The Marsh King's Daughter (43 page)

'Tell them to go to the devil,' gasped the wounded sailor sprawled beside him. He was bleeding heavily. 'They won't let us live, whatever we do.'

The Empress listed to one side as one of the French ships drew on the grapnel ropes and began pulling in for the kill. They weren't going to ram because they wanted the Empress intact, Nicholas surmised. They must have marked her as a target in Barfleur and then followed her out to sea at a stealthy distance. French pirates were as greedy for gain as English ones, and he was, after all, a marked man.

Beside him, the bleeding crewman groaned and then was silent. There was a bump of hulls as the first French ship secured alongside and the second one began to pull in. Nicholas rose from the deck. They would not use arrows now for fear of striking their own.

Nicholas's crew had been decimated and he knew there was no hope. Pirates, French or otherwise, did not take prisoners unless for an enormous ransom, and no ransom raised could be higher than the price of the Empress.

As the first raiders swarmed aboard, Nicholas stumbled to the prow and unhitched the lantern. Then, deliberately, he torched the rigging. There was another hard bump as the second French vessel came alongside and began disgorging her crew. A bearded Frenchman roared out of the darkness, steel flashing in his hand. Dropping the lantern, Nicholas ducked under the swing of the huge sword, chopped with his axe and leaped aside. The pirate writhed on the ground, clutching his splintered shin. Nicholas snatched the guttering lantern from the deck and set the sail alight.

'Get the bastard, get him!'

Nicholas was rushed from all sides. Abandoning lantern and axe, he leaped on to the wash strake and then dived into the sea. The water embraced him in icy black arms, closing over his head, drawing him down. The cold stunned him and made him want to gasp, but he held the spasm down in his lungs and kicked for the surface, breaking water like a seal.

Around him was the glittering darkness of the sea, illuminated by the sprinkled gold of a ship on fire. Men's voices bellowed with panic. The Empress's mast and yard burned like a ragged crucifix, tatters of flame fluttering to entice the white deck and sides to join the dance of destruction. By the illumination of the fire, he could see men peering in the water, searching for him. One jabbed with a spear, as if harpooning fish.

'Leave it, the sea will deal with him soon enough,' a heavy French accent snapped. 'If we don't put out this fire, we'll lose our prize.'

Nicholas trod water, his teeth chattering. The sea was like liquid ice upon his flesh. When the pain of its embrace turned to numbness, he knew that he would die. Perhaps he had cheated his end, perhaps he had been meant to drown years ago on the Wellstream causeway. They were out in mid-Channel, much too far from land, even if he knew the direction without stars to help him.

A wave slapped over his face. He gulped and choked, his eyes stinging. Through sea-water tears, he watched the Empress continue to burn like a pagan offering, or a funeral pyre marking a hero's departure from the shores of the living. He began to succumb to the dreadful seduction of the cold, salt womb. The Widow-Maker, the Norse sailors called her in their fanciful way, only now that fancy was all too real. Without hope, and yet driven by his stubborn nature to fight on, Nicholas began swimming.

Miriel pressed her hands into the small of her back and prayed that the gnawing ache would go away. For two days it had sawed at her loins. Seated or standing, no position was comfortable and she still had another four weeks of carrying to endure.

She was rapidly arriving at the conclusion that she should never have run away from St Catherine's. She should have attended studiously to her devotions, obeyed every command of Sister Euphemia no matter how petty or onerous, and she . should have bided her time. Abbess Hillary had entertained great hopes for her, if not of her vocation, then of her practical abilities. One day she might have held the power of an abbess in her own hands.

Miriel sat down at her tablet frame, gave the squares of shaved antler a quarter turn and pulled through the weft thread. In the convent she might have chafed at the confinement, but at least she would have been safe from the hammers of the world. But then, the hammers of the world had been what she wanted, and to wield them to shape her own destiny.

Another quarter turn and she abandoned the braid loom, rising again to pace the room. She had made a disaster of that shaping. Now she was just as trapped as she had been in the convent, and in far greater danger. She cupped her hands either side of her mountainous belly and wondered with fear how something so enormous was going to squeeze out through the narrow passage between her legs. She had asked the midwife, who had said with the amusement of knowledge that the lump was not all baby. Much of the swelling was liquor, and the afterbirth. The information had eased Miriel's fear, but not dispelled it entirely. She was still half convinced that the midwife was wrong.

