“I must conduct an examination,” he said pompously, shooing us away from the bed. By then, there was no one else in the room except Caterina, her husband, the doctor, the midwife, and myself. Three of us watched as he put an ear to my lady’s heart, laid a palm upon her forehead, palpated her stomach, and tented the sheets so that he could examine her privates.
When he emerged, Girolamo demanded anxiously, “Well? Is she in labor?”
The physician’s expression was less than reassuring. “She shows no signs of other illness. I must assume that this is part of the birthing process.”
We all looked down sharply at the bed as Caterina, with great effort, whispered, “No physician. Only the midwife.”
“Her Illustriousness has no fever,” the doctor countered, with polite disdain, “but she may still be delirious.”
The midwife—lean, iron-haired, and clearly distrustful of the doctor—curtsied to Girolamo. “Your Illustrious Highness,” she said, “if I may please examine your wife.”
Ignoring the physician’s scowl, the count turned, faintly hopeful, to the midwife, and nodded.
“If the men would give us some privacy . . .” the midwife said politely. She was most likely a merchant’s wife or daughter, decently dressed; though weathered, her features were fine enough to be deemed still pretty. She was a small creature, with fine, delicate hands, the nails clipped to the quick.
Girolamo caught the clearly irritated physician’s elbow, led him out into the corridor, and closed the door.
The midwife turned to me. “Would you kindly lift the lamp, Madonna? I will need your assistance to examine her properly.”
I did so, eager to be of help.
The midwife leaned over Caterina and said, “Your Illustrious Highness. My name is Flora, and I shall do everything possible to bring your child safely into this world and make sure you remain in it. But first, I must examine you. It will be painful at times, but I will warn you first.”
Caterina opened her eyes and listened, then nodded in agreement. She closed her eyes again as Donna Flora’s deft fingers touched her belly, gently probing; the wool at Caterina’s waist jumped suddenly, and Flora laughed.
“Your child is strong, Madonna. He is knocking at the door and asking to be let out. How many months have you been pregnant, Madonna?”
“Almost ten, I think,” Caterina whispered.
“Don’t worry, Madonna; we have ways of dealing with laggards.” Flora lifted the hem of my lady’s wool chemise, speaking at the same time in a tone designed to soothe. “Now I am lifting your chemise, Madonna. . . .”
The midwife gestured for me to lift the lamp higher; narrating all the while, Donna Flora spread Caterina’s white legs quite wide, and slipped a pillow under her hips.
“Now,” Flora said, “here is where a bit of bravery is called for. I shall start as gently as possible, but I must put a hand inside you to feel how the child is situated. It will help if you bend your knees.”
Caterina did so as Donna Flora opened a jar of sweet-smelling unguent, which she rubbed thoroughly over her hands. She bent down to look between Caterina’s legs, beckoning me to bring the lamp even closer.
Donna Flora’s touch was skilled and smooth. She performed a shallow examination, then looked to Caterina, whose eyes were squeezed shut.
“Now you must prepare yourself for some pain,” Flora said, at which point my lady squinted harder and set her jaw.
Flora’s slow, careful examination took long, arduous minutes; Caterina groaned, then gritted her teeth.
With her hand still in Caterina’s womb, Flora said, “Your water has not yet broken, but the baby has dropped. Unfortunately, his head is not down as it should be; he wants to come feetfirst. Once your water has broken, I can try to move him into proper position. Even if that fails, you should know that I have delivered dozens of breech babies safely. It is just a bit more work for us all. If you are ready for labor, Your Illustriousness, I can help bring it.”
Another spasm seized Caterina; her face contorted as she gasped, “Hurry!”
At that, Flora set to work. The kettle was on the hearth, and once the water began to steam, Flora fetched some herbs from her large black pouch, which she had set in a corner. She set the herbs into a cup, and ladled hot water over them.
Caterina sipped the brew slowly. Some ten minutes later, when she had finished the entire cup, Flora took it from her.
