To her relief, Raymond’s face softened. ‘Aye, but she’s a girl.’

‘This new baby could well be a girl. And then you will have got yourself stewed up over nothing.’ She gave him a straight look. ‘Don’t spoil today, Raymond. Mother has longed for this for years.’ She took his hand. ‘Think. You’ll gain nothing but Papa’s anger. Try to calm down, Raymond, please. For Mama’s sake.’

‘I’ve put a lot into Kermaria,’ he said, and Gwenn sensed he was weakening.

‘You have. I know that, and don’t you think Papa appreciates your efforts? He’s a fair man, Raymond, he’ll see you’re looked after. Don’t spoil the wedding, please.’

A dubious smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

‘Come on, Raymond, let that smile break through. And then we can go in and dance at our parents’ wedding.’

The smile broadened. ‘You’re a witch, Gwenn, but you’re right. I’ll try and smile today, and I’ll bite my tongue.’

Gwenn looked warmly at him. ‘And pray for a girl?’

He shot her a sharp look. ‘And pray for a girl.’

Chapter Fifteen

By the time August was almost over in that same year of 1185, three months of strong sunshine had baked the earth as hard as fired clay. The sun’s harsh rays had been beating relentlessly on the marshy waters around Kermaria so that the pools dwindled, shrinking almost out of existence; and the waterfowl that lived in the wetlands were forced to congregate on shrinking and ever more crowded patches of water. Fish swam sluggishly in the stagnant waters, easy prey for the herons and divers who gorged themselves till their bloated bodies could hardly take off from the water. Against all predictions, the heatwave continued. The lakelets began to smell, and the time came when the gasping fish could no longer survive in the murky shallows. When this happened the herons and divers left.

It had been the hottest summer that Yolande could remember.

In a rare moment of idleness, she was sitting in the window seat on the first-floor solar, gazing dreamily at the bridge and marsh beyond the village. One hand rested on her burgeoning belly, and with the other she shaded her eyes. She rocked her body to comfort herself, for the heat was distressing her. A pile of sheets sat on the window seat opposite. However hard she worked, there was always more to do. Yolande threw the linen a half-hearted scowl – she was too tired to be more than half-hearted about anything in this heat. Leaning heavily on the stone window ledge, she succumbed to the feeling of lassitude that she had been wrestling against all day. It was well in to the afternoon, and she’d done enough to warrant a brief respite.

This pregnancy had not been easy, and she still had a month to go. Yolande knew she had nothing to worry about, but she wished she did not feel quite so huge. It was five long years since Katarin had been born, and it was strange how easily one forgot the discomforts a pregnancy could bring. She had no recollection of feeling so swollen with her other pregnancies. A ridiculous idea came to her, that if this baby should grow any more, she must surely burst. The idea took root in her mind and, shaking her head to dislodge it, she pushed the shutter wide. She must increase the draught through the solar. In winter she spent all her time keeping out the draughts, but at this moment she’d exchange her eye teeth for a whisper of wind. The incessant heat was making her breath come in short, shallow gasps, but she knew the babe was well. And, as if the child in her womb could read her thoughts, it moved vigorously. Yolande smiled. There was nothing wrong with this one. If only it would not push so hard against her ribs and lungs.

‘You’re not helping,’ she gently admonished the child in her womb. ‘You should leave room for me. You can’t manage without me, remember?’ Another twinge – a kick? – was all the answer she got, but it satisfied Yolande.

A blow-fly, huge and drunk with the heat, buzzed in through the window. Yolande followed its flight, too drowsy to attempt to swat the nuisance. The fly lurched out again, and her gaze wandered out over the landscape. The flies had hatched in their thousands that summer. Great swarms of mosquitos hung in the air. She could see shadowy drifts of them, floating over what was left of the marsh, twisting slowly in the fetid air like fragments of a gossamer veil hung out to dry. Shimmering dragonflies hovered over lily pads. Everyone had slowed their pace. The abundance of insects made even the swallows lazy, and they skimmed across the patchy pools so slowly it was miraculous they stayed airborne.

The dark, holly green of the tunic her husband was wearing caught her gaze. Jean was with her brother-in-law on the bridge, presumably inspecting the tower’s defences. The natural protection of the moat, formed by marsh and stream, had gone, dried up along with the rest of the water, and this was causing Jean no little concern. What they all needed was rain. The water in the well had turned cloudy that morning; the garderobe stank, and she couldn’t spare the water to have it swilled out lest the well went completely dry.

A tightening sensation in Yolande’s belly drew her attention momentarily back to herself. The sensation was not unpleasant. She had noticed it many times before in her earlier pregnancies, and knew she did not have to call anyone. Her labour was a month off, more’s the pity. She waited for the sensation to pass before resuming her perusal of her husband’s parched domain.

They needed a deluge. The peasants too, were panting for rain. The little that had fallen on the field strips had done no more than wet the surface, leaving thirsty crops unsatisfied. A few raindrops had run over the surface of the parched earth and evaporated almost at once. Yolande did not need to consult the sky to know that no rain was on its way. It was a solid blue dome, as it had been for weeks. They needed a downpour, something like the one which had sent Noah scrambling to his ark. Anything less didn’t stand a chance of penetrating the cracked topsoil. A shower in this heat would scorch the already withered leaves, and shrivel them to nothing. Down in the yard, she could see deep fissures in the ground. The sun had wrought terrible changes in the landscape of Kermaria. The sun had scarred the earth. The peasants would harvest early, and there would be hardship this winter. Sir Jean’s store of coin, carefully hoarded from the plenty reaped at last year’s harvest, would be eaten into in the dark months.

Sighing, Yolande eyed the tower of darning which cried out for her needle. ‘I’ve been slothful long enough,’ she spoke to the babe inside her. ‘Come along, we’d best get started.’ She bent forward, reaching for needle and thread, but noticed the tightening sensation was back. She relaxed back into the seat, holding her body still to allow it to pass. Except that it did not pass. A sudden tug on the muscles of her womb drove the breath from her lungs. And then the window seat no longer felt comfortable. She dropped to her knees, leaned her head on the seat opposite, and waited.

‘Mama! What is it?’

Was that Gwenn’s voice? Turning her head, and trying to see past the discomfort which threatened to fill every fibre of her being, she saw Gwenn and Katarin had entered the solar. Releasing her sister’s hand, Gwenn ran towards her. Disoriented by her unexpected precipitation from the wide world beyond her body, into a narrow one which contained only herself, the babe in her womb, and the pain, Yolande found words difficult. It was as though Gwenn and Katarin were separated from her by a thick curtain.

Pale, but composed, Gwenn took the situation in at a glance. Like most girls her age, she had seen all this before. She had assisted at Katarin’s birthing. In a world where boys were made guards at eight years of age and fought with armies at twelve, girls were involved early in every aspect of domestic life. Life was short, and many girls were married at twelve, with their own households to run. They had to learn young. ‘Katarin,’ Gwenn said, ‘go and tell Klara to fetch the midwife, and ask her to boil some water.’