Meriel Fuller - Innocent's Champion

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 to take advantage of the celebrations, to take part in the welcome of John’s important guests. As she heaved open the door, thick oak planks fitted with iron rivets driven into the grey wood at intervals, no one asked her where she was going.

The night air was cool, stirred by a faint breeze, a balm on her flushed face. The pale illumination from the moon, half risen in the dark blue nap of the sky, pooled down on the cobbles of the inner bailey. In the limpid sheen of the moon, she picked out the gable end of the stable block and sprang across the uneven yard towards it. No voice hailed her, no one shouted at her to stop, to halt; the whole place was deserted, cloaked in a deafening silence. Lord help John if someone decided to attack at this precise moment; the castle was completely defenceless. Her small feet covered the short distance quickly, and as she rounded the corner of the stable block, she glanced behind her, checking to see that no one was following.

And collided with something. Someone.

‘Oooh!’ she squeaked out in shock, pressing her palms against the tall, solid bulk, pushing herself backwards, away, away from whoever it was. But she knew who it was. Her heart thumped dangerously, excitement slicing through her, rivulets of fire.

In the moonlight, Gilan’s hair shone like silver thread. He stood before her, folding his arms across his massive chest, his head tilted to one side, assessing her quietly. His eyes gleamed out from the darkness, piercing, unreadable.

‘You!’ she breathed, clapping one hand over her mouth, trying to gather her scattered senses. ‘Why are you here?’ Her accusing tone echoed around the silent bailey; she frowned back at the lit windows of the castle, as if the power of her thought could place him back where he should be. Why wasn’t he in the great hall, snoring over the trestles with the rest of his companions?

‘You mean, why am I not drunk out of my skull?’ he replied drily.

‘Well...yes, I suppose. All the rest of your companions are,’ she said scathingly. His implacable regard bore into her, unnerved her. She toed the ground awkwardly with her soft leather slipper. ‘I mean...you can do what you like. I was surprised to see you here, that’s all.’ The brittleness of her own voice startled her, shamed her, but, in the face of his intimidating presence, her behaviour immediately became wary, aloof—her only defence.

‘I came to check on our horses,’ Gilan supplied by way of explanation. She had forgotten to button her sleeves again, he realised; the skin of her forearms was milk-white, like pouring cream. If he rubbed his thumb upwards, from her wrist to her elbow, would it feel like silk? Desire kicked him, sudden and unbidden, deep in his solar plexus.

‘Um, look, I’m sorry, would you excuse me?’ Matilda hopped anxiously from one foot to the other, tucking her fingers into her belt in a vague attempt to do something with her hands. The breadth of his body filled the entrance to the stables—would she have to push past him, or would he give way? ‘I have to fetch a horse...my sister...’