Tudor Pavanne: Shock
News of the baby's death spread as only country rumors can; by morning everyone within a day's ride knew of it. John sent for the village priest to conduct a funeral mass at the chapel midmorning, and a surprising number of mourners came, too; most of the estate's workers and servants, as well as seemingly half the village. They filled the tiny, pewless stone church tucked into the margin between lawn and forest to overflowing, and stood silently all around the outside, marking their respect and affection for the popular young Lord and his Lady.
Belle went through the motions mechanically, her mind in park, drained and dazed by lack of sleep and the overwhelming emotions of the past few days, lulled by incense and Latin chanting and sunlight streaming across the chapel, setting the dust motes ablaze and fleetingly reminding her of the day she had first met John. She gazed numbly at the tiny coffin, not knowing what to think or feel about its contents, too exhausted to try to figure it out.
She made it through the mass, and watched from an impossible distance as John stepped forward to pick up the coffin unassisted, several men from the congregation – unneeded as pallbearers – nevertheless following behind in support and tribute. The women surrounded Belle and supported her out the door to the tiny gravesite; loyal Mary weeping at her elbow. The men carefully lowered the box into the hole, and John, visibly shaking, slowly took the first spadeful of dirt and let it drift gently over the casket, before turning and trudging slowly back to stand before Belle, taking her hand again. She tore her eyes away from the thudding dirt to peer up at him, and they stared tragically at each other for a moment.
And that's when she finally fainted.
She came to just moments later, cradled in John's arms on the grass, women still exclaiming and gathering around. The priest was there over his shoulder, turning sharply and calling to someone to run for the doctor in the next village.
Belle protested, "No!", her voice too weak to carry, but she didn't even have to, as John bellowed the same word over her.
"NO! No doctor!" At the sudden, shocked silence, he clenched his teeth and glared at the priest. "That charlatan killed my uncle, as sure as I'm standing here, with his constant bleeding of him. I will not have him do the same for my wife." Turning his back on all of them, he reached to gather her up and carry her into the house, then tossed over his shoulder, "Send for the midwife instead."
"Thank you," she whispered, and he briefly paused, giving her a tight almost-smile.
"I keep my promises, Madame." They had spoken months before of their mutual distrust of the "doctors" of the day, both surprised that the other agreed, and each had promised to keep the leeches far away from the other's bedside.
She was out again before he even reached the front steps, tumbling down into the black, into an endless, tortured nightmare of darkness and suffocating clothing and babies crying from far, far away, of noxious liquids being forced down her throat, of distorted faces leering and fading, of impossible tasks she didn't comprehend, of clocks ticking away the seconds and sands running through the hourglass and pouring down upon her head, drowning her in hot, scratchy sand, unstoppable, unretrievable, unbearable.
She woke up slowly, consciousness seeping gradually back, realizing dimly that she was in bed once again, under a heavy, comforting layer of blankets. The scent of cut flowers and herbs diffused softly through the air, covering a sour, sick smell underneath. Opening her eyes, she discovered what looked like late afternoon sun gently glowing through the windows – but she didn't recognize the room. Those weren't the walls, the furniture, she'd been living with these past weeks.
Then abruptly she placed them. She was in the "second-best" bedroom, lately used by Catherine. She didn't know why she'd been brought here, but she was fleetingly grateful not to have to contend with the memories crowding her own bedroom just yet, with the accusingly empty spaces where two cradles had so recently stood.
Turning her head further, she finally caught sight of him. John was sprawled cartoonishly in a large chair by the side of her bed, head lolling, obviously deep in exhausted, unexpected slumber, the book he'd been reading plopped open on the floor where it had fallen from senseless fingers. I've seen this movie a thousand times flashed ironically through Belle's mind, but she couldn't keep a tender smile from her face. Then the pitcher of water and crystal goblet on the bedside table caught the corner of her eye, and the realization of how parched she was drove all else from her mind.
She tried to draw herself up, reaching for the goblet, but even that small noise of shifting blankets and muffled grunts woke him up abruptly, and he shot upright.
"Hannah?" he breathed, half afraid to believe, and the rare use of her 'family' name caught her attention as much as his tone. He dropped to his knees and raised a trembling hand, brushing her hair out of her eyes and searching them deeply.
She smiled tiredly at his disheveled appearance. "Was I out all day?"
"All day?" he replied blankly. "Hannah, it's been two days since the funeral mass. They said you had childbed fever. But I wouldn't let them bleed you." The toll of that continued decision, contrary to all current medical practice, was obvious in his dark-circled eyes and permanently-creased forehead.
She reached a hand and smoothed the lines away with gentle fingers, his eyes sinking closed at the touch. "Thank you," she whispered again.
John helped her sit up, bunching the pillows behind her, and held the goblet for her to drink. Then, studiously looking at the goblet as he replaced it on the table, he asked, deceptively casual, "Who's Jared?"
"What?" she spluttered, staring at him, and finally he looked back at her.
