The Running Vixen

Chapter 24

Wales, December 1127

‘Try this,’ said Renard, handing a pasty to Adam, who took it and sniffed suspiciously.

‘Leeks again? Jesu I’m starting to feel like one of the things!’ He took a bite and discovered he was not wrong. There was curd-cheese in it too and a lethal dose of sage.

‘When in Wales,’ Renard reminded him with a grin and held out his cup so that it could be replenished with mead. ‘You must admit, this is excellent.’

‘Until it kicks you in the skull tomorrow morning,’ Adam qualified. ‘That girl over there keeps looking at you.’

‘I know. Do you think she’s available, or would I be offending the laws of hospitality if I tried to find out? I’m supposed to be on my best behaviour. No fondling forbidden fruit to test how ripe it is.’ His eyes sparkled with self-mockery. He would never be handsome in the classical sense like his father. His maturing features were plain in repose, but he had striking quartz-grey eyes and possessed charisma by the barrel-load.

Renard was here in Wales at the hall of Rhodri ap Tewdr, representing his father at Rhodri’s wedding to a neighbouring Welsh lord’s daughter. The truce had to be seen to be functioning; the reason Adam himself was present. Were it not for the political necessity of attending, he would have remained at Thornford with Heulwen. She was very near her time — ‘as huge as a beached whale’, she had said ruefully to him on the morning that he left. Judith was with her to attend the lying-in, and Dame Agatha. She would have the best possible care, but Adam was anxious.

From somewhere, during the past six months, he had found the fortitude to stand against the storm, but sometimes in the stillness of the night, listening to Heulwen toss and moan, or holding her while she wept, he would stare into the darkness and find himself filled with fear. She thought him strong, was leaning upon that strength, drawing from it, and it frightened him. If the child was born with blond hair and blue eyes — which was possible even without Warrin’s paternity — then he did not know if he would have strength enough, and if he broke…he took a jerky gulp of his mead, spilled some down the front of his tunic and swore.

‘It’s not me who’s going to have the kicked skull in the morning,’ Renard said with a swift grin.

Adam scowled at him. ‘Just because you have to curb your tongue with the Welsh, do not think you can let it run riot with me!’ he snapped.

Renard sucked in his cheeks and gave Adam a speculative look, wondering whether to make a remark about the latter’s short temper and link it to Heulwen’s imminent motherhood, but decided against it. The Welsh would revel in an open brawl between their Norman guests. ‘Sorry,’ he said, making his tone genuinely apologetic.

Adam rubbed the back of his neck. ‘No, it’s me who should be sorry, lad. Pay no heed. I’m not fit company just now.’

Renard cradled his mead. ‘Heulwen’s as strong as an ox. I know you’ll think I’m just saying it to comfort you, but it’s true and I should know, some of the slaps I’ve had.’ He smiled at Adam and was rewarded by a token stretching of the lips in response.

‘Change the subject or shut up,’ Adam said, watching the energetic footsteps of the dancers stamping around the fire.

Renard shrugged. ‘All right then. I’m getting betrothed at Whitsun to the de Mortimer child, God help me. Papa and Sir Hugh are discussing dower details and the like.’

Adam bit the inside of his mouth. Renard was not to know that the very mention of the de Mortimer name was like a burning sword in his side. ‘Congratulations,’ he managed to murmur after another swallow of mead.

‘No need to say it like that!’ Renard laughed. ‘The chit’s worth having. Now that Warrin’s dead, she’s Sir Hugh’s sole heir, and there’s some prime grazing land and flocks attached to her inheritance.’ He eyed up a smiling Welsh girl. ‘Warrin’s death hit Sir Hugh hard, you know. He was hoping to have him pardoned.’

‘Was he?’ Adam strove for indifference, but the words for all the flatness of his tone were vicious.

‘A street brawl in Angers. Not the most glorious exit to hell, is it?’

Adam’s flatness became a rough snarl. ‘He got less than he deserved!’

‘Is that what happened? Did he really get into a drunken fight on the dockside with some sailors and end up in the water?’

A muscle bunched in Adam’s jaw. ‘How should I know?’ he snapped. ‘If that is the official version given to his father then that must be the truth.’

‘I just thought that with you being in Angers at the same time—’

Adam shot out his hand and grabbed Renard’s shoulder with bruising force. Mead tilted and spilled. ‘Well keep your thoughts to yourself!’ he hissed, putting emphasis on each word.

