‘Too soon,’ Yolande jerked out. Gwenn knelt beside her. Relieved to relinquish command of herself into Gwenn’s capable hands, Yolande let her daughter remove her veil.

‘Can you walk, Mama?’

‘A moment...give me...a moment.’ Yolande rested her head against the cool stone seat while the first fury of the spasm passed. Gwenn – Yolande blessed her for her understanding – did not fuss her, but waited patiently until it had gone. At length Yolande directed a weak smile at her. ‘I’ll try now. But it’s too early. If I rest...’ she dragged in a lungful of stale, unrefreshing air ‘...perhaps it will go away...till the babe is fully grown.’

Gwenn sent her an unreadable look, but all she said was, ‘Lean on me, Mama. Save your strength.’

Never had the solar seemed so large. They had to stop twice to let the contractions pass; and each time Yolande was more drained, each time they felt fiercer than the time before. Finally, they gained the haven of the bed and Yolande sank onto it with an exhausted sigh. ‘My thanks, Gwenn.’ Her daughter looked so worried that she added, ‘I’ll rest and it will pass.’

‘No, Mama.’ Gwenn shook her head, tugged off her own veil and cast it into the corner by the washstand. ‘You can’t rest.’

Yolande could not accept that. She was hot and wanted to sleep. She struggled onto an elbow. ‘But Gwenn, I want to rest. Later I can cope with it... Later, but not now.’

Her capable daughter rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands, though her hands must have been trembling, because water splashed from the ewer. ‘Sorry, Mama,’ Gwenn repeated, heartlessly. ‘You can’t rest.’

‘But, Gwenn...it can’t–’ And then her muscles contracted so viciously that Yolande gasped and fell back. Gwenn twisted round, and it was the concern darkening her daughter’s brown eyes that forced Yolande to accept the truth of what her body was doing. She was in labour.

A series of thumps heralded Klara’s entrance into the stuffy chamber. ‘My lady!’ her tirewoman wailed, wringing her hands. ‘I’ve not actually attended a birthing afore. What do I do?’

That was all they needed, an ignorant assistant. Lost in another wave of pain, Yolande forced the words past her teeth. ‘Look to my daughter. She...watched Katarin...being born.’ Then a sharp convulsion engulfed all rational thought.

Gwenn was brisk. She had to be. ‘You’ve sent for the midwife, Klara?’

‘Aye. Berthe’s coming, and they’re dredging the well for water to boil.’

Gwenn took her mother’s hand. It was hot. ‘Good. My mother’s waters have broken.’

Have they? Yolande thought distractedly. So that’s why she insisted that I could not rest. Odd that I should not have noticed...

‘The babe will be born early,’ Gwenn continued, ‘and my mother needs all the help we can give her. First, help me remove her gown.’ Gwenn fumbled with the lacings. ‘Has Sir Jean been informed?’

‘Aye, mistress.’ Klara’s hands were shaking more than Gwenn’s. ‘Master Raymond’s gone to tell him. But I didn’t let on how grave things would be–’

A furious glance cut off the rest of Klara’s thoughtless tattle. How could the woman be so dense as to say such a thing within her mother’s hearing? Fortunately, her mother was focused on the inner workings of her body and had not heard. Grabbing Klara’s wrist, Gwenn hauled her into the solar. ‘Don’t let me catch you saying that again in Mama’s hearing,’ she hissed.

‘But it is grave, mistress.’ Klara might not have attended a birth before, but she had heard the midwives chattering. It was the lot of women to die in such a way, and if God willed it that the Lady Yolande should die bringing forth her only legitimate child, then that was His judgement, and no one should fight it. Lady Yolande had survived more than most women – three bastards she’d borne. Fatalistically, Klara met the determined gaze of one of the bastards in question and went on, ‘And you’d best face it. At her age, and with it being so early,’ the maid sucked in a breath, finishing kindly, ‘we’ll be lucky if we save the infant.’

‘Don’t say another word, Klara. You’re wishing her dead!’

‘Not I.’ Genuinely shocked, Klara fixed Gwenn with an earnest look. ‘But there’s little chance, mistress. Do you recall that eclipse? That was a portent, that was.’

Tongue-tied with a numbing combination of anger and dread, Gwenn gritted her teeth. Klara was revelling in this, and her blind acceptance of a disaster which had not yet come upon them, sickened her.

‘I told my father at the time,’ Klara said dolefully, ‘it was a sign.’

A low groan issued from behind the curtain, and Gwenn moved towards it. She brushed the curtain aside. She felt racked by the doubt that showed so clearly in Klara’s eyes and the seed of latent superstition which she knew dwelt in her own heart. Outwardly, she’d show no fear. ‘No more heathenish babblings, Klara. Understand?’

Klara’s dolorous gaze fixed on Yolande. Slowly, she nodded.

‘And one thing further. Don’t look at her as though she were breathing her last.’

Another nod.

From some hidden store, Gwenn found a ragged smile and pinned it to face. ‘Good,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, Klara, wash your hands. We have a baby to deliver.’

***

A month ago, the stream had turned into a trickle. Now it had dried up altogether, and the bridge spanned an empty ditch instead of a brook. Jean and Waldin were standing on top of the bridge, peering into a moat that was covered with burned grass instead of green duckweed.

‘Not good is it, Waldin?’ Jean frowned.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Waldin rested heavy boot on the low parapet wall and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Tied to his arm was one of Gwenn’s red ribbons, and with no wind to lift it, the silk fluttered only when the knight moved. ‘Jesu, I’ve never known it so hot.’ Waldin’s head needed shaving again and, fingering his scar through the stubble growing on his skull, he grinned as he recalled the first conversation he’d had with his niece. He’d grown fond of Gwenn.

‘There’s no need to grin about the drought,’ Jean said, irritably. ‘It’s not amusing. For Christ’s sake, what are we going to do? With the river dried up, we’re vulnerable to attack, and I’ve only a dozen guards, not counting us and our squires, and not even a captain to order them.’ And if the heat wave doesn’t let up, Jean thought bitterly, I’ll not be able to afford a captain’s pay. He needed to replace the captain he’d lost. With Yolande’s time drawing near, Jean was increasingly concerned that Kermaria should be well fortified and well manned. He’d have to take on another dozen men. Financial considerations had delayed him. With a month to go, he had time in hand, but with this drought sapping his resources, he had wanted to stave off any expenditure as long as he could. Since Waldin’s arrival they’d not had a shortage of volunteers, but the harvest would be poor that year, and he had to take that into account.

Waldin directed his gaze to the crop of sun-ripened weeds sprouting in the waterless moat. He found it hard to take Jean’s worries to heart. He had not survived fifteen years on the circuit to die in a petty squabble over this desiccated bog. ‘I can see rye growing down there,’ he observed, before he could check himself.

Anger flashed briefly in his brother’s eyes. ‘I’m being serious, Waldin,’ Jean snapped, for the heat was getting to him too. ‘If you’ve no sensible suggestions to make, you can go back to Raymond. Crossing swords with boys seems to be all you’re fit for these days.’

‘Someone’s got to teach your lad,’ Waldin said, equably. ‘He’s got the finesse of a butcher. Why, that Saxon lad shows more promise than your son.’

‘Ned Fletcher? I thought he’d shape up.’

‘Aye. He’s been exercising hard. A strong lad, and keen. And the questions he asks! You could do worse than make him your captain. I find Fletcher useful when demonstrating the passes to Raymond. I don’t know who taught your son before me, Jean, but–’