No doubt they were trading their grim childbirth stories as all experienced mothers seemed to when meeting with a pregnant woman.
Still, Vadim made no move to intervene. But after the way Martha had spoken to him, he would hardly dare.
Absently, Anselm stroked Forge’s wiry gray head and massaged his velvety ears. With a groan of ecstasy, the dog rolled onto his back, almost falling off his step as he writhed with enjoyment. Forge was much better company than Vadim for his brother had now resorted to silence, scowling at his wife, his dark eyes flashing dangerously as he lived out stories of his own tormented thoughts.
Life had probably been far less complicated back in the days when he’d been an outlaw. Given the choice, Anselm wondered which life Vadim would choose now. But just as Anselm was considering the wisdom of voicing such a question, suddenly Martha stood a little taller and noticeably stiffened.
As one, Anselm and Vadim sat up straight, but the women surrounding Martha seemed not to have noticed and continued trading gossip.
“A phantom pain, perhaps?” Anselm mused out loud, not that the Great Spirit had blessed him with the ability to be able to spot the symptoms of imminent childbirth.
“I’ll be damned if I know,” Vadim muttered. Tense and motionless, he sat like a snake ready to strike. “Perhaps I should go and check on her.”
“And get your head chewed off?” Anselm snorted. “Then you’re a bolder man than I. Besides, she wouldn’t thank you for—”
At that precise moment, Martha crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Bending over with her hands on her hips, her long dark hair almost touched the cobbles.
Without uttering a word, Vadim leaped to his feet and bounded toward his woman, deftly dodging the carts and goodwives blocking his way. In seconds he was at his wife’s side, his arms about her waist, supporting her and helping her to stand amidst the alarmed clucks and exclamations of the other women.
Not quite so quickly as Vadim—and with much less grace—Anselm scrambled to his feet using Forge’s broad back for support and grappled one-handed for his walking cane.
Helplessly, he watched Vadim sweep Martha up into his arms. Then he began striding for the keep, with the baker’s wife and her friends shadowing him all the way calling out sage advice that Vadim likely did not hear.
Martha looked ghastly.
Within a few short minutes, she was now a woman transformed.
As pale and spiritless as death she lay motionless in Vadim’s arms, eyes clenched tightly shut, her white teeth biting into her lower lip. These were the only symptoms of her inner suffering.
As Anselm observed Martha’s wan face, instantly, an unsettling wave of coldness enveloped him. ’Twas a peculiar sensation, but one he recognized only too well.
The Sight.
That unwelcome curse he’d somehow inherited from his paternal grandmother. Evermore frequently of late it had begun to intrude uninvited into his daily life, but never had its bleak tidings been so unwelcome as now. Unwanted as his gift was—as Ma was so fond of saying—it seldom led him astray, and try as he might, Anselm couldn’t stifle the dread of this particular warning.
“Her water has broken,” Vadim mumbled as he hurried by. Seemingly unhindered by the burden he carried, he stalked up the steps to the keep taking them two at a time in his haste to get his wife safely within. As he reached the uppermost step, Vadim stopped and glanced back at Anselm. In that brief look, Anselm saw all of his brother’s fear. While Vadim did not share Anselm’s curse, on some primal level perhaps he sensed the truth.
As doughty and brave as Lord Edgeway undoubtedly was, at that moment the man he called brother was more than merely terrified.
And he had every reason to be fear, for the life of his woman was in grave peril. Aye, and that of their unborn baby, too.
“Are you coming?” Vadim asked. A deaf man might have missed the desperation in his voice, but could not have failed to read it in his eyes.
“Not yet,” Anselm replied gently. “Go on inside and I will catch you up. There is something I must do first.”
With a brief nod, Vadim hurried for the keep. Ignoring the appeals of all who tried to detain him, he strode through the sturdy double doors and was quickly swallowed by the blackness within.
Anselm sighed. However much it would pain him, he knew what he must do.
If Martha were to have any chance of survival she would need the best possible care, and Agatha would not be able to manage the coming labor by herself. The dragon lady would need more experienced help, although she did not know it yet.
Ma.
Unfortunately, the stubborn old woman still resided in Darumvale, despite all of Vadim and Martha’s attempts, both covert and blatant, to coax her to come live with them. But just like the old woman herself, Ma’s resolve was unyielding as any mountain. Not for anything or anyone would she willingly abandon the hall she had shared for so many years with her late husband.
Seth, however, was far more malleable.
In recent month’s Anselm’s sire had all but abandoned his role as Chieftain of Darumvale, and now most of his days were spent here at the castle, aiding the new Lord Edgeway just as he’d assisted his father. With the passing of every day he assumed more and more of the responsibilities involved with the day to day running of such a large castle. In all but name, Seth had resumed his former role as Edgeway’s steward.
