souls braved the waysides, bundled in hoods and cloaks, hands outstretched. Alienor did not part the hangings to investigate, but she heard their voices raised in supplication. The rain thudded on the roof of her litter and a few cold droplets splashed in her lap, almost like proxy tears for the ones she could not shed.
By the time they arrived at Windsor, the sporadic contractions of her womb had become regular cramps and she knew that she was in the early stages of labour. Marchisa took one look at her as she stepped from the litter and summoned the midwives.
The pangs of full labour crashed over Alienor and she clenched her fists, certain she was going to burst. The midwife bathed her forehead with cool herbal water. ‘Madam, all is progressing as it should,’ she said in an encouraging voice. ‘Soon you will hold your new babe in your arms, and he will take away the pain and ease your loss.’
The seal over Alienor’s numbness weakened and cracked, allowing rage to boil through. ‘How dare you say that to me?’ she panted. ‘No child will ever take my son’s place! He was everything!’
The woman curtseyed and dropped her gaze. ‘I only sought to comfort you, madam, forgive me.’
Alienor was incapable of reply as the next pain surged through her and with it the tears in gut-wrenching spasms. The baby slithered from her body in a welter of blood and fluid, and as it drew its first breaths and began to bawl Alienor convulsed and howled her own grief to the rafters. She didn’t want this child; she wanted Will.
‘It is a girl, madam; you have a daughter.’ The midwife’s tone was subdued as she held the squalling infant aloft, still attached to Alienor by the umbilical cord. ‘A lovely baby girl.’
Alienor’s body convulsed in a fresh paroxysm of grief. Looking worried the midwife cut the cord and quickly gave the baby to an assistant. ‘The Queen’s womb has displaced itself; she is in grave danger,’ she said. ‘We must return it to its rightful place immediately, or there is no hope.’ She rummaged among her nostrums, emerged with an eagle feather and thrust it into the flame of the nearest candle until it began to smoulder. Swiftly she turned and wafted the acrid smoke under Alienor’s nose.
The powerful, bitter stench made Alienor choke and recoil. The terrible spasms became a fit of coughing interspersed by retches, and when finally she was able to breathe properly again, she lay gasping like the mauled survivor of a shipwreck washed to shore. Her tears became a softer weeping and Isabel de Warenne folded her in a firm, sympathetic embrace and rocked her like a child.
The labour pangs began again and the afterbirth slithered into the midwife’s waiting bowl. Alienor was no longer numb, but wretched and sodden with grief. Even as she bled from the birth, it seemed to her that she was bleeding for her lost son too.
The baby, freshly bathed and wrapped in a clean towel, was presented to her. A daughter. In a way it was a blessing because no one would ever see her as a replacement for Will. Even with the marks of her birth still upon her, she was beautiful with a heart-shaped face and a quiff of soft, dark hair that reminded Alienor of her sister Petronella, who was in fragile health and being cared for at the convent of Saintes in Poitou.
‘How is she to be named?’ Emma asked.
‘Matilda for her grandmother the Empress,’ Alienor replied in a fractured voice. ‘That was the King’s wish should it be a girl.’ If a boy he had told her she could have the naming, but it was a moot point. The messengers would bring him the news of his daughter’s birth, following on the heels of that of Will’s death.
A sense of failure swept through her. There would be no bells rung in joy for this child, for they were all occupied in tolling the demise of the heir – and it was all her fault.
5
Chinon, June 1156
At Chinon on the Loire, Henry was in a good mood. He had finally brought his
By the time they arrived at Windsor, the sporadic contractions of her womb had become regular cramps and she knew that she was in the early stages of labour. Marchisa took one look at her as she stepped from the litter and summoned the midwives.
The pangs of full labour crashed over Alienor and she clenched her fists, certain she was going to burst. The midwife bathed her forehead with cool herbal water. ‘Madam, all is progressing as it should,’ she said in an encouraging voice. ‘Soon you will hold your new babe in your arms, and he will take away the pain and ease your loss.’
The seal over Alienor’s numbness weakened and cracked, allowing rage to boil through. ‘How dare you say that to me?’ she panted. ‘No child will ever take my son’s place! He was everything!’
The woman curtseyed and dropped her gaze. ‘I only sought to comfort you, madam, forgive me.’
Alienor was incapable of reply as the next pain surged through her and with it the tears in gut-wrenching spasms. The baby slithered from her body in a welter of blood and fluid, and as it drew its first breaths and began to bawl Alienor convulsed and howled her own grief to the rafters. She didn’t want this child; she wanted Will.
‘It is a girl, madam; you have a daughter.’ The midwife’s tone was subdued as she held the squalling infant aloft, still attached to Alienor by the umbilical cord. ‘A lovely baby girl.’
Alienor’s body convulsed in a fresh paroxysm of grief. Looking worried the midwife cut the cord and quickly gave the baby to an assistant. ‘The Queen’s womb has displaced itself; she is in grave danger,’ she said. ‘We must return it to its rightful place immediately, or there is no hope.’ She rummaged among her nostrums, emerged with an eagle feather and thrust it into the flame of the nearest candle until it began to smoulder. Swiftly she turned and wafted the acrid smoke under Alienor’s nose.
The powerful, bitter stench made Alienor choke and recoil. The terrible spasms became a fit of coughing interspersed by retches, and when finally she was able to breathe properly again, she lay gasping like the mauled survivor of a shipwreck washed to shore. Her tears became a softer weeping and Isabel de Warenne folded her in a firm, sympathetic embrace and rocked her like a child.
The labour pangs began again and the afterbirth slithered into the midwife’s waiting bowl. Alienor was no longer numb, but wretched and sodden with grief. Even as she bled from the birth, it seemed to her that she was bleeding for her lost son too.
The baby, freshly bathed and wrapped in a clean towel, was presented to her. A daughter. In a way it was a blessing because no one would ever see her as a replacement for Will. Even with the marks of her birth still upon her, she was beautiful with a heart-shaped face and a quiff of soft, dark hair that reminded Alienor of her sister Petronella, who was in fragile health and being cared for at the convent of Saintes in Poitou.
‘How is she to be named?’ Emma asked.
‘Matilda for her grandmother the Empress,’ Alienor replied in a fractured voice. ‘That was the King’s wish should it be a girl.’ If a boy he had told her she could have the naming, but it was a moot point. The messengers would bring him the news of his daughter’s birth, following on the heels of that of Will’s death.
A sense of failure swept through her. There would be no bells rung in joy for this child, for they were all occupied in tolling the demise of the heir – and it was all her fault.
5
Chinon, June 1156
At Chinon on the Loire, Henry was in a good mood. He had finally brought his
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