Shield breaker, p.17
Shield Breaker, page 17
Ronan suddenly felt ashamed, as though he were desecrating the sanctity of some holy place. He shouldn’t be in here, no man should, but he knew he could not run away. Not now.
‘What’s going on?’ he said above the sound of Gisela’s feverish moaning.
The woman between her legs turned, a thunderous frown creasing her brow. When she recognised him, her expression changed to one of shock.
‘She is in breech, my lord,’ she said, as though apologising for the inconvenience. ‘We’ve tried to turn it but the bairn won’t move.’
Ronan turned to the other woman, this one younger but just as ugly. ‘You, go get the bloody priest.’
‘We’ve already tried, my lord,’ the girl replied. ‘But he says he’s no midwife. And he will not say prayers for a woman whose child is to be birthed out of wedlock.’
Ronan ground his teeth at the impertinence. The arrogance. Damn the fucking priest and all his pious kind.
‘Go and find that shithouse priest,’ Ronan snarled. ‘Remind him that the king himself was one such bastard, and that if he wants to keep his hands attached to his wrists he should do as he’s fucking bid.’
The girl nodded, rushing from the tent. Gisela gave another agonised cry, and for an instant Ronan caught sight of blood and piss that made him feel all the fainter. Mainard held tight to him as he swayed, desperate to take control of his wits before they fled him altogether.
‘I need help,’ the older woman snarled from between Gisela’s legs.
Help? Ronan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Even had he been in good health he had no experience in birthing children.
‘Do as she says,’ he said to Mainard, urged on by another agonised groan from Gisela.
Mainard looked at him, then at the women struggling on the floor, before shaking his head. ‘I… I can’t,’ he replied, stepping back from Ronan then fleeing the tent altogether.
Ronan would have called after him, cursed him for a coward, but it was all he could do to stop himself following in Mainard’s wake.
‘You’ll have to bloody do then,’ the woman said, fixing Ronan with a determined look.
‘We could wait for the priest,’ Ronan said desperately.
‘What’s he gonna do? Pray this baby into the world? Get over here and help me.’
Ronan was unused to being barked at by a woman, but then he was unused to all of this. He limped forward as best he could, before dropping to his knees by Gisela’s side. He winced at the sudden pain in his legs, in his side, in his bloody head, but as Gisela reached out he forgot his own suffering. He grasped her hand in his, not knowing what to say, what to do, hoping that just by being here it would be enough.
A squeal of pain and terror escaping her throat before she fixed him with a pleading look. Her grip grew tighter, and Ronan could see the torment in her eyes. He half expected her to curse him, to beg for anyone else to hold her hand but Ronan of Dol-Combourg, but she didn’t. They just held onto one another in that moment, as though they were all that might save one another in the storm.
‘It’s coming,’ the woman said. ‘Now or never.’
Gisela screamed.
Ronan tightened his grip as she squeezed. He placed his other hand on her sodden brow, willing her to have the strength to survive this. She had saved him. He owed her this much at least – to be here for better or ill.
As the woman ministered between Gisela’s legs he heard her begin to whisper some kind of incantation. It was in no language he had ever heard, no foreign tongue he recognised. When Gisela screamed again the woman’s voice rose in pitch, those words seeming more curse than blessing.
Was this some kind of witchcraft? Some pagan rite? Or was it just a strange kind of wort-cunning known only to the primitive bastards who inhabited this blighted land?
Fuck this place and fuck its savage people. How had he ever ended up here? He had come to conquer, not help a dying woman birth her doomed child. But here he was, and here he would stay for as long as Gisela needed him.
‘Here it comes,’ the woman said. ‘Nearly there, my love.’
Another scream as Gisela convulsed. Ronan held on tight. He would have spoken words to soothe her ordeal, but what words would calm this? He had watched men die from their wounds, screaming in pain, but it had never been so discomfiting as what he witnessed now.
