Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

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      Chapter One

      April 1469—on board ship, off the English port of Calais

      ISABEL whimpered. With creaks and groans the ship listed and thumped against the force of water as if it would be torn apart by the next wave, casting us into the depths. Isabel clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes staring at the heaving wooden walls that hemmed us in, the sides of a coffin.

      ‘Now what’s wrong with you?’ It was not fear of a watery death. I knew what it was, even as I prayed that it was not. The ship rolled again in the heavy swell, wallowing queasily in the dips before lifting and lurching. Sweat prickled on my forehead. Nausea clutched my belly before fear rapidly drove it out again. ‘Isabel.’ I nudged her arm sharply to get her attention. She was sitting in a high-backed chair, the only available chair in the cabin and the property of the captain, her whole body rigid, braced. Eyes tight closed to shut out the desperate pitch and roll, one hand was closed claw-like on the arm. I shuffled forwards on my stool. ‘Is it the baby?’

      ‘Yes,’ she gasped, then, ‘No…no. Just a quick pain.’ On a deep breath her body relaxed fractionally, fingers uncurling from the carved end. ‘There, it’s gone. Perhaps I mistook it.’

      And perhaps she didn’t. I watched her cautiously as she eased her body in the confined space. Her face was as livid and slick as milk, drawn with near-exhaustion. Wedged into the chair in that crowded, low-ceilinged cabin, her belly strained against the cloak she clutched to herself as if she were cold. It was so close and airless that I could feel the sweat work its way down my spine beneath the heavy cloth of my gown. Nine months pregnant, my sister Isabel was. And even I knew that this was no time to be at sea on a chancy expedition.

      I got up to pour a mug of ale, staggering as the vessel lifted and sank. ‘Drink this.’

      Isabel sniffed as if the familiar aroma of malted hops repelled her. As it had for much of her pregnancy. ‘I don’t want it. I would rather it were wine.’

      But I pushed it into her hands. ‘It’s all we have. Drink it and don’t argue.’ I struggled against telling her that this was no time for ungrateful petulance. I was very close to gulping the small-beer myself and letting her go thirsty. ‘It will ease your muscles if nothing else.’

      ‘But not my bladder. The child presses heavily.’ Another grimace, another groan, as she sipped. ‘Pray God it will be born soon.’ Isabel had never tolerated discomfort well.

      ‘But not here!’The prospect stirred the fear in my gut again. It churned and clenched. ‘We should soon make land. We’ve been at sea an age. When we get to Calais, that’s the time to pray for God’s help.’

      ‘I don’t think I can wait that long…’ Her complaints dried on a gasp. Dropping the cup on the floor so that it rolled and returned, she hissed out a breath. Her hands clutched her mountainous belly.

      ‘When we get to Calais…’ Taking my stool beside her again, I tried to think of some mindless conversation. Anything to distract.

      ‘When we get to Calais I’ll never set foot on board ship again,’ Isabel snapped. ‘No matter how much—’ She bit off the words, her renewed moans rising to the approximation of a howl. ‘The baby…It must be. Where’s our mother? I want her here with me…Send Margery to fetch her…’

      ‘No. I’ll get Margery to sit with you. I’ll get the Countess.’

      Relief to escape the squalid cabin. Relief to pass the burden of this child to more experienced hands than mine. At fourteen years, I was old enough to know what would happen, but too young to seek the responsibility. I think I was always a selfish child. I summoned Margery, the Countess’s serving woman, to remain at Isabel’s side. And fled.