“Second child!” Erik and Bryson shouted.
“We will procure the wagon,” Erik said firmly, “and will leave once my wife is rested.”
***
Erik drove the wagon skillfully while Bryson led the way down the winding mountainous trail. The sun was setting when the abbey’s bell tower came into eyesight, rising majestically towards the heavens, the pealing bells faintly heard in the distance. The rooftops of the growing town bordering the religious community had been brightly painted. The region flourished because of the famous library housed within monastic walls, which enticed not only scholars throughout all of Christendom, but also students who studied under the learned religious.
The wagon creaked and groaned on the rock-strewn trail, which had been widened to accommodate the influx of travelers, especially the pilgrims who venerated the bones of saints interred within the abbey’s crypts. Since the abbey could not provide shelter for the astounding numbers, the small village soon became a town as merchants and farmers attended to the needs of their most welcomed guests.
Gwyneth was overwhelmed by the spectacular image before her. The world as the Lord meant it to be before technology destroyed the beauty with utility poles, and power plants, and pollutants escaping into the atmosphere, even with government restrictions. She inhaled the wonderful fresh air, her eyes glowing as she absorbed the untainted splendor that had been lost to progress. She wistfully thought of time travelers observing life in different centuries, but then, she reflected upon mankind’s love affair with wealth and power, and that knowledge saddened her because this brilliance would ultimately be destroyed by ruthless entrepreneurs.
Occasionally, Bryson rode his mount alongside the wagon. Gwyneth wondered what Bryson really thought about her being from the future. She was well aware that she would have been shunned as the devil’s spawn, or worse yet, killed for being evil, should anyone discern the truth. Superstition thrived not only in Erik’s time, but in hers as well. Did not people still fear black cats crossing their path, and how many people still refused to walk under a ladder or frown upon breaking a mirror, which meant seven years of bad luck? She giggled beneath her breath when remembering that one of her classmates had worn a garlic necklace when entering an excavated gravesite in Transylvania. Even though Romania was rich in folklore, Gwyneth preferred studying British history, having fallen in love with King Alfred’s kingdom of Wessex early in her career, after she had been drawn to the citadel ruins at Wareham. She had found Erik’s portrait by accident when she had attended a reenactment of the summer solstice festival at Stonehenge. She had walked into the merchant’s tent, not expecting anything untoward, and soon became obsessed with a man who had been dead for hundreds of years.
As the day wore on, the midday heat lingered, affecting man and beast alike. Gwyneth reached for the flask, drinking the warm water greedily, before passing the container to Erik. Bryson was concerned as he looked at Gwyneth and noticed that she had lost her coloring. They were still a few hours ride from the outskirts of the town, and he was about to suggest that they should rest when Gwyneth spoke.
“Erik, I am unwell.”
Erik stopped the wagon and gently placed his wife onto the carriage bed.
“Is it her time?” Bryson asked.
“Yes,” Erik replied as Gwyneth’s clothing absorbed the gushing fluids emanating from the birthing canal.
“We must reach the town, if not the abbey,” Gwyneth said. “The pains have not yet started.”
“I do not think that is wise,” Bryson interjected. “Do not forget the healer’s warning.”
“It will be hours before the child is ready,” Gwyneth replied. “It should not take us long if we ride hard.”
“What if I ride ahead?” Bryson asked. “I will bring the healer.”
“Yes, do ride ahead to prepare a room,” Gwyneth told him. “We will not be too far behind you.”
“Bryson is right,” Erik said. “We will wait here.”
“Erik! Please do as I ask. The town is not far, and Bryson will take us to the healer once we reach the main gate. Trust my judgment, I beg you.”
“Find the healer,” Erik said.
Bryson nodded before galloping towards the town. Erik laid Gwyneth upon a fur blanket, wiped her sweating face with water, and spoke reassuring words before jumping onto the seat.
