“Go, because our Lord requires that in charity we turn from no one. But be brief and quiet. Do not cut the cord until it has quit pulsing. Ask Our Blessed Mother to guide you. Do not be an accomplice in anything evil. That is enough. God in heaven bless you,” she whispered. And with the few things I needed carried in a little basket, I left the room.
Watt met me with a torch and another armed man. Together we went quickly down the forbidden stairs, through the guardroom, and entered the long, dark corridor where we had first encountered Belotte. Then we dived again down several crooked passageways and flights of stairs to the depths of the keep. Great rooms of dusty barrels and vats of salt meat lay on either side of us. Somewhere about might be horrible oubliettes, closed cells where prisoners lingered hideously until they died. I imagined skeleton hands reaching through barred doors that in truth enclosed nothing worse than casks of closely guarded wine. I did not know the real truth: Sir Raymond didn’t like to clutter his cellars with imprisonments. He preferred executions.
We entered one of these storerooms, and a horrible sight met my eyes. A torch had been mounted in the wall above a poor straw mattress on which Belotte lay. Another soldier stood by her; her arms had been tied down and a gag stuffed in her ruined mouth to prevent her from screaming and revealing herself.
“She tried to cut her wrists,” murmured her attendant clumsily, as he gestured to her bound arms.
“Good,” said Watt. “I’ll be no party to mortal sin.”
Belotte was deep in labor.
“Stand back, you,” I said. “Do not embarrass her any more.” Belotte glared furiously at me over her gag. The two stood back, and I turned up her dress. The head was already visible. Gushing water and bloody fluid had made a great stain on the straw mat where she lay, and on her clothes as well. With each convulsive labor pain she made a strangled, muffled groan.
“She can’t breathe; she needs air,” I said, and the bowman pulled out her gag.
“Don’t cry out any more,” he cautioned. “For it’s our lives for sheltering you as well as yours for being here.”
“Your life, indeed,” she hissed. “A few paternosters, perhaps, or take a trip and kiss a shrine. My life only, and your inconvenience is what you mean.”
“Don’t talk: breathe deep, and the pain will be less,” I cautioned. Her body jerked convulsively as I guided the head out, then the body, and finally the gently pulsating cord. As I waited for the afterbirth, she hissed, “It’s over. Don’t show the little monster to me. Just take it and dash its head against the wall, and we’re done.”
I delivered the afterbirth. Hardly a birth since have I seen come so smoothly. I waited until the cord had become dead, as I was instructed, and tied it carefully, and then severed it. The child shuddered and began breathing with scarcely a cry, flushing a beautiful pink. A shadow of golden hair glistened across the pulsating soft spot on the top of its head. Its even, tiny features were screwed up in an annoyed frown at having been removed from its comfortable resting place. A tiny pink fist folded and unfolded as its legs curled up convulsively against its belly. The soldiers, who had been deathly silent, grinned and pointed at its sex organ, for it was a boy. As I held the little creature in my arms, preparing to sponge it off, I looked at it—as pink and lovely as a rose—and began to weep. I just couldn’t help it. I had borne a child, and never held her in my arms.
Belotte looked at me with glittering, sarcastic eyes.
“Little Do-Good, the sentimentalist, is now having a nice little cry! What new will you think up?”
“Oh, don’t be so hard! I have a daughter that is with the angels in heaven, and I never held her once. Why shouldn’t I cry?”
“You? I took you for a virgin, little prig. Maybe you’re even sillier than I thought.”
“Just hold him, hold him once for my sake. For he is a lovely, lovely baby!”
“He? A boy, then? Poor little wretch, he’s doomed.” She looked at me closely. “Pretty, you say?”
“As beautiful as the rising sun.” And I held the naked little creature out to her.
And as I watched, I saw a strange thing, like a miracle. The hard face softened, and she reached out her arms. A tear, unattended, made a track across her ruined face. The baby, drawn to her, began to root around, looking for milk. And she, moved by that helpless little motion, reached to open her gown to feed it. The tears now freely ran down her face as she looked hungrily at the tiny thing.
“You think she’ll keep it?” said Watt.
