Kingmaker: Broken Faith (4 page)

‘Around the face?’ she asks. ‘And the hands?’

Eelby nods.

‘We must go quickly,’ Widow Beaufoy says. She instructs the girl to summon the ostler and someone called Harrington, who turns out to be a servant.

‘Bring the bag,’ she tells the girl, ‘and make sure it is ready, particularly with hawthorn and garlic.’

They hurry to their horses and, with Widow Beaufoy riding side-saddle like Katherine, the girl on the back of the servant’s horse, they ride out through the marketplace and back across the bridge. When they are in the road, Widow Beaufoy urges her horse on.

‘We must be quick,’ she says. ‘Or we are more likely to have need of a priest and a man good with a spade.’

WHEN THEY ARRIVE
at the castle, the gates are still open and the hungry dogs are barking.

‘Woman!’ Eelby calls. Only the dogs answer. He is off his horse first, running for the kitchen where the door stands open. The fire has gone out and it is dark within.

‘Woman!’

They find her behind the table, lying in a pool of her own making, her face fixed in a terrible grimace. Widow Beaufoy calls for a candle and orders the girl to bring her bag.

‘Can we move her?’

Eelby and the servant lift Eelby’s wife on to the table. Her body is swollen, hot and rigid.

‘Put the jars there,’ Widow Beaufoy tells the girl, ‘then open that shutter and find more candles.’

She turns to her servant and Eelby. ‘You, get the fire going. You, fetch some water. Then feed those dogs. Shut them up, at any rate.’

Harrington fixes the fire while Eelby hurries away with the cauldron. Widow Beaufoy begins concocting a mixture, of herbs and some wine, in a small bowl of dark stone.

‘How can I help?’ Katherine asks.

‘Pray for her,’ Widow Beaufoy says.

‘I have worked in a hospital,’ Katherine tells her, ‘after two battles, and have sewn men together.’

Widow Beaufoy looks up.

‘We may have need of your skills then, if they are both to survive. In the meantime, mix this, make it fine.’

She passes Katherine the bowl. The smell is strong, earthy and rich, like a country lane in high summer. Widow Beaufoy turns and stands by Eelby’s wife. She feels her face, her limbs. Smells her. Even tastes whatever it is that has made the pool under her.

Eelby returns with the pot and hangs it over the blossoming fire and Widow Beaufoy dismisses him and Harrington both before she raises Eelby’s wife’s dress and shift, both heavy with what must be her broken waters. Eelby’s wife is breathing fast, her face still clenched, the muscles around her mouth twitching peculiarly, and though her eyes are open she seems to see nothing.

Widow Beaufoy uses a knife to cut away her braies and together she and the girl raise the dress over Eelby’s wife’s belly, as big as a moon, with an upright belly button. Widow Beaufoy peers at her nethers.

‘Rue, wormwood, marsh mallow. Rub her hands with laurel oil. Quick, girl.’

The girl makes a mixture from two bottles and passes it to Widow Beaufoy who stands by Eelby’s wife’s head.

‘Lift her,’ she says.

Katherine puts aside her bowl, slides her hands under Eelby’s wife’s heavy shoulders and hauls her up. Widow Beaufoy tips her head back, pinches the point of Eelby’s wife’s nose and pours the contents of the bowl into her mouth so that she must drink or drown. The fire is cracking behind them, throwing shadows.

‘More light,’ Widow Beaufoy says, and, ‘that needs to be ground finer still. And add oil.’

The girl lights another of the goat-fat candles before unstoppering a clay jar and adding oil to Katherine’s mix. Katherine keeps stirring, creating a thick paste, wondering what it is.

‘Now warm the wine.’

There is a small jug, half-empty, in the buttery. Katherine pours it into a scrubbed pot and places this on the stone among the ashes.

Now Eelby’s wife goes into spasm. Her body is stiff for a long moment, her back arched. Her mighty legs are shaking, and her hose slips from her calves to bunch around her ankles. She is grimacing. Widow Beaufoy is bent over her now, embracing her, holding her gently, soothing her with words Katherine does not understand. Eelby’s wife starts shuddering and a tendril of foam slips from her mouth. Then blood. And then – dear God! Eelby’s wife is – changing colour? Katherine brings one of the smoking candles closer. She is not sure now, but for a moment it seemed Eelby’s wife’s skin darkened, turned almost blue.