Erik whipped the horses with the reins, and the wagon rolled rapidly along the rocky terrain. Gwyneth closed her eyes, clenching her fists whenever the pain became unbearable. She remembered pleading with the healer to withhold the truth, and had been relieved when the holy man acquiesced and honored her wishes. She had envisioned interminable hours beneath the setting sun and evening sky as she awaited the child’s birth while the wolves hunted in the nearby trees. She would rather endure an hour of being hurled about the back of the wagon than to have her sons born under open skies.
Storm clouds appeared without warning, and soft thunder rolled in the distance. Gwyneth prayed they would reach the town before nature unleashed its fury. Gusts of wind whipped the ground, throwing earthy debris into the air. Gwyneth coughed as grainy particles invaded her throat, which concerned her husband.
“What is it?” Erik shouted, turning his head in Gwyneth’s direction.
“It is just the dust, my love. Do not worry.”
Lightning flashed across the graying heavens, and rumbling thunder caused the earth to quake, frightening the horses. Gwyneth crawled to the edge of the wagon, peering over the side, praying that they were close to the town. She winced when the pain became unbearable, but was grateful that Erik could not hear her moans. Tears filled her eyes because she was now afraid of the ordeal facing her. If she were at home, she would not have been apprehensive. Women rarely died in childbirth, but the medical profession had evolved immeasurably, thank the Lord. But she was not at home, she was stranded in an age where medical practices killed more patients than were saved, and this knowledge only increased her anxiety.
“Dear Lord, do not leave me in my hour,” Gwyneth thought as the wagon rolled through the main gate. “Protect me and my sons.”
Chapter Sixteen
A gentle rain turned into a heavy downpour as Erik carried Gwyneth into the healer’s quarters. The healer pointed to the back room where preparations had already been made for the birthing. A woman waited in the shadows, her gaze sympathetic as Gwyneth was placed upon the table.
“Erik, do not let them touch me if they have not washed,” Gwyneth pleaded as she clutched her husband’s shirt. “Promise me!”
“Hush, little one, all will be well,” the woman said, removing Gwyneth’s clothing as she motioned for Erik to leave.
“Erik, you must not go!” Gwyneth screamed.
The healer led Erik out of the room, thrusting a cup into his hands and sitting him by the fire. Erik finished the wine in one gulp as he glanced at the healer, and breathed an audible sigh of relief when he noticed the cleanliness. He was still visibly shaken when Bryson entered, soaked to the skin because of the storm.
“Ah, your friend is here, that is good,” the healer said as Bryson warmed himself before the fire. “Waiting tends to be long, but the time will pass easier now.”
“I want to be with my wife,” Erik replied firmly. “You cannot keep me from her.”
“I am called Eckhard, and my wife is Constance. My son has been sent to the abbey to fetch Brother Ulrich.”
“At my request,” Bryson interrupted. “Attend to Gwyneth, and do not worry about me. Brother Ulrich and I will keep vigil.”
Erik nodded as he followed Eckhard into the room, hastening to Gwyneth’s side as her body contorted in spasms. He held his wife’s hand, speaking soothing words as he looked into her eyes, praying his presence was reassuring.
“The child is not yet in position,” Eckhard said after his examination. “I will prepare something for the pain.”
Constance tended to Gwyneth, wiping away sweat mingled with tears while Eck
hard mixed the potion. The healer’s wife periodically felt Gwyneth’s swollen belly, her fingers prodding the tender flesh. She spoke gently each time her hand probed the birthing canal making Gwyneth’s suffering unbearable.
“Drink this,” Eckhard told Gwyneth as he held the rim of the cup to her lips.
Gwyneth gagged on the warm liquid, relaxing somewhat as the soothing mixture coursed through her veins, leaving her in an euphoric state. She did not know how much time had passed, the excruciating pain clouding her judgment. Was it still night or had the sun risen? She could not tell in the windowless room. Why did they have to keep touching her? Why were the linens constantly changed? Why were they washing her with cold water? She feared she was fevered, that she had septicemia and would die before her time in a century she did not belong, for a purpose she did not understand.
“It will be soon,” Eckhard told Erik whose pale appearance depicted his emotional state.
“You must push hard,” Constance said as Gwyneth looked at her through glassy eyes.
