For a long time Thomas sat and stared at mother and child. Already one woman had died because of a child he’d put in her, now another lay close to death.
It was even more painful knowing that the child had been born, because, seeing the baby, watching her frightful fight for life, Thomas found himself desperately wanting her to live. He wanted to see her grow, surrounded by both safety and love … and Thomas could not say why he wanted so desperately for her to experience both safety and love.
And Margaret. He wanted Margaret to live, also.
He didn’t care who or what she was. He didn’t care that she had trapped him via Thorseby. He wanted her to live… if only for the baby’s sake. Every child needed both mother and father… His daughter.
My God, she could not die!
He reached out and stroked the child’s tiny forehead. Her skin was wrinkled and red, but still so amazingly soft. Her face was scrawny, and further wizened by her horrible battle to breathe, but if only she would open her eyes, Thomas knew they would be alive with personality.
A child of sorcery?
Maybe so, but surely the sin of the begetting should never be visited on the child.
How could he have ever thought to deny her?
“Rosalind,” he whispered, and the baby whimpered.
Margaret continued to lay cold and still.
Thomas, his hand still outstretched to touch his child, bent his head and silently wept, his shoulders shaking.
It was a long while after, that Thomas realized he was no longer alone with the dying mother and child.
He raised his head.
Thomas.
The archangel stood in a glow of reddish gold light at the foot of the bed, his form almost obscured by the strength of the light he emitted.
“Blessed Saint Michael,” Thomas whispered. “Help her!”
I will not do that.
“Why not? Why not?”
I am here only to guide you.
“I want her to live!”
Thomas, you are one of God’s Beloved. You are His chosen, hut you must choose your own path.
“What do you mean? What has that to do with this tiny child and her fight for life?”
It is better she die, Thomas. Better for you.
“No!”
Better for her.
“No!” Thomas whispered. “She must live!”
Thomas, how can you serve God when you cannot recognize the tests set before you? How is it that you can’t see that she is—
There was a knock on the door, gentle at first, then louder and more insistent.
The archangel hissed, making Thomas jump, and the light about him flared so brilliantly that Thomas cried out.
The archangel roared, and Thomas had the impression of two fists, clenched and raised in anger …
… and then St. Michael was gone, and Thomas was left with Margaret and the baby, and the increasing tempo of someone’s fist at the door.
Thomas sprang to his feet and threw open the door.
“What do you want?” he snarled.
Wat Tyler stood there, looking almost as gray and haggard as Margaret. With him was a portly, bald man with round, popping, startled blue eyes.
“I knew the Lady Margaret was in need,” Wat said, shifting a little on his feet so he could see around Thomas to where Margaret lay. “All could hear her screams as she gave birth.”
He looked back to Thomas, and Thomas was truly surprised to see real concern in Wat’s face. “I ran into Lincoln, and beat on doors until one man directed me to a physician’s house. Tom, this is Garland Hooper. He will help Margaret and her child.”
“A physician?” Sweet Jesu, physicians existed only to fatten graveyards!
“My lord,” Garland Hooper said gravely, “I can help her. I spent many years
journeying through the Arab lands, and—”
“You think to practice infidel magic on her?”
Hooper drew a deep breath, held it, closed his eyes briefly, then resumed speaking. “And if I said, my good sir, that infidel magic will save her life, and that of her child, would you still stand there, blocking my way?”
Thomas stood, staring at Hooper, uncertain, “I can save her,” Hooper said, “and her child. Your child, this good man tells me. I can save her when all others cannot.
Or will not.”
It is better she die, the archangel had said.
“I can save her,” Hooper said yet again, his eyes remaining steady on Thomas.
In the heavens angels raised their fists, and raged, while the Demon God turned to His Father, and said: “You may have trapped me, but he will yet run free.”
THOMAS SUDDENLY felt the power and anger of St. Michael crashing about his entire being, wanting him to say, No. Go away. Let her die. But the urge to save her, to protect her, was so overwhelming that Thomas somehow found the strength to fight the archangel back.
“Save her,” Thomas said, stepping aside and setting to one side the screams of the angels in heaven. “Save them both.”
Hooper brushed past Thomas, Wat a breath behind, and Thomas wearily closed the door, only to have a hand push it back again.
The Lady Joan.
She looked at Hooper and Wat Tyler, then raised her eyebrows at Thomas.
He shrugged. “A physician. He says he can save her.”
Joan pursed her lips. ” ‘Tis better she have a priest,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t believe so,” Thomas said, his tone bitter, “for God has abandoned both mother and child.”
And ignoring Joan’s startled look, he moved over to Margaret.
“Sit here,” Hooper said to him, pointing at the head of the bed, “and support the lady’s head. I am going to give her an elixir that will strengthen her heart.”
Thomas moved the stool around to the head of the bed, and sat down.
As he took Margaret’s head between his hands, he felt Joan move behind him, and lay her hands on his shoulders for support.
Hooper busied himself in the large cloth bag he had carried with him, withdrawing a vial of a peculiarly translucent marbled green stone. Unstoppenng it carefully, Hooper poured a small amount of deep red liquid into a cup so tiny it was almost the size of a thimble, then nodded to Thomas.
Thomas lifted Margaret’s head up, and Hooper carefully put the cup to her lips, increasing the pressure until her lips opened slightly.
He poured the liquid in, then stroked her throat, stimulating her swallowing reflex.
“Good,” Hooper said. “That will work within a few minutes. While we wait… the child.”
He rummaged about in his bag again, withdrawing this time a tiny mask made of
leather and cloth. This he fitted over the child’s face, pouring from another vial a few drops of a golden liquid over the cloth parts of the mask. Then, pushing the vial to one side, Hooper leaned down, put his own mouth over the mask encasing the child’s face, and blew gently.
Then he stood up, lifting the mask off her face as he did so.
Thomas, who had let Margaret’s head rest on the pillow, stared at the child.
Nothing. Still the same tortured breaths. He lifted his head to say something to Hooper when he was forestalled by a sudden intake of breath by the baby, and then a loud squall as she began to cry.
Thomas jerked his eyes back to the baby. She was screaming now, her face screwed up even more, but she was screaming easily.
Lord God, she hadn’t even had the strength to mew before this!
Hooper grinned at the expression on Thomas’ face, then nodded at Margaret.
“Look,” he said.
But Thomas had felt it even before he looked. Margaret had shifted her head toward the sound of the crying baby, and now her eyes fluttered open, and her arm tightened fractionally about her daughter.
“Infidel magic,” Hooper said, and then both he and Wat Tyler were laughing softly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vespers on the Thursday before the
third Sunday in Lent
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(early evening 10th March 1379)
— III —
“AH, TOM,” LANCASTER SAID, and beckoned him over. “Sit down. How is Margaret?”
Thomas bowed, then sat down in the fourth chair pulled up before the fire in the guest hall. Raby sat to Lancaster’s right, and the Prior General in a chair opposite them. Thomas’ placing was halfway between Lancaster and Raby to one side, and Thorseby to the other. He glanced warily at Thorseby—the man’s face was stiff and obviously furious—and then answered Lancaster’s query.
“Margaret is very weak, my lord, but both Brother Harold and the physician Garland Hooper say that rest and care will see her well within a few weeks.”
“And her… ah… your child?”
“Unbelievably, she also seems well. Brother Harold is amazed, for he says he has
never before seen a seven-month child survive more than a few hours of life.”