“Lie down again if you would, Madonna,” she said, and the two of us helped Caterina to squirm back down onto the mattress and part her legs. “This will hurt,” Flora warned.
It did, indeed. Flora put her fingers inside the contessa and made an abrupt circular movement with them that made Caterina scream. Not yet content, the midwife moved her fingers a second, then a third time.
“There,” she said, satisfied. “I am sorry to hurt you, but this will hurry things.”
She made Caterina another cup of tea; by the time my lady finished it, she was obviously inebriated and in less pain.
“Now,” Flora said cheerfully, “we walk.”
Together, we lifted Caterina from the bed and onto her feet. With her one arm over my shoulder and the other over Flora’s, Caterina was able to stagger all the way from her bed to the closed French doors, then back again, pausing several times when much stronger contractions struck.
We turned and headed back for the bed; as we neared it, Caterina pleaded, “Let me lie down now. I can’t walk anymore. Just let me rest. . . .”
“One more time,” Flora said firmly.
Her insistence was justified. We had turned back toward the French doors and taken only two steps when Caterina stopped in mid-stride and stiffened.
“It’s running down my leg,” she said, wide-eyed.
Flora knelt down at once to peer under my lady’s undergown; she reemerged smiling. “Your water has broken, Madonna. Now I can safely turn the baby. Back to the bed,” she said. “Now comes the hardest part.”
Once again, Caterina lay down, spread her legs, and bent her knees, and I held up the lamp for Flora, whose expression was determined. Caterina bit her lip as Flora’s entire hand entered her, and stiffened her legs as it moved deeply inside her. The midwife’s lips and brow were pursed as she tried, again and again, to move the unborn child. At last, she glanced up at me.
“Make Madonna another cup of tea,” she ordered, “and make it strong. Your Illustriousness, I am sorry, but I cannot turn this one without using both hands. Let us try to make you a little more comfortable.”
While Flora made encouraging small talk, asking after Caterina’s other children, I watched as Caterina’s pupils gradually grew larger and larger until her eyes were more black than blue.
After several minutes, Flora said, “All right, Madonna. When the pain comes over you, breathe out as hard as you can.”
Impossibly, Flora insinuated her other hand inside Caterina, and when the midwife’s arms moved ninety degrees, in a half circle, Caterina screamed.
Flora was gasping; her work apparently required not just delicacy, but great strength. She repositioned her hands and made the half circle motion again and again, while Caterina cried out piteously.
At last, Donna Flora drew her hands out. “I believe the baby’s head is in the correct position now, Madonna,” she told Caterina. “It’s time to walk again.”
We walked. This time, Caterina reported that true labor pains had come upon her. Heartened, we spent the entire night walking back and forth, stopping only when Caterina was too exhausted to take another step.
By dawn the next day, Caterina was so weary that she could no longer sit up. She had already borne three children, and had never been in labor more than six hours. Now more than a dozen had passed, and she had not even crowned. Worse, the baby had become still.
“Mine was a difficult birth,” the contessa breathed. “Don’t fret, Dea. This is simply more proof that this child has as much spirit as his mother.”
But n
ow, even the stoic Flora was beginning to look concerned. Another examination brought Caterina more agony, but no good news. The child’s head had not shown itself because one arm was flung upward, as if it were shielding its face. Grimly, Flora confessed that Nature had designed a woman’s body to be just wide enough for the head to pass, but not both a head and arm. I put my hand upon Caterina’s shoulder, and she put her own hand atop it.
“What can be done?” I asked, to spare my tired mistress the effort speech required.
Flora hesitated. “I must catch the child’s arm and push it back down so that it rests alongside his body. This will be extremely painful for you, and I might break the child’s arm, or worse, cause you to bleed. But we must do it now, and quickly; the baby needs air.”
“This one is destined for great things,” Caterina whispered. “I know it in my heart.” She turned her pale, sweat-slicked face toward mine. “Make sure he survives, even if I do not.”
“He will survive,” I answered, my voice husky, “and you will, too, Madonna.”
