Chapter Two
The sun’s warmth coming through the window soothed her. Drifting reluctantly into wakefulness, Gytha refused to open her eyes and did not move from her high-backed chair.
“Just a moment more,” she murmured. “Surely the tasks will wait just a little longer.” But her weariness was stronger than her will, and she longed to doze for more than a few moments.
Gytha, wife of Crowner Ralf, was heavily pregnant with their first child. Gently she put a hand on her immense belly and felt her babe move. “Why do you wriggle so much at night, my little one?” she whispered. “To let your mother sleep then, so she might tend to her duties when the sun is high, would be a kindness.”
Last night in bed, she had lain on her back, the only possible position despite increasing discomfort, and thought of the coming birth. Notwithstanding the anticipated pain and even the risk of death, she knew she would welcome facing these dangers if there was hope that she might lie on her side again, sleep through the night, and see her feet.
As she had stared in the darkness at the ceiling above and mused on the perils of being a woman, her husband emitted a loud snore, his shaggy head resting against her naked shoulder. Gytha had stifled a laugh.
Some wives might resent the ease with which a husband slept while they reenacted the curse of Eve, but she had no quarrel with Ralf. As other wives grew miserable and heavy with child, their men found joy in new bed partners, but Ralf had never left her side.
A few weeks ago, when her body became so unwieldy that she could only waddle with a hand pressed against her aching back, he had brought another woman from the village to take on tasks he felt she should not do. Accustomed to working hard, Gytha had protested but relented when she decided that the help would ease some of his worry about her. In truth, she was grateful for the assistance.
Despite his roughness with others, Ralf was a kind husband. She already knew he was a good father to his child by his first wife, a woman he might not have loved but did honor. He still grieved that the joining of their seed had caused his first wife’s death.
“Are you well?”
Jolted out of her current musing, Gytha opened her eyes and reached for her husband’s hand. “As well as a woman resembling Jonah’s whale can be,” she replied with a smile that betrayed the love she felt for this often querulous man.
He knelt and put his hand on her belly, waited, and suddenly grinned. “I feel Jonah himself, eager to escape!”
She laughed. “I shall be more content when he chooses to stretch outside my womb.”
A cloud drifted over his face. “What did Annie say yesterday? I came home too late to ask. For once, you were asleep when I came to bed.”
And a brief sleep it was, she thought, for she had awakened when he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. An instant later, he fell into a deep sleep. She had struggled to her feet with a desperately urgent need to pass water.
He remained on his knees but began to twitch with restless concern.
“All is well, Ralf! The babe is healthy, as am I. And Sister Anne shall attend the birth. You know her skills. We have nothing to fear.”
What neither chose to mention, lest the Devil be tempted to repeat the episode, was the torturous birth Sister Anne had attended when the Jewish family was trapped in the village two years ago. With God’s grace and the sub-infirmarian’s skill, both woman and child survived, but the young mother was rendered barren.
Ralf never mentioned the need for sons, but Gytha knew her duty was to bear many. Although her husband was the third son of a local lord, Ralf’s eldest brother had no heirs and the second had taken vows. So Gytha and Ralf must provide the heirs to title and lands. One living son might be cause for celebration, but in a world where children died too young, more boys were needed.
“I think we should name him Jonah,” her husband jested tenderly as he kissed the top of her belly.
“An apt one, my lord husband, but it shall be Fulke after your father and brother,” Gytha said.
“And if our child is a girl? You must choose that name but have not told me your preference.”
“Then it will be Anne.” She knew that her husband had loved Sister Anne since childhood. When the woman had married another, then followed her husband into holy vows, Ralf fled England to sell his sword in hopes he would die in battle. Instead, he had come home with wealth but with the wound in his heart unhealed.
But the choice of name was an easy decision, for Gytha felt no jealousy over a woman whom she honored herself. Few were allowed to marry as they willed, and Ralf had married another woman solely on the basis of the land she brought to the family. After she died, he gave his heart wholly to Gytha, defied his brother who had other profitable marital plans for him, and married her. She thanked God for the blessing.
“You are a good woman, Mistress Gytha,” he whispered into her ear.
“And you a good man, my lord.” She ran her hand over his bristling cheek. “It is also time for your weekly shave.”
He grinned. “Ah, but first I must tell you that I have just come from the inn, and Signy has sent a present for your birthing. A cup made of jet from which you may drink to chase away fear and lessen pain when labor begins.”
“What a generous gift! Sister Anne will be as delighted with this as I. Jet brings a woman in labor good fortune.”
“I was unable to tell our good nun the news. She was busy tending to Sub-Prioress Ruth.”
Gytha frowned. “Surely she cannot be ill. The Devil would not allow it.”
“But God rules in Tyndal Priory, beloved.” He laughed. “She suffers from gout.”
“Gout? I may not admire the woman, but she does hold fast to the Rule. After our prioress required all in the priory to adhere to the Benedictine diet, no one has eaten red meat or drunk wine unless ill. For all her flaws, Sub-Prioress Ruth does not indulge in secret, luxurious viands. This ailment must be for some other failing.”
“Were it for one of her greater sins like unkindness, she would suffer from head to the bottom of her foot. Sadly, it is only her right toe that is inflamed so her affliction must be for a little wickedness. You know her best. What might that be?”
During her years as Prioress Eleanor’s maid, Gytha had had many unpleasant dealings with the rancorous older nun. She raised an eyebrow. “Shooing away our prioress’ cat, Arthur. She has never approved of him.” She pulled at her husband until he rested his head on her swollen breasts. “I commit the sin of uncharitable thoughts,” she murmured, feeling comfort in his closeness.
This noble progeny of Norman conquerors, third in line to a title he disdained and confounder of criminals throughout the land around Tyndal, snuggled like a contented pup.
His Saxon wife, sister to a man who brewed ale and bred donkeys, once again thanked God for this husband whom she loved. A woman of lower status, she was deemed worthy only for his bed, but Ralf had wed her in public, before the church door, and granted her the ownership of lands without limitations. Indeed, he had honored her more than most men of his rank did their wives of equal birth. She might have purred in happiness had their child not kicked again. She winced.
Quickly glancing at Ralf, she realized he had nodded off despite his awkward position, and she tried not to laugh. That forceful bump so near her husband’s ear suggested the child might resemble his determined and blunt-spoken father, although she hoped the babe would also have his tender heart.
According to Sister Anne, the birth was imminent, and the nun swore she would attend. Signy, the innkeeper and one of Gytha’s good friends, would be there to support her on the birthing chair. In the comfort of their encouragement and compassion, Gytha believed she might endure the pain, often described as matching any soldier’s suffering from battle wounds. She would need all the strength that her friends could give her to endure because, even if she did survive the birthing, there were dangers for new mothers to face in the days after.