When the beige peaks of the tents became visible in the distance I risked my life to lean sideways and peer around the soldier’s back. Even dwarfed by distance, the size of the encampment stunned me. Our village would fit into a corner of it. Smoke from campfires hung above it mottling the sun like the coat of a sickly beast. As we approached the wind shifted, carrying the smell of smoke and boiling fish, horse dung and human waste and sweat. I’m no stranger to such scents but I would have pinched my nose if I had not been too frightened to loosen my hold on the saddle.
I must have made a sound for the man in front of me laughed. “The cess pits are on this side, girl. The tent you are going to will smell sweeter.”
I was not so certain of that, having cleaned the fluids of afterbirth before. I shrugged although he could not see me.
By now we had reached the first tents. I peered around, expecting to see hundreds of men, but only a handful were walking about, practicing their swordplay or sitting in front of campfires. I realized the bulk of the army and probably Robert of Anjou himself, were away fighting Frederick III. Only those who were wounded or left behind to hold the area would be here.
Our horses pranced and tossed their heads at being reined in as we trotted through the encampment. The soldiers looked us over and several called out rude remarks. I became aware of my bare feet and long legs against the side of the horse, and tried to pull my skirt down lower. One of the soldiers reached to stroke my leg as we passed him, saying something which made his fellows laugh. I kicked out at him. The horse shied sideways, nearly dislodging me.
“The Princess has sent for these women!” the guard on my mount shouted.
The men stepped back. Their eyes still undressed me, as men will do, but they kept their hands and their comments to themselves. So the Anjou prince protects his wife’s women, I thought. A little emboldened, I glared back at them.
We stopped before a large light-colored tent. Pennants bearing the colors of Aragon fluttered from its peaks. Nearby stood an even larger tent hung with pennants bearing the colors of the French Anjou line, and others the purple of royalty.
My escort turned in his saddle, gripped my arm, and swung me down in front of the first tent. I stumbled, not having expected such a quick descent, and my legs being sore from the ride, but he held my arm a moment as if he had expected it so I did not fall. My mother was already walking toward the door, which was guarded by two armed men. She glanced behind at me with a look of annoyance. I took a step. My legs held. After a few more unsteady steps they regained the feel of solid land. I hurried to catch up.
The air was hot and still inside the tent. I got a sense of spaciousness and a quick sight of the ornate bed at the far end before the flap fell shut behind me, leaving us in darkness. I stumbled forward, nearly tripping on the edge of a thick tapestry which provided the tent with a floor. The luxurious softness of it was unfamiliar to my bare feet. I tried to side-step off it, horrified that my feet would dirty it, but it filled the area of the tent. Beside me my mother made a slight sound, a warning. I remembered that we were about to midwife a royal princess.
I blinked, trying to adjust my eyes to the dimness. The window flaps had been tied shut to keep vapors out; only what little light seeped through the sides of the tent alleviated the darkness. How would we see to birth a child in here? Surely we would make a mistake in our blindness.
Beware of tempting Fortune. A saying in our village whenever someone tried to improve their station, came to me. There was no doubt we were tempting Fortune today. I made a quick sign of the cross to avert the consequences Fortune might visit on us for our audacity.
“Your Majesty,” my mother said, sinking into a curtsey. Behind our skirts her hand gripped mine hard enough to hurt. I dropped down, hoping my long skirt would hide my clumsiness, for I had never curtseyed and did not know what to do with my legs. I bent them as low as I could and hoped for the best. They were trembling again and I was not sure I would be able to get back up. I schooled my voice so it sounded more confident than I felt, or at least less terrified.
“Your Majesty,” I echoed.
“You may approach,” a thin voice whispered from the bed. At first I did not understand, the voice was so strained and the Italian words spoken in the heavy accent of Aragon.
My mother rose slowly from her curtsey and walked without haste to the bed on which Princess Violante lay. I gritted my teeth and forced my legs to straighten. For a moment I feared they would not, that I would have to crawl across the room, but they held me and the delay gave my eyes time to adjust to the darkness.
