Innocent's Champion. Meriel Fuller
downstairs.’
He took the torch from her hand, strong fingers grazing against her own, reading the fear behind the veneer of bravado in her manner. ‘I can stay, if you need me.’ His voice was a low rumble of reassurance; for one tiny, inconceivable moment, she considered the possibility of him staying, of helping, wanting that implacable strength beside her as she assisted her sister through this ordeal.
She glared at him, astounded by her own thoughts, annoyed with such weakness, the weakness that would drive her to ask this man for support. When had she ever asked a man to help her? Her fingers moved swiftly along the row of pearl buttons that secured the fitted sleeve of her underdress, undoing them. ‘Are you mad? This is women’s business!’ She dropped her voice to a hush, so that Katherine wouldn’t hear. ‘Do you really want to stay—to witness all that blood and gore and screaming?’
No, he didn’t. But he didn’t want to give the bossy little chit the satisfaction of knowing that.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s nothing that I haven’t seen before.’ Not childbirth, admittedly, but blood, and gore and screaming? He’d seen enough of that to last him a lifetime.
She arched one dark eyebrow at him in disbelief, a perfect curve above her shimmering eyes, the soft blue of forget-me-nots. ‘Really? You do surprise me.’
Her caustic tone made no apparent impact. ‘Call me, if you need any help.’ Gilan strode towards the door, leather boots covering the distance in three big strides.
‘We won’t,’ she replied rudely, pivoting away from him with what sounded like a snort.
And she would make sure of that, he thought. The maid had done an excellent job of making him feel like he would be the very last man on earth to whom she would turn for help. As if she knew who he was; as if she had peeled back the vast wall of chest muscle and seen the dull, numb beat of his cold, black heart. As Gilan moved through into the stairwell, he glanced back through the open door. For all the chit’s bravado, for all her spurning, he knew she was scared. Her small hands trembled as she smoothed them down the front of her gown, delicate blue veins in her dainty wrists revealed by her loose flapping sleeves.
* * *
Perched up beside her sister on the big bed, Matilda raised one arm, wiped the gathering perspiration from her forehead, holding on to Katherine as she let out a long, wavering moan, a cry of despair. At her sister’s feet, crouched on a wooden stool, an old lady sat, her face wizened, crumpled with age: the midwife.
‘Open that window, there!’ Matilda pointed over to a small single-paned window set into the west wall. ‘We need more air!’ Mary, one of Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting moved swiftly across the room, twisting the wrought-iron handle set into the glazing bars. Now all the windows were open, set out as far as they could go on their hinges, yet the chamber was still muggy, hot, full of the heavy scent of sweat, of blood. Exhausted by her fruitless labouring, Katherine lay on a linen sheet, the fabric creased and crumpled beneath her. Between her screams that accompanied each tightening contraction of her womb, her ladies had managed to remove her dress, easing her into a loose nightgown, which had provided her with some temporary relief. But the baby refused to come. Her belly was rigid, the skin pulled tight as a drum, distended.
With every one of Katherine’s screams, the old midwife had nodded importantly, running her leathery hands across Katherine’s stomach, before plonking herself back down again.
‘What is happening?’ Matilda said. ‘Why does the baby not come?’
From the shadows at the base of the bed, the midwife smiled her toothless smile. ‘It’s all happening the way it should, mistress, do not fret. Some babies like to take their time.’
‘But she’s been labouring for hours. She’s exhausted.’
‘Sometimes, babies take days to arrive,’ the midwife supplied unhelpfully.
One hip hitched up on the bedclothes, Matilda leaned over her sister. Something was not right. She spread her palm across Katherine’s belly, feeling the various lumps and bumps of the baby beneath the distended skin. At the top of the high curve, pushing up into Katherine’s ribs, Matilda could feel a rounded shape. Was it the curve of the baby’s bottom, or, far worse, was it the baby’s head? Fear flowed through her instantly, like water. Leaping from the bed, she strode over to the midwife, eyebrows drawn into a worried frown.
‘Tell me, do you think the baby might be the wrong way around?’ Not wishing to alarm her sister, Matilda forced herself to keep her voice low, equable. ‘You might need to turn the child.’
The midwife cackled up at her, waving her hands in the air. ‘Nay, mistress, I think he’s pointing the right way. Don’t fret, he’ll arrive when he’s good and ready, mark my words.’
‘Matilda, where are you?’ Katherine yelled out, her mouth gaping, contorted with fear as another contraction gripped her body, her head thrashing from side to side on the flock-filled pillow. Two thick candles set either side of the canopied bed sheened the sweat on her skin. Her hair straggled across the gauzy embroidered fabric of her nightdress, rippling strings of seaweed across a sea of white. ‘Why does he not arrive?’
‘I’m not certain, Katherine,’ Matilda said, moving back to her sister’s side. ‘The midwife says all is well, everything is happening as it should be.’
‘Something’s wrong, I can see it in your eyes!’ Katherine screeched at her. Her hand flung out in desperation, clutching at one of the bed curtains, half hauling her body into a sitting position. ‘Get rid of her!’ she pointed with one shaking finger at the midwife, ‘and fetch our mother. She’ll know what to do!’
‘But Katherine, our mother...’
‘I don’t care. She’ll come for me, she’ll come out for my baby. She knows how important this child is to me, for John.’ The words stuttered out of her, barely coherent. She gave Matilda a little shove. ‘Go, go now! Mary will stay with me.’
* * *
Racing down the circular stairs, one hand sliding down the cool, curving banister, Matilda burst through the door into the great hall. Dismay flooded through her as she skidded to a sharp stop at the edge of the dais. There were men everywhere: drunken men, soldiers, knights, their snoring bodies heaped over tables, or lying prone beneath them. The thick, heady smell of wine, of mead, filled the air with a soporific stupor. She needed to find just one, one lowly knight who she could trust not to say anything of their destination, but would be willing to escort her to Wolverhill, the priory where her mother now lived. Her eyes scanned the hall, seeking, searching the snoring bodies.
But there appeared to be no one. Not one man visible who hadn’t drunk a vat full of John’s expensive French wine.
She sighed. On reflection, it might be safer if she went alone. She couldn’t risk John finding out that her mother had renounced her widow’s right to own and manage their family estate at Lilleshall, couldn’t risk one of his knights leaking the information back to him. John believed her mother still lived there, still believed that the strong bossy widow was in control.
Matilda sought out John’s portly frame, slumped over the top table next to a snoring Henry, a thin, sparkling line of drool dropping from his gaping mouth on to the tablecloth. If he discovered that Matilda, in her mother and brother’s absence, had picked up the reins of running one of the largest and most profitable estates in the country, he would seize it, claim it as his own. In the eyes of the law, unmarried women were not allowed to hold property in their own right. They were not allowed to do anything without the consent of a male guardian, be that father, brother or husband.
Pivoting sharply on her heel, she whisked away from the great hall in disgust. She would go alone. Wolverhill was not above four miles from here; she could walk it easily and still be back before the midnight bell rang out on the chapel in the village. But a horse would be faster.
No guard at the main door to the castle stopped her. The entrance hall was empty. It seemed everyone had decided