The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) (25 page)

"I see her at the Mass."

"Aye, but she does not seem to... believe," Elsbeth said.

"Not to believe—that is a most serious charge," he said, looking down at Denise. She met his look for a time and then looked down at her feet. "Tell me what you believe, Denise."

"I believe in God, in the Holy Trinity, in heaven and in hell," Denise said.

"And?" he asked.

"And I believe in the miracles and in the saints and in the blessed Virgin."

Father Godfrey looked at Elsbeth. "Her belief seems most complete. From what springs your concern?"

"I do not think Denise believes that God cares for her, that He is her bulwark against trouble and her strong tower against enemies. There is no rest in her belief," Elsbeth said.

Father Godfrey looked carefully at Elsbeth and smiled. "It could be said that she is young yet for such precision. It could be said that Denise lives in a strong tower and so feels not the hunger for protection that David did when he wrote those inspired words. It could be said that all belief is perfected by God Himself in its proper time. And it could also be said that this child needs guidance in her belief," he said, looking again down at Denise.

"I would say that I live in a strong tower, but that I would like a pair of boots that fit properly," Denise said.

"Would you?" Father Godfrey said, scowling down at her softly. "And has anyone asked what you would say?"

"Nay, Father," she said, dropping her head.

"Have you thanked God for the boots you have and for the strong lower which shelters you?"

"Nay, Father," she said, slipping her hand into Elsbeth's.

"Well, kneel now and give your thanks to God for what you have. He will see to what you do not have. And when you are done with thanking God, you will come to me after Compline each day and we will search God's will for you, I your willing tutor in matters eternal. You will come, Denise?"

"Yea, Father," she said, kneeling in the nave, her blond hair picking up the golden light of the candles.

"Thank you, Father," Elsbeth said. "I was concerned, as was my lord Hugh."

"She is young," he said. "Such stumbling steps are common. I have known her longer than you, and Denise is a stout soul; she will find her way, with my guidance. But what of you, Elsbeth? Have you not a care of your own?"

"Father?" Were her suspicions so plain then?

He led her away from Denise, who was mumbling her prayers in hurried Latin. When they stood at the back of the church, the shadows enfolding them in chilly comfort, he said, "I remember you well, Elsbeth, and I know how to read a troubled heart. Tell me what concerns you." He laid his hand upon her arm in comfort; she shook off its weight before answering.

"Of concerns I have few. Perhaps I have a question or two which I had thought to put to you," she said. Now that the opportunity was upon her, she could not get the words past her constricted throat. He knew her well? She could hardly remember him at all; finding his name had been a task beyond her skill.

"Questions? I will answer what I may, yet is it not the fear of sin which clouds your eyes?"

"Should not the fear of sin cloud every eye?" she said, evading him.

"Aye, it could be argued," he said. "But what troubles you, Elsbeth? Speak plain. I am your priest and would only serve your soul."

Her priest, yet she did not know him. He was a stranger to her. How could she speak her fears to this man of God who lived out his life in Warkham under her father's very nose?

"I have not sinned, yet…" she said, halting. "Yet..."

She could not name the thing she feared. She could not lay Hugh out to public shame in Warkham's bailey. With any other priest, at any other holding, she would have spoken freely. But not here.

"All have sinned. It is only unconfessed and unrepentant sin which damns us."

"Aye, that is true," she said. "Do you then tell me I have no cause to fear?"

"I can tell you nothing, Elsbeth, beyond what I have said. In confession and in repentance we are set free. And instructed to go and sin no more," he added.

"A difficult task," she said. "Even for a knight from Outremer."

Surely the priest had heard Hugh's confession and knew whether he had unnatural desires. Let Godfrey only say that Hugh had turned from his sin. Yet why should she want that? If Hugh sinned and by his sin she was released from this marriage, would that not answer all? She should want to find the evidence of Hugh's continuing sin. Coupled with their lack of consummation, it was the key to set her free.

Yet she did not want to believe what her heart whispered against him. 'Twas little wonder she could make no sense of what Father Godfrey was saying; she could make no sense of her own thoughts and wishes. She was the very woman her mother had warned her against becoming.