After a moment, Eelby’s wife relaxes. Widow Beaufoy stands. Then Eelby’s wife falls asleep, but it is not a good sleep. The girl has a cloth to mop her face, to wipe away the spit and the blood.

‘She has bitten her tongue,’ she says.

Widow Beaufoy nods.

‘She will wake soon,’ she says, ‘but she will not be with us long before the fit comes again.’

‘Why? What is it?’ Katherine asks.

‘It is something to do with the womb. It is misplaced, perhaps.’

‘Misplaced? How?’

‘It is what the books say. I have never seen it myself, but I was taught that the womb may rise into the body. It can choke the heart. I think this is what we have here.’

Katherine looks at Eelby’s wife. Her womb looks very fixed, very low with the child within, but is it possible, she wonders, that the heart might be pressed by the size of the baby?

‘What can we do?’ she asks.

‘The books suggest we write some formulation of words in any cheese or butter you may have? Then apply it to the surface of the womb.’

How would that help? Katherine wonders. It sounds like witchcraft.

‘The books also suggest the womb must be fixed in place by burning the bones of a salted fish, or the hooves of a horse, even the dung of a cat, and letting the smoke rise up and fumigate her from below …’

‘But?’

‘But none of this works.’

‘What then?’

‘I have given her something. I have seen it work, but I have also seen it fail. Hawthorn. Garlic. Poppy, too, to calm her.’

The girl puts more wood on the fire.

The three stand and watch Eelby’s wife. Her hands are huge, lying in loose fists by her sprawling thighs. Blood and the other liquid cover the table and have pooled on the slates underfoot. Only now does either of them take off their riding cloak. Widow Beaufoy’s is held with a fine gold brooch and pin. They drape them over a coffer by the door.

They wait. The girl lights another candle. Widow Beaufoy prepares some other unguent with the warmed wine. Then Eelby’s wife stirs. Widow Beaufoy is quickly by her side. Eelby’s wife is confused and touches her face, looks around as if dazed, wonders what they are all doing there. She settles back down on the table and stares up at the low, sooted rafters, the bunches of brown herbs that hang from them. It looks as if she is going to say something but, before she can, she gives a long cry and her mouth starts twitching again and the fit is on her.

Widow Beaufoy holds her down again, and whispers more words, but already she is spitting froth again and this time Katherine is certain her hands, bigger than ever now, are turning blue.

But it passes. Eelby’s wife relaxes and, when it is over and she is asleep again, Widow Beaufoy stands up.

‘Tell Harrington to fetch a priest.’

The girl looks to Katherine.

‘The priest has gone,’ she tells her. ‘He will have to ride to the priory. Eelby can show him.’

‘You have no priest here?’

Katherine shakes her head. They cannot afford a priest. They can scarcely afford a greyhound. Widow Beaufoy nods, as if she understands.

‘Tell Harrington to be quick,’ she tells the girl, who nods and is gone. A long moment slides by. The fire catches brightly. Eelby’s wife makes a noise in her throat. She starts to snore. Widow Beaufoy places a palm on Eelby’s wife’s belly.

‘Come,’ she says. ‘Feel.’

Katherine extends a hand to the hot drum of the belly.

‘There,’ Widow Beaufoy says. She takes Katherine’s fingers and presses them down on something harder still within.

‘A knee,’ she says. ‘Or an elbow.’

She thinks for a long moment. Then the girl returns.

‘He has gone for the priest,’ she tells them.

‘Help us,’ Widow Beaufoy says and together they turn Eelby’s wife on the table so that her legs swing down one side. Widow Beaufoy is surprisingly strong, and, standing behind Eelby’s wife, she grips her under the arms and sits her up, and for a moment she sits slumped over her belly like an old drunk.

‘Hold her,’ Widow Beaufoy tells Katherine, and to the girl: ‘Rose oil. All over. Vigorously now.’

Katherine stands behind Eelby’s wife and takes the weight. Eelby’s wife is solid, her chest and shoulders broad and deep, her large muscles well covered with fat. Widow Beaufoy fiddles with some concoction while the girl starts massaging oil into Eelby’s wife’s nethers and her marbled thighs.

The mixture Widow Beaufoy is making is penetrating, sharp and sweet. Widow Beaufoy pushes the girl aside and once again takes Eelby’s wife’s nose, tips back her head and pours in the contents of the bowl. Eelby’s wife starts. Katherine struggles to hold her. The girl helps, her hands fragrant with oil. Then Widow Beaufoy places a pinch of something from a china pot in each of Eelby’s wife’s nostrils. There is a moment, then Eelby’s wife stretches backward. Katherine staggers, has to use her shoulder to keep the body upright – then the woman sneezes.