With one last tortuous effort, Gisela’s child was pulled into the world as she bellowed from the depths of her lungs. Ronan glanced down, in time to see the woman holding that pile of blood-soaked flesh. Gisela fell back, becalmed, her breath shallow, the last of her strength fled.
‘You are brave, girl,’ Ronan found himself saying. ‘Braver than any man I have known.’ Whether that was true or not, Ronan wasn’t sure but it seemed the right thing to say.
‘Does it live?’ Gisela whispered meekly. ‘Does my child live?’
Ronan turned to see the woman had wrapped the newborn in a blanket. It was silent as she frantically rubbed warmth into its limbs.
‘Well?’ Ronan demanded.
The woman ignored him as she ministered to the infant. Ronan considered whether to threaten her, tell her if she did not save the babe he would have her head cut from her shoulders. But why? Was that the only way he knew how to help?
Before he could even begin to feel shame for his thoughts, the child coughed, a phlegmy herald to the piercing wail it then emitted.
‘Your daughter lives,’ the woman said, rising to her feet and bringing the babe to Gisela. She laid the child in her mother’s arms and took a step back.
‘Thank you,’ Gisela whispered. ‘Both of you.’
Once more, Ronan had the overwhelming sense that he was intruding on something sacred. That he did not belong. With some effort, he struggled to his feet. After limping toward the open flap of the tent, he offered the midwife a quick glance. So what if she were some hedge-witch. She had saved that child, and with luck Gisela too. Besides, Ronan was too weak to question any of this.
Outside Mainard was waiting pensively, and on seeing Ronan he moved forward in time to catch him as he stumbled. He should have rebuked the man as a coward, but right now it seemed somewhat pointless. Besides, there was only one thing in the world he needed right now.
‘Get me back to bed,’ Ronan pleaded.
PART TWO
THE AETHELING
24
Waruic, England, November 1068
The baby was quiet now as she fed. A short moment of peace between the howling. Gisela had never heard such a thunderous voice, and she had met enough newborns in her time. She’d slept little in the past few days, but suffered it gladly for the gift she now held in her arms.
Flame-red hair already covered the child’s head, though it gave her more the look of a squirrel than a fierce Dane warrior. But those eyes. Those ice-blue eyes were every bit her father’s. Gisela could have wept at the thought of him, but she had to be stronger than that. It was what Styrkar would have wanted.
She had to concentrate on the things she could be thankful for. A roof over her head was one. Being allowed inside the boundary of Waruic, within the safety of its walls, was a privilege she had accepted with grace, despite the fact she still felt like a prisoner. There was no doubt this was Ronan’s doing, but the thought of thanking him for it sat ill with her. Instead, she would have to settle for thanking God.
A knock at her door. The baby stopped feeding for a moment, looking around as though she might answer herself. The thought almost made Gisela laugh. Almost. Fact was, it could be anyone who had come to her humble dwelling, and perhaps not with the best of intentions.
She wrapped the baby tighter and stood up from her little stool. Unbolting the door she opened it a crack, though she might as well have flung it wide – if someone was here to do her harm they could just as easily have kicked it in. When she saw the two women on the other side she allowed herself a smile.
‘Here she is,’ said Stanhilde in that high voice she reserved for babies and animals.
Gisela took a step back allowing her to step inside, with Wealdberg close behind her.
‘Can I?’ Stanhilde asked, holding out her arms for the infant.
Gisela handed her over. ‘She’s just had a feed, so you might end up with a surprise all over your kirtle.’
Stanhilde shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse than vomit over it.’
Gisela shared a knowing look with Wealdberg. They both knew exactly what she was talking about.
‘You are looking better,’ Wealdberg said. ‘I brought you a few things.’
She laid a sack on the table, most likely vegetables for a pottage. Gisela nodded her thanks.
‘Much better,’ Stanhilde said as she fussed the baby. ‘I’m sure those bags under your eyes will be gone soon enough.’