His face was close, the firelight burning in his eyes. Renard held him look for look, but felt his innards dissolve. He was reminded of a wolf. Adam made a sound in his throat, thrust Renard aside, and having risen to his feet, stalked away from him.

Renard smoothed the mark of fingerprints from the crushed fur on his shoulder and deliberated whether to go after him or not. Did he owe Adam an apology? He pursed his lips and decided he didn’t. It was Adam’s reaction that was at fault, not the imprudence of his own tongue.

The Welsh girl lifted a pitcher and came to replenish his cup. He watched the flow of her body within the simple linen gown and decided that whatever was troubling Adam, he was best left alone until he was cool enough to handle.

It was cold outside the hall, a crisp frost drifting upon the twilit air. Adam watched the vapour steam from his breath and his urine. Laughter floated out to him, and singing, and the warm greasy smell of roasting mutton. He finished and went slowly back within the hall and leaned his shoulder against a supporting pillar to watch the roistering. He not only felt like an outsider, he knew that he was one. Renard was thoroughly occupied in persuading the Welsh girl to sit down beside him. Adam thought about making amends and decided that keeping his distance was probably the best way.

‘He’s on a promise there!’ grinned Rhodri ap Tewdr.

Adam turned to the young Welsh leader who had come to stand at his side. Rhodri was flushed with mead, although only to the point of merriment, but then he had a vested interest in remaining sober tonight. ‘Seldom a time when he’s not,’ Adam snorted. ‘Do you mind? I don’t want some enraged husband or father leaping on him and starting up the war again.’

Rhodri guffawed. ‘There’s only one kind of war I want to wage on my wedding night, and it’s certainly not with you Normans. No, there’s no objection. Branwen’s husband threw her out a year ago when he caught her in the bushes with a wool merchant. I tell you, the path to her door is so well trodden that I’m amazed there’s any grass left growing round it — not that I have any personal knowledge.’

‘Of course not,’ Adam agreed gravely.

‘Duw, she’ll wring him dry!’ Rhodri chuckled, and half turned as another dance started up and people shouted and beckoned to him. ‘I’m sorry your wife couldn’t attend, but for a good reason eh? I’ll pray for her safe delivery and wish you a fine son. I only hope my own bride’s as quick to vouchsafe me an heir!’ He slapped Adam’s arm and shouting, ran to join his bride in the centre of the dancers, sparing Adam the need to make a reply, which was just as well.

The girl had her hand on Renard’s lower thigh and was leaning forward, affording him a perfect view down the front of her gown. Adam found a pitcher of mead and went off to court oblivion.

Heulwen caught her breath and, screwing her eyes shut, braced herself against the wall and gripped it, panting. The pain tightened and squeezed until she was aware of very little else. Beneath her shift, her belly was a taut mound, a burden of which she longed to be rid, and at the same time feared to do so because of the outcome.

‘Come on lass, don’t tense yourself up,’ scolded Dame Agatha, taking her arm. ‘It makes it worse. Scream if you want. There’s only me and my lady to hear. That’s it, gently now.’

Heulwen gasped with relief as the contraction diminished. ‘I wish I was somewhere else.’

Judith straightened from putting a hot stone in the bed and looked round, humour glinting in her eyes. ‘When I was having Miles, I didn’t scream once,’ she said.

Dame Agatha raised a sceptical brow. ‘You had an easy birth then, my lady?’

‘No. I was a day and a half in labour and I swore the vilest soldier’s curses through every single minute of it. Guy said it was a good thing for the sake of my mortal soul that the others were quick into the world.’

The midwife chuckled. ‘Best way. Nowt like a good bit o’ swearing to help matters along…Is that another one, lass? Come on, breathe through it now, slowly…good, good.’

Heulwen subsided, gasping. It was no use saying that she could not go on; she had no choice, but the niggling pre-dawn pains had increased their intensity down the hours until now, near noon, they were rapidly becoming unbearable.

Judith went to the brazier and set about making her a posset containing beaten egg to keep up Heulwen’s strength, and powdered raspberry leaf to aid and ease the pains. ‘It’s best that Adam is away at Rhodri’s wedding,’ she said practically as she worked. ‘He’d only be wearing a hole in the floor and getting underfoot. Men usually do, especially with a first one.’

Heulwen burst into tears and Judith turned and stared at her. She was totally baffled by the changes this pregnancy had wrought in her bright and lively stepdaughter. Yes, the carrying was a burden towards the end, and the labour a time of anxious prayer and endeavour, but Judith had expected Heulwen to weather it with a shrug and a smile, impatient to have the child in her arms. Instead she was acting like a martyr in the act of being martyred.