The princess’s breathing was shallow and quick, more like gasps, loud in the quiet tent. I did not like the sound of it, and was sure my mother would not, but her face was impassive and I schooled mine to show nothing either.
A lady’s maid, sitting on a stool by the bed, rose quickly and stepped back for us, her face a mixture of terror and relief as she turned responsibility for her mistress over to us. My heart almost stopped when I saw the princess’s face, white as death, covered with a sheen of sweat and etched with lines of pain that made her look as old as my mother. She bore it bravely, but the weakness of her voice when she bid us approach was not a good sign.
“Your name?” she whispered when my mother drew near.
“Maroccia, Your Majesty.” She hesitated. My mother was not given to bragging, she had no need to; but even I could see the princess’s fear in her eyes and smell the sharp odor of it in her sweat. The room was thick with everyone’s fear; I could taste it lying heavy on the air.
“I am the best midwife in Trapani, perhaps in all Catania,” my mother said calmly. “You are safe in my care, Princess.”
The princess closed her eyes. I wanted to close mine too. What had she promised? This woman was dying, my mother had to know that. I glanced furtively sideways. The lady’s maid had heard, her eyes were wide with sudden hope. She would repeat that promise. Even if my mother got away before the prince returned it would not matter; she had given her name: Maroccia the midwife.
“How long has she been in labor?” my mother asked, rolling her sleeves back.
“Since yesterday, noon.” The maid’s voice shook.
A servant girl came in, carrying the fresh bowl of water my mother had ordered. She set it on a table near the bed and curtseyed. She made it look easy.
My mother nodded, as though a full day of labor was perfectly ordinary. “May I examine you, Your Majesty?” she asked, reaching for the cover and drawing it back when the princess whispered her assent. Her lips barely moved as she spoke. The drawn sheet revealed a slender body soaked with sweat and the swollen mound of her belly. I could see it ripple under her shift with the movements of her babe and the intense contractions that shook her.
My heart pounded in my ears. The princess was at the end of her endurance; she was going to die. In my mother’s care. And possibly the babe as well if we could not get him out quickly. In my care. And then I did not want him birthed, all I could see was the moment he would be handed to me, expiring as I touched him. What would they do to us? If both the princess and her infant died in our care, what would this foreign warrior prince do to us? Like a children’s game of pass-the-stick, I wanted to put my hands behind my back, refuse to take the babe. I took a step backward, as though I could retreat from this place, from this hour, when my life hung in the balance, as tremulous as the life of this unborn infant.
My mother glanced at me, a look that said she knew the danger we were in, and knew that I knew it. She lowered her lashes and dipped her chin, a tiny movement demonstrating the mixture of power and obeisance that all who deal out life and death owe to the gods. The submission of a midwife. I dipped my chin, but I did not lower my lashes. I would meet whatever fate decreed with my eyes open. I must accept the consequences of this day, but I would not submit. I stepped forward.
My mother saw my response but our exchange was so quick no one else caught it. Her strong hands had not paused
in their exploration of the princess’s abdomen, while the lady’s maid gently wiped the beads of sweat from her mistress’s forehead. The servant girl returned with a second bowl of fresh water for the infant. She plopped it gloomily on the table as if to say, why bother? My mother sent her to fetch some freshly-pressed olive oil. The maid raised her eyebrows at that, but my mother paid her no attention.
“I must reach inside, Your Majesty,” my mother said, rubbing her hands with the olive oil when it arrived, to make them slick. “It will be painful but I must know how your baby lies.”
Watching her, I felt my armpits moisten, and the undersides of my breasts. I could see beneath her reassuring murmur the tension in her face. Don’t let it be crosswise, I thought, over and over, a silent prayer. A woman had died this summer giving birth to an infant that had not turned into the opening of her womb, but lay crosswise against it. True, my mother had been attending another birth, but the outcome might well have been the same even with my mother’s skill.
