The Fog
Saints preserve us
The fog came back.
“J’ai... j’ai un poison dans le vert.”
The maid smiled fixedly. She didn’t move.
“J’ai besoin d’un verre” said Tiffany, pointing to the glass jug standing by her bed.
Not only did she have to deal with the fog, but the new day also brought a reminder of her limited French. Glass, not green. The maid hovered and retreated, patting at the kerchief over her hair. As she moved into the light, Tiffany saw the stain of vomit on the apron that covered the kirtle. Her throat constricted. Sebastien vomited! Did that mean he’d fallen ill?
The fog in her head, like a dark tunnel, kept her from asking for help. During confinement and birth, people gave her orders all the time. Now that the child entered the world, the feudal system snapped back into place. She lay back and closed her eyes. Maybe a nap would help. First and second sleep brought no relief, with her mind whirling like a water wheel. A thought crept into her head. “They are out in the hallway right now, telling one another what an unfit mother you are. A disgrace to the family name.” The phrase looped around in her head over and over. Her son would take on their traits. He would become a stranger to her. All her fault. All her fault.
She got out of bed. The fire in the solar burned brightly, and a tapestry at the end of the room depicted Charlemagne’s victory over the Lombards. Tiffany felt like she would happily trade places with any man on the battlefield. At least you knew where you stood with a lance. Out of the window, she could see across the estate. A tenant farmer tended his strip of land, and a deer could be spied entering the forest surrounding it. Any other time, she would think about the hunting season. Instead, the thought kept coming. Tiffany knelt by the bed and closed her eyes. Morning prayers would banish the thought. Despite her best efforts, the thoughts crowded out her prayers. She gave up. Now, on top of everything else, she committed a venal sin.
She went over to the door and listened. The sound of her son, Sebastien’s faint cry, pierced her. All her fault. The boy would grow up to hold her in contempt, and it would be all her fault. How couldn’t he think of her that way?
“I’ve changed my mind.” The maids jumped at her approach. What did she interrupt them in the middle of saying? “I’ve changed my mind,” she said again. “It is a fine day. I should take the boy outside.” The nurses exchanged glances.
“Our master.”
“Is away on campaign,” Tiffany interrupted. “I am responsible for his estate. We will not go far.” As she spoke, she wanted to climb into a small dark space and cry. Yet she couldn’t. The fresh air would help. Her servants helped her dress in a sleeveless surcoat over her kirtle. The thoughts retreated for an instant, although the fog over her mind remained.
Leaving proved easier said than done.
“Perhaps it would be better if he stayed with us,” said the servant.
“No,” said Tiffany, biting back her urge to say yes. “He must see his inheritance. With his father away, he needs to be around me.”
“You heard her,” said Eleanor, one of the older servants. “Let’s use the board, since she’ll be riding.” Tiffany looked at her son. Everyone called him a handsome boy without hyperbole. He’d been born with thick, curly hair and an elfin face. She waited for the feeling that should come when she gazed upon him. The boy she carried for nine months and fought for two days to bring into the world. She felt nothing. Worse than nothing. Numb. Hollowed out. The servant caught her eye. Tiffancy forced a smile. Much to her relief, someone bustled into her line of vision and within minutes, Sebastian was strapped onto her back.
Although the board felt awkward, it left her hands free, and Tiffany could ride well. She walked through the courtyard to the stable. Putting distance between the chateau would help. One of her officers approached. He wore a smart jerkin, armed with a club and hose in the family colours
“A fine day for a ride,” he said, helping her into the saddle.
“Yes,” Tiffany lied. The warmth of the sun and a faint breeze in her face usually made her heart light. The feeling persisted. She looked at the badge her officer wore.
“I can walk with you, if you like,” he said.
“Do you think it’s necessary?” she said, playing it safe.
“No,” he said. “I’ve got a reputation now.” She should feel pride. This idea faced backlash at first. The men needed to be paid, and the head tax proved unpopular. Instead, she felt nothing. Sebastian fussed. A swallow flew into the stable and looped over her head. Its flight only reminded her of its freedom compared to hers. Perhaps if she rode all day, then the feeling would subside. Sebastien fussed. It cleaved her like an executioner’s axe. She froze. When did he last eat? If the servants thought her an unfit mother, they may have employed a wet nurse behind her back.
Failed her duty. Can’t risk the heir dying. Sebastian fussed some more.
Tiffany dismounted and took him behind a bale of hay to feed him. He wouldn’t latch and kept pulling away. Irritation surged. Why demand food and refuse to eat? She tried a few times before giving up. He wailed. Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She pushed a hand to her chest, trying to get her breath to come.