“First,” Flora said, “I must make you some fresh tea.” She retrieved a different concoction—this one a pale powder—from her black bag in the corner. This she mixed with hot water from the kettle, and handed it to Caterina.
Caterina made another face, but in a show of valor, threw back her head and swallowed the entire cup. Within twenty minutes, her head began to loll, and the blacks of her eyes were now as small as grains of sand. She had endured nine contractions during this time. The baby was desperate to come, but his crown had still not appeared.
“You are drowsy,” Flora said loudly, leaning over her, “and for now, do your best to relax. I will let you know when we need your help.”
I crouched beside the bed, my face near Caterina’s, and took her hand. Morning light now filled the chamber, and the midwife had no need of the lamp; all my attention was focused on my mistress.
Flora stood with her feet on the ground, and leaned the upper half of her body onto the bed, between Caterina’s legs. My mistress started when Flora’s slender fingers entered her again, and remained tense as the midwife slowly slid her hand into the birth canal. I watched Flora’s intent expression as she did her best to enter smoothly, without hurting Caterina, and I saw her lips curve upward when her fingers found the baby.
“There is the crown,” she said reassuringly. Her hand moved again. “And there the little arm. Madonna, brace yourself.”
Flora turned her own arm sideways; her eyes lit up with triumph as she caught hold of her target and pushed more deeply into the contessa’s womb. Caterina howled without restraint, her bent legs writhing and striking the midwife. It took a full excruciating minute for the midwife to complete her work. At last, Flora slowly withdrew; Caterina’s entire body relaxed as she let go a sigh of profound relief.
Her Illustriousness gritted her teeth and cried out again; when the contraction waned, she let go a loud, surprised gasp, and pushed herself up on her elbows. “It’s coming!” she called, eyes wide, to Flora. “It’s finally coming!”
Together, Flora and I lifted Caterina from the bed and settled her into the birthing chair. I held on to her shoulders as she endured several more strong contractions while Flora knelt at her feet. In the end, Caterina grasped the handles on the seat and bore down hard, her face an alarming shade of red as she let go a guttural roar that could be heard throughout the east wing of the palazzo.
I heard a wet, slithering sound, and looked beyond Caterina’s shoulders and lap to see something small and yellow drop into Flora’s waiting arms.
“A girl!” Flora called jubilantly. She used her fingers to tenderly clear the infant’s mouth and flattened nose, then called for the basin and warm water.
I delivered both to her immediately and knelt beside her as Caterina dozed, slumped over, in the birthing chair.
I was used to the sight of newborns, and therefore was not surprised that its face was covered with pale yellow birth cheese and streaks of dark blood; nor was I disappointed when Flora swiftly and expertly cleaned the mess away to reveal a crimson, irregularly shaped face with slits for eyes, a bruised forehead, and a completely flattened nose. What unnerved me was the deep bluish tinge of the infant’s chin, mouth, and fingertips.
Flora was concerned as well; instead of continuing to remove the birth cheese so that the baby could be presented to its mother, she immediately turned it over and firmly thumped it on its back to encourage it to draw its first breath. The child’s tiny limbs flailed weakly, but it did not attempt to breathe on its own.
“Give her to me!” Caterina demanded, suddenly alert; she reached for the baby in Flora’s arms.
Flora ignored her, instead thumping the child again; this time, the child coughed up a plug of birth cheese and dried blood, and sucked in an audible breath.
Caterina and I immediately smiled at the sound. Flora, all business, demanded a damp towel and the swaddling blanket, which I fetched at once. Soon the child was clean and tightly wrapped in its blanket before being presented to the worn but jubilant mother.
Caterina looked down at the tiny girl in her arms with something very like affection. “I shall name you Galeazza Maria, after my father,” she whispered to the baby, “and will train you to be a prince and a soldier, just as he was.”
She kissed the child’s face and rocked her while Flora, smiling proudly with accomplishment, gently examined and cleaned Caterina and the mess beneath the birthing chair. I, too, was grinning as I removed the soiled blankets from the bed.