Another glance at Wealdberg, who raised a knowing eyebrow at Stanhilde’s insensitivity. It was something they’d both had to grow used to.
‘I have nothing to offer in return,’ Gisela said. ‘The last of the ale is gone.’
‘Not to worry,’ Wealdberg replied. ‘There’s mead in there for you. That’ll help keep your strength up.’
‘Thank you,’ Gisela replied.
Stanhilde began to coo at the infant. Despite her youth and her reputation around the town, Gisela could only appreciate how well she took to motherhood.
‘She’s gonna have some crop of hair, I reckon,’ the girl said. ‘And those eyes. She’ll turn the head of every man in England. Her father must have been a handsome beast.’ She stopped, realising what she’d said before looking at Gisela. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’
Gisela smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s all right. He was handsome, there’s no mistake in that.’
Another stern look from Wealdberg, but this one had an edge of sympathy to it.
‘Still no word from the west, then?’ the older woman asked.
Gisela shook her head. ‘None.’
It had become obvious that Styrkar was not coming back. Whether he had been killed or not was anyone’s guess, but if he could have returned he would have done it by now. He was as good as dead either way.
‘Maybe you need to think about leaving this place. Getting as far from here as you can and starting again.’
‘And where would I go?’ Gisela asked. It seemed an impossible idea, especially now she had another mouth to feed.
‘Don’t you have family in Flanders? There must be someone there who can take you in, if we could work out how to secure your passage…’
‘There’s no one,’ Gisela replied.
She had not been back home for a decade. In that time word from her father and brothers had ceased, and she had considered the FitzScrobs her family. Now all that was gone too. Even if she returned to the castle at Hereford there was no way they would take in a fallen woman with her bastard child. A child she had to find some way to care for. A glance at Stanhilde and she was reminded of how few options there were. But allowing herself to be pawed over by someone so she could live under a roof seemed a more desperate act than she’d be able to bear.
‘Then you’ve only got one option,’ Wealdberg said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you remember Ronan at your side when you were birthing?’
Gisela thought back to that day. She had been in a delirium, barely conscious as her child was born. But yes, when she thought on it she could remember his face marred with concern, his hand gripping hers.
‘And he’s put this roof over your head,’ Stanhilde added between fussing the baby, who now seemed to want nothing else but sleep.
Wealdberg took a step toward her, leaning in as though to impart some great wisdom. ‘I know it won’t be easy for you, love. But now might be the time to rely on the help you already have. Rather than put your hopes on someone coming back from the dead to save you.’
Gisela’s gaze drifted from Wealdberg to the baby in Stanhilde’s arms. Had she been holding onto a ghost all this time? Hoping that he would come for her in the night and take her off, back to their home by the sea? She had to accept Styrkar was gone, but at least she would always have a reminder of him, that red hair and those ice-blue eyes would always be with her.
Then again, could she really give herself to Ronan? He was the architect of all her ills. He had torn her from the arms of the man she loved and forced him to betray his brothers. Could she ever trust such a fiend? Rely on him to keep his word? Perhaps she should take her chances and get as far from him as she could.
‘I will speak to him,’ Gisela replied.
‘Just you be careful,’ Wealdberg said.
Gisela reached out and Stanhilde handed over the baby. She would have told Wealdberg that she was always careful, but the evidence in her arms spoke differently.
‘I’m not afraid of Ronan.’ And she wasn’t. At least not anymore. ‘If he wishes me to stay under his protection all the better. But there is also no need for him to keep me prisoner. Especially not now I am a fallen woman.’
Stanhilde sniggered at that, but Wealdberg retained that serious look on her serious face. With a nod of thanks to both women she made for the door.
Once she had left the relative safety of her hut and walked towards Ronan’s dwelling, unease began to grow. Ronan was her captor, and now she was to ask if he might protect her. It was a deep betrayal of Styrkar, of all they had shared, but would he not have wanted her to do all she could to protect their child?
