by Jacky Gray
Senna decided to use Taron to help his wife through the final process as she addressed the stricken girl. “Hush, my love. This is nothing to worry about.”
“But it feels like a birth spasm. Is there another babe inside me?”
“No, my dear. Tis nothing but the birthing sack, which has been protecting and nourishing your little one all the time he was with you.”
Relief washed the tension from the girl’s features, as she squeezed her husband’s arm. He glanced up. “Would you have me leave?”
Senna poured reassurance into her tone. “Not at all. I think it would be good for you to stay and witness your wife’s labours. She has worked very hard. It may get a little messy if you are squeamish ...”
His shrug dismissed that idea, and she smoothed a lock of hair away from Lareeta’s forehead. “You will need one more push to expel it. As before, let the pain build up to the peak before you bear down.”
Watching the way the girl took strength from her husband’s presence, Senna wondered if maybe the traditional idea of only women being present at the birthing might benefit from reconsideration. The final stage ran without hindrance.
Two births in two days would normally take its toll, but in her current state of health, it robbed the last of her strength and she faltered. Thankfully, Lyrelie was attuned and caught her before she tumbled. Lareeta’s mother insisted they both share the meal and Senna gratefully accepted.
It was her first real exposure to the Christian religion, and it seemed to her there was far too much emphasis on rules and regulations. No one was allowed to lift so much as a beaker of water until the blessing, which they called Grace, had been said. At great length and with many pompous displays of devotion. She became aware of Lyrelie’s open-mouthed disbelief as she tried to mimic the actions and responses of the rest of the company. Senna knew if she so much as glimpsed her daughter’s face, she would not be able to contain her sense of the ridiculous. Setting her face in an imitation of Lareeta’s pious expression, she closed her eyes and made her own thanksgiving blessing to the food and the hands which had a part in nurturing, harvesting and preparing the sumptuous repast.
At the end of the meal, Taron insisted on driving the pair of them back in the cart, despite repeated protestations they could manage on their own.
When they reached the house, his motives became clear. A pile of blankets under the bench concealed his gift to her: A beautiful foot stool he’d crafted himself. Lareeta had upholstered the top with a hard-wearing hessian which was a perfect match for the rocking chair Senna favoured, by the fireside. He proudly displayed how the lid opened to give a roomy storage area for her sewing and knitting supplies, with pockets for the yarns and partitions to keep everything stored away tidily.
Senna clapped her hands. “Oh this is so perfect. Your wife must have caught me admiring hers.”
“Aye, she did. That was my first attempt, but she told me how it could be made even more useful.” His beaming face shone like a source of power. “So you have the new, improved version, the only one of its kind.”
Lyrelie ran her hands over the polished wood. “This is such a beautiful design. I would love a smaller version for my trinkets. Do they take long to make?”
Senna left them to their excited discussion as she hastened to awaken the fire and bring some warmth into the chilly room.
When he finally left, her daughter snuggled up for a hug. “Thank you for letting me come along today. That was the best experience I have ever had. I can see why you love being a healer, bringing such joy into people’s lives.”
“I’m sorry to say those moments only happen maybe three times a year. The rest of the time you are dealing with people in a state of pain, fear, or usually both. It can be very draining and, I’m afraid to say, most patients have no patience.”
Lyrelie grinned another of her father’s grins as she led her mother to the rocking chair, placing her feet on the brand-new foot stool, and tucking a blanket around her legs. “Da always said that. You are stealing his words.”
Senna tapped her daughter’s nose just as Lyran used to. “And you are stealing his grin. I’m not complaining; it brings him into the room.”
“It’s strange you should say that, Mama. I’ve felt his presence several times in the past few days; almost as though he were in the room with me.”
“Strange indeed.” She left it at that, as her daughter made a brew.
“Would you like a tot of brandy-wine with this? It will help you to sleep. At least, that’s what Da used to say.”
Senna accepted, pushing away the reluctance which she knew was derived from the notion that even the smallest bit of liquor would cause her to fall asleep like a drunkard. But there was no Topsy-Turvy Ball for her to attend; it had been cancelled because of the number of people who were visiting families in neighbouring towns to celebrate the Christian babe’s feast.
As her head nodded, she remembered the pride with which Lareeta’s parents discussed the name of their grandson. Her father had been adamant the little boy should bear the name of the Christ, with whom he shared a birthday. But her mother spoke with reason, saying that Jesus was not a suitable name for someone born in this country. He would suffer for it his entire life.
A knock at the door had her jumping to her feet eagerly, and the masked man who stood there made her heart leap with joy. Tall and muscular, his heroic stance would have set any woman’s pulse racing, even dressed as he was in a milk-maiden’s smock.
She threw herself into his arms, and he lifted her above his shoulders, twirling her around as though she weighed no more than a feather.
Giggling, she recognised the costume as one Lyran had worn during a Topsy-Turvy Ball. She glanced down to confirm she wore his favourite woollen tunic, but it was inside out and back to front, not the way she had put it on earlier that day.