“I think so.”
“Problems, problems. But we’ll think of something,” he said, shaking his head. I stayed only long enough to swaddle the baby and then departed, quickly and quietly, as I had been warned.
I felt I had entered another world when I was shown to the door of Lady Blanche’s room. Hilde came out to meet me. They were all asleep inside.
“Is it done?” she asked.
“Yes, it is over.”
“The child lives?”
“It lives; it is beautiful.” I embraced her and wept. “Oh, Mother Hilde, the fates are so unfair! That awful woman has a son as beautiful as the stars and moon, and I have none at all!”
“Hush, hush, and don’t be a ninny. Your time will come. I have had dreams and portents I will tell you only when the time is right.”
“Oh, who cares for dreams! I wish that beautiful baby were mine, mine!”
So Hilde wooed me from my frenzy of jealousy and urged me to sleep.
DO BABIES ALWAYS COME at night to be perverse? For it was at Vigils, three hours before dawn, that Lady Blanche stirred and groaned in her sleep. Soon she was bolt upright, and the room stirred with activity, for Lady Blanche’s water had broken. True labor had begun at last.
Water was heated and many clean linen towels brought. Lady Blanche was seated in the elaborate birthing chair and clutched at its great carved handles with each contraction. The beautiful cradle was uncovered and brought to a place of honor. Exquisite swaddling bands and a marvelous cap, embroidered with tiny pearls, were laid out. The room was perfumed with the heavy, rich scent of beeswax candles, so that the stink of tallow would not offend Lady Blanche at this delicate time. For one awful moment I had a deathly sinking feeling. What if all this preparation were for another girl? Lady Blanche began to scream. She was too old for bearing children: it would not be easy. Mother Hilde spoke soothingly to her: “Breathe deeply with each pain—meet it with a breath to conquer it!” But it did no good, Lady Blanche was frightened and hysterical.
“Woe is me, that I should have such pain!” she cried. “Women are born only to suffer! Oh, unspeakable fate, I will be torn apart and die!” These seemed more suitable words for a woman that has never borne children than for one who was many times a mother already. But now that I am older, I know that fear is the worst enemy of easy birth, and Lady Blanche had good reason to be in mortal fear. When dawn broke, Sir Raymond, who was deep asleep from wine, could finally be roused.
“So?” he grunted. “Don’t bother me until my son is born. That’s news worth waking me for.”
With the dawn the wet-nurse was fetched from the village. She was a young girl with silky blond hair, idiot blue eyes, and a bosom that would put a milk-cow to shame. Her simple eyes were glowing with the glories of the castle and the grandeur of the position that awaited her.
“Hmm,” commented Hilde privately. “Good and not so good.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Good in that she is clean and young and has enough milk for twins. Bad in that she is as stupid as the day is long. For babies drink in the characteristics of the nurse. If she is vicious, they will be vicious. If she is stupid, they will be stupid. Oh, well, stupidity is not considered a flaw in great families.”
“But Mother Hilde”—a thought suddenly crossed my mind. “Where is her baby? Did it die? How came she by all this milk?”
“This one, I know, will be raised by the grandmother, with a papboa
t filled with goat’s or ass’s milk. It is winter, so this is not such a dangerous enterprise. In summer such infants always die of a flux in the bowels. ‘Summer sickness,’ I call it. It steals many children away.”
“So she leaves her own child to take on the features of an ass or goat? And with the grandmother’s connivance? Surely this is a terrible thing!”
“Not so terrible, most times. It will bring the whole family great preferment. She will always live in luxury, on the finest food and best drink, to keep her milk from being spoiled. You can’t begin to count the rewards that the wet-nurse to the heir of a great house can expect! If she is fortunate, it is the start of a great career. If, however, something happens to the baby, we both know that Sir Raymond is the ungenerous type.”
I crossed myself. “Let nothing happen to the baby, then,” I prayed, “for all our sakes.”
Morning came and passed, and still the agonizing labor went on. Lady Blanche, exhausted from her crying and lamenting, awaited each new pain with the dumb expression of an ox awaiting slaughter.