“Madame.” Tiffany jumped. Sebastian slid from her arms, and she lunged for him. Jeanne, her husband’s old nurse, stood there. Her cherubic, rosy cheeks always gave her a slightly startled look and also made her look decades younger than she truly was.
“How dare you sneak up on me!” Tiffany drew herself up tall, shocked back into her old self. Jeanne lowered her head.
“Forgive me. I saw you leave and felt concern.”
“Concern?” Tiffany’s voice shook slightly. She cleared her throat to cover it up. “You forget your place.” The words tasted bitter. Yet how would it look for the lady of the house to tolerate being spoken to in this manner?
“Yes, concern,” said Jeanne. “It is about your son.” Sebastien nuzzled Tiffany. She flinched at his touch. Her chest caved. All the exhaustion of the past few days caught up with her. She wept. The sobs wracked her body with frightening intensity. If word got out, all her status would be undone. Jeanne took Sebastien, gently yet firmly.
“You do not need to deceive me, Madam,” she said. “I have seen this before.”
“Seen what?” Tiffany tried to control her breathing.
“What you are experiencing.”
“How do you…”
“My lady, let us speak plainly. I have birthed seven children and buried three. It is a rooted sorrow deep in the mind.” Tiffany couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Have you prayed to the saints?”
“Yes! Yes.” Tiffany crossed her arms, squeezing them. “St Nicholas and St Joseph.”
“They cannot help you.” Jeanne rocked Sebastien with an ease and comfort that stuck in Tiffany’s craw.
“Then who can?” Jeanne didn’t answer. She bounced Sebastien and chattered to him. Tiffany watched her enviously.
“A local saint. A remarkable one.” Jeanne looked around a few times before speaking his name. Tiffany frowned.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“That is no surprise,” said Jeanne kindly. “Tell me. What do you feel when you look at him?” She lifted Sebastien, supporting his head. Tiffany stared into the blue eyes, waiting for lightning to strike and fill her with the love that the blessed mother once felt for our Lord.
“I feel complete,” said Tiffany.
“It is well your husband is away,” said Jeanne. “You lie. Let me tell you what you feel. Nothing.” Tiffany flinched. “Do not despair. There is hope. The saint worked in my life also.”
“He did?” Tiffany’s limbs tingled.
“Yes. But he cannot be reached through prayer. You must visit his shrine.”
“His shrine?”
“Yes,” said Jeanne. “That is the only way. It is in the forest, 2 hours hence.”
“The forest?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She pointed west. Tiffany pursed her lips. Saints didn’t live in the woods. They were prayed to. Or their reliquaries could be visited at the cathedral or churches.
“I shall consider it,” she said, holding out her arms. “I need to feed my son.” Jeanne did not answer. Although Sebastien still fussed, he eventually ate. The experience drained Tiffany so much that she abandoned the ride altogether. She took Sebastien back to her chambers for a nap and went to visit the chapel.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She confessed some trifling sins, and when the priest offered absolution, she leaned forward.
“Father?”
“Yes, my daughter?” Father Jermone sounded irritable.
“I need some advice.”
“Pay no attention to the gossip.”
“What?”
“The people of this town are far too concerned with gossip. They see anyone from the outside as a threat.”
“No, Father, it is not that.”
“Oh. Go on.”
“It is about my son.”
“Oh yes, a fine young fellow. I can’t put the baptism forward anymore. Not without the godparents here.”
“Father.”
“Believe me, it isn’t worth it. I don’t know about the Welsh, but we French value Godparents of the right family name more than anything. More than their commitment to their faith.” He sniffed. “Very prideful. Not to worry, your husband will prevail and then it will go ahead. Do your duty, and the boy will stay healthy.”
“Father!’ Tiffany raised her voice. “It is not about that.”
“Oh?” Father Jerome wrinkled his nose. Ass. Always loved the sound of his voice more than his parishioners. With an audible sigh, he turned to face her. Confronted with his mournful expression and blank gaze, Tiffany felt her resolve slip away. Everyone looked for her to lead them. An admission of how she felt could only backfire.
“Now you mention it,” she said. “I am a little worried about the state of my son’s soul. After all, it will be a while until his baptism.”
“I’ll give him a blessing,” said Father Jerome. “What time is it?”
“Just before nine.”
“A little early for that then,” said Father Jerome wistfully.
“You know you are always welcome in my quarters, Father,” she said as warmly as she could. “I thought about pledging my son to a saint’s protection.”
“Excellent,” said the priest. “I’m sure you have one in mind and a sum of monies picked out.”
“I hear that there is a shrine in the forest.”
The priest recoiled.
“You heard what?” Tiffany said nothing.
“Who told you this?”
“Nobody in particular,” said Tiffany. He stared without blinking. She fidgeted.
“What did they say?”
