servants and retainers stared at him in shock as he strode towards the stairs leading off from the dais.
Plainly having been told of his arrival, a flushed midwife was hastening down them to bar his way.
“The Countess Isabelle,” he said tersely, “she is all right? I heard a cry…”
The woman bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, my lord. The Countess is in travail and the labour has been hard, but there is hope…”
William blenched as her words filled him with fear. “What do you mean ‘there is hope’?” he snarled.
She trembled beneath his anger, but bravely held her ground. “The child is large and the head was in a difficult position, but the babe has turned of his own accord and my lady has good wide hips. With God’s help and if my lady’s strength holds up, all will yet be well.”
William shuddered. He had arrived in expectation of shedding his burdens, but instead he had to brace himself and shoulder new ones.
The feeling of impotence was terrifying.
There was nothing he could do for Isabelle, neither protect her nor take away her pain.
The realisation of the potential cost had not really hit him before.
When Will was born he had arrived home after the ordeal was over and to the sight of Isabelle tired but smiling with triumph.
Perhaps she had cried out before, but he hadn’t been there to hear it.
“My lord, I should go back to attend to the Countess,” the midwife said, turning on the stair.
He swallowed and gestured. As she opened the door, another muffled scream attacked him.
He had heard similar sounds before—in the aftermath of battle when wounded men bit down on rags and wedges of wood while their broken bones were set.
Turning abruptly, he moved away from the stairs.
His knights were arriving in the hall: stowing their baggage in their favourite corners; greeting wives and children, sweethearts and friends.
Feeling a tug at the tunic at the back of his knee and turning, William found his son looking up at him out of wide dark eyes.
“Horse,” the toddler said, waving his favourite wooden toy at his father and smiling with two neat rows of milk teeth.
William stooped and swung the child up in his arms. “Yes, horse,” he repeated, his throat tight.
The nursemaid was close behind her charge, but he waved her away and bore the infant to a bench against the side of the room.
The warm weight of him was a poignant comfort.
William was also distracted by how much Will had changed and grown while he had been absent about the business of running England and trying to prevent a prince and a bishop from foundering the country.
The baby limbs were still buttery and plump, but there were hints, like buds on a spring branch, of developing sinew and muscle.
The toddler chattered to him, words pouring out, some meaningless, others making perfect sense and almost, but not quite, sentences.
To hear him, to respond to him and receive response in turn, sent a throat-tightening pang through William.
In a pause between the babble, William thought he heard a sound from the room above and his shoulders tensed.
A glance at the nurse, who was still hovering nearby, revealed that he had not imagined it, for her own glance had darted towards the stairs.
Nausea churned his belly. He thought he was inured to anything that life could throw at him, but against the thought of Isabelle’s suffering he was defenceless.
The sound came again, louder, filled with effort…
then silence. William’s straining ears caught the faintest thread of a baby’s wail and it was the final goad that pitched him over the edge and destroyed the iron self-control that had carried him through a hundred tourneys unscathed, brought him to the Holy Land and back, and seen him rise to become co-justiciar of England.
Thrusting his son into the nurse’s arms, he strode to the stairs, galloped up them, and hurtled into the chamber above the hall.
Ignoring the dismayed gasps and cries of the women in the anteroom, he flurried aside the dividing curtain and strode into the bedchamber.
Isabelle was half sitting, half lying on their bed, her shift pushed up exposing her belly, blood smearing her inner thighs and pooling the bedstraw beneath her.
Her hair, sweat-darkened at her scalp, frizzed around her face, which was tear-streaked and shadowed with pain and exhaustion.
If he had seen her as a beautiful Madonna at Striguil when Will was born, now he was witness to the reality of childbirth, every bit as bloody and merciless as a long day on the field of battle, with survival just as uncertain.
She gasped his name, her eyes widening. On the far side of the bed, a woman was jiggling a towel-wrapped bundle in her arms and trying to shush the increasing strength and indignation of its wails.
The senior midwife drew herself up and addressed him as if he were a serf. “You should not be here,” she admonished. “It is not seemly…my lord.” She tried to turn him around, but William remained rooted to the spot.
“Seemly or not, I am here,” he answered the woman without removing his gaze from his wife. “Isabelle…” His throat worked.
Through her pain and exhaustion she found the ghost of a smile. “William, you great ox,” she croaked. “Take our second son and go and present him to the knights and his brother. We have an heir for the Longueville lands.”
Hearing how hoarse and dry her voice was, he didn’t want to think how much she had screamed in the hours up to the birth.
A frowning midwife brought a drink to Isabelle and drew the coverlet over her thighs and the collapsed mound of her belly.
The woman holding the baby came to William and placed the screaming bundle in his arms. He winced.
“He certainly has lungs loud enough to command an army,” he said.
“I suppose his entry into the world was no less difficult for him than it was for me,” Isabelle replied, adding quickly as she saw her husband’s expression: “We may both have been mauled by the ordeal, but we’re alive.
Go.” She made a shooing motion. “Let the midwives finish their work and allow me to rest awhile and we’ll talk.
” A spark glimmered through her bruised exhaustion.
“You’ve returned, so you must have news about Longchamp? ”