A Widow Plagued

by Allie Borne

  “Thank God, Hannah. Art thou unharmed?” Sara asked, unsteadily examining her daughter’s body.

  “I will be fine,” Hannah responded tremulously. “I would like to lie down for a bit, I think.”

  “Millie, wouldst thou build up the fire in the master’s room and bring us our breakfast there? Hannah and I will rest today.”

  “Of course,” Millie responded.

  Adam and Gavin escorted the two women to the open bed chamber. “Adam,” Sara asked between surging back spasms, “wilt thou bring up some hot water for the bath? I would like to get Hannah washed up and warm.”

  “Of course, My Lady,” he returned and bowed from the room.

  Gavin pulled the hip bath down from the closet room and set it in the center of the room. “I will fetch the food so that Millie can get Hannah some dry clothes.” Gavin left the room.

  Sara gasped as the pain returned and leaned over the bed for support.

  Hannah, shivering, turned glazed eyes towards her stepmother. “Art thou injured?” she asked through clattering teeth.

  After a few moments, Sara straightened. “Tis fine, Hannah. The pain comes and then goes. I think I have pulled some part of my body out of place. Twill get better with rest. I will have Millie heat a stone for my back.”

  Walking to Hannah, she helped the young girl from her soiled clothing and wrapped her in a blanket, seating her by the fire. Soon, the pain returned and she was again leaning over the bed for comfort.

  “H-has the babe been harmed?” Hannah asked, concerned over her mother’s flushed complexion.

  “I...know not, Hannah. I haven’t felt the child move all day. I am worried. Tell no one.”

  Hannah nodded. She knew that it was important for this child to be born healthy and a male. She was less worried, now that Sara had married, but she knew that a marriage must be consummated. Her stepmother was not in a condition to consummate the marriage and was therefore at risk of losing her husband to a more eligible bride. After today, she refused to think that the new Lord Sanders would ever do such a thing. However, she had seen how easily her own father had turned from dead wife, to mistress, to new wife without a moment's angst, or the slightest tear.

  Why would this Lord Sanders be any different?

  Both women watched, detached, as the food was brought in, and the hip bath filled. Millie helped Hannah to bathe and dress, then encouraged them both to climb into bed. Sara ate a few bites of her egg and bread and a few sips of cider before falling into a fitful sleep.

  Hannah did not feel well enough to eat but choked down some cider and rested with the pillows propping her up. Breathing was difficult, after she had sucked down so much water. Every few minutes, she was racked with coughing.

  Millie kept busy, placing a fire-warmed stone at the foot of the bed, creating a salve of strong herbs to help Hannah’s breathing, and monitoring Sara’s bouts of contractions. Millie felt no need to ignite Sara’s anxiety by telling her she was in the beginning stages of labor. Instead, she rather liked allowing Sara to believe that she was dealing with a simple strained back. She was relaxed and dealing with the pain. The baby would come much easier this way. The men had gone back to patrol the stream. When one came back for their noon meal, she would ask them to bring more water.

  Quietly gathering the tools she would need to take care of her two patients, Millie hummed. She was happiest when she was using her healing skills. All too often lately she was forced to deny care to the diseased. Now, she had the chance to care for two very curable conditions. Sara moaned as Millie squatted to place a knife beneath the bed. Later, when her mistress felt she could bear no more of the wrenching, searing contractions, she would remind her that the knife lay beneath her, to cut the pain.

  Millie never really believed that the knife cut the pain. Instead, she had seen that images and ideas worked wonders for the suffering mother. She herself had a child once, still born. She nearly died until the midwife told her, “When the wave of pain hits, tis thy job to stay before it. Keep thy head above the wave, Millie!”

  Twas amazing how that one image had kept her from giving up, given her a focus and a sense of control. She had used that knowledge in aiding many births since. Millie looked forward to the time when the castle again was filled with activity and life. By the time Adam came back to pack some food, it had been two hours and Sara was awake and cranky.

  “Bring back plenty of water and, to be safe, boil it as Lord Sanders says. Sara is having the baby today.”