When the dance ended, he tugged on her hand, steering a path toward the door of the village hall, where they would find some respite from the steamy heat of all those dancing bodies. She accompanied him eagerly; they were, after all, still in the first flush of love, where they could not get enough of each other.
Once they reached the cover of the woods, however, he somehow changed from her tender, considerate husband, into a voracious animal, intent only on using her body for his pleasure. Her first reaction was terror; she’d heard whispered tales of uncouth ruffians who roamed the villages, getting drunk and treating women badly.
But Lyran wasn’t drunk and he was certainly no ruffian. Her addled brain tried to decipher the signs.
The fact she wore a man’s clothes, made it harder for him to reach the object of his lusting, as the back of his jacket covered her chest. As he spun her around and shoved her against a tree, she was shocked out of her inaction. Her senses came alive, informing her this man did not smell like her husband. Although his grunt of frustration was unintelligible, somehow it didn’t sound like him, either.
Initially slow to catch on, now her brain had determined the situation, she whisked into action. Struggling against him, she pushed herself away from the tree such that he lost his balance and fell backward, knocking off the mask as he hit the ground. Jarl!
Her mind shrieked the name in disbelief, and she stumbled, allowing him to catch hold of her ankle. A well-honed sense of survival allowed her to retain her balance, and even stamp down hard on his forearm with her other foot.
Ignoring his angry growl, she tried to run, but the unfamiliar boots made her strides falter. She heard his heavy breathing as he caught up to her, and she risked a backward glance to see he had replaced the mask.
In that instant, her brain tried to process the idea that the monster behind could be her husband’s cousin. The man who had been so supportive in the past week, or even the past year. How could she have misjudged him so badly?
These thoughts translated themselves to impediments in her muscles, which led to a glitch in her rhythm, resulting in a stumble. As she reached out to
break her fall, she heard her name being called from the direction of the village hall. She recognised the voice, but it made no sense. None of it did. How could Jarl be in two places at once? Simultaneously behind, chasing her, and yet in front, calling her name.
Senna awoke with a start, trying to shake off the horror of what had obviously been a nightmare galloping through her dreams. She sat for a moment, in the dim light of the candle Lyrelie had lit, wondering what it could mean. Giving herself a mental shake, followed by a physical shake of the head, she resolved not to fall victim of dream magic. Climbing the stairs, she chose not to believe the story her dream attempted to relate. Jarl couldn’t be that monster, could he?
15 – Day 6: Clove-gifting
The sixth day of Yule dawned clear and bright, and Senna decided to restrict her energies to tending to her two charges. She reasoned that her friends would understand if she did not accompany Cora and the other tender-hearted village women to the Clove-gifting.
“Worry not, my dear. No one will be expecting you to attend, after two birthings in two days. And I hear both were quite difficult.” Cora hugged her for longer than normal, as though trying to transfer some of her joyous energy.
Chuckling at the way news travelled through the village, Senna handed over two baskets of food and clothes: her contribution to the annual tithing for the poor and homeless in the district.
“My goodness. This is far too much; you are too generous.” She held up an embroidered skirt. “You should keep some of these things for yourself; they have plenty of wear still in them.”
“Cora, I am happy to give, as I have more than I need; Lyran was a generous man. I no longer have occasion to wear such finery.”
Some of the joy dimmed from her friend’s face. “Oh, sweetheart. Forgive me for being so thoughtless. You are nearing the end of your mourning. What a terrible time for you, with every eligible man casting greedy eyes over you and your business. At least you can enjoy yourself for one more moon before you have to choose.”
“You mean before I have to offer myself to the highest bidder.” Senna could not keep the bitterness out of her voice at the dreadful, outdated rules inflicted on widows. The regulations imposed by the exclusively male councils governing every town and village had become even more stringent as men gained more power over women.
The unsavoury thought accompanied her back home, putting her in a foul mood as she slammed the door closed behind her. Lyrelie glanced up in shock. “Mama. Whatever has happened to your good mood?”
Senna exhaled, willing all the bad thoughts to leave with the breath. “Sorry, my love. I’m a little frustrated because this will be the first time I will not have helped out at the Clove-gifting. Maybe if we finish early at Lareeta’s ...”
Lyrelie adopted her mother’s stern face and matching tone. “Do not even think it. You would not forgive yourself if you skimped on instruction to these two ladies. They will be relying on you to help them through the difficult few days when everything is new and frightening. I’ve heard you say it so many times, how much support they need.”
With a shrug, Senna acknowledged her daughter’s wisdom.
But the girl had not finished. “With your permission, I would come with you. I want to learn this aspect of your work. And maybe I can take on some of the duties during the next week.”
Tears gathered at the corners of Senna’s eyes, but she smiled them away as she hugged her wonderful daughter, giving thanks for the beautiful soul she had become.
They reached Marena’s house, to be met with a hive of activity. Paulina had bullied every available and able-bodied neighbour to help out with an aspect of the daily running of the young woman’s household. As they approached, they heard her organising a schedule of people to stay behind while the others attended the Clove-gifting.