Best not think on that. Best just to learn the lay of the land. Surely that was the most sensible approach. How a strategist might have done it. But Gisela was no war leader and this no war. She had no weapon with which to fight, nor gold with which to bargain. Nevertheless, when she finally reached the hut Ronan had requisitioned for himself, it felt as though she were about to go into battle.
She knocked at his door, and waited as she heard shuffling inside. The door opened, and she half expected to see the squire Mainard, but instead it was Ronan’s face that greeted her. He looked much better than the last time she had seen him. Then he had been pale as snow, a man on the brink of death. Now there was colour back in his cheeks, though from the look of it a few grey hairs were appearing through the blond on his head.
‘Gisela,’ he said, sounding genuinely pleased to see her. ‘Please, come in.’
Ronan moved away from the door. He walked with a staff, using it to help him shuffle on his crippled leg, and she followed him in, closing the door behind her. A fire burned in the hearth and her baby mewled comfortably in the welcome heat.
He sat down, patting the stick with one hand. ‘As you can see, I am still afflicted. Only now my ailment is even worse than before.’
‘I’m sure you will recover,’ she said. There seemed something changed about him. An aspect to his face that made him look like a different man to the one she had known. It took her a moment before she realised it was his smile – now open and friendly, in contrast to the cruel smirk he had always worn.
‘You are more confident than I,’ he replied, and his gaze drifted toward the fire. The pleasure with which he had greeted her suddenly sloughed away to be replaced by glumness. As he sat in dour silence, Gisela found herself feeling sorry for him. Not in her wildest imaginings could she ever have seen that coming.
‘You have survived a great test. God has spared your life. That in itself is a reason to rejoice.’
Ronan snorted a little as he smiled, glancing at her before his eyes fell to the child she held in her arms. There they lingered as he watched the baby struggle in her mother’s arms, fighting sleep but succumbing to it nonetheless.
A thought began to manifest in Gisela’s head. A mad thought she should have snuffed out like a candle, but it continued to burn with the light of hope.
‘Would you like to hold her?’ Gisela asked.
As soon as she said the words she regretted them. What was she even thinking? But then, she knew exactly what she was thinking. If Ronan was to gain some affection for her baby, perhaps he would want to protect them both.
‘No,’ Ronan replied, glancing back to the fire. ‘I’m afraid paternal instinct has never been my—’
‘Here,’ Gisela said before he could refuse, crossing the room and gently placing the baby in his arms.
At first he seemed surprised and uncomfortable holding the swaddled child, as most men were when first faced with it. But in moments the smile was back on his face, his finger touching the baby’s hand until she gripped it as she slept.
‘What will you call her?’ Ronan asked eventually.
Gisela had not given it much thought, so preoccupied had she been with feeding, changing, washing, sleeping. For a moment she considered Styrkarsdottr might be the most appropriate. Then she dismissed the notion. It would only serve to mark her daughter as more of an outsider if she was given so obvious a Danish name.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps something Frankish?’
Ronan nodded his approval. ‘In the circumstances, I think that would be a good idea.’
In the circumstances? Because the conquerors were Franks of course. Because it showed a loyalty, and acceptance. Would that make Ronan trust her? Could she ever really trust him? There was only one way to find out.
‘So, what now?’ she asked.
He glanced up at her. She could not read the look in his eyes and for a moment thought perhaps he had seen through her subterfuge. Her attempts to manipulate him. But then he shrugged.
‘Anything you wish, Gisela. You may leave if you want to. Take your child wherever you like.’
‘And where do you think I should go?’
He looked back down at the baby, and she thought perhaps he had no answer. Maybe he simply didn’t care.
‘You are also welcome to stay here, should you wish it. Under my protection, of course.’
She could have dropped to her knees and kissed his feet, but held herself back from such abasement. He had spared her, and for that she was grateful, but he would always be her captor in a sense.
