Колин Глисон - A Whisper of Rosemary

The babe was twisted and bent double as it tried to push from the womb. With no further thought—for if she allowed herself to hesitate, she might not act—Maris reached into the crying woman’s womb and felt the slick bottom of the babe. Fighting against nature, she pushed the infant back in and up. Hardly aware of the gaping stare of Maggie behind her, Maris struggled with the slippery babe, sliding her fingers in and around to turn it into the proper direction.

At last…at last, the baby moved and Maris felt the curve of a small foot. “Push!” she cried to the cooper’s wife. “Push!”

The woman’s muscles bunched and her stomach shifted. Then, with a long, keening moan, the mother forced the babe from her body. Maris guided the infant, feet first, as it erupted from the womb, and at last held the tiny infant in her hands.

The squall of a newborn filled the hut.

“’Tis a son,” Maris announced, handing the babe to Maggie. “Now, mistress, one more push to rid you of the afterbirth and you may rest.” But when she pressed the woman’s stomach and felt another bump and movement within, she realized she was wrong.

“There is another, mistress. You are blessed with two! Push,” Maris ordered, replacing the block of wood between the woman’s teeth. “Comes another babe.”

It took the rest of the woman’s strength to rid herself of her second son, and the afterbirth, mercifully, came shortly after.

“She’ll sleep,” Maris told Thomas. “’Tis likely the babes were tangled in the womb and thus became mixed up.”

She gave him a packet of herbs with instructions to boil them with water and have her drink it as often as she would. “Send for Widow Maggie if you need her. She will bleed some, but not overmuch.” Turning to Maggie, she asked, “Is there not a wet nurse in the village? What of the smith’s daughter?”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll fetch her.” Widow Maggie’s wrinkled face had smoothed a bit, and relief glowed in her eyes.

“Oh, my lady, thank’ee for coming.” Thomas was at her feet, tugging profusely at his forelock. “My lady, thank’ee for my sons.”

“Two strapping boys they’ll be,” Maris said with a smile, and made a mental note to send three chickens and a calf to them from her own stables. “What a good help to you in the shop. But your wife will be poorly for some time. Take care not to work her until Maggie gives the word. Keep the smith’s daughter for a wet nurse as long as you need.”

Then, because the dark room with its stench of blood had finally begun to close in on her, Maris had to get out. She said her last farewells and slipped from the close, smoky hut.

It was dark—Maris looked up in surprise at the moon and stars. She’d spent nearly the whole day in that tiny room. Weariness washed over her, followed by a burst of exhilaration at the realization that she had helped two new babes into the world.

Surely God would rather that she spend her time doing such things, rather than embroidering or even praying on her knees in the chapel—which was what many ladies such as her own mother preferred to do.

Maris’s feet crunched in the snow as she trudged along, considering this n. Clutching her pouch in one cold hand, she tucked the other inside her cloak. The moon was bright in the clear sky, lighting her way almost as if it were day.

The gate to the bailey was just ahead, lit invitingly with torches. Surely Papa would be in bed—and if he weren’t, as his healer, she’d have something to say about that. Thus, tomorrow would be soon enough for them to speak on whatever he meant to tell her.

All at once, Maris was jolted from her thoughts as a huge horse appeared from nowhere. He was coming too quickly down the narrow, deserted throughway, and Maris shrieked, holding up a hand to shield her face.

“’Sblood, woman!” cried the rider, jerking back frantically on the reins of his mount as soon as he saw her shadowed figure. “Do you not open your eyes when wandering at night?”

Maris’s initial fright turned to anger. No one spoke to the Lady of Langumont in that manner. She turned her face up to meet the eyes of the rider, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin haughtily.

The man was a stranger to her, but he was obviously one of high rank. He wore chain mail and rode a horse as valuable as her father’s. Even in the instant of her anger and fright, she took in the details of his appearance: he was tall and broad-shouldered with thick, shadowed hair curling wildly at the nape of his neck. One big hand waved his helm angrily at her while the other fought to keep his mount under control.

“It was your good fortune that I could stop Nick before we trampled you,” Dirick snapped, altogether too grateful that he had, in fact, seen her slender shadow before it was too late. His heart was thudding in his chest as he realized how close he’d come to trampling the wench.

Christ’s teeth, she’d been walking in the shadows of the narrow throughway, and it was only by luck that a silver of moonbeam had caught at something metallic in her hair, glinting and alerting him to the movement.

Looking down, he noted her dirt streaked face and sagging hair. In the bright moonlight, he could see her eyes flashing at him—rather like his mother’s cats when they were angry: spitting and hissing. Yet, despite her bedraggled appearance, the woman had an air of affront that did not befit a simple peasant wench.

A comely one, she would be, however, if she were cleaned up a bit, he realized suddenly, allowing his gaze to do a leisurely sweep over her from head to toe. Mayhap that was just what he needed after these days’ journey ahorse…and mayhap that was why she walked on the road alone so late at night.

Before he could voice his thoughts, she snapped back at him. “It was no fault of mine!” she told him coldly. “I didn’t leap into your pathway; you came barreling upon mine with nary a care for anyone else who might be along the way. If you do not open your eyes while riding, sir knight, when in battle, you may find yourself in a more telling situation than nearly trampling a woman!”

Annoyance flashed through him at her scornful response, and he jerked Nick back around, glaring right down into her face. To his surprise, she didn’t back away, but instead glared back. Her furious eyes were an incongruity in a dirty face.

“I can think of much better things to do with a woman than trample her,” he replied, wheeling Nick in front of her to cut off her escape. Only whores walked the streets of a village at night, and despite her dirt-streaked cheeks, she was rather appealing—if one could overlook the haughtiness in her words. “Mayhap you would like to display your own horsemanship if you do not appreciate mine.” His voice gentled and deepened just enough to let it be clear he had something in particular she might care to ride…and it wasn’t Nick.

The wench drew her breath in sharply, obviously understanding his meaning all too well, and confirming his suspicion that she was no innocent. “Sir, you overspeak yourself,” she told him, backing away.

Dirick lunged from his saddle, half-heartedly snatching at her arm. But she was too quick and dodged into the shadows. He sat back and, after a moment, laughed at himself. ’Twas just as well. He had no time to waste with whores, and the very accommodating Lady Artemis had been most hospitable in a private alcove before he left London. His need could wait.

He gathered up Nick’s reins and urged his horse on down the street toward the center of the village. He expected to find an inn where he could sleep this night, and then present himself to Lord Merle Lareux on the morrow.

Dirick nodded to himself as he looked about. The streets of Langumont were lit only by the bright moon and stars, but clearly showed well built houses and a relatively clean center square. When he’d passed some men at arms at the edge of the village, they’d taken notice of him—a single rider on a good mount—but did not attempt to stop him from entering the town. Although they were sharp eyed enough to notice a stranger, they did not deem a single knight to be a threat.