When the bed was ready for mother and child, Flora and I moved alongside Caterina. Before we could lift her, Caterina looked up at us, her eyes wide.
“Her muscles are jerking very hard, despite the swaddling,” she said, her tone rising with alarm. “I think she is having a fit.”
I looked down. The baby’s face was contorted; a desperate gurgling sound emerged from its lips, now a deeper shade of blue.
“She needs air,” Flora said, snatching the child. After clearing its mouth and nose with her finger, Flora moved toward the fireplace and turned the baby on its stomach again, her one hand gently supporting its midsection while the other thumped its back.
When the child still failed to draw in a breath, Flora stepped up to the hearth and unswaddled the child so that it was naked. Grasping both of its little ankles, she dangled it upside down in front of the warm fire, and struck its back again. The impact caused one of its feet to kick free of Flora’s grasp; the freed little leg bent at the knee, and the ankle fleetingly crossed over the opposite leg, forming a near-perfect 4.
It was the image of the Hanged Man.
Flora caught the baby’s errant ankle, and again swatted the child on the back. It let go a mortal strangling sound that brought Caterina to her feet.
“Don’t die!” she shrieked. “Don’t you dare die!”
Flora gave the child one last blow. In the profound silence that followed, her shoulders dropped suddenly, and her head inclined toward the fire.
“No!” Caterina screamed. “Give me my baby!” Clawing the air, she fought to rise from the chair.
I quickly took the infant from the unresisting Flora, and wrapped it in its blanket again before presenting it to Caterina. She sank back down in the birthing chair, cradling it in her arms. Its features looked peaceful, although its little blue lips gaped open; when Caterina closed its mouth, it looked as though it were sleeping.
“Get her out of here,” Caterina demanded, her voice raw with emotion. “Get her out of here, and let me never set eyes on her again! She killed my baby! She killed my Galeazza!”
Chapter Twenty-three
Caterina refused to eat or drink anything that day, saying bitterly, “This is too cruel. What kind of God steals babies from their mothers’ arms?”
“The same God that causes them to be born,” I answered gently. I could not fault her for the question; I had asked a similar one myself, when I lost Matteo.
�
�Damn God!” she cursed. “Why let them be born in the first place?”
I pulled a chair to her bedside and sat down. “Before you left for Venice,” I began softly, “do you remember the triumph card you chose?”
She would not look at me.
I continued calmly. “It was the Hanged Man. Sacrifice. Do you remember what I told you, that something terrible would occur—”
She interrupted. “You didn’t say then that it would be so horrible.”
“I didn’t know what exactly would happen, Madonna. But remember, I also said that marvelous good would come of it.”
“My baby’s death?” She turned toward me at last, filled with exhausted rage. “What good can come of such a pitiful tragedy?”
I drew a breath to reply, but she began speaking swiftly again.
“I tried to be brave like you said, Dea; I tried to begin to care about people. This child . . . my little Galeazza,” she said, swallowing a sob, “she kicked harder than any of my others. She was so strong I thought she was a boy, and I knew she would become a great soldier. I began to whisper to her, to tell her of her heritage—of her grandfather, the duke of Milan, and her Riario ancestors, and how I would train her myself in the martial arts. How she would never need to fear anything, how she would become the greatest of all the Sforza and Riario.”
Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. “It made me happy . . . and I began to love her. But what is the point of it? She took her first breath and died. She fought so bravely just to enter the world . . . and she was defeated.”
Her face contorted as she held back another outpouring of grief; ultimately, her stubborn pride triumphed, and her features hardened into a bitter mask.
As I watched that terrible transformation, realizing that little Galeazza’s death could well cause her mother’s heart to grow even colder, my foggy thoughts took on a sudden clarity. I heard no inner voice, felt no unnatural sensation, but I knew without doubt why fate had placed me with Caterina at that dreadful moment, and what I had to do.
The Scarlet Contessa Page 32