  “Today!”

  “Aye. Let us hope the babe is strong enough. She is not due for another three weeks at least.”

  “Might she just put her feet up and wait longer?”

  “I have tried that. Her labor still progresses. Get me some water. I will need one of thee around to fetch items for me.”

  “Lord Sanders expects me to camp by the stream tonight, in case they attempt another assault.”

  “I care not what ye do, once the babe is born. Until then, I will need some help.”

  “Very well. I will fetch some water and tell the lord the news.”

  Millie returned to the master chamber to see Sara again up and out of bed, leaning against the frame. “Do ye think walking around a bit would help?”

  Sara’s moan was the only reply. Millie proceeded to the cedar chest and pulled out several old, moth-eaten blankets. She would cut up whatever was not stained later and use it for quilts and cleaning rags. The stained linen would work fine for lining Sara’s under layers while she recovered from her labor. Nothing would be wasted. Come to think of it, they would need more water for washing tomorrow. She would keep the men busy carrying water today. It had been days since the rain, and the barrel was running low. She would like to use the rain water for washing Sara’s hair after the birth. It would leave her hair feeling soft and be a nice treat for all of her hard work.

  As Millie came up the stairs with soap and the baby blanket she had darned, Sara gasped out, “I fear there is something wrong with the babe, Millie. He is not moving, and I am in terrible pain.”

  “Nonsense, child. He is not moving because he is resting. He is getting ready to enter this world and would be remiss if he did not keep thee up all night, once he arrives.”

  “This-this is normal?”

  “As far as I can tell. Why not crawl up in that bed and have me take a look? I can tell how close we are to having a bairn if thou wouldst let me see what’s going on down there.”

  Millie worked as she talked, placing two folded blankets where Sara would lie, then helping her to climb back into the bed. Once her contraction passed, Millie examined her patient and determined, “We have a bit to wait, yet. Perhaps by dinner time he will come.” Hannah continued to sleep, stirring fretfully and wheezing, she felt warm to the touch.

  “Hannah will have to move from our way-” Millie’s plans were interrupted by an insistent knock upon the chamber door. Sir Gavin strode in and glanced about. Finding Sara leaning over in the bed, he glanced at Millie for answers.

  “She is in child bed, now remove yerself from the chamber, My Lord!”

  Gavin did not immediately comply. “What can I do to help?”

  “Ye can fetch a pallet for Hannah and lay it by the fire. Sara needs the bed for herself. Pull Hannah’s feather tick from her bed and her covers and bring them in here. Then bring up water. I will need several buckets.”

  Nodding, Gavin strode from the room. Millie returned to Sara and helped her to get on her hands and knees. “Get out!” Sara yelped as Gavin came in with the palette.

  “I will leave when I have done what is needed,” he returned calmly. Picking up Hannah, Gavin lay her on the tick and tucked the blankets about her.

  The moment he left, Sara turned to Millie and stated, “I do not want him here.”

  “He will come in only to bring me what I need. I am sorry, Sara, but I will need some help.”

  Sara sighed and lay back upon her side.

  ~
>
  Sweat poured from Sara as her labor continued into its ninth hour. Something is wrong, she is not progressing, yet the contractions have become more intense, Millie thought. Anxiously, she coaxed Sara onto her back and pushed up her night rail to examine her again. It was a foot she felt! A foot! No wonder her water hadn’t broken and the head had not moved down! The child was breech! How had she not seen this all along?

  She was not expecting it; that was why. First, children were rarely breech, in comparison with those to follow. This one would not be, if she could help it. “I will return promptly,” Millie patted Sara on the shoulder and slid quickly from the room.

  Rushing down the stairs, she called out, “Lord Sanders! Please! Where art thou? Lord Sanders!” Sitting up from his pallet in front of the hearth, Sir Gavin gazed blankly at Millie.

  “What is it? What is the matter?” he croaked out, half-asleep.

  “Tis the bairn! The child is breech! Come, I need thy help to turn it.”