Dame Agatha crooned and soothed. At a loss, Judith made Heulwen drink the posset and went below to see how the keep was faring in the hands of the steward’s wife. Emerging from the turret entrance into the hall, she was just in time to witness the arrival of Adam and Renard home from Wales, and raised her eyes heavenwards in a silent plea for patience.

Fine sleet filled the wind and as she drew nearer the men her nostrils were accosted by the pungent stink of wet wool. She forced a smile of welcome on to her lips.

‘Where’s Heulwen?’ Adam demanded without even bothering to greet Judith. ‘Is she.?’

‘Her time is here,’ Judith answered calmly. ‘All is going as it should. Dame Agatha is in attendance, but my guess is dusk at least before you’ll meet your heir.’ She took his cloak and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek in a rare gesture of affection.

‘Can I see her?’

Judith in her time had scandalised the rules of convention, but she was more than taken aback by his request. Men simply did not go near a birthing chamber until well after the event. It was forbidden, a mystery, and jealously preserved that way. ‘Adam. ’ she began, trying to phrase the refusal kindly, but something in his expression stopped her before the words were spoken. She sensed he was asking her yea-say, but did not really care whether she gave it or not. It was his keep and she could not prevent him.

‘Look, she is in some pain. If it is going to overset you, then you had best wait without.’

Adam nodded curtly. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said.

Judith gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I suppose you were there at the sowing,’ she said, and did not understand why he gave her such a peculiar look.

Renard, ignored by his mother aside from an abstracted peck on the cheek, approached the hearth, blowing on his cold hands, and crouched down to the heat.

Dame Agatha was horrified to see a man enter the birthing chamber and would have driven Adam out again immediately, her sleeves rolled up, had not Judith dragged her forcibly to one side and begun whispering to her urgently.

‘Adam!’ Heulwen gave a great gasp, ran into his arms and clung to him. He took her face between his hands, fingers laced in her loose hair, and kissed her wet eyes, her cheeks, her lips, tasting the salt of sweat and tears. The swell of the imminent baby intruded between them.

‘I cannot stay, sweetheart, but I’m here,’ he said with a catch in his voice. ‘Judith says that all is going well?’

She heard the anxiety in his voice. ‘So I’m told, but it’s no consolation.’ She rubbed her face on his cloak, and realised that it was damp and cold. ‘Is it snowing?’

‘Sleet.’

‘How did your wedding feast fare?’

He snorted. ‘The same as all wedding feasts. I’ve got a splitting headache for my indulgences and Renard’s got some rare bite marks that I hope his mother never sees!’

Heulwen actually laughed through her tears and hugged him. Her burden was suddenly lighter. ‘Oh Adam, what would I—’ She broke off and cried out, clutching him as the contraction gathered with savage speed and crashed over her, and for a moment she was lost in primordial pain. He bit his lip, utterly helpless as she clawed at him.

‘They’re coming closer and harder,’ Dame Agatha muttered to Judith. ‘He shouldn’t be in here now. It isn’t decent!’

The pain receded. Heulwen pressed her forehead against him, panting.

‘I think,’ Adam said against her ear, ‘that any man who objects to vinegar-soaked sponges should be made to spend some time in the birthing chamber.’

‘Wrong!’ she managed to jest shakily. ‘He should be made to bear the baby himself.’

‘I would take your place if I could.’

‘And I’d let you…Oh!’ She grasped him again with a cry that rose with the peak of the contraction towards a scream.

‘Heulwen!’

Dame Agatha was not to be thwarted any longer and thrust herself forward between them, taking Adam’s place. ‘My lord, you must leave!’ she said forcefully. ‘There is nothing you can do here except get in our way! We will send word out as often as you need it.’

Judith, seeing the anguish on his face, took his arm and drew him firmly to the door. ‘Adam, please!’ she hissed. ‘You have overstepped the bounds far enough already.’

The contraction was easing. Heulwen slumped with relief and raised her head to look with glazed eyes towards her distraught husband. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, her voice breathless but level. ‘Go…please.’

‘Are you sure?’ He turned, still resisting Judith’s pull.

Heulwen nodded and clenched her jaw, trying to hold off another surge as it gathered like an incoming wave. It was impossible and she dissolved into the cramping pure agony. Dame Agatha soothed and held her, massaging her back. ‘Come on, lass, let’s have you walking again, round to the flagon, that’s it, good girl.’