“I overheard the servants talking,” said Tiffany, a cold feeling enclosing her heart. The old nurse clearly meant well. The common folk held onto many fancies, and her husband never said a word against Jeanne. “It was nobody I know well.”
“You are sure you learned nothing else?” The base of Tiffany’s neck tingled.
“No, Father. I thought it best to ask you.”
The priest turned to face her. He took a few deep breaths and clamped his teeth shut before continuing.
“Those women are led astray by the devil. The next time you hear anything else, from anyone else, you find me right away. Do you hear?”
Tiffany didn’t answer. The ferocity of the man made her lean away slightly. Another part of her wanted to shake him. Was she a child to be warned away from some old wives’ tale that might give her nightmares? If only Father Bartholemew stayed here instead of going with her husband. An older, more kindly man, he bore his duties with a frown and didn’t keep trying to cadge the good wine from her. Played a good game of chess too.
Sebastien seemed to undergo a great change in the night. He shrieked so loudly that Tiffany found sleep impossible. Jeanne came into her quarters.
“He won’t stop,” said Tiffany over his howls.
“Did you go?” asked Jeanne.
“Go where?” Jeanne looked west and didn’t answer. Tiffany hunched her shoulders and looked into his face. Sebastien’s complexion looked like a beet, his mouth gaped as he howled.
“Why not?” Tiffany didn’t answer. Jeanne took a step towards the door.
“Where are you going?” called Tiffany.
“It may be too late.”
“Too late for what?” Jeanne looked under the cradle and nodded approvingly.
“Iron scissors placed under there. It is well. Yet they are tricky.” Tiffany’s heart sank and looked down at her son. The cheerful, carefree face seemed to have vanished. She heard that the fae could steal a child and replace them with a changeling if the child wasn’t baptised in good time.
“An emergency baptism,” she stammered. “Call for Father Jerome.”
“It will not work,” said Jeanne firmly. “Why do you not put your faith in the saint?” Tiffany looked around. Her chest felt tight again. Perhaps stepping into the garderobe would help. Too much noise out here.
“Listen to this story and then decide for yourself. A certain knight and his wife had to leave their castle for a short time. They left their infant son under the care of the family’s greyhound, Guinefort. When they returned home, they found the crib knocked over and Guinefort’s mouth covered in blood. Seeing no sign of their son, they guessed the dog turned savage and killed their son. The knight drew his sword and slew Guinefort. As the poor dog breathed his last, the wife discovered the baby safe behind the crib. Next to the child lay a dead poisonous viper, covered in dog bites. Noble, loyal Guienfort died a martyr. As a penance, the knight buried the dog and planted trees in Guinefort’s honor. Not long after, God saw fit to destroy the Knight’s castle. That is where his shrine now resides.”
Tiffany rocked Sebastian. He wailed so hard it shook his body, clenching his little fists.
“When was he canonised?” she asked.
“People knotted branches at the shrine and saw their children cured of illness,” said Jeanne with a smile. “He can do the same with a melancholy and a changeling, too.” Tiffany frowned. She never heard of such a thing.
“The priest…”
“Will issue a fine or worse if he hears about this,” said Jeanne. “Consider this. How can he know how to cure a woman?” She put a hand on Tiffany’s shoulder. “Can you describe how it feels to carry a life inside you and bring it to term?” Tiffany shook her head. “How can he be expected to understand, much less give orders on who could help you?” Tiffany said nothing. Jeanne shook her head and retrieved some needlework.
Sebastien wailed until dawn. When Tiffany awoke, Jeanne had gone. She went to the chamber door. A stranger opened it and bobbed a curtsey.
“Where is she?” said Tiffany. The maid lowered her eyes and stepped back. Tiffany gaped and curtseyed in her turn.
“Good afternoon, daughter.” Louise Huchon, Tiffany’s mother-in-law, swept towards her, the black of her mourning weeds making her one with the shadows.
“What an honour to have you here,” said Tiffany, recovering quickly.
“I was very concerned,” said Mere Huchon. She wore a barbette, which accentuated her strong, angular face. Despite her advancing years, she still walked with a straight back and carried a book everywhere she went. Everyone whispered that the only defeat she knew was her son’s rejection of the written word.
“Where is my grandson?” She walked into the room before Tiffany could say anything, barely giving her time to step aside. Tiffany followed her, mouth dry. The next sound would be a cry of horror. Then the entire household would be in an uproar at the sight of the changeling who shrieked and carried on throughout the night. She squeezed her eyes shut. Sebastien chuckled. His grandmother bent over the crib. Tiffany approached slowly. What she saw felt comparable to the transfiguration. The howling imp from the night before was nowhere to be seen.
“Takes me back,” muttered Mere Huchon. She straightened up. Her expression softened, then hardened again when she met Tiffany’s eyes. “I bring news.”