"Sin knows no boundaries, Elsbeth," Godfrey said softly. "Lucifer is no respecter of persons. Even a knight from Outremer may fall into his maw," he said solemnly.

"Father, I am not comforted."

Did he tell her that Hugh was guilty and that he had not repented of his sin, or did he blame her for the courses that barred the way of her husband into her? Or did he speak of theology with no thought to Hugh or Elsbeth or the working of things behind Warkham's walls? He was not a plain-speaking man, this priest.

"Elsbeth, comfort is only found within God's strong tower. Comfort and safety are His promises. 'He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken.' Heed the words of the psalm. Heed them and be at peace."

"Father, I am at peace," she said again, more firmly. "I know this verse very well."

"Aye, I taught it to you years past," he said. "I am pleased that you remembered it, though I was forgotten."

"I did not—"

"Nay, do not lay the sin of deceit upon your soul," he said, smiling softly. "I have changed. I know it. The years pass and the burdens of life grow heavy."

Elsbeth smiled. "Yea, Father, and thank you. You are most forgiving."

"Lay it not as praise upon me," he said. "Is the dispensing of forgiveness not my province? I but do as I am bid by my master. Elsbeth," he said, his smile fading, "forgiveness is what we are each called to. Mayhap the burden that you carry with you now could be lifted from you if you could find the grace to forgive."

He was guilty. Father Godfrey could not say it outright, but Hugh was guilty of sodomy. Perhaps even with Baldwin, the king he openly loved. Perhaps even with Raymond, his handsome squire. Father Godfrey wanted her to forgive him. Father Godfrey wanted her marriage to stand, and he wanted her to forgive the sin Hugh carried upon his soul.

Yet this was her way out. If Hugh had committed sodomy, would not the church release her from marriage to such a man? Especially as there was no consummation? What held them together? Not their bodies joined as one. This union could be broken at a word.

"And will God forgive a woman who repudiates her hus—"

"Ah, I have found you," Hugh said, shaking the water from his hair as he entered.

Elsbeth jumped as if struck and whirled to face him. "My lord," she said, dropping her head in greeting.

"My lady," he said, bowing. "And my small lady Denise," he added as Denise came toward him. "How fetching you look, and how fine are your boots."

Denise grinned hugely and stole a quick look at Elsbeth, who smiled and shook her head in surrender.

"I have said my prayers, Father Godfrey," Denise said. "Do you like my bliaut, Lord Hugh? Do you think the color suits?"

"Father Godfrey," Hugh said, ignoring Denise for the moment, "I looked for you in your toft, even in this rain, for I know how you must work your soil every day. Only two such worthy ladies could pull you from your self-appointed tasks."

"All tasks are God-appointed, Lord Hugh," Father Godfrey said with good humor. "Even the task of teaching small ladies how to pray."

"You speak not of my wife, certainly, for though she is small, she is a prayer warrior of great renown."

Father Godfrey only smiled.

"Do you not like green?" Denise said.

"Be still, Denise. You must keep still," Elsbeth said.

"I have an amber bliaut," Denise said softly to Hugh. "Do you like amber?"

"Denise," he said, his eyes mild and smiling, "you must listen to Lady Elsbeth. Let her show you what it is to be a woman. You could not see a finer example though you traveled the world."

"Well spoke, my lord." Father Godfrey said.

"It is only the truth," Hugh said, looking down at Elsbeth.

She suspected him of sodomy and still he could touch her heart with his smile. Ardeth had spoken true of the way of things between a woman and a man. She had vowed to walk a different course, and yet she was momentarily blinded by a smile from a beguiling man, her mother's lessons lost in mist.

She did not need his praise. She had never needed any man's praise. What, then, this stirring in her heart? Was she as weak as all that? It could not be so.

"I will suffer from the sin of pride if you keep on, my lord," she said.

"It is not pride to know your worth," Hugh said. "Nor is it folly for me to give praise where it is deserved. And so," he said, taming finally to Denise, "may I say how comely you look in your green bliaut with your shining hair, Denise? You are as bright and fresh as spring grass in a meadow. I like your green bliaut very well."