“Mother Hilde, Mother Hilde.” The knight’s wife was troubled. “The labor has ceased to bring change. The baby’s head shows no farther.”
“Her body is losing its strength,” whispered Hilde in reply. “Can you not feel? Each contraction is weaker and weaker.”
“I suspected it was so. Can you do nothing? For if things continue this way, we shall lose both my lord’s son and his wife, and there will be no end to his wrath.”
“I am aware of that. Who is more at risk than the midwife? I never forget that I am a stranger here.”
“What shall we do?” The lady wrung her hands in fear.
As if in response Father Denys entered the chamber.
“Pax vobiscum,” he said, as he scattered blessings upon those assembled.
“I have been informed that my lord’s most precious son is endangered through the mishandling of fumbling, ignorant midwives!” He took from his assistant a ghastly relic in a box, a censer, a crucifix, and other paraphernalia. Showing the company the glittering silver reliquary containing a shriveled, mummified fetus, he handed it to the assisting priest. Lady Blanche rolled her eyes in horror, and her mouth worked soundlessly. Father Denys took the censer, and having lit the incense, he liberally bestowed the smoke around the room, praying loudly in Latin.
Lady Blanche had found her voice.
“My last rites! Have you come to anoint me for death?” she whispered in terror.
“Fear not, most gracious lady,” answered Father Denys suavely, “I have come to intervene with heaven for the life of your son. And if your sins, and the sins of those in this room”—here he glared fiercely about him—“are not too great, then you and he shall be spared.” And he continued to pray in Latin. The ladies present sank to their knees, took out their rosary beads, and began to pray. He beamed as the murmur of pious voices arose in prayer around him.
Mother Hilde, white-faced, pulled me aside. It was clear that Father Denys was setting the stage for our blame in case of failure. With a desperate voice she whispered, “There is no alternative. I must use the dark powder. Get me the casket, there, in the basket with my things, and then go and fetch me some spiced wine from below. I believe I can restart the labor, but we must hide the bitterness of the powder, or she may refuse it. Don’t let Father Denys see it; if he even suspects that we used it, it could be all over for us.” When Father Denys’s back was turned, I slipped out the open door as silently and as rapidly as if Death himself were on my heels.
I was crossing the hall at a dead run when Watt stepped into my path, barring my way.
“Let me past,” I cried, “for I can’t lose a moment!”
“Little midwife, you must come, for something very bad is happening.” He still barred my way.
“Come with me and tell me quickly, then.”
“Poor Belotte is seized with fever. She is in mortal agony. I called the priest, asking for the extreme unction for a dying sinner, but he refused to come, saying sinners must die in their sins, for he was busy. She says she will have none but you.”
“Watt, I must come when I can, for my lord’s child is endangered, and I’ve been sent for a remedy.” He looked apologetic. “Tell her I will be there, perhaps by evening.” I rushed on and returned with what was required. By that time Father Denys had gone to the chapel to say a special Mass, and the ladies were clucking with worry as they stood about their mistress. Mother Hilde, her face as impassive as a statue’s, stirred up the drink and added a dose of something dark and loathsome looking from the sealed casket, in a way that none but I saw.
“My ladies, I beg you to assist your mistress to take this, for it is a remedy that often works in such cases.” Then she urged Lady Blanche, “Sip this, sip this, for it will make you strong again.” Lady Blanche sipped weakly, and finished but half of the drink, before falling back into the arms of her waiting-women.
“Now we must wait, but not long,” Mother Hilde pronounced. And since the long shadows of evening had descended while we worked, the ladies lit the candles again, transforming the room into a bower of flickering lights filled with the deep, sweet scent of melting beeswax.
Suddenly Lady Blanche uttered a cry.
“It’s coming, at last it’s coming!” exulted the ladies, and indeed it was so. With a few powerful contractions the whole crown of the head was visible. Hilde’s expert hands gently pulled, and the head appeared, though the face could not be seen, for it was downward. With the shoulders, greenish-black muck came out, too, which the ladies hardly noticed in their joy, but I could see that Hilde’s face had turned pale again. Soon the body was delivered, and there was a cry of joy as it became clear the child was a boy.