Gently my mother massaged the opening with the oil before sliding her hand inside. The princess groaned. My mother made a soothing sound, as she would to any birthing woman, her face still and concentrated as she felt for the babe. I watched her closely, praying for a smile, an easing of her facial muscles, any sign that all was well. But her eyes were still distracted, though she appeared calm and assured when she withdrew her hand.
“Your womb is open, Your Majesty. It won’t be long now,” she said. She let the princess have a moment with that news, her mouth smiling in response to the sigh of relief it invoked, but the smile did not reach my mother’s eyes. There was worse news to come. “Can you walk, Your Majesty? The infant hasn’t found the opening, but I’m hopeful he’ll do so with a little encouragement.”
Walk? The princess was so depleted she labored to breathe. How would she find the strength to rise from this bed, let alone walk? But somehow she did, and I admired her for it. We held her between us, half dragging her around the hot tent, my mother watching her taut belly beneath the linen shift the whole while. When she had contractions we let her rest against us, then urged her once again to walk. Her feet stumbled over the tapestry, sometimes dragging as we held her up, but she made no complaint. I began to pray silently for her. Not only because she was royalty and I feared reprisal; I wanted her to live because she deserved to, so valiantly she bore her pain and struggled to birth this child. When she could no longer move her feet and her head drooped listless on my mother’s shoulder, we let her lie back down. My mother reached inside her again, and again the smile she presented to the princess did not reach her eyes.
“A sharp knife and a bit of twine,” she ordered the servant girl. “And a strip of cloth two fingers wide, as long as my forearm.” She reached into her basket and handed the girl a small packet. “Boil these herbs into a tea. The princess will need it to regain her strength after the birth.” Turning back to the bed she said, “Your Majesty, I’ll have to reach in once more and guide your baby out. It’ll be painful, I’m afraid.” She glanced at me and I nodded, to let her know I was ready.
I was not at all ready. I nodded because I knew if I spoke my voice would be shaking. All the lady’s maid would need to prove our incompetence when the princess died along with her infant would be to remember my shaking, stuttering voice. But it was not ignorance that made me shake, it was the terrible knowledge that the babe was lying crosswise in the womb.
My mother bent her head down and reached into the womb, frowning with concentration. The brave young princess groaned, her face twisted with pain, but she endured it and lay still. I imagined my mother’s fingers exploring the tiny body inside, searching for the feet to grasp onto, for she would not be able to turn its head down now. I held my breath.
Slowly my mother’s hand emerged, covered in blood and brownish matter, holding tight to a little foot. One foot. I groaned under my breath. She could not pull the babe out by one foot. The other leg would get caught and if she pulled too hard it would tear his mother apart. At the very least the other leg would be broken, or this one disjointed, and what good was a lame prince to his father?
My mother did not pull on the foot. She reached for the strip of cloth which she had greased with olive oil, and tied one end tightly to the little ankle. Then—my mouth fell open in disbelief—she pushed that foot gently back inside. After a moment’s groping her hand emerged again, this time holding the other foot! Grasping it firmly in one hand she gently tugged on the cloth until the second little foot emerged beside it.
“Bear down now, Your Majesty!” she said, her voice sharp and authoritative. The poor princess pushed, grunting, her face scrunched up with the effort like any peasant woman. “Push!” my mother cried, “Push harder!” The princess, near fainting, did her best.
The legs appeared, and the scrawny little torso, impossibly small. My mother reached her fingers in to secure the arms, and the next push revealed more of the torso and two tiny fists. I was relieved until I looked at my mother’s face, tense and sweating. There was no room for my mother’s hand now; she reached in only two fingers, feeling for something...
The cord! I had forgotten the cord. I imagined it circling the tiny neck—
“Push!” my mother said urgently, but the princess gave no response. Her face had gone slack. I leaned over her quickly and nodded to let my mother know she was still breathing, though faintly. My mother’s face was grim as she pulled the babe’s head out. The cord was twisted around its neck, but my mother had wedged two fingers between the neck and the cord. Only, how long had it been there, strangling the infant? My mother pinched the cord and cut it quickly, tying it with the twine when the baby’s neck was free.