‘Good,’ Widow Beaufoy murmurs. ‘And again.’

Eelby’s wife sneezes three more times.

Widow Beaufoy keeps a hand on her belly. She is frowning beadily. After a moment she shakes her head. Nothing is happening.

‘I will have to help her myself,’ she says. Widow Beaufoy takes the oil jar and washes her hand in it. Then she stands before Eelby’s wife, spreads the younger woman’s solid knees, pushes her backward against Katherine and then crouches down. Widow Beaufoy narrows her eyes, pushes her hands forward and twists her wrist. It seems to Katherine that she must have her hand inside Eelby’s wife.

‘I can’t – I can’t get it.’

She stands.

‘The baby is the wrong way around. Like this, you see? Not that.’

The girl is watching, learning. So is Katherine.

There is a voice at the door.

‘The priest is here.’

‘Don’t let him in. I will try again. Hold her.’

She does so, but with the same result. After the third attempt she gives up.

‘Let her sleep undisturbed,’ she says.

They let her down and turn her around so that she is lying along the table again.

‘Will we need a surgeon?’ the girl asks.

Widow Beaufoy shakes her head.

‘It is too late for that,’ she says, and the girl pulls a face and nods. Katherine realises what has happened. Although Eelby’s wife is not yet dead, Widow Beaufoy has given her up as such. She has passed from one state to another, hardly noticed. The girl starts to pack away the bottles and the pestle and mortar. Then she brings out another earthenware bottle and a crucifix made of folded rushes, long-faded brown. Widow Beaufoy anoints her hands with more oil.

‘We must baptise the baby,’ she says.

Katherine feels a great weight of sadness, a crushing disappointment. She has placed more hope on this child than she expected.

‘It will die?’ she asks.

Widow Beaufoy nods.

‘But if I can pull a limb out,’ she says, ‘then at least we may absolve it of sin, and ensure it does not pass eternity in Purgatory.’

She inserts her hand into Eelby’s wife again. This time she is less gentle. She no longer cares whether she hurts the baby, or Eelby’s wife, since she has already given up on them both. The girl looks on, clutching the bottle to her chest.

After a moment Widow Beaufoy shakes her head sadly and withdraws her hand.

‘It is stuck fast,’ she says.

There is a long silence. Katherine can feel tears gathering weight in her eyelashes. This cannot be, she thinks.

‘What would a surgeon have done?’ she asks.

Widow Beaufoy shrugs again, and says: ‘He might have cut her, perhaps, across here.’

She runs a finger over Eelby’s wife’s belly.

‘But that would kill her, surely?’

‘Of course. It is only done to save the baby, only
in extremis
. And usually after the death has occurred.’

‘But now?’

Widow Beaufoy looks at her and shakes her head.

‘It has been too long,’ she says.

‘The poor soul,’ the girl adds.

Eelby’s wife is slack now. The fire has gone out in the hearth, too. It seems very dark in the kitchen.

‘So that is it?’ Katherine asks.

Widow Beaufoy nods. The girl is returning the jar and cross to the leather bag.

‘But the baby?’ Katherine asks. ‘It might yet be alive?’

She cannot help but glance at the expanse of belly. There is another life buried in there hoping to escape, but …

‘But we must try, surely. What have we to lose? You say she is almost dead, but the baby?’

Widow Beaufoy stops and looks at her.

‘Is probably already dead.’

‘But we can’t be sure?’

Widow Beaufoy looks at Katherine for what seems like a long moment.

‘The mother is still alive,’ she says, indicating Eelby’s wife. ‘To cut her in the manner in which you suggest would be to kill her, and it will be for nothing if the baby is already dead.’

Katherine feels panicky. She feels they are losing more than just the life of an unborn child.

‘We must do something.’

Widow Beaufoy shakes her head.

‘I must wash,’ she says, ‘and then I will find the priest.’

And she leaves Katherine and the girl alone in the kitchen with the great mound of Eelby’s dying wife. The girl hurries to close the door behind her and then comes to stand close to Katherine. She looks confiding.

‘She would not cut her,’ she says in a low voice, ‘even if she knew the baby were alive.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is murder.’

‘But surely? In the eyes of the Lord—’

‘Oh, she is not worried about the Lord. She is worried about the law. About the bailiff and the coroner, about the deodand, and all the fines she would have to pay.’