'Aili, where's my cloak?'
She scattered the last handful of corn and chopped pork fat and sighing heavily returned to the house. There was a dragging ache in the small of her back. It had started last night just as she retired, and this morning it was worse. She tried to ignore it. If it was the baby coming, she would know soon enough. The pain which Goldwin still endured made her feel guilty for her own minor twinges.
'Are you going out?' Taking his cloak from the mending pile, she handed it to him.
'I thought I would go into the city and see if I could glean any news.'
'Can you walk so far?' Ailith eyed him with concern. He was still very thin, and his health was precarious. Although his injured ankle had healed rapidly, the main wound was still troublesome. Along the line of the scar, swellings would develop, becoming hard, red, and extremely painful before they burst in a welter of pus and blood. A low fever accompanied these bouts and left Goldwin querulous and weak. The last attack had been only eight days ago and Ailith knew he was not yet fully recovered.
'Alfhelm's taking his cart that way; I'll ride with him.' Goldwin set the cloak around his shoulders, wincing as the movement aggravated his wound.
Ailith winced with him, but did not offer to help. She knew how touchy he was on the matter of his independence. 'Be careful,' was all she said with anxious eyes.
'How can I be any other with this damned hole in my side?' he answered testily. 'Would to God that Norwegian axe had cleft me in twain!'
'You do not mean that!'
He sighed and walked slowly to the door. 'I wish I did not,' he said wearily.
When he had gone, Ailith sat down before the fire to spin a pile of carded fleece into yarn for making winter socks. She twirled her spindle and drew out the fleece to make an evenly textured greyish-white thread. Her back continued to ache and now and then she shifted position, trying to ease herself. Spinning wool did not require much mental effort, it was a knowledge of the hands, and once learned was very much an unconscious process. Her mind was free to probe the misery of the last two months, like a knife searching a wound for splinters.
On the day of the great battle between King Harold and the Norman Duke, Goldwin had been so sick with the wound fever that Ailith had despaired of his life. Father Leofric had been sent for, and Goldwin had been shriven — although the good father had been somewhat disapproving of the way Goldwin kept muttering about Odin's ravens. For three days his life had hung in the balance and Ailith had known nothing but her own fight to save him. When she remembered, she prayed for the safety of her brothers and an English victory, but these moments were perforce snatched from chaos.
At first, when she heard the church bells ringing out in the city, she thought that they were celebrating a victory, but her ears had quickly become attuned to the single, dolorous notes of the death knell, and soon after that, she had learned of the disaster that had befallen them on Hastings field. When she heard that King Harold had been killed, she knew that her brothers would not be among the defeated, demoralised warriors trickling into London. Aldred and Lyulph had been members of the elite royal bodyguard and fiercely loyal. Harold's lifeblood was their lifeblood, and she had no doubt that it mingled with his in the battlefield soil.
Somehow she had managed to keep the news from Goldwin for an entire week while he grew stronger. When the urge to cry became too great, she would go out into the garth, to the privy, or down the path to the cold forge. Once, she and Wulfhild and Sigrid had all stood there, among the equipment for fashioning weapons, weeping together in mutual grief and fear.
Ailith felt tears prickling behind her lids now and had to cease twirling the spindle to wipe her eyes. It had been horrible telling Goldwin the news, seeing his thin, fever-wasted face slacken with despair and his" eyes dull to the colour of mud. She had cried in front of him then, long and hard, the tears hot and empty of healing.
Since that time their future had been filled with uncertainty and fear. Rumours abounded – King Harold's sons by Edith Swan-neck were planning to avenge their father. Edgar Atheling of the old West Saxon royal house was going to be declared king and take up arms against the Norman Duke. And at dawn this morning they had heard that the Norman army, having ravaged the villages and countryside surrounding the city, was within striking distance of London itself. The gossip was that Edgar Atheling, the Mercian earls Edwin and Morcar and Archbishop Aldred had ridden to intercept William to tender their submission and offer him England's crown. It was this that Goldwin had gone to investigate.
Felice had told her that Duke William was a harsh master to serve, that he expected implicit obedience from his men, and that he was scornful of anyone without the stamina, endurance or ambition to match up to his own. He would destroy anything that stood in the path of his desire.
'But once you accept his yoke, he is fair,' Felice added judiciously. 'Aubert says that he has known him execute one of his own soldiers for looting a house after peace had been agreed, and the same for rape. He has a strong regard for keeping his word, and he demands the same from others.'
That particular discussion with Felice had taken place while Goldwin was in the north, and it had been their final one. Since her husband's return, Ailith had found neither the time nor the inclination to visit St Aethelburga's. Now her thoughts strayed to Felice. Her time would be close too. What was she thinking and feeling at the news of the Norman approach? Ailith wound a length of spun wool around her spindle and pondered. Aubert de Remy was the Duke's man, and it seemed ever more likely that the Duke was to become England's next king. It was only common sense to keep the friendship with Felice alive, a reason to persist through the emotions of hatred and resentment. Felice could not help being a Norman any more than Ailith could help being English. For the sake of the future, the bond between them had to hold.
The decision made, Ailith's dark mood lifted. Setting aside her distaff, she rose to tell Sigrid to bring some more wood to the fire. There was a strange sensation deep within her belly, followed by a drenching gush of hot liquid between her thighs. For a moment she was rooted to the spot by mortification, believing that she had lost control of her bladder, but then she remembered what Dame Hulda had told her, about the bag of water surrounding the baby, which often burst at the onset of labour.
Instead of fetching logs, Sigrid was sent running for her aunt Hulda, while Wulfhild helped Ailith to climb the stairs to the sleeping loft, and then set about preparing for the coming ordeal.
"Tis a boy, Mistress Ailith, you and master Goldwin have a son!' Dame Hulda placed the squeaking scrap of life upon Ailith's belly. Streaked with blood, slick with birthing fluid, he moved his limbs feebly and bobbed his head.
His hair was dark, so were his eyes, which were open as he entered the world. Ailith was amazed at how tiny he was, and also a little frightened. If she touched him, surely he would break. Hulda cut the pulsating cord and tied it off with a piece of twine. Then she took a linen towel from a craning Sigrid and wrapped the baby in it.
'You done well, Mistress Ailith,' she nodded. "Tis only noon now, and the mite's small enough not to have caused you any damage down below.' She presented Ailith with her son. 'You and he introduce yourselves while I sees how the afterbirth is coming along.'
Ailith gathered her son in her arms. She could feel his limbs moving within the towel. His face puckered and he mewled at her, the noise high-pitched and feeble. Her labour had been swift and she had felt more discomfort than actual pain. You're built like a barn. All you have to do is open your doors and the child will just walk out. Felice's words returned to her now. First she smiled, and then, unaccountably, tears filled her eyes and overflowed.