Gwyneth shrieked with each push, lifting herself upon her elbows with every effort, her energy waning as time wore on. Finally, the baby’s head passed through the canal, tilting slightly as the shoulders appeared. Eckhard pulled the child into the world and handed Erik’s son to Constance, who cleared the fluids from his mouth and nose prior to making him cry. She cut the cord, washed the child, wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in a fur-lined carrier.
“Your son is strong,” Constance smiled as she turned her attention back to Gwyneth.
“The second child has not turned,” Eckhard said, motioning for Erik to follow him.
The men walked into the outer room, joining Bryson and Brother Ulrich who had been holding vigil during the lengthy birth.
“How is Gwyneth? Your son?” Bryson asked.
“Our firstborn thrives,” Erik said softly, “but Gwyneth’s ordeal is not finished.”
“Sit, my son,” Brother Ulrich told Erik when he noticed Eckhard’s solemn look.
“The second child has not turned; if you must choose?” Eckhard whispered.
Erik glanced first at Bryson, then at Brother Ulrich through misty eyes. He shook his head, not knowing what to say because he could not condemn either Gwyneth or his second son to death.
“It will be as the Lord wills,” Erik said, his voice barely discernible. “I cannot choose.”
Bryson sat beside his beloved friend, believing his presence would prove comforting in Erik’s darkest hour. The room was awkwardly quiet.
Eckhard had asked this same question too many times, and each time, the outcome had been the same. Death to both mother and child.
Brother Ulrich knelt before the Crucifix hanging upon the wall, crossed himself, and began to pray. Bryson joined him, reciting the responses to the petitions as the Benedictine monk begged the Lord to be merciful.
“Eckhard, you are needed,” Constance said as she opened the door.
The healer and Erik hurried into the room where Gwyneth lay physically exhausted. She was distressed, knowing that the fate of her precious baby rested in God’s hands.
“Erik, save the child,” Gwyneth whispered. “I can no longer do this. I love you.”
“All will be well, trust in the Lord,” Erik said, his tears falling upon his wife’s face.
“I felt the shoulder,” Constance told her husband fearfully. “If we knead her belly, we might be able to turn it.”
Gwyneth screamed with every touch, the pain searing her body as Eckhard tried to reposition the child.
“Cut it out of me!” Gwyneth shouted when she could no longer withstand the torment. “Save my son.”
Erik started to pray beneath his breath, brushing the wet curls away from Gwyneth’s face. He forced himself to smile, wishing to give hope when he believed there was none, but trusting in the Lord because he was a man of faith. At one point, he buried his head in Gwyneth’s chest, crying shamelessly, not knowing how he would bear the loss of the only woman he had ever loved.
“I see the head,” Eckhard told his wife. “Push on her belly when I tell you.”
The healer and his wife were tireless as they sought to save both mother and child. Minutes passed slowly as life and death were being decided, not by man but by God.
“Keep pushing, the head is moving, it is through! There is the shoulder; push as hard as you can,” Eckhard shouted as Erik and Gwyneth’s second son entered the world.
Erik was relieved when he heard the baby’s cries. He would not leave Gwyneth’s side when Constance washed her body, and he held his wife tenderly as he carried her to a bed in an adjoining room.
“Our son?” Gwyneth whispered with her last ounce of strength.
“Both flourish,” Erik said. “Rest now.”
***
Seven days passed before Gwyneth regained some of her strength, and in that time her children were nursed by a woman in the village. Erik stayed with his wife, taking his meals in her room and speaking with Bryson and Brother Ulrich when they visited.
Bryson had been given quarters in the guest houses at the abbey where he and Brother Ulrich made all the preparations, consulting Erik when necessary. For the most part, Bryson handled everything, but respected Erik and Gwyneth’s wishes for the well being of the children.
First and foremost was the baptism, which was done within a day of the children’s birth, fearing for their souls should death come swiftly. Bryson was named sponsor for Erik, the first born, and his brother, Richard.
Once Brother Ulrich learned of Bryson’s intent to remain at the abbey with Erik’s offspring, a dwelling was procured on abbey grounds. The nursing mother Brother Ulrich had found agreed to suckle the boys until they were weaned.
