The Treatment of the Lower Orders

The Treatment of the Lower Orders 6

As the sun rose, Elias leant forward and retched into the darkened void of the sheriff’s garde robe. Another spasm hit her belly and she vomited again.

“Lord girl, but we should be grateful m’ lord sheriff isn’t ‘ere. If ‘e ‘eard or saw you thus, well I durs’t think what ‘e would do.” Amilia tutted as she stroked back the strands of hair that had escaped the kerchief about Elias’s head. “Will you tell ‘im?”

“There is naught to tell. ‘Tis but my courses, they are due and always take me so,” Elias mumbled.

“Be more like lack ‘o blood, my girl, you are caught and no mistake.”

“Shush, I have said it is not that. Let that be an end to it.” The nausea was receding and Elias leant back against the wall, and chewed at her lip. It could not be, it could not!

“Well, child if it is not, then you is sickening. These three years I ‘ave shared room with thee, never seen the like o’ this.”

Elias wiped her mouth and straightened up. “Let us get this done and be away from here. I like not to be in his chamber, even knowing he is elsewhere.” The two women finished storing away the sheriff’s mended and altered linens. Then hurried away, back to the servant’s domain below stairs. There was some safety there.

She watched Sir Guy ride away with the sheriff and a small retinue of soldiers, and she winced at her thoughts. It was a babe, she knew it. These last few days she had felt her breast swell, become tender. The smells of the kitchen had grown loathsome to her.

He had spilled uncaringly inside her that dreadful day beside the pool, so much

anger he had in him. A child conceived of his fury and jealousy. The notion was painful to her.

No, it was not jealousy, she thought. It was covetousness. He owned her and another used her. If it were jealousy… then perhaps he might care for her, might care for their child?

No, and he would ever know of it. She would go in secret, never see him more. Bring her child into the world alone if needs be. She would have no monastery or convent take her babe from her at his behest. Aye, she would lose him forever, but she would have their child to love, see that poor mite grow up with a loving mother, grow straight and honourable. Poor, to be sure, but good, right thinking. That belief cheered her. She could do this thing; she could earn their bread by her skills. ‘Twas not impossible. For her child, she would endure anything.

Amilia watched Elias fall as she crossed the courtyard inside the gates, saw the look of bewildered pain as she clutched at her belly and crumpled to the ground. Soon a crowd of fellow servants had gathered. Thomas Crowe pushed through and looked to Amilia.

“She sickens, a slight fever, ‘tis all.”

He nodded and lifted Elias as if she were a child. He carried her from the sight of others, in to the cool gloom of the castle.

There were mutterings among the other servants.

‘Did ’e beat ‘er again?’

‘Poor lass.’

‘The whore gets what she deserves.’

“She bleeds.” Was all Crowe said as he laid her on her small bed. “Does he know of it?”

“Would ‘e care if ‘e did?” Amilia said sourly.

Crowe shrugged and sighed. “I’ll get the saw-a-bones then?”

“An’ what’ll ‘e do? She is with child, poor love. ‘twill not come t’ term,” she whispered. “I’ll give ‘er pennyroyal for the pain, a tisane of valerian t’ make ‘er sleep.”