“Excuse me?”
“My son, your husband, won a great victory. Once his affairs are in order, he shall be home.” Tiffany’s heart leapt.
“Wonderful news.” Her mother-in-law’s face flushed at Tiffany’s expression. Tiffany’s skin tingled. She luxuriated in the news. How nice to share a moment like this. They both loved him, and both felt excited at the thought of his safe return. Mere Huchon glanced towards the cradle.
“I shall remain here to greet him.” She glanced at the cradle again and then at Tiffany, who mirrored Mere Huchon’s body language as best she could. After a long pause, she departed.
It wasn’t until she left that Tiffany realised that the fog from her mind had departed too. Whatever enchantment befell her and the child lifted. Maybe her guardian angel saw to it, or a family member remembered her in their prayers. She resolved to write to them more often. Mere Huchon dismissed the maids. Only she would be so bold. She felt an uncomfortable lump in her throat at the loss of Jeanne and put her hand inside the crib. Sebastien grabbed at it, gurgling. She frowned. The fog had disappeared. Why didn’t she feel the same joy she saw in Mere Huchon’s eyes? She sighed heavily. A child formed in fire should evoke passion.
Francois wept far more than she did when he left for the campaign. It was he who proposed they elope when he grew tired of waiting for his family’s approval.
“My Mother will pout, and then she’ll get over it. How can she not, when she meets you?” She grinned at the memory. It made her forget the whispers.
“She’s been married before.”
“No children from that either.”
“What a shame.”
“Pitiful for a man to waste his youth like that.”
“One man? Don’t you mean two?”
They paid no heed, and everything turned out as planned. Other rumours said that Francois would never have dared if his father still lived. They never discussed that. Neither Francois nor Tiffany dwelled on the past.
The fog only gave her relief for a day. The next day, it rolled back over. When she rose,the light from the dawn buffeted her. Servants questions pealed like trumpets. Mere Huchon sent for a doctor.
“I hear that St. John’s Wort works wonders on melancholy.” Her mother-in-law’s voice seemed to be coming from a great way off.
“Her humours need balancing.” As the doctor spoke, his instruments rattled. Before Tiffnay could say anything,strong hands held her down and the cold knife pressed against her skin. Pointless to fight those who sought to save her. Her body couldn’t help reacting and she convusled as the vein opened. She could smell her own blood and then tasted it as she bit her lower lip.
“She looks peaceful,” she heard as her head swam.
The doctor came back two more times and then the priest to pray over her.
“This can’t go on.” She heard voices. No longer any sense who they belonged to. So much blood taken from here. Where did they take it all? She pictured a vast, overflowing bowl. Other thoughts jostled the image out. She felt Sebastian crying. Her breasts hurt. When did she feed him last? Perhaps she fed him and didn’t remember. Sounds like the kind of negligent thing she would do.
“My son will be home soon.”
“Send for the doctor again.”
“No more.” Who spoke? It wasn’t until much later that Tiffany realised she did. Why did she do it? Surely nobody would heed the words of an unfit mother. On the third day the doctor didn’t come back. Shutters kept out any night. Tiffany couldn’t say when Mere Huchon came to talk with her. Could have been day or night.
“We must speak.” She opened her eyes with a great effort. Like sour milk, she could taste her mother in laws disapproval. Mere Huchon leaned closer and Tiffany saw something different. Feverish, overbright eyes and a stiff neck.
“Your son needs you. My son needs you. The estate needs you. We have tried everything known to us. What can we do?” Tiffany felt a prickle behind her eyes and put a hand on Mere Huchon’s arm.
Tiffany stepped into the forest clearing with Sebastien in her arms. Mere Huchon knew where to find it, of course. She arranged for the priest to be sent away on some pretext. Father Jerome protested at first. Perhaps he suspected. Tiffany almost returned to the chateau when she learned of the ritual. Yet she didn’t. What else could they do? Perhaps Jeanne prayed for the changeling to depart. Now they needed the saint’s help to banish the fog. She looked up at the ribbons tied to the branches. The boy would have his clothes removed, placed on the ground, and she would pray until a candle burned down. She looked around. An animal cried, perhaps a fox or a wild dog. Should she take it as a blessing? She unwrapped her son’s swaddling. A breeze skittered through the clearing. He winced and began to howl. She placed him on the ground and walked towards the candle. Her shaking hands took a while to light it. When she did, the sight of the flame centered her. She focused on it, shutting out Sebastian’s cries.
“I have birthed seven children and buried three.” The candle burned. The child wailed. She prayed.
A few days later, Jeanne opened the door to find a purse on her doorstep. It contained a small note; “I hope this helps. With gratitude.”