The room was too small to contain her restlessness and she wandered outside. Elfwen had been overseeing the washing of the bed linens and the huge wooden laundry barrel steamed in the yard. The line was draped with sheets, bolsters, and, more ominously, with long strips of linen to make swaddling bands for the baby and pads for the imminent mother.

Miriel looked at them and then looked away. Everywhere she went there were reminders of how quickly her time was running through the hourglass. Others burdened her with their advice and expectations. Elfwen was busy with her preparations the day long, singing as she toiled and thoroughly looking forward to the event. The women of the neighbourhood frequently called with gifts and wisdom garnered from their own experiences, none of which Miriel wanted to hear; yet, like a child with a ghost story, she could not help listening with pricked ears and horrified fascination. At mass the priest reminded her that because of Eve's sin she should expect to suffer, to bring forth her child in pain. And because her sin was worse than Eve's, being adulterous, Miriel knew that she would receive no mercy whatsoever from God.

Robert revelled in the sensuousness of her pregnancy. He would stroke and caress with fascination until Miriel was fit to slap his hands away. There was something distorted about his attentions. He was delighted by the enlargement of her breasts and liked nothing better than to fondle the swollen blue-veined globes, or take his satisfaction between them now that the size of her belly made ordinary copulation impossible. She was glad when his business took him away.

Rubbing her back, she moved towards the lush greenery of the orchard. The moist grass soaked the hem of her gown, changing the costly blue wool a darker, even more expensive shade. Apple blossom concealed the branches in clouds of scented pink and white, and beneath the trees three goats grazed voraciously.

It was a scene of pleasure and contentment, but the harder Miriel tried, the more difficult it was to feel a part of it. Instead, her mind wandered from a sea of grass to a wide, grey ocean. Where was Nicholas now? Did he ever think of her, or was all his attention taken up by his wife and the imminent birth of his other child? She looked down at her belly. He did not know that he had fathered this one. There had been no contact between them since that day in Boston. She had half hoped that he would seek her out, and within that half-hope was a dream that he would abduct her over his shoulder so that she could abjure all responsibility for the deed and yet still have her heart's desire.

Wicked and selfish, she thought with a grimace, and also impossible. Why should he seek her out when he had a wife at home, a red-haired wife who knew all the tricks of the brothel and was also carrying his child? Impatient with herself, she flounced from the orchard. There was to be no peace anywhere, for her thoughts went with her.

As she reached the yard, the ache in her spine pushed deeper, enclosing her loins. She stopped for a moment to absorb the sensation and as she did so, Robert came striding towards her, his expression smug. He had been meeting with fellow wool merchants in town, and had dressed prestigiously to suit. A fine new belt girded his tunic of Lincoln greyne, emphasising to all the wealth encompassed by his paunch. The unkind might have said that it was difficult to tell between him and his wife, which one was carrying the baby.

He greeted Miriel with a kiss and the present of a woman's girdle that was fashioned to match his belt. 'For when you are slim again,' he said, patting her belly. 'Thomas Thorngate made it for me.'

Miriel forced a smile and thanked him, for it was a handsome piece, if not entirely to her taste with its ostentatious tooling.

'Only the best for my wife.' Taking her arm, he steered her towards the house. She could feel the spring in his step, the coursing of pleasure and vitality, and wished that she felt the same. Her body was as heavy today as a lead ingot, matching her spirits.

Robert made her sit on a bench and bade Samuel bring a flagon of wine. Then he sat beside her and talked of this and that - the trivial details of his meeting, the price of fish in the market, the weather. The nagging ache in Miriel's spine intensified and her feeling of oppression became laced with dread. She knew this manner of Robert's. He was biding his time because he wanted to tell her something of moment, something that needed its build-up of suspense. The habit had always irritated her, but now she was afraid too, for although there was pleasure in his eyes, there was no gentleness.

Reaching for his wine, he took a deep swallow that left red droplets trembling on the ends of his moustache. 'Do you remember the time you asked me not to speak of Nicholas de Caen, and I agreed not to do so?'

Here was the crux of the matter, Miriel thought, realising that she should have known the subject. 'I remember it well,' she replied, 'but I suspect that you are going to break your word.'

