A tightening sensation in Yolande’s belly drew her attention momentarily back to herself. The sensation was not unpleasant. She had noticed it many times before in her earlier pregnancies, and knew she did not have to call anyone. Her labour was a month off, more’s the pity. She waited for the sensation to pass before resuming her perusal of her husband’s parched domain.
They needed a deluge. The peasants too, were panting for rain. The little that had fallen on the field strips had done no more than wet the surface, leaving thirsty crops unsatisfied. A few raindrops had run over the surface of the parched earth and evaporated almost at once. Yolande did not need to consult the sky to know that no rain was on its way. It was a solid blue dome, as it had been for weeks. They needed a downpour, something like the one which had sent Noah scrambling to his ark. Anything less didn’t stand a chance of penetrating the cracked topsoil. A shower in this heat would scorch the already withered leaves, and shrivel them to nothing. Down in the yard, she could see deep fissures in the ground. The sun had wrought terrible changes in the landscape of Kermaria. The sun had scarred the earth. The peasants would harvest early, and there would be hardship this winter. Sir Jean’s store of coin, carefully hoarded from the plenty reaped at last year’s harvest, would be eaten into in the dark months.
Sighing, Yolande eyed the tower of darning which cried out for her needle. ‘I’ve been slothful long enough,’ she spoke to the babe inside her. ‘Come along, we’d best get started.’ She bent forward, reaching for needle and thread, but noticed the tightening sensation was back. She relaxed back into the seat, holding her body still to allow it to pass. Except that it did not pass. A sudden tug on the muscles of her womb drove the breath from her lungs. And then the window seat no longer felt comfortable. She dropped to her knees, leaned her head on the seat opposite, and waited.
‘Mama! What is it?’
Was that Gwenn’s voice? Turning her head, and trying to see past the discomfort which threatened to fill every fibre of her being, she saw Gwenn and Katarin had entered the solar. Releasing her sister’s hand, Gwenn ran towards her. Disoriented by her unexpected precipitation from the wide world beyond her body, into a narrow one which contained only herself, the babe in her womb, and the pain, Yolande found words difficult. It was as though Gwenn and Katarin were separated from her by a thick curtain.
Pale, but composed, Gwenn took the situation in at a glance. Like most girls her age, she had seen all this before. She had assisted at Katarin’s birthing. In a world where boys were made guards at eight years of age and fought with armies at twelve, girls were involved early in every aspect of domestic life. Life was short, and many girls were married at twelve, with their own households to run. They had to learn young. ‘Katarin,’ Gwenn said, ‘go and tell Klara to fetch the midwife, and ask her to boil some water.’
‘Too soon,’ Yolande jerked out. Gwenn knelt beside her. Relieved to relinquish command of herself into Gwenn’s capable hands, Yolande let her daughter remove her veil.
‘Can you walk, Mama?’
‘A moment...give me...a moment.’ Yolande rested her head against the cool stone seat while the first fury of the spasm passed. Gwenn – Yolande blessed her for her understanding – did not fuss her, but waited patiently until it had gone. At length Yolande directed a weak smile at her. ‘I’ll try now. But it’s too early. If I rest...’ she dragged in a lungful of stale, unrefreshing air ‘...perhaps it will go away...till the babe is fully grown.’
Gwenn sent her an unreadable look, but all she said was, ‘Lean on me, Mama. Save your strength.’
Never had the solar seemed so large. They had to stop twice to let the contractions pass; and each time Yolande was more drained, each time they felt fiercer than the time before. Finally, they gained the haven of the bed and Yolande sank onto it with an exhausted sigh. ‘My thanks, Gwenn.’ Her daughter looked so worried that she added, ‘I’ll rest and it will pass.’
‘No, Mama.’ Gwenn shook her head, tugged off her own veil and cast it into the corner by the washstand. ‘You can’t rest.’
Yolande could not accept that. She was hot and wanted to sleep. She struggled onto an elbow. ‘But Gwenn, I want to rest. Later I can cope with it... Later, but not now.’
Her capable daughter rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands, though her hands must have been trembling, because water splashed from the ewer. ‘Sorry, Mama,’ Gwenn repeated, heartlessly. ‘You can’t rest.’
‘But, Gwenn...it can’t–’ And then her muscles contracted so viciously that Yolande gasped and fell back. Gwenn twisted round, and it was the concern darkening her daughter’s brown eyes that forced Yolande to accept the truth of what her body was doing. She was in labour.
A series of thumps heralded Klara’s entrance into the stuffy chamber. ‘My lady!’ her tirewoman wailed, wringing her hands. ‘I’ve not actually attended a birthing afore. What do I do?’
That was all they needed, an ignorant assistant. Lost in another wave of pain, Yolande forced the words past her teeth. ‘Look to my daughter. She...watched Katarin...being born.’ Then a sharp convulsion engulfed all rational thought.
Gwenn was brisk. She had to be. ‘You’ve sent for the midwife, Klara?’
‘Aye. Berthe’s coming, and they’re dredging the well for water to boil.’
Gwenn took her mother’s hand. It was hot. ‘Good. My mother’s waters have broken.’
Have they? Yolande thought distractedly. So that’s why she insisted that I could not rest. Odd that I should not have noticed...
‘The babe will be born early,’ Gwenn continued, ‘and my mother needs all the help we can give her. First, help me remove her gown.’ Gwenn fumbled with the lacings. ‘Has Sir Jean been informed?’
‘Aye, mistress.’ Klara’s hands were shaking more than Gwenn’s. ‘Master Raymond’s gone to tell him. But I didn’t let on how grave things would be–’
A furious glance cut off the rest of Klara’s thoughtless tattle. How could the woman be so dense as to say such a thing within her mother’s hearing? Fortunately, her mother was focused on the inner workings of her body and had not heard. Grabbing Klara’s wrist, Gwenn hauled her into the solar. ‘Don’t let me catch you saying that again in Mama’s hearing,’ she hissed.
‘But it is grave, mistress.’ Klara might not have attended a birth before, but she had heard the midwives chattering. It was the lot of women to die in such a way, and if God willed it that the Lady Yolande should die bringing forth her only legitimate child, then that was His judgement, and no one should fight it. Lady Yolande had survived more than most women – three bastards she’d borne. Fatalistically, Klara met the determined gaze of one of the bastards in question and went on, ‘And you’d best face it. At her age, and with it being so early,’ the maid sucked in a breath, finishing kindly, ‘we’ll be lucky if we save the infant.’
‘Don’t say another word, Klara. You’re wishing her dead!’
‘Not I.’ Genuinely shocked, Klara fixed Gwenn with an earnest look. ‘But there’s little chance, mistress. Do you recall that eclipse? That was a portent, that was.’
Tongue-tied with a numbing combination of anger and dread, Gwenn gritted her teeth. Klara was revelling in this, and her blind acceptance of a disaster which had not yet come upon them, sickened her.
‘I told my father at the time,’ Klara said dolefully, ‘it was a sign.’
A low groan issued from behind the curtain, and Gwenn moved towards it. She brushed the curtain aside. She felt racked by the doubt that showed so clearly in Klara’s eyes and the seed of latent superstition which she knew dwelt in her own heart. Outwardly, she’d show no fear. ‘No more heathenish babblings, Klara. Understand?’