Priscilla Royal - Sanctity of Hate

The innkeeper pulled it down and set it folded on the straw. “Jew or Christian, we are all daughters of Eve,” she said, gesturing at mother and daughter. “Tell me what I can do to help this suffering cousin.”

With anyone else, Anne might have been surprised at such words, but these came from a woman known for compassion. “I shall need more hot water in which to soak the fennel for the poultice against her back. But first I ask that you support Mistress Belia while she walks. I must speak with her mother.”

Her voice must have betrayed anxiety, for sharpened fear glistened in the pregnant woman’s eyes. “It is customary, before the birth, to seek knowledge only a mother can give about her child,” Anne quickly added, knowing it was a lie but not a sinful one.

Signy walked over to Malka and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can relieve you,” she said. Then she gave the panting younger woman a brief smile. “Should the babe arrive while they are just outside, I think your mother and Sister Anne will learn the news soon enough from us both.”

Belia’s lips twitched with weak amusement.

For an instant Malka looked askance at the innkeeper. Then she nodded and murmured her thanks.

Taking the older woman by the arm, Anne pulled her toward the entrance. “We shall inform your husband about your progress,” she said over her shoulder to the daughter. “He will be eager to learn that his child’s birth is imminent.”

Bracing the young woman, Signy urged her forward and began a distracting conversation. “Was the bathwater I sent warm enough?” she asked.

Outside in the courtyard, Anne carefully hid her stained hands, then realized the gesture was futile. She could do nothing about the marks on her robe.

Jacob rose, his pleading eyes dark with worry.

“Nothing has yet happened,” she replied and forced a confident smile. “The birth is her first. They often take longer.”

He sat down but kept his eyes on her, rejecting an answer so obviously meant to placate.

A man not easily fooled, she thought, and turned her back to him while bending close to Malka’s ear. “The child is turned badly in her womb,” she whispered. “I am not sure I can move it so your daughter is able to give birth.”

“She will die?” Malka murmured hoarsely and turned gray. Then her mouth set with fierce determination. “She shall not.” Stepping back, the mother laid her crippled hand against the nun’s damp cheek. “Your father would never have allowed that. You are his daughter. I expect no less from you.”

Anne stiffened, and then met the woman’s steady gaze. “I will do my best. She is near the end of a woman’s endurance, and her suffering will increase. All births are dangerous, but survival when the babe is twisted in the womb…” She drew in a deep breath. “Both your daughter and the child may die, although one might be saved. Do you not think we should tell her husband?”

“You shall succeed in saving her.”

Anne hesitated but realized she had also been told the choice to make if only the mother or child could live. Bowing her head, she walked back to the stall. There was no time to argue.

Malka gestured to Gytha who stood nearby. “We need more hot water!”

The maid raced toward the inn’s cooking hut where a large pot of rain water was kept simmering at Signy’s orders. The steam struggled to rise in the heavy summer air.

When Gytha delivered the water, Anne poured some into a basin and explained to the young woman how to soak and wring the poultice. Then she sent the maid outside and began instructing Signy on what must come next.

The two women stripped Belia, and Anne showed her how to squat in the fresh straw. After washing her hands as her father had taught her, the nun picked up a bowl and a beaker filled with oil. She knelt in front of the young woman, poured the fenugreek and linen seed infused oil over her hands and began to rub it on Belia’s huge belly, thighs, and pudenda.

Gytha rushed in and passed a damp linen pouch to the innkeeper.

“Does this warmth give you ease?” Signy asked, pressing the moist packet of herbs against the young woman’s back as she embraced her to give support.

Belia groaned.

Quickly, Anne felt around the belly, seeking better knowledge of how the baby lay. Firmly, she pressed against the sides of where she believed the child to be and twisted.

It moved.

Belia howled.

Again, Anne twisted the unseen shape, gritting her teeth against her own terror and the pain she knew this young woman was suffering

Sobbing, Belia gazed at the ceiling.

Anne looked at Signy and nodded, then twisted once more.

The innkeeper gripped the woman tighter under her swollen breasts and began whispering in her ear.

Her back pressed against the stable wall, Malka murmured a prayer.

Pouring more oil on her hands, Anne reached between the woman’s legs and measured how much the birth canal had expanded. “Belia, this will hurt,” she said. “Scream if you must but save your strength for pushing the babe into the world when I command it. It won’t take much longer.” And may God make my words true, the nun prayed.

She eased her hand inside and felt two feet near the opening. She had not managed to turn the babe completely but did feel movement against her fingers. If only the womb would not shut before the head was free, strangling the child.

The feet emerged. She grasped them with one hand and waited, placing a palm against the belly to feel for contractions.

“Push!”

Belia screamed, her agony ripping through the thick air.

Malka pressed her bent fingers against her mouth.

“Mother!” Belia howled.

“Push!” Anne ordered, resisting all desire to wrench the child into the world. Many did, destroying both mother and child, but she felt as if her father’s spirit was hovering nearby, whispering instructions and urging patience.

“Push, beloved,” Malka urged with feigned confidence.

Blood now rushed through Anne’s hands. This is too much bleeding, too much.

Belia strained to obey. The stall reeked with sour sweat and the metallic tang of blood. Signy hugged the woman tighter and stared at the nun.

Anne looked up at the tortured face of the exhausted Belia. “Push,” she said, her voice soft and trembling. “Your child wills it.”

The young woman raised her eyes and screamed, willing her body to make one final effort. With no strength left, she collapsed in Signy’s arms.

Malka began to weep and reached out to touch her motionless daughter.

All voices fell silent. The rustling of Anne moving in the straw was the only sound.

Then Belia moaned, and Signy eased her backward with a sigh.

Suddenly a cry rent the air, rising in pitch. Whether meant as anguish or outrage, it issued from the tiny mouth of a baby boy.

Oseberne struck his son.

Adelard fell backward and just caught himself before his head hit the edge of the table. Shocked at the blow, he put a hand to his cheek, then stared at the blood mixed with tears on his fingers.

“How dare you lose that precious object?”

“The cord must have broken…”

“When did you last see the cross?” Oseberne turned his back to his son, lifted the pitcher, and poured himself a cup of wine. He offered none to Adelard.

“I had it just before Brother Thomas arrived to question me. I know because I kissed it so God might give me strength and a swift tongue.”

“Afterward?”

Adelard began to weep. “I do not know! Maybe I lost it in the street when I went to join those seeking to kill the Jews.”

“A silver cross, lost in the street, to be picked up by some villain.” Oseberne spun around and pointed a shaking finger at his son. “Do you have any idea what that cost me?”