Robert took another large gulp of wine, then bared his teeth. 'Believe me, sweetheart, I have little desire to speak of the man to you. There is enough of his presence in this room already.' He looked at her belly, then at her face. 'But speak I will, this once, and then nevermore. I swear it on my soul.'

Miriel's feeling of dread increased. She had an overwhelming urge to stuff her fingers in her ears and refuse to listen, for whatever Robert had to say was going to be unpleasant.

'He is dead,' Robert announced in a voice heavy with satisfaction. 'Drowned in mid-Channel between Barfleur and Dover when his ship caught fire. All his crew as well. I heard it from Geoffrey Packman who was recently in Boston. Martin Wudecoc's still at sea, but I suppose the news will filter to him soon enough.'

'I don't believe you.' Too late, Miriel did thrust her fingers in her ears, but the words were already out, the damage done.

'Nevertheless, it is true. I would not bring such a tale home unless I was sure.'

'And how can you be sure?' Miriel cried through the web of disbelief and despair that was entangling all thought and motion. 'Rumour and gossip at merchant gatherings are never reliable!'

Robert sighed. 'I can understand that you want to think I am lying, but believe me, my sources are more reliable than mere merchant rumour and gossip. He is dead, sweetheart. Have a mass said for his soul if you wish, I am not without compassion, and then forget him.'

A bitter, distorted compassion, Miriel thought as she doubled over, the pain of loss rippling through her. How could it be true? Nicholas was too competent a sailor to fall victim to the mistake of a fire at sea. She had not saved his life out on the marsh for it to be squandered before his child was born. 'No!' she howled, as the pain redoubled and vicious pincers enclosed her loins.

Dimly, through the agony, she sensed Robert leaping to his feet, all patronising complacence flown and his voice loud with panic as he shouted for Elfwen. His sudden move sent the cups of wine crashing over and a splash of cold red liquid filled Miriel's lap and soaked through her gown to join the hot trickle of birthing fluid and blood between her thighs. Fire and water. She was drowning and burning at the same time and the only one who could help her was dead.

'Mistress Willoughby's hips are too narrow to allow for the passage of the child's head,' the senior midwife said, emerging from the birthing chamber to confront the pacing Robert. She made a nervous washing motion with her hands. 'If we do not act soon they will both die.'

Robert suppressed the urge to grab her by the throat, hold her against the wall and shake her. 'Then act,' he said through clenched teeth. Miriel had been in labour for almost two days. Her screams had stopped some time ago because she had lost her voice. Robert did not know which was worse, the sounds of suffering, or of silence. At least while she had been crying out he had known that she still had her strength. He balled his fists and hoped that Nicholas de Caen was in hell, then found himself wishing that the bastard was still alive so that a death less merciful could be devised for him.

The midwife still waited, washing her hands, dancing from one foot to the other as if in desperate need of the privy. 'Well?' he snapped.

'The difficulty is that we can save your wife, or save the child, but not both,' she said. 'She has not carried the babe for the full term, but there is still every chance for its survival ..."

Robert looked at the frightened, white-faced woman. The decision was easy and he did not even pause for thought. 'Let the child die,' he said, a hint of triumph lurking in the rage of the last word. Neither sower nor seed would be left to gall him now.

She bit her lip. 'You are sure? It is likely that with the damage done, she will never bear you another one.'

Robert snorted with humourless laughter at the irony of that remark and the midwife recoiled from him with eyes full of shocked revulsion. 'It is of no consequence to me,' he said. 'Only a man who is unsure of himself needs the prop of an heir to bolster his importance. Go, do what you must to save my wife.'

The woman swallowed. 'I will do my best, Master Willoughby, but even so, the travail has been very difficult. It might be God's will that neither of them will live.'

Robert's eyes narrowed to slits. 'If my wife dies, Mistress Midwife, then I swear by all that is holy you will never practise in this town or anywhere again.'

She faced him bravely, although her body was trembling. 'I will do my best because it is my code to do so, not because in your overwrought state you threaten me,' she retorted with spirit, but sped back to the birthing chamber like a coney running back .to its warren after a narrow escape from a stoat.

Robert cursed. He hated being helpless and dependent. All his life he had seized what he wanted. If at first it was unattainable, perseverance had always yielded its reward. He had wealth and influence, homes in the expensive quarters of Nottingham and Lincoln, a young and vivacious wife who had made him three times as rich as before . . . and then beggared him by her affair with a younger man. Now she threatened to leave him entirely destitute and he was enraged to know that he was as powerless as a straw in the wind. Arranging a death was a simple matter of spending enough silver. But he could not make the same bargain for a life.