She handed the infant to me. I had no choice but to take him. He was covered in blood and smelling of gore and lay still, so very still in my hands. I pinched open his mouth and wiped my little finger round inside, clearing out the mucus and birth liquid, and leaned my ear against his mouth and nose, praying to hear even the smallest gasp of breath. His face was slack and his lips were cold and I could barely breathe myself, listening for him to. He was so tiny in my hands, with the lightness of a new, unsullied soul barely attached to its morsel of flesh. Lighter than a single breath. “Breathe!” I whispered urgently, with my ear against his little blue lips.
My mother had once breathed her own breath into a newborn, wanting the infant to live. It had, but it was ever after attached to her, and she to it, so that the mother became jealous and did not call on her for the next birthing.
“A child carries its mother inside it,” my mother warned me after that. “Sometimes you see her in the child’s eyes, in the shape of the mouth or the tilt of a chin. There is no room for another, as well.”
The princess’s little son lay unmoving in my hands. I swiped inside his mouth again but it was clear. He had come too far and the journey had been too long; he had no strength left for breathing. “Please breathe,” I whispered again, rubbing his little back harder. We would be hanged, or worse. Desperate, I looked to my mother but she and the lady’s maid were occupied with the princess, who lay as still and pale as her babe. The servant girl backed away from the bed, clutching the untouched mug of tea. They were both going to die!
I bent my head and blew my breath into the infant’s mouth. I waited, and blew again, and felt it emerge through his tiny nose. He could not keep it inside him. I pinched his nose and blew again, willing him to take it into his lungs and learn to breathe. And again, before I could stop myself. Breathe! I ordered, silently.
He gave a little gasp, so faint I nearly missed it. I waited, not breathing myself, until I felt his little breath against my cheek. I watched him open his eyes, squinting and blinking in the dim light of the room. We stared at each other, he and I, so close I could not tell his sweet breath from mine, until the servant girl touched my arm. Her eyes were huge, incredulous, as she held out a cloth for me to wipe him with, and his swaddling clothes.
He gave a
little mewl as I cleaned him, and pursed his lips, his little brow puckered as if he wondered where his milk was. My breasts wept in sympathy. Without thinking I pulled aside my bodice and slipped my nipple into his mouth.
Across the tent, the princess gave a low moan. My mother laughed softly with relief.
The servant girl crossed herself.
CHAPTER THREE
March 5, 1346
Queen Joanna’s Court, Naples
Hugo del Balzo is dressed in silks as though he were a prince, stopping just short of wearing purple. About his neck is a crusader’s cross, bejeweled and finely wrought. The way he stands, the way his eyes take in the room to see who is noticing while he leans in conversation with the queen, always fingering the cross on his chest, makes me cold. A vain and dangerous man; his show of piety does not fool me. Those who are truly pious cannot see it in themselves, judging themselves unworthy, like Queen Joanna and her Grandfather, King Robert. Or else they try to hide it, fearing others will perceive it as a weakness. Which it is, for goodness blinds a person to the wickedness in others. Such as Hugo del Balzo, who pulls piety over his face like a mummer’s mask. I was hopeful when he rode off on crusade, but the Saracens have disappointed me. Now he is back, after a visit with the Pope, which I also find suspicious. Regrettably, del Balzo cannot be kept out of council—he is Joanna’s seneschal in Provence—so perhaps it is best my warning was preempted. I will speak to her when I have more certain proof of his treachery.
Joanna leaves her chamber with her small hand resting on del Balzo’s arm while I follow behind. She stops inside her presence chamber and steps apart from him. Del Balzo bows, not quite as low as he should for his sovereign queen but near enough that he thinks Joanna will not notice. I see a tiny tightening between her shoulder blades and smile to myself. Like most of the men in her court, he underestimates her. I have encouraged her not to enlighten them, to let her youth and beauty make them careless.
The Girl Who Tempted Fortune Page 3