Remembrance

Gilbert had to control his anger at John’s stupidity for making such an announcement. He would have liked to marry the girl in private and taken her away for his own amusement with no one knowing it.

“Have no fear,” Gilbert said loudly, trying to make a jest. “I will not take her to bed until her womanhood is upon her.”

“And may God rest her soul,” a woman muttered and too many people laughed.

John cared for nothing or no one but the boy who was nursing so eagerly. He would never let the boy out of his sight. Never let anyone or anything harm him. He would give him the best of everything. He would give him all.

16

Only Alida’s maid, Penella, knew the extent of how affected her mistress had been by the last few days. Because of John’s deal with Gilbert she knew there would be no more chances for her to give her husband a son. Her husband would never again visit her bed, and besides, it had taken her months to conceive this child. Her time of childbearing was at an end.

On the day John Hadley claimed that black-haired boy as his son, his wife gave up hope.

For nineteen years Alida had somehow sustained hope. She had believed that if she gave her husband what he wanted, someday he would turn to her in love. She knew now that it would not be. Just as he had given away Peniman Manor, he would not hesitate to take away anything that had meaning to her.

“All I have now are my children,” she whispered as she stood before the arrow slit window of the old stone keep. “My children. Not the child of another man and his…” She could not think how to describe the child-woman who had held her hand during the birth and said such strange things to her.

“My child shall be your child;

Your child shall be mine.

They will be one spirit in two bodies.

They will live together; they will die together.”

That’s what the girl had said. The words were emblazoned on her brain.

“Come to bed, my lady,” Penella said softly, her hands on her mistress’s shoulders, trying to make her rest. She had never seen her like this and she was frightened. Alida had always been a beautiful woman, and age and years of childbearing had only barely dimmed her beauty, but the events of this week had changed her overnight into what Penella saw now.

Alida’s hair straggled about her face, each day showing more gray. It had been two days since the birth of the children and with each passing hour Alida looked worse. She refused to eat. She slept only after she’d paced the floor for many hours, then she fell into a fretful sleep in which she talked nonsense. Penella had shooed everyone else out of the room and was now taking care of her mistress alone. She did not want anyone else to see her like this.

It was on the night of the third day that Alida’s sleeping rambles made sense to Penella. At first she did not believe what she was hearing. There was something about, “They will die together,” then over and over again, “They must die together. They must die together.”

Penella put down her knitting and sat very still. She didn’t want to think that her mistress had lost her reason.

“Fire will cleanse them,” Alida said. “Fire will make them both die together.”

Penella had no idea what she was going to do, but she got up and went to the door. Catching a passing maid, she told her she was to remain outside her ladyship’s door and if she allowed anyone to enter, she would be punished severely. Since all the maids knew of Alida’s punishments, she obeyed.

Raising her skirts, slipping through the night, Penella made her way to the far tower. This is where John had ensconced “his” son along with the daughter he cared nothing about. There was a guard outside the door but he was asleep so Penella had no trouble slipping past him.

Inside the dark room there was only moonlight to show her the big bed where the wet nurse slept, a sleeping baby cuddled on each side of her.

“Wake up,” Penella said softly so the guard wouldn’t hear.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a man’s hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw a short, stout, pleasant-looking man, his face weathered by years of sun and wind.

“Who are you?” she gasped.

“Will. Meg’s husband. What is amiss?”

She could see that he was a man of great sensibility. “I am afraid,” she said and instantly felt guilty, as though she were betraying her mistress. Thinking that perhaps she was wrong to have come, she turned to leave, but Will kept his hand firmly on her shoulder.

“What is it? You must tell me.”

There was something so sweet natured about this man, something so reliable, that she found herself pouring out everything to him in a voice barely above a whisper. “It has been too much for my mistress. I think she means to harm the boy. I think—” She put her hands over her face.

“How?” Will asked.