There was pain that went beyond pain and continued for ever. Even when Miriel could bear no more, even when she had gone beyond the point of giving up, it shook her like a terrier shaking a rat, refusing to let her go. The midwife and her assistant murmured words of encouragement and urged her to drink their potions. They massaged her belly with fragrant oils and unbound her hair to prevent her braids from tying the child in her womb. To no avail. The time arrived when Miriel realised that she was going to die, and she found herself willing the moment to happen.

There came a point where she thought that it had, for suddenly she found herself rising out of her body and floating effortlessly above it, and the pain was gone. She could see herself upon the bed and the midwives bending over her. They murmured to each other, and she heard one of them say that it was a mercy. Though she no longer felt pain, there was a great deal of blood. And then she saw the baby, or what was left of it. A scream welled up inside her, but she had no voice. She tried to escape, but instead of floating away, she was drawn closer and closer to the scene. Darkness encroached, and suddenly the pain returned in a great, red gush. Hands pinned her to the bed and a cup was forced against her teeth.

"Tis all right, my lovely, over now,' murmured a soothing voice. 'Drink this, 'twill ease the pain.'

A bitter liquid stung her raw throat. She choked and swallowed. 'My baby,' she tried to say.

'Hush, you sleep now.' A maternal hand soothed her brow.

She fought against it, but she had no strength. All her limbs were as heavy as lead weights and every movement sent ripples of white fire through her groin. 'It's dead, isn't it?' A foolish question, since she knew the answer even without seeing the flicker of compassion in the woman's eyes.

'Don't think about it, loveday, just you rest. You've had a mortal hard time,' the midwife murmured.

How could she not think about it? Did they believe she was so out of her wits that she did not realise they had crushed its skull so that her narrow frame could expel it from her womb? Nicholas drowned, his child . . . their child dead. 'You should have taken me, not an innocent babe,' she whispered.

'Not in our hands, mistress, 'twas your husband made the decision.'

'He was the last one you should have asked,' Miriel gasped.

The midwife's hand continued to push Miriel's soaked tawny hair off her brow. 'He loves you very much, mistress,' she said in a tone that was meant to console, but only increased Miriel's sense of desolation.

'He loves himself,' she replied, and turned her face to the wall.

In the house of Martin Wudecoc, the loft shutters were open, admitting a stream of morning sunlight and the sounds of wharf side bustle. On the bed, Magdalene gave an almighty groan, her face red and contorted with effort, and then slumped, panting.

'A son, a fine little lad,' the midwife said with a smile as she lifted a bawling, bloodied scrap of life from between Magdalene's spread thighs.

The new mother reached frantic arms for him and clutched him to her, all wet and slippery as he was, and howled her anguish and joy with him. 'I want Nick to see him!' she sobbed. 'I want him.'

'Hush, it's all right, I know, I know,' Alyson Wudecoc wiped Magdalene's face with a cold cloth.

'No you don't!' Magdalene swatted her away. 'You still have a husband and a father for your children!'

Mistress Wudecoc recoiled, biting her lip. She exchanged glances with the midwife.

'Here, wrap him up before he catches cold.' The woman held out a square of linen and a blanket to Magdalene, offering practicality to dilute the concentration of volatile emotion.

Magdalene took the items, grateful for their respite. As she cleaned the birth fluid from her son with the linen, she examined each delicate, perfect feature. Nicholas's hands in miniature, the tiny nose that would one day be a masculine version of her own, the delicate eyelids lined with lashes of dark bronze-gold. Her heart filled with a pain so great that it almost tore her apart. Nicholas would never know their child, and their child would never know his father except by pictures made of words told by others.

Stephen Trabe had brought her the news of the Empress's sinking, but he did not have to tell her. She had known the moment she saw him on her threshold a week ago that something had happened to Nicholas. Her first reaction had been to slam the door in his face and shut out his tidings. If she did not hear them then they couldn't be true. But he had hammered on the wood with the hilt of his sword and offered to bellow his business like a street crier, and so she had been forced to open up and let him destroy her world.

'Nick wouldn't let his ship catch fire, he was too good a sailor for that,' she had protested.