Is this what I must go through?
Finally, Eleanor whispered for a priest, asking for Thomas by name, and Margaret screamed through the chamber door for someone to fetch Thomas.
Why Eleanor wanted Thomas of all people, Margaret could not fathom.
Eleanor’s pain and suffering was hard enough for her to witness—and especially since Margaret knew that she, too, would have to go through the same in a few short months—but the very worst thing was that no one could help the duchess.
I will not go through this! Margaret thought over and over. I will not go through this! I care not for the danger, but I will not go through this. I must find my own place, alone, and give birth in the way of my own.
“My lady?”
Margaret looked up, consciously having to fight to focus on the woman across the bed.
Mary looked almost as bad as Margaret felt, and neither could look at the silent, death-cold woman between them anymore.
“My lady,” Mary said, “we should say a prayer—”
“I will not say a prayer to a God who needs us to beg Him to aid her!” Margaret said. “Why has He allowed Eleanor to suffer so? Didn’t she say enough prayers to prepare for this moment? What more could God want from her?”
“What the Duchess does not want,” said Thomas directly behind Margaret—she had not even heard him enter the chamber, “is such impious anger surrounding her.
She is dying, woman, and you should at least aid her to prepare to meet her God if you could not aid her to birth her child!”
Eleanor stirred on the bed, and her grip loosened about Margaret’s hand as she caught sight of Thomas. Margaret tore her hand loose, and backed away.
“Brother!” Eleanor whispered. “I thank God you have come.”
Margaret slowly inched toward the entrance of the chamber, her eyes still riveted on the dying woman.
She would not go through that! She would not!
Thomas turned about and stared at her. “Margaret, Eleanor needs your prayers!
Get back here!”
“I can’t,” Margaret whispered, staring at Eleanor’s form, once more writhing weakly. “I can’t!”
And then she turned and fled.
THOMAS TURNED back to the woman, then glanced at Mary, still hovering impotently the other side of the bed. “Fetch my Lord of Gloucester. Now!”
As Mary fled, Thomas’ face lost its harshness and became soft and compassionate, and he bent down to Eleanor—crying with relief now—and took her final confession.
By the time Gloucester arrived, he was too late to say his final farewells to his wife.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Compline on All Souls Day
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(night Tuesday 2nd November 1378)
— III —
THOMAS ENTERED THE CHAMBER quietly, and largely unobserved, save by the guards who had nodded him through.
It was long past dusk: Thomas had spent many hours by the Duchess’ corpse, praying for the salvation of both her and her child. Gloucester had spent perhaps an hour of that time with his wife as well, and had then left, stony-faced with grief and, from what Thomas could see, anger.
That anger was the reason Thomas was here now. He had not been able to simply walk back to his own quarters without seeing where Gloucester might direct it.
He stopped just inside the entrance of the chamber, not yet wanting to be observed. Gloucester was standing before a brazier, Raby looking uncomfortable and irritated in equal amounts to one side, the Black Prince in a chair well back in the shadows, resting his head in one hand as he watched silently.
Gloucester’s face was thin, sensitive, and, currently, infused with anger. Thomas knew that look well. Most of the Plantagenet men were tall, sturdy and fair with open and hard faces. Only a few, perhaps harkening back to some, timid foreign bride, were born with Gloucester’s thin and sensitive mien that often indicated a passion for letters and music. Gloucester was patron of a number of artists and colleges, kept a large and continually expanding library, and could always be relied upon for a philosophical discussion ro while away the long, dark hours.
Unfortunately, this sensitivity also generally hid a narrow and intolerant character—and this Gloucester was demonstrating amply now.
Margaret stood before Gloucester, her head bowed, her hands, from what Thomas could see, folded before her. Her hair hung down behind her in a long, thick twist that glinted gold as a lamp high above swung gently in the movement of air caused by the opening and closing of the door. Some part of Thomas’ mind also noted that Margaret wore the same pale gray gown he had originally seen her in, and then he realized she had never worn anything else. From his vantage point, and with the light of several lamps shining on Margaret’s back, Thomas could see that the seams running down the back of the gown had been repaired and restitched many times.
Thomas frowned. Surely Raby could have dressed his mistress with more care?
“If you had cared better for her then my wife would yet live!” Gloucester said, and Thomas saw that Margaret’s shoulders visibly jerked.
“My lord,” she said, her voice low and tremulous—was she truly frightened, Thomas thought, or just feigning?— “I am not a midwife, and—”
“Then where was the midwife? Why did you not see that my wife had the care she needed?”
“My lord, I sent for her, but she could not be found!”
“You sent for her? Is that all you can say? Ah!”
“My lord—”
“I will hear no more of your excuses! If you could not find the midwife, then why did you not tear the fortress apart? Why did you not send for me… my God, woman, I would have mobilized half the army to find her! And when you realized the midwife would not easily be found—and I am not convinced that you made effort to locate her at all—then why not send to one of the closer villages for one of their midwives? God curse you, woman, the countryside is crawling with peasants and it must therefore be crawling with midwives to tend their women. Well? Well?”
Margaret shuddered, and sank to her knees. “My lord, I did not think. I was so frightened myself, I did not know what to do—”
“It was your responsibility to know what to do!” Gloucester took a step forward, and raised a hand. Margaret cowered, and Raby made a move as if he would also step forward, then caught himself and melted back into the shadows.
The Black Prince narrowed his eyes, but otherwise made no move.
“My Duchess, and the heir she carried, are dead—and dead because of you!”
Gloucester lifted his hand higher, his face now twisted with hate and retribution.
“My lord of Gloucester, if anyone should be blamed for the Duchess’ death, then surely you should shoulder your share.”
Gloucester halted, his eyes raging at the man who now stepped forward.
Margaret tensed, as if she could not believe she’d heard aright.
Thomas strolled forward, hardly believing himself that he’d intervened, especially on behalf of the witch. But something in the scene seriously disturbed him: whether it was Gloucester with his intolerant anger, or his uncle, apparently too afraid of losing favor with the Plantagenet princes to aid the woman he bedded. Raby wasn’t slow to defend her against me, Thomas thought, but he would sacrifice her to princely anger.
Besides, the manner of the Duchess’ death smacked of inexperience and some poor or unthinking decisions—not of the malevolent witchcraft Thomas might otherwise have suspected of Margaret. Sweet Jesu! Even a clumsy village midwife could manage the murder of a woman in childbed more competently!
“What did you say?” Gloucester whispered.
Thomas walked completely into the lamplight, glancing at Margaret as he walked past her.
“My Lord of Gloucester,” he said, easily holding the prince’s furious stare, “every husband has a burden of duty to his wife: to protect her, and to serve her best interests in every way he can. Any husband who brings his wife, close to term with a child, into an army camp, and then does not personally ensure that she would be well cared for, with experienced midwives constantly on hand, has failed dismally in that duty.”
“Thomas,” the Black Prince said quietly from his shadowed chair. He was now leaning forward slightly. “You speak out of place. Contain yourself.”
“I will not!” Thomas said, his own eyes snapping with anger now. “The Lady Rivers was clearly negligent, but she was frightened and she was inexperienced. She was not the right woman to entrust a beloved wife’s confinement to, Gloucester. She was a bad choice—but she was your choice, through your inaction, if not your spoken decision. What was your Duchess doing birthing your child in an army encampment? Why did you not ensure that she was surrounded with midwives who could be trusted not to wander off seeking pleasures elsewhere?”