Derran ran up to Senna, holding up two of the oranges he and his sister had made to take along. Seeing the pride in his accomplishment, she took the time to give each one a considered examination, remarking on the way the cloves he’d stuck in made a pleasing pattern. She nodded her head with what she hoped was a wise expression. “These are excellent examples, I’m sure any person would be thrilled to receive one of these along with the other gifts. Well done.”
His face grew a little pinker at the praise. “Mam says they will help to make the house look pretty and smell nice. Then at the end, on twelfth night, they can boil it up in some ale to make a tasty drink.”
Lyrelie touched his arm. “You are very clever to know all that.”
He blushed even darker pink. “And that’s not all. The flesh of the orange can be eaten to keep away the winter germs.”
Senna handed the gifts back to him. “I shall have to be careful; you will be after my job as healer.”
His pride dimmed a little. “I’m sorry. You have come to help Mam. And I am stopping you from doing your work.”
She hugged him, tousling his hair as she’d watched Dennon do many times. He flinched away, exactly as he did with his father, wagging a delighted finger at her. Chuckling, she followed her daughter into the house, to be greeted by a charming sight.
Marena sat on a rocking chair, her babe suckling noisily, while she chatted with two of her friends from the village. The overall effect was a haven of serenity and calmness, where the young mother could bond happily with her new-born, who would doubtless thrive.
Senna had subconsciously known it would be thus; a third-time-around mother knew exactly what to do. She felt a little less guilty about the fact she had not managed to visit on the previous day. Even without her husband in attendance, it was plain to see the young woman took motherhood in her stride.
However, certain tasks required her expertise and, without disturbing the peaceful tableau, she washed her hands in preparation for the necessary examinations.
“Senna.” Marena welcomed her with a hug. “You were absolutely right; it does get a lot easier the third time round. This little one seems to know exactly what to do without putting up a fight. The only difference is, every time she feeds, the pains down below are strong.”
Reassurance saturated Senna’s tone. “That is to be expected. With each child, the after-pains grow more intense. But the good news is, it finishes much sooner.”
“Of course. I do remember now, but it has been a while since you told me, and my mind does not seem to have been my own.”
“That too, is to be expected. Mother Nature decrees that a new-born requires almost all of its mother’s mind for a moon or two until everything is working as it should.”
One of the other women nodded agreement. “Shall I hold Serenta while you make the checks?”
Marena handed her precious bundle over. She knew what needed to be done as well as Senna, and agreed to allow Lyrelie to learn the procedure, encouraging the youngster to feel her belly, probing for any signs of infection.
“Goodness me. If ever I am short of assistance, I know where to come.” Senna gestured at Derran. “I can see you’ve been teaching your lad the healing arts. I did not realise how important it was to you.”
Marena’s blush matched her son’s. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to encroach on your territory. It’s just that my grandmother was a healer in her village, and she passed on a lot of knowledge.”
“Encroach? What nonsense is this? A village this size needs more than one healer, and especially more than one midwife. Who could have given you the impression that either Lyran or myself would not have welcomed that help?”
The woman averted her eyes, clearly reluctant to name the person.
Senna frowned, trying to imagine who in the village might make such a comment. Two candidates sprang to mind, both magisters. Ranly’s motivation was understandable: He would not want anyone else to gain wealth he imagined should belong to his son.
But he didn’t realise that, if people could not afford to pay the normal rates, Lyran treated them for free. A practice she happily continued. More often than not, those people w
ould go out of their way to make up for their lack of coin by giving her the fruits of their labours.
Rarely a week went by when she was not gifted with a fine animal for her Sunday roast, which would keep her and Lyrelie fed for the rest of the week.
Seeing the woman’s anxious expression, Senna did not delve into why Domenyk might warn her off. She hastened to reassure. “Think naught of it. As soon as you are able, I would be happy to instruct you in the use of herbs and crystals in the birthing and any other aspect of healing.”
Marena swapped delighted glances with her two friends, who both wore satisfied expressions, as though they had already discussed this matter.
Next came the examination of the babe, and Senna happily instructed all four females how to check for any signs of the main problems afflicting new-borns.
Although the second place was outside the main village, the journey didn’t seem to last so long with Lyrelie’s light-hearted chatter, and her daughter glowed with the excitement of the pleasant visit. They passed the ring of trees marking the edge of the village, and the houses thinned out. Instead of the small dwellings with a single room downstairs and one or two bedchambers upstairs, these houses were more substantial, belonging to the richer folks, like the magisters and councillors.
Without the hubbub of the village, it seemed generally more peaceful and serene, until they got within a few dozen paces of Lareeta’s house. The cacophony of noise caused a stricken look between them, and they hurried the short distance, to be met at the door by dreadful shouting and screaming and crying.
Senna could not believe the difference in the two households. Taron was shouting at his father-by-marriage, trying to stop him from attacking his wife, who was in turn trying to protect her daughter.
Lareeta sobbed as she held the cause of all the upset: The new-born, who was proving to have a powerful set of lungs as he complained long and loud in the only way he knew how.
