A Vision of Light (24 page)

“I know quite a lot about birthing babies myself,” murmured the wife of a knight. “But never have I seen such a thing. This is a wisewoman indeed.”

“Were I not past my time for babies, this woman should be my attendant always,” said another lady.

“A treasure,” whispered the first.

Blanche looked on impassively.

“My Lady Blanche, I must ask that you and your ladies keep watch, and should the child begin to move out of this position, we shall guide it back, so proceeding until your labor shall bring it forth.” Lady Blanche just looked at her. Sometimes she reminded me of a lizard, the way she stared. The other ladies nodded in agreement.

From that hour on Hilde did not leave Lady Blanche’s room, in anticipation of the labor to come, and I myself brought her whatever she needed from outside. Some one or two of the ladies were constantly with Lady Blanche, to ease her mind, for she was tense and cross with waiting. Here, in her chamber, I heard several fine new ballads, which I learned for myself, and I also learned the game of chess, by watching the ladies play. When my turn came to offer amusement, I told them many tales they had not heard before, for the stories and songs of my home were little known in this part of the country. Thus did heavy time pass, as we awaited the great moment.

One evening, as I passed through the great hall with a pot of ale for Mother Hilde, someone laid a heavy hand on me from behind.

“Little midwife,” said a familiar voice, “when you’ve delivered the ale, could you spare a moment below? Someone you know is in need. I’ll wait for you here.”

I hurriedly went in and consulted—but so briefly and cryptically!—with Mother Hilde. Should I leave? And, good Lord, what should I take? What should I do? For I had seen births as a girl, but had attended none before with Hilde, and had only her teachings, and not practice, to guide me.

“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.

D
O 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 papboat 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.