of tears, but now they refused to flow, remaining behind her eyes as a hot and tingling pressure.
'What about the husband? said Sibell. 'Who is going to tell him?
Catrin swallowed. 'I will, she said with a brief gesture.
'We'd best clean her up then. He can't see her like this.
Catrin almost asked why not. In part it was Geoffrey's fault that she was dead. Appalled at the bitterness of the thought, she took herself to task. It was only Geoffrey's fault as much as it was Edon's. Blame nature; blame God. She had seen what the burden of guilt could do to a man whose wife had died in childbirth. Some husbands were unlikely to care less, but others were scarred for life. It was that very reason which had prevented her from telling Oliver about her own pregnancy. Now how much more difficult was it going to be?
Together, she and Dame Sibell disposed of the bloody bedstraw and washed and composed Edon's body. It wasn't just Geoffrey who had to be told, Catrin thought, a cold lump in the pit of her belly; it was their children too. She combed and braided Edon's hair. Once thick and heavy with a curl in its depth, it was like old straw and threaded with silver. Exhausted at eight-and-twenty. There but for the grace of God and Holy Saint Margaret.
Catrin gently kissed Edon's moist, cold brow and went to find Geoffrey.
It was worse than she could have imagined. At first he refused to believe her, as if denying her words would make them untrue. Then he insisted on seeing Edon.
'She's just asleep, he said, his voice tight with precarious control as he looked at her on the bed, her hands clasped on her breast and her lids closed and smooth.
'I'm sorry, Geoffrey. The afterbirth came before the child. There was nothing we could do. Catrin laid a tentative hand on his sleeve. Although she and Sibell had cleaned and composed Edon as best they could, no one in their right wits would have mistaken the grey-white tones of death for those of normal slumber. One of Mabile's other women had taken charge of the children, and she was glad for Geoffrey could not cope with himself at the moment, let alone five offspring.
'She's still warm. He shook Edon's shoulder. 'Edon, wake up!
Edon's head flopped on the bolster like a child's badly stuffed straw doll. One arm lost its position and dangled awry, sprawling across the dead baby. Appalled, Catrin tried to pull him away, but he thrust her aside and, when she renewed her efforts, he gave an almighty shove that flung her to the ground. 'Leave us alone! he bellowed. 'What use is a midwife who doesn't know her trade!
Catrin landed hard, but fortunately her hip and flank took the brunt of the fall. She was bruised and winded but otherwise uninjured.
Geoffrey shook his wife again and, when she did not respond, dragged her up against him, commanding her to rouse. 'Edon! he howled.
'Geoffrey, for God's love she's dead! Catrin wept from the floor.
He turned on her such a look of grief-torn loathing that she flinched. 'She trusted you and you betrayed her, he said hoarsely. 'She thought no harm could come to her if you were at the birth. His hand cupped the back of his wife's head; his other arm was banded around her limp spine.
'I cannot work miracles! Catrin answered in a voice that shook with the effort of controlling her anger and grief. 'Her fate was sealed from the start; you're not being fair.
'Fair? What has fairness got to do with anything! he raged. 'Go away, leave us alone. We don't want you, we don't want anyone! He buried his face in Edon's lank blond hair.
Catrin struggled to her feet. Her hip was numb and her ribs sore. She looked at Geoffrey. Silent tremors were ripping through him. His hands grasped and flexed on Edon's unresponsive flesh. He did not want anyone, but certainly he needed someone. And yet, for her own safety she feared to approach him. For one so gentle of nature, the violence in him was wild and unstable. One wrong touch or word and he would strike out again, perhaps with his sword.
Without a word, she left the room. The priest was waiting outside and some of Mabile's women, their eyes red and swollen. She warned everyone but the priest to keep their distance — after all, it was his duty to comfort the bereaved — and rubbing her hip, limped down to the hall to discover if Oliver had returned. He at least had weathered the storm once. The timing could not be worse to ask him to guide Geoffrey through the turbulence to calmer waters, but there was no help for it.
It was so late when Oliver came to bed that the castle folk who worked in the bakehouse and kitchens were stirring to begin the day's work and the summer dawn was paling the eastern sky.
'Christ in heaven, may I never spend such a night again, Oliver murmured, as he sat down by the hearth and rubbed his face in his cupped hands. 'Is there any wine?
Catrin had slept very little herself. The threat of one of her headaches probed the back of her eyes and her stomach was tied in knots. 'Just what's left in the jug.
He reached across the hearth and picked up the small, glazed pitcher.
'How's Geoffrey? Keeping her voice low, mindful of Rosamund asleep on the bed-bench, she wrapped her cloak over her shift and sat beside him.
'Asleep. No, that's not right. You can't call a wine-stupor sleep. I left him lying in the hall covered by his cloak — put him on his side so that he won't choke if he vomits. My brother did as much for me when Emma died. He upended the pitcher to the dregs into a round-bellied cup and glanced at her in the dim dawn light. 'The only wisdom I had for him tonight was that of wine. What could I say? That after years of suffering it gradually eases? That he has their children? That I know how he feels? Where is the comfort in any of that?
Catrin shook her head. 'There isn't any.
'No, there isn't. He swallowed the wine straight down and then grimaced at the cup. 'It brings it all back, he said softly. 'I look at him and I see myself all those years ago. And I know that there is nothing I can do for him except ply him with drink and stop him from going out and picking a fight to ease his rage. Tomorrow it will be the same, and the day after that and the day after that. He will watch the soil drop on to her coffin and he will think about killing the grave diggers and dragging her out to try and waken her one final time. As he spoke, his expression grew progressively more bleak.
'Don't, Catrin said, a tremor in her voice. She brushed at her eyes.
'Friends and companions will surround him and he will curse them for keeping him away from her, Oliver continued, as if he had not heard. 'He will hate her for dying; he will hate his children for looking like her and, most of all, he will hate himself for sowing the seed that killed her. Very gently he put the cup down at the side of the hearth, but Catrin could tell that he had wanted desperately to throw it.
'One day he will begin to heal, Oliver added, looking down at his hands, 'but it will not be for a long time, and he will carry the scars until his dying day.
Catrin could bear the understated emotion and grief no more; she threw her arms around his neck and sat in his lap to be comforted. Oliver's arm tightened around her waist and he buried his face against her throat.
'Ah God, Catrin, why is it always so hard?
To which she had no answer for she was about to make it harder yet. For a moment she remained quiet on his knee, summoning up the courage and fighting several quite plausible procrastinations.
'Oliver, there is something I have to tell you. She cleared her throat. 'I have been trying to find the right moment. Indeed, I was going to tell you last night…
'What? He blinked. 'Oh yes, 'the hardened gossip'. His voice was dull. 'Can it not wait?
'I wish it could because now is not the time, but delay will only make things more difficult yet.
She felt him tense. 'Is it about Louis?
'No. Jesu, I don't even want to think of him, let alone talk. Licking her lips, she drew a deep breath. 'Oliver, I am with child.
He sat very still and the silence was deep, punctuated only by the soft sound of Rosamund's breathing.
'I was going to tell you sooner, but you were away with Prince Henry and I wanted to be sure that the signs were not false.
'When will you be brought to bed? he asked tightly.
The way he phrased the words was telling to Catrin. He did not mention the child, as most men would, but spoke instead in terms of the labour. 'I am not quite sure, she said. 'Some time in December I think.
There was another silence while he counted and then it was broken by his voice, fierce with anger but low- pitched to avoid waking the child. 'Then you are half-way through the carrying. Are you going to tell me that as a