“Send for my lord! A son is born!” cried the knight’s wife, and even before the afterbirth had come, shouts of joy could be heard echoing through the great hall. With all the rejoicings and embracings in the room, few but me observed that the baby was not breathing. Hilde turned it upside down, cleaning filthy dark matter from the mouth with her finger and draining the lungs. The child was blue. Mother Hilde laid it down and breathed softly into its mouth and nose, keeping a steady rhythm. Gradually the tiny body began to turn pink. Hilde’s eyes showed relief as she ceased breathing for the child.
“My son, where is my son?” Lady Blanche called, heedless of the hubbub.
“A fine boy,” said Hilde, showing her the baby, cradled in her arms so that the sex was plainly visible, but the face veiled in shadow.
And well might Mother Hilde hide the face! What mother would not be frightened of that pitiful face? The head, deformed by the long labor, rose to a sloping, lopsided point. The eyes were swollen shut by a massive bruise that spread across the face. The nose was smashed to one side. A few colorless hairs could be seen against the purple skull. The whole body was a sickly, clay-colored bluish-pink, beneath the whitish creamy stuff in which all babies are born.
“My son, my son! Show me my son!” The voice of Lord Raymond boomed from the hall. With a few steps he whirled into the room and confronted Hilde, the baby in her arms.
“Ha! A boy indeed! And fine large equipment too!” He slapped his leg. “But what is all this about the head? He looks as if he’d been in battle already!”
“It is normal from the long labor, my lord. Within a few days the bruising will clear and the head round itself again.”
The baby made a pitiful mewling sound.
“Ha! My son is thirsty! Wet-nurse!” he bellowed. “Feed my son well, and rich rewards will be yours if he thrives,” he said to her. “But don’t you dare starve him.” He leaned forward and fixed her idiot face with a glittering, malign eye. “If you cheat him with thin, poor milk, I’ll serve you exactly as I did the other.”
The poor booby screwed up her eyes and began to weep.
“Cease weeping, woman, and give my son drink!” She clasped the baby, and the lord exclaimed with satisfaction when she let one immense breas
t out of her gown. The poor baby began to suck feebly, and the girl smiled with contentment as my lord handed her a great silver coin.
“On account,” he said, and turned on his heel. Then he remembered something and returned.
“Lady wife,” he said, “at last you have done your duty. Good work, good work. I’ll order a Mass of thanksgiving!” Lady Blanche smiled feebly, but triumphantly. Everything had changed for her, in the space of only one day. She was now secure forever, the mother of a son, and could enjoy her old age in luxury.
While Lady Blanche reclined on the great bed, receiving congratulations, Hilde and I bathed the battered baby and placed the beautiful cap on his misshapen head. Somehow, when nothing but the tiny face showed, he did not seem so grotesque. One bundled baby looks so like any other.
“Ah, me, I hope all is well now,” sighed Mother Hilde, as she sat on the low bench in the corner, stretching out her legs. “Mother and child are living, and joy reigns in the household.”
“You seem as if you had been through great danger, Mother Hilde,” I remarked.
“We all were in great danger, though none but I knew it,” she said softly. “The medicine I prepared was that which Belotte would have paid for in gold. It drives babies untimely from the womb. If it is too strong, it brings death or madness. But at the right time, with good fortune, it can bring life as well. Someday, when you are ready, I will show you how it is made. The dark powder is a dangerous secret to know, although it is not too hard to make. It’s odd, it comes from something very simple: just rotted rye, and one or two other things. But beware always when you use it, for it often brings evils in its train, and could lead to your persecution and death.”
Her mention of Belotte filled me with guilt, and I begged my leave, telling her that that unfortunate woman had requested my help.
“Go then, but return as quickly as possible, for I may need your assistance again.” She warily eyed the sleeping figure of Lady Blanche on the other side of the room. In the hall I found a man to guide me to Watt, and with the latter I descended to the depths where Belotte lay. She was alone, her baby lying by her side. I was too late for any errand she had in mind, for she was incapable of speech. I put my hand on her forehead and felt the dreadful heat of the fever that was consuming her.
A Vision of Light Page 18