  “What art thou saying, Millie? Turn the babe? I have no experience with birthing. Tis unnatural that a man be in the birthing chamber. Tis bad luck. I should not be there.”

  “Nonsense! Now, listen to me! Sara cannot continue to labor as she has. She is already growing fatigued and with little result. Each of us will get on either side of her and turn the baby in the womb. Once the head is down, the baby will come quickly and all should be well. I just pray that the cord does not get wrapped around the child’s neck, but we have nay better choices. They will both die if we do nothing.”

  Gavin nodded. He had assisted surgeons in battle when young men needed a limb amputated. He could assist a midwife in birthing a baby. Entering the room, Gavin paled to see Sara, bathed in sweat, lying on her side in utter exhaustion. She was normally so vibrant; she looked to be fading away.

  “Sara,” Millie called smoothly. “Thy babe is in the wrong position. This is why he has not yet been born. Lord Sanders and I shall help thee to have this baby. We are going to turn the child in thy womb, so that he can come out the right way. Art thou listening, Sara?”

  At Sara’s moan, Millie continued. “We will have to roll thee onto thy back for a brief time. I need thee to stay relaxed and allow us to push on thy stomach. Canst thou stay relaxed, Sara?”

  At that moment, another contraction racked Sara’s body; she contorted in pain. “The moment this contraction passes, we will roll her. We will both push the baby, I will push his head down while ye push his bottom up. He must come out headfirst.”

  As Millie talked, she pulled out a jar of salve and rubbed it into her palms. “Rub this into thy hands. Twill help thee to move along her skin. The idea is to push the baby, not her belly, understand?”

  “I pray so...” Gavin responded.

  “Okay, the contraction is passing, now! Roll her on her back; dost thou feel the bottom?” Millie moved his hands to the proper place on Sara’s abdomen. “Ye must move his bottom up, while I move his head. We must move together. Go!”

  Working, probing deep beneath the surface of her stomach, the two moved the child sideways before Sara’s womb tightened again. “Keep thy hand on the babe!” Millie ordered. “We cannot allow him to turn back the way he was!” The moment the tightening eased, they again worked the baby until, suddenly, if felt as if he popped into place.

  “God’s blessings! It worked!” Millie exclaimed. “Here, help me get her up and get this baby moving down. Her water must break if we are to get this babe born tonight.” Each of them took an arm over their shoulders and lifted Sara to her knees.

  She called out in pain, but weakly. “Let’s see whether we can get her to walk about the room once or twice.” Millie decided.

  The three eased off the bed and made their way, slowly, around the open room. They stopped twice, as contractions came, then went. Just as they lifted Sara back towards the bed, her water broke in a gush onto the stone floor.

  “Well that saved us a messy clean up,” Millie laughed, seeing that the bed remained dry. She straightened the old blankets, and Gavin lifted Sara onto the bed once more.

  “Fetch me a mop and a bucket. I am confident that I will not need much more of yer help, Lord Sanders. Hast thou brought me a clean knife?”

  “Aye, tis on the desk. I will return.” Sir Gavin could not wait to quite the chamber. He was elated and terrified with what he had thus far done. Labor, it seemed was much like battle. Returning with the mop, he was surprised to hear Millie calling for him again.

  “I haven’t a birthing chair. I need thy help. The baby is coming. Get up on the bed and lift her up. I will catch the babe and cut the cord.”

  Gavin did as he was bid. Sara hadn’t the strength to lift herself, so he hoisted her up below her arms, and within moments, the child came forth.

  Millie cut the cord and wrapped the infant in the blanket lain across the bed. “Tis a girl, a beautiful little girl!” Millie cooed.

  Gavin was dumbfounded. He laid Sara gently down and kissed her temple as she smiled. Millie brought her the tiny infant and then tended to Sara as Gavin looked at the wee bundle in her arms. Twas his child, born to his wife, and a girl... he could not have hoped for better. Sara opened the blanket and examined the tiny being. Each perfect finger, each perfect toe. The child had Sara’s blonde hair.