Denise glowed with pleasure and smiled up into Hugh's face with all the open adoration of a hound. Elsbeth was afraid her own look was not much different.

Had she learned nothing from Ardeth? Would she walk the same path to the same end? She had to do better, to be better. She had to run from this temptation.

She stayed where she was and tried to find the prayer that would lead her away from temptation.

Had she prayed yet today? Had she sought the comfort of the chapel? She had not. What had become of her plan to show her husband her eternal devotion to prayer and chastity? It had disappeared somewhere on the cliffs beyond Warkham tower.

"My lord!" Raymond said, hurrying into the chapel. "You are sought, or rather, your lady is. The lady Emma has begun her labor. You are required, my lady," he said.

She had begun her labor. Elsbeth closed her eyes against the words. Bloody work was what she must now face.

"Lady," Hugh said, "she will have need of you."

She opened her eyes and said, "I am come. Tell her I am come."

* * *

"He comes," Emma said from her chamber.

The lord of Warkham's bed was high and wide—too high for Emma, who had more comfort in sitting than in lying in any case. She sat upon a small stool, her knees spread wide, her breasts resting on the restless mound of her belly. She was naked, her skin flushed and her breathing shallow. The room was crowded with servants watching her, prepared to help yet not moving beyond the circle of their curious interest at the event of another soul coming into the world.

"I see," Elsbeth said. "It is your time." She turned to the other women and said, "Get you gone. Marie, bring me a cord from the kitchens and a knife. Clean linen also. All others, depart. I cannot do what needs must be done with so many eyes upon me."

They left, mumbling their discontent at having their amusement curtailed by strange notions of privacy and concentration. Emma did not seem to note who or how many were in her chamber; her mind was all on her child.

"Have you sent for the midwife?" Elsbeth asked.

"She is dead," Emma said. "Died not a week ago. There is no one to take her place. Except you, Elsbeth. You have done this before, have you not?"

Aye, she had done it before, been trained in some small way in the matters of childbearing, as would befit the lady of a holding. But she was no midwife. She knew nothing beyond what all other women knew, and mayhap less. She had never borne a child and never would if her prayers were answered.

"I have," she said to Emma, hiding all her fears in soothing calmness. That was what Emma needed and that was what she would provide. "I know what to do. Take what ease you can in that."

"I am past ease," Emma said, huffing as Elsbeth watched the spasm work itself over her belly.

"How often comes the pain?"

"Often enough."

"Can you lie down?"

"I cannot breathe when I lie down. This babe presses against my wind, squeezing my heart."

Marie returned with the cord and the knife. "Where is the linen?" Elsbeth asked softy.

"The laundress has most of it, and it is still wet from washing. She is drying a length near the fire. It will come as soon as it may."

"Is there none more?" Elsbeth asked, knowing it was she herself who had used the linen as binding.

"Nothing clean," Marie said.

"And is there no one in the village who knows something of midwifery?" Elsbeth whispered as another pain ran its course over Emma's distended belly. "No apprentice?"

"Nay. She had an apprentice, but the girl ran off last spring. No one knows what became of her."

Elsbeth straightened her spine and tossed back a length of her hair. "Then bring me wormwood and lady's mantle and set yourself to pray."

"Aye, lady," Marie said, turning and leaving the room.

Elsbeth almost wondered if she would see Marie again. Certainly she herself would not return to this chamber unless compelled to do so, which she had been by Emma's dire need.

"Elsbeth?" Emma said.

"Aye, I am here," Elsbeth said, turning to face her father's wife.

"I am... I am afraid," Emma said, her eyes shining with terror.

"I know," Elsbeth said. "I know."

* * *

The hours of Emma's labor were long. The day slid into a gray, damp twilight. Night came softly, yet nothing in the lord of Warkham's chamber was soft. Marie sat quietly in a corner on the floor, praying quietly, aiding Elsbeth when she could.

Emma squatted, trying to push the babe from her, her arms over her head to give her more breath. The babe was not dropping, not moving down; only Emma moved, her belly heaving and roiling as her body tried to expel a babe who clutched his mother's womb with both fists. Elsbeth had given Emma a draught of wormwood for the pain. Whether it had helped she could not tell.