Judith dragged Adam out of the room. ‘You’ve gone green,’ she snapped. ‘The last thing I need on my hands just now is a sick or fainting grown man.’

‘Is she really all right? You’re not just saying it as a sop to keep me comforted?’

Judith’s features gentled from their exasperation. ‘No, I’m not just saying it. Heulwen’s a healthy mare and the pains are coming good and strong, just as they should. Now, get out from under my feet. Find yourself something to do. I promise you’ll be the first to know any news!’

‘My lord, you have a son,’ Dame Agatha said, placing a blanketed, bawling bundle in his arms, her expression censorious, for she had not yet forgiven him for trespassing on forbidden territory.

He looked down into the baby’s scarlet face. A tiny fist had found its way out of the blanket and was waved irately beneath his nose.

‘A healthy pair o’ lungs and no mistake,’ the midwife added with satisfaction as Renard came to peer over Adam’s shoulders at his new nephew.

‘He looks as though he’s been boiled,’ Renard commented unfavourably, then gave Adam’s shoulder a bruising thump. ‘I don’t suppose you want to celebrate in Welsh mead?’

Adam took no notice. ‘Heulwen, is she all right?’

Dame Agatha saw the fear in his face and relented, her mouth softening. ‘Your lady is exhausted and somewhat bruised, the child was big and strong, but she’s taken no lasting harm.’ Her smile deepened. ‘Do not for Jesu’s sake tell her what my own husband told me after our first — that the next one would be much easier, not unless you want a piss-pot emptying over your head!’ She stood aside and gestured towards the stairs like a sentinel indicating the throne room to a menial.

Heulwen slowly lifted her lids and rested heavy eyes on her husband and the bad-tempered bundle he was holding so awkwardly in his arms.

‘I’m sorry it isn’t a girl,’ she whispered, and easy tears of exhaustion filled her eyes. ‘It would not have mattered so much then, would it?’

Adam glanced quickly towards Judith, but she was busy in the far corner of the room, well out of hearing range.

‘As long as you are safe it does not matter at all,’ he said, and meant it. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid, not even on a battle eve, as I have been these last few hours.’ He leaned down and kissed her, then with a grimace carefully placed the baby in her arms. ‘He sounds like a set of Hibernian pipes. Do you suppose he’s hungry?’

Heulwen slipped down the shoulder of her bedgown and dubiously offered the baby her breast. He screeched, bumping his face against her until by accident he found the security of her nipple and covered it with a desperate gulp. As if by magic the wails ceased, replaced by small, gratified snufflings.

‘Thank heaven for that,’ Judith said tartly, giving Heulwen a steaming cup. ‘Bugloss to promote the flow of milk. It looks as if you have a glutton on your hands. I haven’t heard such a noise since Renard was born, and he still hasn’t learned to be quiet. I’ll go and fetch you something to eat. You’ll need to keep up your strength: either that, or get a wet-nurse.’

It was an excuse to leave them alone for a time. Heulwen knew she would be quite unable to eat whatever was brought. She touched the baby’s hair. It was soft and dark. His eyes were closed now, the lids lined with brownish-gold lashes. The waving arm was still, fingers fanned on her breast as he sucked. She felt his vulnerability and it tugged at her heart as much as the doubts.

At the exact moment of his birth, when he had slipped from her body, she had only been able to think of the rape. Now, alongside that memory, others warmed her. Herself and Adam and some ink stains that wrote their own story; a dish of sugared plums; a stable in Angers and the straw prickling her naked thighs as the bedstraw had done while she laboured.

She looked from her son to her husband. Adam said that it did not matter, but he had been quick to put the baby into her arms. It could be a natural male response to something so feeble and tiny. She could not tell from his face and she could not ask him.

‘How would you have him named?’ she asked into his silence.

Adam watched the busily working small jaws drawing life and comfort from her. His son or a changeling, the child was still Heulwen’s, and as he had said, an innocent. He played with a strand of her hair. They had unbraided it, following the superstition that twists and knots of any kind could impede the smooth passage of a child into the world. ‘There is only one possible name,’ he murmured. ‘He has to be Miles.’

Heulwen’s throat closed on a sob. Her body jerked as she tried to control herself, and the baby, losing his grip on security, bawled his indignation, rooted frantically until he found it again, and settled, sucking at double-speed. ‘Yes,’ she managed huskily, ‘he has to be Miles.’