"You kept saying his name." His mouth twitched. "If it weren't for the fact that you cursed him each time, I'd be jealous."
Shit. "What else did I say?"
"A lot of nonsense. You kept fussing over the Prince. And... our baby." The hitch in his voice was obvious. "And... something that was 'still white'. You kept saying that over and over: 'It's still white. It's still white.'" He was still peering at her, curious, inviting her confidence.
She couldn't give it to him. Belle shook her head, sliding a bewildered look on her face. "I have no idea. I can't remember... I know I was having nightmares, but I can't remember any details."
He gazed at her a few moments longer, one eyebrow raised, and she did her best to keep her own expression innocent. Finally, he nodded, accepting that she wouldn't offer any explanations, and looked away. She managed not to sigh in relief. "Think you could eat something?" he asked.
^..^
By unspoken agreement, they remained in the second bedroom, John telling Mary to move all of both of their wardrobes in from their previous rooms. Belle stayed in bed for several more days before she was strong enough to get up, slowly recovering from both childbirth and the fever (if that's what it was; she didn't feel as if she'd been sick, just physically and emotionally exhausted beyond endurance). They spoke of neither the past nor the future, content to simply be in the moment. Instead, they talked about the estate, and farming, and the plowing just commencing and the sheep lambing everywhere, and the state of the world, and the books downstairs in the library, and the weather, and where they might find good carpets for the house at a reasonable price, and recommenced their endless backgammon competition. (He was just slightly ahead in overall games, she having only gotten good enough to start catching up to him recently.) They also left the subject of court alone; for one thing, all of John's correspondents seemed to have gone silent, sending no letters at all for the past few weeks. Neither of them minded the respite from the constant intrigues wrought even at this distance.
At last, though, several weeks after her illness, she came into the dining room one morning to find him frowning over a short, one-page letter. "John?"
The look he gave her was unreadable, but the very blankness of his expression spoke eloquently to her senses of his distress. "We are recalled to court, Madame," he replied formally, waving the letter at her, and she caught a glimpse of Henry's elaborate, unmistakable signature.
"Why?" she asked, then, surprised, "Both of us?"
John nodded. "Most explicitly both. He says he wants me back in his privy council." Looking away at the curtains, he went on, his tone flat and carefully neutral, "He does not say, but presumably he also wants you back in his bed." This, the first time he'd ever so baldly referred to her position as Henry's mistress, cut her to the bone, and her temper flared.
"Well," she replied icily, "Henry may find out that even he doesn't always get what he wants. I've done my bit for King and Country." Far above and way beyond, in fact.
John jerked his head back around to stare at her, his expression sharply puzzled – at her attitude or her phrase, she wasn't sure, and she smothered a snort. Apparently that expression hasn't been invented yet. Crossing her arms, she just barely stopped herself from giving her head an Oprah-esque head waggle.
"You would refuse him?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes," she nodded frankly, "I will." She stressed the change of wording, making it a promise.
"You may have little choice in the matter," he warned.
At that, she shook her head. "There are always other choices, John – not to mention other women." Though none with my particular skill set, she smirked internally, then pushed the thought aside, greatly irritated at herself for even thinking it. "Do you really think his bed has been empty these past few months? As far as I'm concerned, whoever took my place can keep it." Her pique fled as abruptly as it had come, and her voice and look both softened as she added, "I don't want to be the King's Mistress, John. I want to be your wife."
He continued staring at her, but his own face slowly softened, and finally he admitted, his voice low, "I want that, too."
After another long beat, they shared a small, tender smile, and the sticky moment passed. Then John glanced at the letter again and grimaced. "Well, there's no gainsaying a royal command, at any rate. We shall have to brave the lion in his den." He sighed. "We'll set out first thing tomorrow morning. The court is currently lodging at the Tower."
^..^
Belle dragged out her old trunk from the back of the dressing room and threw open the lid – and froze, inhaling sharply at the sight of her old costume, still rolled up in the bottom of the box. She knew the time jumper was still wrapped up within it; for all it had apparently loomed so large in her nightmares, she hadn't consulted it once since they had arrived at the estate.
What's the point? she asked herself, shrugging, and started packing, piling her folded gowns on top of the dark blue bundle.
^..^
Very late the following evening, close to midnight, their carriage turned into the gates at the Tower of London, carrying its weary passengers, exhausted from the endless day of jolting and lurching. John frowned for a moment; the wide yard seemed strangely empty, containing only a contingent of soldiers, rather than the usual crush of human flotsam, animals, and luggage that inevitably accompanied the court.
The driver was halted in the middle of the yard, and a burly Sergeant unceremoniously pulled open the door. He peered around the interior as if checking the number of passengers, then nodded at John.
"Viscount Pendleton? Viscountess Pendleton?" he asked brusquely.
"Of course," John replied testily, irritated at the man's manner. "What is the meaning of this?"
"You are both under arrest. Please climb down and come with me."
"Under arrest?" They cried in unison. "On what charges?" John furiously added.
"The charge is treason," came the implacable reply.