the past three years Elizabeth had been unable to think of Margery of Chester, Thomas’s chosen bride, without bitter feelings. Margery was everything she was not—small, plump, blond, docile, with a silvery laugh and an enchanting smile and the intellect of a dairy stool. Thomas had taken one look at her and forgotten his duty, his promises, his honor.
Not that Elizabeth would have wanted him against his will. But it still smarted, painfully, and while she was determined to do her Christian duty and help Margery through the dangerous journey of labor and delivery, she didn’t have to like it or her.
There were no loud screams as the servant led her through the winding halls of the small castle to the room where Margery lay. Which was either a good sign or a bad one. Perhaps all was silent because the pain had lessened and things were progressing as they ought to.
More likely Lady Margery was probably too weak to make much noise. The servant pushed open the door and Elizabeth stood still, surveying the tableau. A fire was burning brightly, so that the room was miserably hot, and a crowd of people huddled around the bed so that the occupant couldn’t be seen. There were at least of dozen of them, maybe more, including Thomas of Wakebryght, and they were arguing noisily over the bed. The smell of blood was ominous in the room. Perhaps it was already too late for mother and child.
And then the crowd parted, revealing Margery in the center of the huge bed. She was no longer the great beauty that Thomas had chosen. Her belly was swollen, her face tear-streaked, puffy and totally without color. The ankles protruding from her shift were swollen, as well, and her blond hair was a dark, tangled mess.
There was no blood on the shift or the bed, praise God. The man who was presumably the doctor was bleeding her, only making matters worse. Before the night was through the lady would be losing more blood, and she was so pale she didn’t look as if she had much to spare.
“Get out of here!” Elizabeth said in her firmest voice. “The poor woman can’t breathe, and all this noise must be driving her mad. One of the women can stay, but the rest of you must leave.”
Thomas looked at her, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, and for a moment he didn’t seem to recognize her. “I won’t leave my wife,” he said simply, turning back to Margery.
He was holding her hand, looking down at her pale, wretched figure with total adoration mixed with deep fear. He knew he might lose her, Elizabeth thought. It might already be too late.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. “This is women’s work, Thomas,” she said in the kind of voice her nurse used to use with her. “She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this….”
“I don’t care! She’s beautiful to me no matter what!” he cried.
The beauteous Lady Margery looked like a sow in labor, miserable and bloated, and the last trace of bitterness vanished from Elizabeth’s heart.
“Of course she is,” she said in a kinder voice. “But you’ll be in the way. Go and get something to eat, and take the rest of these people with you. I promise I’ll send for you if…if you need to be here.” Tact had never been her strong point, but she couldn’t come right out and discuss the awful possibility that each childbirth brought.
For a moment Thomas didn’t move. And then he brought his wife’s pale hand to his mouth and kissed it, and Elizabeth could see the impressive ruby ring that had, for a few short hours, belonged to her. And then he set it back down on the bed.
“You’ll save her for me, Bethy?” he said in a pleading voice. He was the only one who’d ever called her that, and she had actually found it quite annoying, but now she simply nodded.
“I’ll do everything I can, Thomas. Just take these people out of here and let me work in peace.”
“I’m staying, my lady,” a stout, aproned woman announced in a forbidding voice. “She’s been in my care since the day she was born and I’m not leaving her now.”
“Have you any experience with childbirth?”
The woman laughed derisively. “Eleven of my own, all living, and I’m none the worse for it. And I’ve helped with countless others. If anyone can help my lady it’ll be me.”
“Let Berta help,” one of the other women spoke in a measured voice. “She has more wits than the rest of the household women put together.”
Elizabeth surveyed the woman who’d spoken. She was a stranger to her, a newcomer to the household since her aborted marriage, but judging by the fineness of her silken garments she was one of the family. Not in her first youth, and so beautiful she put Lady Margery, in her prime, to shame.
“She may stay,” Elizabeth agreed. “And you, my lady. You seem to be possessed of calm good sense, as well.”
The faint smile on the woman’s beautiful mouth was faintly sorrowful. “You’d be the first to say so, Lady Elizabeth.”
“I don’t think my mother would approve….” Thomas began, but Elizabeth interrupted him, taking secret pleasure in her ability to order him about.
“Your mother’s wishes in the matter have nothing to do with it. Between Berta and this lady we may just save your wife and child. But if we’re to have any chance of it, the rest of you need to leave here. Immediately!”
They scampered away like mice, some clearly relieved, some disappointed at missing the high drama. Thomas was the last to leave, and he stood in the open door, lingering.
Elizabeth went up to him, putting her hands on his arm and pushing him gently out the door. “I’ll do my best, Thomas,” she said. “Go and pray.”
“Save her, Bethy,” he whispered. “If it’s a choice between her and the babe, save her. I can’t live without her.”
Elizabeth didn’t blink. “We won’t have to make such a choice, Thomas. Go.” She closed the heavy door behind him, turning to survey the scene.
The room was bigger than it had appeared with all those people in it, but Margery lay pale and still in the bed, too weary to even cry out at the pain that was lashing her body.
“Open the window a bit, Berta,” Elizabeth ordered, stripping off her cloak and rolling up the sleeves of her gown. “We need fresh air in this place. If she’s cold we’ll layer more covers on her.”
She half expected the nurse to object, but Berta did her bidding without comment as Elizabeth approached the bed. “How long has she been like this?”
“In labor?” the well-dressed woman asked. “Two days. She stopped crying out this morning. I’m afraid the baby’s dead.”
Elizabeth put her hands on Margery’s distended belly, and felt the flutter of life within. “It’s not dead. I’ve seen worse than this and both mother and child survived.” Not many, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Her tiny army needed courage going into the battle.
“Then let us pray you’ll work your magic this time, as well,” the woman said.
“Not my magic. God’s,” Elizabeth said.
“That’s right, you’re on your way to becoming a nun,” the woman said in a cool voice. “I’m Dame Joanna. I belong