  Gavin was flooded with a myriad of conflicting emotions. He was elated by the experience, in awe of the miracle this new life represented, yet overwhelmed. How was he to protect this new, fragile being?

  Gavin looked back over his shoulder as Millie shepherded him from the room. Had his actions at court inadvertently threatened the women in his care? Only time would tell.

  Chapter 4

  Pig in a Poke

  Gavin was exhausted. The rushing of the river below and the chirping of the crickets all conspired to coax him into a deadly sleep. John Polk’s men would make another attempt on the keep, how could they not?

  His own men weren’t due to arrive for another day at least. He would just have to work with Adam to hold off their attack until then. Standing to greet Adam, he was perplexed to see the gangly older man lugging a slimy, blackened bucket.

  “Tell me that’s not our dinner,” Gavin joked as Adam set the wooden bucket mere inches from his feet and wiped his grimy hands against his trews in an ineffectual attempt to rid them of the sticky substance.

  “Nay, tis pine tar. I recalled that I’d some left in the kiln from last season, when I’d been fixing the tiles on the keep roof. I left the extra there, in case I needed to re-tar a small vessel or some such. Seems we might be able to use it on the slope. T'would be nigh impossible to scale the rocks with this mess clinging to them, My Lord.”

  Gavin nodding, thinking. “T’would also ignite quite readily, had we the need to slow down a larger attack.”

  Adam nodded. “Seems we are better off setting traps as we would for a pack of wolves, My Lord, than to wait and fight so many men.”

  Gavin shrugged. “I have no qualms about using trickery to defend the keep from unwelcome assailants. They will attempt to enter here at their own peril.”

  Adam and Gavin shared a ruthless grin. They might have been separated by happenstance of birth, but their intent to protect the inhabitants of this keep united them as no social stratus could.

  Knowing little of the area or the contents of the keep, Gavin opted to stay on look out, overseeing the back embankment, while Adam gathered the available tools for their various schemes.

  Gavin first hesitated to build a fire, unwilling to give way his position from the river below. However, easy access to torches and flames were necessary to defend this portion of the keep. A short walk, mere yards from the edge, however, yielded the discover of a very large boulder. By building the fire behind the boulder, Gavin shrouded the light of the fire, so that only the flickering shadows could be seen, and they, not for any distance.

  John Polk was not a clever or a powerful man. His father was both, however. It therefore stood to reaso
n that John would be accompanied by a large entourage of strong and sly soldiers. The ten bedraggled men who had pledged their troth to Gavin followed more out of a sense of loyalty, then any expectation of material or social gain.

  They were all displaced serfs or impoverished second sons. Unable to make their living by the land, they had turned to the sword. One or two boasted some skill with a weapon, or some strength in battle, but most were focused on simply surviving.

  Gavin did not wish to lead them into a blood bath. He would have this conflict with Gavin resolved before they arrived, if he could just think like the adventurers of old. How would Odysseus have handled this situation? He would have used his mind, and not risked the lives of his men.

  ~

  The noon day heat beat down upon Gavin's hunched shoulders as he crouched upon the guard wall's tiny walkway, against the hem of Hannah’s skirt. Two long days of waiting and Sir John Polk had finally seen fit to show his pock-marked face. Gavin loathed this ruse, as well as the risks it posed for Hannah and Sara, but the stage had been set, and the actors placed. There was nothing more for it now, but to perform and hope they convinced their audience.

  While Adam stood guard by the back slope, torches ready, Gavin asked Hannah and Millie to contribute to their plan of defense on the front gate. Though the large wooden gate was strong, it could not withstand more than a few hours of pummeling from a battering ram. Without the necessary archers to hold them off, something creative had to be done.

  Hannah’s job was to stall. Gavin was in a tight spot indeed. He could not cause serious harm to his opponent without fear of retribution from John Polk's father, or the king. He could not, however, simply allow John Polk to overrun his claim and harm those he had sworn to protect.

  He prayed, therefore, that his plan would work. He needed John to believe that he was the first to arrive at the keep. He needed John to believe that there was none of import stationed here to protect the castle’s mistress.