Читать книгу Below the Salt - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 27

It must now be told how the hand of misfortune and grief finally touched the devoted lovers. The Lady Maude gave birth to a son whom the parents named Richard after the old king’s son. The father stood out against this selection but his wife for once insisted on having her way. Letting her head rest against his solicitous shoulder, she whispered: “It may win some favor for our little son. I am afraid he will need much of it in the life ahead of him.”

She had no illusions as to her own fate. The travail of motherhood had taken heavy toll of her strength. “Sweet husband,” she said, “I will not be here much longer. They will try to take away all the land. Fight hard to keep my dower rights at least for him, our poor little son. And take good care of him. He must grow up as tall and strong and straight of leg as his sire.”

“You will share these responsibilities with me when your strength comes back, my loved one.”

Her strength did not come back. The boy Richard was no more than a week old when her long lashes closed for all time over the unusual blue of her eyes. The stricken husband sat beside the bed until they came to prepare the body. He rose then without a word and walked to the cradle of the child.

“You and I, my son,” he said, “have long hard years ahead of us, I fear. I must fulfill my promise to your lady mother, and see that you are raised to be strong and honorable and brave.”

He turned to the nurse who hovered over the cradle. “You have lost no time in binding him up in swaddling clothes, despite what I told you.”

“My lord, it is the custom!” protested the woman.

“You needn’t tell me that. I know it is always done. I know that four infants out of five die before they are released from the swaddling board. Poor little slaves of a hideous custom! How long do you plan to keep him thus, unable to move hand or foot?”

“A year,” she stammered. “It is the rule.”

“Free him at once!” exclaimed the father. “I won’t have my son die because silly mothers and ignorant midwives have invented something as cruel as chaining prisoners to the wall in damp cells. He must be allowed to kick his legs and use his arms as God intended children to do.”

“It is sacrilege!” cried the nurse.

“You will obey my orders.” To himself the father added: “He must be as free as though he had been born under a hedge and his parents trod the open road. When he is a year old his legs will be strong and, moreover, he will be using them. This much, at least, I can do for him.”