Ken Follett - The Pillars Of The Earth

Agnes tensed again, and fresh beads of sweat appeared on her contorted face. This is it, thought Tom. He was frightened. He watched the opening widen again, and this time he could see, by the light of the fire, the damp black hair of the baby’s head pushing through. He thought of praying but there was no time now. Agnes began to breathe in short, fast gasps. The opening stretched wider-impossibly wide-and then the head began to come through, face-down. A moment later Tom saw the wrinkled ears flat against the side of the baby’s head; then he saw the folded skin of the neck. He could not yet see whether the baby was normal.

“The head is out,” he said, but Agnes knew that already, of course, for she could feel it; and she had relaxed again. Slowly the baby turned, so that Tom could see the closed eyes and mouth, wet with blood and the slippery fluids of the womb.

Martha cried: “Oh! Look at its little face!”

Agnes heard her and smiled briefly, then began to strain again. Tom leaned forward between her thighs and supported the tiny head with his left hand as the shoulders came out, first one then the other. Then the rest of the body emerged in a rush, and Tom put his right hand under the baby’s hips and held it as the tiny legs slithered into the cold world.

Agnes’s opening immediately started to close around the pulsing blue cord that came from the baby’s navel.

Tom lifted the baby and scrutinized it anxiously. There was a lot of blood, and at first he feared something was terribly wrong; but on closer examination he could see no injury. He looked between its legs. It was a boy.

“It looks horrible!” said Martha.

“He’s perfect,” Tom said, and he felt weak with relief. “A perfect boy.”

The baby opened its mouth and cried.

Tom looked at Agnes. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

Tom held the tiny baby close to his chest. “Martha, fetch me a bowl of water out of that pot.” She jumped up to do his bidding. “Where are those rags, Agnes?” Agnes pointed to the linen bag lying on the ground beside her shoulder. Alfred passed it to Tom. The boy’s face was running with tears. It was the first time he had seen a child born.

Tom dipped a rag into a bowl of warm water and gently washed the blood and mucus off the baby’s face. Agnes unbuttoned the front of her tunic and Tom put the baby in her arms. He was still squalling. As Tom watched, the blue cord that went from the baby’s belly to Agnes’s groin stopped pulsing and shriveled, turning white.

Tom said to Martha: “Give me those strings you made. Now you’ll see what they’re for.”

She passed him the two lengths of plaited reeds. He tied them around the birth cord in two places, pulling the knots tight. Then he used his knife to cut the cord between the knots.

He sat back on his haunches. They had done it. The worst was over and the baby was well. He felt proud.

Agnes moved the baby so that his face was at her breast. His tiny mouth found her enlarged nipple, and he stopped crying and started to suck.

Martha said in an amazed voice: “How does he know he should do that?”

“It’s a mystery,” said Tom. He handed the bowl to her and said: “Get your mother some fresh water to drink.”

“Oh, yes,” said Agnes gratefully, as if she had just realized she was desperately thirsty. Martha brought the water and Agnes drank the bowl dry. “That was wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

She looked down at the suckling baby, then up at Tom. “You’re a good man,” she said quietly. “I love you.”

Tom felt tears come to his eyes. He smiled at her, then dropped his gaze. He saw that she was still bleeding a lot. The shriveled birth cord, which was still slowly coming out, lay curled in a pool of blood on Tom’s cloak between Agnes’s legs.

He looked up again. The baby had stopped sucking and fallen asleep. Agnes pulled her cloak over him, then her own eyes closed.

After a moment, Martha said to Tom: “Are you waiting for something?”

“The afterbirth,” Tom told her.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see.”

Mother and baby dozed for a while, then Agnes opened her eyes again. Her muscles tensed, her opening dilated a little, and the placenta emerged. Tom picked it up in his hands and looked at it. It was like something on a butcher’s slab. Looking more closely, he saw that it seemed to be torn, as if there were a piece missing. But he had never looked this closely at an afterbirth, and he supposed they were always like this, for they must always have broken away from the womb. He put the thing on the fire. It made an unpleasant smell as it burned, but if he had thrown it away it might have attracted foxes, or even a wolf.

Agnes was still bleeding. Tom remembered that there was always a rush of blood with the afterbirth, but he did not recall so much. He realized that the crisis was not yet over. He felt faint for a moment, from strain and lack of food; but the spell passed and he pulled himself together.

“You’re still bleeding, a little,” he said to Agnes, trying not to sound as worried as he was.

“It will stop soon,” she said. “Cover me.”

Tom buttoned the skirt of her dress, then wrapped her cloak around her legs.

Alfred said: “Can I have a rest now?”

He was still kneeling behind Agnes, supporting her. He must be numb, Tom thought, from staying so long in the same position. “I’ll take your place,” Tom said. Agnes would be more comfortable with the baby if she could stay half-upright, he thought; and also a body behind her would keep her back warm and shield her from the wind. He changed places with Alfred. Alfred grunted with pain as he stretched his young legs. Tom wrapped his arms around Agnes and the baby. “How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Just tired.”

The baby cried. Agnes moved him so that he could find her nipple. As he suckled, she seemed to sleep.

Tom was uneasy. It was normal to be tired, but there was a lethargy about Agnes that bothered him. She was too weak.

The baby slept, and after a while the other two children fell asleep, Martha curled up beside Agnes, and Alfred stretched out on the far side of the fire. Tom held Agnes in his arms, stroking her gently. Every now and again he would kiss the top of her head. He felt her body relax as she fell into a deeper and deeper sleep. It was probably the best thing for her, he decided. He touched her cheek. Her skin was clammy, despite all his efforts to keep her warm. He reached inside her cloak and touched the baby’s chest. The child was warm and his heart was beating strongly. Tom smiled. A tough baby, he thought; a survivor.

Agnes stirred. “Tom?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the night I came to you, in your lodge, when you were working on my father’s church?”

“Of course,” he said, patting her. “How could I ever forget?”

“I never regretted giving myself to you. Never, for one moment. Every time I think of that night, I feel so glad.”

He smiled. That was good to know. “Me, too,” he said. “I’m glad you did.”

She dozed for a while, then spoke again. “I hope you build your cathedral,” she said.

He was surprised. “I thought you were against it.”

“I was, but I was wrong. You deserve something beautiful.”

He did not know what she meant.

“Build a beautiful cathedral for me,” she said.

She was not making sense. He was glad when she fell asleep again. This time her body went quite limp, and her head leaned sideways. Tom had to support the baby to prevent him falling off her chest.

They lay like that for a long time. Eventually the baby woke again and cried. Agnes did not respond. The crying woke Alfred, and he rolled over and looked at his baby brother.