Although he didn’t look above medium height, the squire gave Sir Peregrine the impression of wary power restrained only with conscious effort, just like his knight. His eyes moved over the whole yard, taking in the hogs in the corner, chickens scrabbling among the dirt and twigs, the lounging guards. Sir Peregrine thought a smile of disdain twisted his face at the sight, as if he was amused by the quaintness of the place.
If anything, he felt that the squire deserved more careful watching than the knight. The squire was older; he looked a formidable fellow and Sir Peregrine’s attention remained upon him as he rode to a stable and sprang down as agile as a cat, and gave the reins to a young boy.
As the three visitors were welcomed into the castle, Sir Peregrine experienced a feeling of unease. This fighting trio looked like a good team – possibly one of the best, and he wasn’t used to feeling outclassed.
Chapter Five
A week had passed since Jeanne’s false labour, which had subsided as suddenly as it began. A good night’s sleep, and the pains had been put down to a bad bout of wind. Now, however, there could be no mistake and Baldwin watched his wife with rising anxiety. Jeanne knelt on a cushion on the floor and gripped her maid Petronilla’s arm, eyes squeezed tight shut as the contractions ground into her belly.
He knew perfectly well that women were built for this, that their bodies had been given to them by God to produce children. He also knew that Jeanne was being supported by a woman who had experience herself of childbirth – and yet the knowledge was no help. Watching his wife, he knew only panic that she might not endure.
Poor Jeanne looked so tired as she waited for the next clenching; her eyes scarcely noticed him or the room, but instead were turned in upon herself. Baldwin wished he could comprehend what she was going through – but he couldn’t.
He had appealed to Simon Puttock many months ago now, asking how the Bailiff coped with his wife’s childbirth, and Simon had merely laughed, saying, ‘It’s a woman’s thing. You don’t go and help your shepherds in lambing, do you? No – so why on earth sit in with your wife? You can’t help because you don’t know how – all you can do is unsettle her. Women know what to expect and all that, so I leave them to it and find someone to share a glass of wine or ale with me. So will you, if you have any sense!’
‘Let them get on with it,’ Baldwin repeated to himself, watching as Jeanne’s maid gently wiped her brow with a cloth dipped in rose-water. It was definitely a tempting thought, running outside to escape, but he felt his departure would be pure cowardice in the face of his wife’s suffering.
‘Could you fetch some wine?’ Jeanne gasped after a moment.
Petronilla nodded and rose, walking quickly from the room.
‘Water, too!’ Jeanne called after her.
‘How are you?’ Baldwin enquired tentatively.
She looked up at him. The dampness on her forehead made her look pale and ill in the candlelight, as though she was perspiring from a fever. ‘I’m not in pain, Baldwin, it’s not like that, it’s just that it’s so relentless! I know it won’t end until the baby is ready, but I wish it would hurry!’ She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes, her head falling forwards, a hand resting on her belly. ‘Here it is again – come here. Quick!’
He went and crouched at her side as she stiffened, her arm gripping his, eyes tight shut, a sighing gasp breaking from her as the ripples cramped through her womb. It lasted but a few moments, but to Baldwin it was an age. ‘That’s it. It’s finished for now,’ she sighed.
Baldwin was relieved to see Petronilla return and watched the maid mix wine with warmed water, holding the cup to Jeanne’s mouth. She sipped and swallowed, then leaned back. For once Baldwin poured himself a cup of wine and drank it neat. He glanced at the water, but then tipped more wine into his bowl, drinking deeply. Turning, he was in time to see his wife moan and reach for the bucket at her side. Before he could speak, she was sick, vomiting and spitting. Shivering, she sat back.
‘More wine?’ Petronilla asked.
‘No.’ Jeanne shook her head, eyes closed. ‘It’ll only make me sick again.’
Petronilla nodded and wiped her brow.
‘It’s very cold in here,’ Jeanne said accusingly. ‘Baldwin, can’t you make the fire hotter?’
‘Of course,’ he said enthusiastically, glad to be able to help in even so minor a way. He threw logs onto the hearth and turned to find that Petronilla had left the room to fetch more rose-water. ‘Are you well?’ he asked with the return of his nervousness.
‘It’s… coming again. Come here!’
He hurried to her and she grabbed at his arm, her fingers digging in while he stared down at her. It was an appalling sensation this, knowing that there was nothing he could do to ease her anguish, but he was reassured by her apparent resilience and fortitude.
‘It just keeps on, again and again,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over,’ he said heartily.
Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare say that again! And why’s it so fucking hot in here?’
The next morning, in his castle at Penhallam, Sir Walter Basset slapped his thigh when the message was delivered and read out to him. ‘A tournament? With all Lord de Courtenay’s knights? Wonderful! I can feel a treasury of money coming my way! Darling? My Lady?’
His wife Helen left their steward to decide on his own which barrels should be taken up to the castle’s buttery, and walked to her man’s side. ‘What is it?’
Sir Walter told her of the summons. ‘It’s excellent! Just think of the men who’ll be there – old fools, many of them. There’re bound to be loads of easy targets. Think of it! Ransoms, horses, armour – and even a handout of cash as a reward for my prowess from Lord Hugh!’
Helen listened, and in truth she could smile with him. His joy was ever-infectious. He was large, strong, and entirely masculine, his whole body covered with a light curling down of black hair. His odour was to her the finest perfume; his leathery skin was rough against her own, which she found intensely erotic. His scars were proof of his chivalry; his hands large and powerful. He was not tall, but huge. Barrel-chested, his frame rested on short but solid legs. His constant practice with sword and lance had given him the massive shoulders of a wrestler, while his neck was almost non-existent.
But he wasn’t ugly. He moved heavily, as befitted someone with so substantial a frame, but above it all, he had calm eyes of a deep blue, which were commonly crinkled at the edges with pleasure. His mouth was a little too wide, above the pointed chin, but his features were regular and pleasing, especially when he smiled. When he grinned, Helen would swear that he could tempt an angel. Now his sheer delight and conviction meant that the news of the tournament was in every way as pleasing to her.
‘So long as you don’t fall and damage your new armour,’ she teased.
‘For you I would tilt without armour,’ he said gruffly. ‘For my Lady’s honour, my hide would be enough.’
‘I prefer jousting with you when you’re naked,’ she giggled.
‘Come to the chamber now. Prove it.’
‘I don’t have time,’ she protested.