in his greenish eyes. 'I do,' she said. 'I was just surprised, that's all.' She turned to leave, but Goldwin stopped her and lifted the waddled baby out of her arms.
'This is my son,' he said proudly to Rolf. 'One day all this will be his. I will teach him everything that I know, and he will become the greatest weapon smith in England.'
Reluctantly Ailith translated Goldwin's boast. Harold wailed weakly and at the sound of his cry, milk began to leak from her overflowing breasts and stain her gown. She saw de Brize stare, and the forge became even smaller so that there was no room for Goldwin or the baby in its confines, just herself and the red-haired Norman. Her breathing quickened, her heart thumped in panic against her ribs and she knew that if she did not escape, she would be crushed. Snatching the baby from Goldwin's arms, she muttered an excuse about burning stew and fled the forge.
The men looked at each other and both of them suddenly smiled in rueful, masculine companionship. 'Women!' snorted Goldwin, shaking his head.
Felice sat upon the birthing stool, her legs splayed, her face contorted in agony as she strove to push the baby from her womb into the world. For two full days she had been in labour, but it was only in the last few hours that the bag of water had broken and the baby had begun to descend down the birth passage. The pain had been relentless, but she was so exhausted now that she was beyond fear or caring. 'I don't want to die,' had become 'Let me die, let me have peace!'
'Push!' cried Sister Winfred fiercely. Before becoming a nun, she had borne six children of her own and had the most experience of midwifery. 'Your womb is tiring. You must push for your life, and the life of your child!'
'I can't!' Felice sobbed, then cried out sharply as the nun slapped her.
'Of course you can. Would you deny your husband his son!'
Felice bit her lip and closed her eyes.
'Come now, you are almost there, you must not give up!'
Felice had always prided herself on her indispensable skills as a wife, and one of those skills was producing a living child. If Ailith could do it, then so could she. Drawing a deep breath, she bore down.
For another hour Felice struggled to deliver her child, and at last, Sister Winfred cried that the head was there, that one more effort would see the baby born. Hearing the hope in the nun's voice, Felice clenched her teeth and bore down with the last of her strength. An infant's indignant wail filled the room.
'Just listen to the lungs on him!' declared Sister Winfred, smiling broadly as she lifted a thrashing, bawling baby from between his mother's bloody thighs.
'A boy!' Felice panted triumphantly, and raised herself against the bolster to look at him. 'I knew it would be a boy! Let me hold him!'
Smiling broadly, Sister Winfred cut the cord, wrapped the child in a towel and gave him to his mother. Then she took another towel to staunch the blood that was trickling from Felice's womb. The linen reddened all too rapidly. A frowning Sister Winfred summoned another nun to help her and sent a third to fetch the grains of black rye from the infirmary.
Ailith stared numbly at the swaddled little body lying on her bed. The baby's forehead glistened where the priest had anointed it with holy oil. His eyes were closed and he looked as though he were only asleep. Two hours ago he had ceased to breathe and time for Ailith had stopped too. She would not allow him to be dead. If she prayed hard enough for a miracle perhaps he would open his eyes and look at her. Had not Jesus restored Lazarus to life?
She touched the baby's cold, soft skin. 'Harold,' she whispered softly, 'Harold.'
'Aili, he is gone, come away.'
She felt Goldwin's hand on her shoulder and heard the hoarse grief in his voice. He had been beside her when Harold died. In her mind she could still hear the drawn-out groan of anguish he had uttered and see the despair in his eyes. Initially, she too had wept and wailed, clinging to Goldwin, but after the first storm had passed, she had discovered the welcome numbness of disbelief. There was still milk in her breasts and fresh swaddling bands warming near the fire. Her baby was only sleeping.
'I cannot leave him,' she said distantly without looking round. 'What if he wakes up and I am not here?'
'He is not going to wake up ever again.' Goldwin's voice cracked. 'Jesu, Aili, don't you see?' He tried to draw her away from the bed, but she resisted him.
'I am his mother, I will not yield him to the soil!' she said determinedly. 'Go if you must, but I will sit here until he rouses.'
'Aili, he's dead!'
The word rang brutally around the room and threatened her numb cocoon. She stared obdurately at the baby's still form and gripped her hands together.
'I cannot bear it!' Goldwin choked and flung out of the room. She heard him descending the loft ladder, his voice downstairs, harsh with grief, and then silence. She did not know for how long she sat. For her, like Harold, time had no meaning. Sigrid brought her a bowl of gruel and replenished the small portable brazier with fresh lumps of charcoal.
Hulda came visiting and removed the bowl of gruel, now cold, from the coffer. She sat beside Ailith for a long time, holding her hand, saying nothing, but at last she gently broached the subject of Harold's burial.
'But he's not dead.' Ailith's voice quavered.
'No-one who lives in the love of our dear Lord Jesus Christ is ever dead,' Hulda said gently, 'but he has no need of his earthly body. Ailith, you have to let him go. You have a husband who is as sorely wounded and frightened as you. Seek him out. Take comfort in each other.'
'I do not know where he is.'
'When he returns then. I will sit with you in vigil until he comes.'
Hulda's firm, sensible tone, the compassion in her eyes, reached across the barrier of Ailith's defensive numbness. And when Hulda said softly, with tears in her old eyes, 'Poor little mite,' Ailith's composure shattered, and she flung herself down on the bed beside the dead baby and wept and wept.
Hulda let her cry, knowing it was the best thing she could do, and tip-toed to the loft opening to tell Wulfhild to find Goldwin.
Rolf's best tunic had emerged somewhat crumpled from his baggage, but it did not matter. Only the all- important gold-embroidered hem would show beneath his quilted gambeson and mail shirt. He dragged a comb through his hair, cupped his jaw to satisfy himself that he had made a smooth enough job of shaving his stubble, and tucking his helm under his arm, went outside to his horse.
Aubert was already mounted and waiting, but then the merchant had not had to spend time donning armour and weapons. Indeed, Rolf knew that Aubert had not been to bed at all, and apart from a change of tunic and a rapid sprucing, had made very little preparation for the coronation of Duke William at Westminster.
Aubert's wife had borne him a son. Apparently the child was healthy enough, but Felice had been brought to the brink of death by heavy bleeding at the time of the birth. Aubert had told Rolf that as soon as he had witnessed the crowning, he intended returning to St Aethelburga's to watch over his wife and newborn heir, for whom the nuns were seeking a wet nurse.
Rolf mounted Sleipnir. The grey had been groomed to perfection. Although there was no shine on his thick winter coat, it was whiter than the frost which had thickened overnight, and his full tail glittered like spume from a waterfall. Ears pricked, he sidled restively, eager to be away. A groom handed up Rolf's banner. Attached to a spear, a raven spread its black wings on a crimson field. He had found it on Hastings field the day before they marched away. The fact that it had survived unplundered for several days, together with the exquisite embroidery, had made him desire it for his own. The Dane axe would hang on the wall of his English hall and the raven banner would become his emblem.
Together he, Aubert, and their small entourage, rode out onto the Westminster road. Already a procession of people, English and Norman, were heading towards the abbey in order to witness the coronation of the new king.
Rolf was riding past the armourer's dwelling when the older maidservant emerged from the garth and stood at the side of the road. Her hands were set in fists upon her meaty hip bones and there was an anxious expression on her face. Her gaze fell upon Rolf and Aubert. Tightening her lips, she took a step backwards into the stiff silver grass on the verge as if to avoid being contaminated by their proximity. Rolf glanced at her curiously. He
