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–’
‘It was difficult in Vannes,’ Jean put in stiffly, guiltily aware that he had only supplied priests to see his son was literate, and that he had himself to blame for Raymond’s military deficiencies.
‘Aye, well, I came home none too soon. Fortunately, Raymond has a natural aptitude with horses, but as for his swordplay,’ Waldin clucked in disgust and then shut his mouth abruptly, for Raymond was racing towards them, raising a cloud of dust.
‘Papa! Papa!’ Raymond skidded to a halt amid a hail of pebbles. ‘It’s Mama! The baby! You’d best come at once!’
The brothers exchanged glances. ‘Early isn’t it?’ Waldin asked.
‘Yes, but my wife’s done this before. She knows what to do. Is the midwife called, Raymond?’
‘Aye. Come quickly, Papa!’ Raymond plucked his father’s sleeve.
Shaking his head at his son’s impetuousness, Jean gave him a complacent smile. ‘No need to hurry, my boy. Babies take their time.’
‘But, Papa–’
‘I’m coming.’ Jean draped his arm companionably round his son’s shoulders and steered him down the road. ‘We’ll wait in the hall, then we can be the first to know whether the child’s a boy or a girl.’
‘I hope it’s a girl.’ Raymond muttered at the dusty ground, and the tension in his body reached his father through the arm about his shoulders.
‘Raymond? What’s the matter?’ When Raymond stared blindly at a magpie’s feather lying by the road, Jean gave him a friendly hug. ‘You’re not sulking, are you?’
Raymond raised hard green eyes. ‘I hope the brat’s a girl.’
‘These thoughts are unworthy of you.’ Jean spoke gently. ‘If you are jealous, you have no need to be. If the child is a boy it will not affect my relationship with you. You are my firstborn. No one can take that away from you. This new child, boy or girl, cannot affect that.’
‘You hope for a boy,’ Raymond said, mouth one sulky line.
St Clair saw no advantage in lying to his son. ‘Aye, but boy or girl, I will love the child.’ He gave his son an affectionate squeeze. ‘I do need an heir.’
‘An heir!’ Raymond flung off his father’s arm and thumped his chest. ‘What’s so wrong with me? Why can’t I be your heir?’
Jean drew in a sharp breath. A portion of him could sympathise with Raymond, but he could not excuse him. It was the way of the world that legitimate children should inherit. Raymond knew that. Even legitimacy was no security, for estates could not be broken up, and it was common for the eldest, legitimate son to take all, while younger, legitimate children must fend for themselves. That was why Waldin had chosen to carve his way through the lists. Waldin had not let the fact that he had been a penniless second son sour his nature. It had been the making of him. He had understood that a small estate could not be sliced up like so much bread.
‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Raymond. You know the reason.’
‘Aye! It’s on account of my birth, and the fault’s not mine. The fault is yours, Papa, yours! Why didn’t you marry Mother before I was born?’ He groaned his frustration. ‘Why did you leave it so late?’
A heart-wrenching cry floated out on the hot, motionless air. The three men froze mid-stride.
Waldin laid a blunt hand on his nephew’s back. ‘Have a care for your lady mother, will you?’ Another harrowing cry had the hoary, unvanquished champion of many a battle wincing like a green page. ‘Where the hell is that midwife?’
In the yard, Ned Fletcher and Roger de Herion, Jean’s squire, had been fencing in their shirtsleeves. The two were at rest now, still breathing heavily, eyes trained on the high solar window. Waldin was unable to prevent himself running critical eyes over the pair of them. Fletcher, as usual, had his stance right, but Waldin grimaced when his eyes reached his brother’s squire. ‘De Herion,’ he barked, ‘what did I tell you about keeping your fingers behind the guard?’
Roger started. ‘But, sir, we’ve finished. We’re at ease.’
‘If your sword’s unsheathed, hold it properly. God’s blood, it’s a weapon not a walking stick! You could learn by watching Fletcher. He’s at ease, but he’s ready for anything that might come at him. You should be, too.’
Jean had reached the steps. Tight-lipped, he indicated that his son should precede him into the hall.
But Raymond was still angry. ‘I shall pray for a girl, Father. And you’d best do the same, because if it’s a boy I’ll not let it take precedence over me. Burn me to ashes, but I’ll make its life hell. If this babe is a boy, sir, he’ll never succeed to your–’
‘Enough!’ Jean barked. ‘We’ll talk later, you and I.’ He leaped the steps, two at a time.