The abbey would be well compensated for housing Erik’s heirs, but their true identities would be kept from everyone, even from Brother Abbot. The children would be told the truth once they were of age, but until then, Bryson and Brother Ulrich would nurture and guide them, and most importantly, protect them from their enemies.
The babies prospered while Gwyneth healed, Erik being the strongest as first born. Richard, on the other hand, was not as strapping, but he was hearty. Sadly, there was an impediment, which Erik accepted as God’s will, but he feared that Gwyneth would not be as compliant since he had misgivings about the depth of her faith.
The children had been kept from Gwyneth while she recovered. She was young and would mend quickly, more quickly if she was not yet burdened by the cross she and Erik both must bear. Whenever she asked after her sons, the reply was always the same. The boys were well, and she would soon hold them once her strength returned.
At the end of the week, when Gwyneth was able to walk, she found Constance in the herb garden, collecting the various plants and roots necessary for the healer’s trade. Erik was nowhere to be found, which was disconcerting since she feared being alone.
“My lady, you should not be about by yourself,” Constance said. “You are still weak.”
“Where is Erik, my husband?”
“He is at the abbey with Brother Ulrich. I can send for him if you wish.”
“No, I can await his return. May I sit somewhere? In the garden? It is such a lovely day.”
“There is shade beneath the tree,” Constance replied as she led Gwyneth to a stone bench overlooking a vegetable garden. “Are you thirsty?”
“I am fine. I did not mean to distress you.”
“I will return in an hour’s time, sooner if need be. Please do not walk about without someone with you ... you might fall.”
“I shall do as you wish,” Gwyneth replied.
Gwyneth looked at the clear blue sky bereft of clouds as a gentle breeze ruffled the treetops. Song birds chirped while bees sucked the nectar out of the blossoms in a nearby flower bed. She rested against the tree trunk, closing her eyes and enjoying the warmth of the sun. She had forgotten how pleasant a beautiful day was, and she was happy to be alive. Then she remembere
d her ordeal, and knew that she had survived because God had deemed it so. Eckhard was a proficient healer, and she had not doubted his skills, but he was limited by the available remedies of the time. She had not suffered any ill effects after the delivery, thereby saving her life, knowing she would have succumbed to the infection without antibiotics. She missed being home in her timeline with all the amenities she had become accustomed to, and she started to cry. She loved Erik, truly she did, but becoming aware of her mortality in such a horrific experience had shaken her resolve.
What would happen to her once Erik was dead? Who would protect her against the Norman invaders? She knew what was coming, but she could not stop it. She could do nothing to alter the outcome, no one could.
“You will go insane if you do not stop worrying about what will happen tomorrow,” Gwyneth thought. “You must live the day given you; tomorrow will take care of itself.”
The massive tree kept Gwyneth hidden from the villagers who went about their daily tasks. Voices were barely audible as people passed the healer’s dwelling, and Gwyneth did not pay any heed to their presence. She felt herself drifting off to sleep, smiling when she heard Erik speaking to someone, probably Bryson, and they were very close, almost upon her. She stood up and walked towards them, falling to her knees when she heard the disheartening words.
Erik picked up his wife, carrying her back to her bed while Bryson fetched Constance.
“Is it true? Why did you not tell me? I am at fault,” Gwyneth sobbed.
“Do not weep, my love, Richard grows; all will be well.”
“How can all be well when our son cannot see?”
Chapter Seventeen
During the months following the birth of the twins, life took on a semblance of normalcy in the quarters given Erik on abbey grounds. The dwelling was larger than most, having rooms on a second floor. Erik and Gwyneth’s bedchamber was sizeable, accommodating the furniture. In addition to the bed and two cradles, there was a desk and two chests, and a window through which sunbeams danced. The first floor held four rooms, one of which Bryson chose for himself. Their meals were provided by the abbey kitchens, and Matilda, the villager nursing Erik and Richard, visited daily. Anne, Matilda’s eldest daughter, joined Erik’s household as a nursemaid.
The Briton and the Dane: Timeline Page 11
