V. Flashbacks…

A long high scream filled the humid night air. Hugh looked up to the open window, his hands clenched uselessly at his sides. It was not his place to go to her aid; she was in the care of the midwife now. He had escaped the suffocating presence of his men in the great hall, but still he felt confined. As he paced his agitation unsettled the horses bedded down in the stable. He stopped, rubbing a firm and gentle hand across his destrier’s flank. The motion soothed the beast, and momentarily calmed the thundering in his heart.
     It was unbearable hearing her cries of pain and being unable to comfort her. She had been his wife for less than a year, but had been his friend for many before that. Friendship had as they had gained maturity developed into love, and the match had long been approved of by both families. Another scream pierced through his heart, and he pushed a hand raggedly through the tangle of his blonde hair. He had left a week ago to check out the reports of Welsh bands encroaching on his lands. He could still picture Eleanor ripe with child raising a hand to bid him farewell as he rode out from the courtyard. Her golden hair swinging down her back in a long braid, her pale blue gown stretched over her stomach and her cheeks rosy with health and vitality. As he rode away that day he had never been so content with the hand life had dealt him. He had a wife who he adored, a child on the way, and if God wished it an heir to the lands he had gained through marriage. Many a man might envy him. When he returned however storm clouds had begun to gather. He arrived home to be greeted with the news that the Welsh continued to cause trouble and his wife had gone into labour too early. Eleanor was young and healthy, the midwife had assured him, but Hugh knew that childbirth was dangerous for women of all stations and years.
     Hugh’s gaze returned to the open window of their bedchamber. No more cries echoed forth across the courtyard. The night remained still and silent. He feared this deafening silence more; for when there were cries there was at least the hope of life –
     The sound of soft foot fall scattered Hugh’s thoughts.
     “My Lord?” A tentative and anxious female voice caused Hugh to turn slowly. His heart clenched as he saw the ghostly pallor of one of his wife’s maids.
     “Tell me.” Choked and rough as it was, he scarcely recognised his own voice.
     “Your Lady wife bore a son. But the babe was too small to live sir. And…” The maid stopped as Hugh bowed his head. “Your wife, my Lord. She is… She is also dead. She lost a lot of blood, and the labour was so long she was too weak to fight it. I am truly sorry my Lord.” She stood there waiting anxiously for some kind of acknowledgment so that she could take her leave. It was impossible to face the desperate sorrow etched into Hugh’s features.
     “Thank you Matilde. I shall attend directly.” His words were merely a meaningless courtly dressing, but she heard the quiver of badly concealed emotion in his voice. She curtseyed though he paid her no heed, and turned walking back to the hall unable to watch such a proud man crumble under the weight of his grief.
     Hugh remained still for some moments, his senses reeling as if he had been hit over the head by the pommel of his sword. It seemed impossible that she was dead. She was still so real in his mind’s eye. As tears hazed his vision, images of a gap-toothed child blurred with the radiant woman she had become. He chocked back the tears, and instead lashing out with grief-filled rage, Hugh gave a hoarse cry and punched the stone wall. He felt satisfied with the flash of physical pain that momentarily blocked the emotional pain. His hand bloodied and torn went to the amulet he wore on a piece of leather around his neck. It was a gift presented to him by Eleanor when they had still been children. A plaited piece of golden hair, hers and his intertwined as their lives had always been. But no longer. He dropped the amulet as if it had suddenly burnt his hand. He couldn’t bury himself in his grief, hiding away from the world and nursing his wounds, too many lives and livelihoods depended on his actions. He would ride out on the morrow, and fight the Welsh whatever the outcome. His life was worth little now that it had become unravelled from the careful plait it had once been.