And because he wanted Seth by his side, Vadim allowed his foster-father to relieve him of some of the many burdens that being Lord Edgeway entailed.
Anselm often wondered whether his brother would have been happier relinquishing the role altogether. Martha certainly would have been. Over recent months, Anselm had heard her complain several times of how little she now saw of her husband.
In the end, however, tradition and pride won out keeping the newest Earl of Edgeway firmly anchored in his rightful place.
Vadim’s reinstatement had been a long time coming. Only a fool would walk away from such a destiny.
As for Ma, only the summons of one man—perhaps two, if he included Vadim—could lure her away from the comfort of her Darumvale fireside. Exhaling a long breath, Anselm hobbled down the hill mentally bracing himself for what he must do. With a great yawn, Forge hauled himself up off the step and ambled after him, and Anselm was most grateful for the dog’s solid company at his side. He wasn’t looking forward to having to seek out his father, especially in such a public place, but for Martha and Vadim he was prepared to suffer a good deal.
And at this hour of the day, there was only one place Seth would be. Down in the lists with the knights. Training.
His cheeks already burned with humiliation. And what a large appreciative audience would be there to witness it.
Chapter Two
“Oh, God!” Martha writhed on the bed, her body wracked with the most exquisite waves of pain. “It h-hurts.”
“I know it does, my lamb,” Agatha crooned with uncharacteristic gentleness from the foot of the bed.
“I want dr-drugs… an infusion… anything.”
“I must first examine you and then we shall see. My lord?” She glanced at Vadim. “Perhaps you would assist your wife so that I might—”
Vadim blinked once, twice, and finally snapped out of the paralyzing stupor he’d fallen into since returning to their chambers.
“Oh. Of course. At once.” Carefully, he helped Martha roll onto her back then he pressed his lips to her clammy brow. “Be brave, my love,” he murmured. “Take my hand and squeeze as hard as you wish. Breathe deeply while Agatha takes a look at you.”
Martha did her best to keep still but the agonizing spasms rippling through her body were all but impossible to ignore. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for some gas and air—not that she’d ever tried the stuff but she’d watched plenty of maternity ward docu-dramas back home
in the twenty-first century. Suddenly, sucking on a tube of gas seemed an excellent idea.
So did IV drugs. An epidural. A C-section. Anything to dull the bright jagged sharpness of her current reality.
Such pain! Natural childbirth definitely wasn’t for her. She needed drugs… and lots of them. Surely they’d give her something soon?
Pushing Martha’s knees up and to the side, Agatha took up position between her parted thighs. Muttering to herself, she prodded and poked Martha’s distended belly then prodded and poked some more somewhere in her nether regions.
Had she even washed her hands? Martha was in too much discomfort to ask. Puffing and panting through the building waves of pain, she clutched Vadim’s hand, crushing his strong fingers.
Agatha tutted and shook her head. “’Tis no good,” she said, wiping her glistening hands down her apron. “I can barely see what I’m doing. Effie?” She glanced over her shoulder to where the maid stood trembling and silent by the window. “Ah. There you are. Whatever are you doing hiding in the shadows? Go at once and find Edric. Ask him to bring up those large candelabras from the great hall. Oh, you may as well fetch another cauldron of hot water from the kitchens while you’re about it. Go on, now. Off with you, girl. No dithering.”
The speed with which Effie hurried from the bedchamber gave a fair indication of the maid’s relief to be gone. If only Martha could have gone with her, How lovely it would be to leave her swollen body behind, preferably to the care of someone else; a woman more capable.
Someone more… adulty.
Martha gritted her teeth as another explosion of pain tore through her. How could she do this? She wasn’t ready.
Despite the numerous documentaries she’d watched back home, childbirth was already shaping up to be worse than anything she could’ve possibly imagined. And she didn’t have so much as a toot of gas and air to give her comfort.
Stroking back her hair, Vadim looked at her with pure, undiluted love glowing in his incredible eyes. But there was something else too. It was the brightness of his smile that gave him away. At that moment Martha sensed the fear her husband tried to keep from her.
Lord of Edgeway, her big brave, beautiful man—former chief of the Secret Squirrels, no less—was frightened. More than frightened. He was absolutely terrified. Perhaps even more than she was.
In some weird, twisted way, the knowledge gave Martha courage.
To comfort him, she returned Vadim’s smile. “Stop worrying, hon. I’ll be… fine. Women have… babies every day, you know.”
“Aye. That they do, love.” Kneeling beside the bed in a deep rustling litter of sweet-smelling straw that had been spread upon the floor to absorb the gore and grime of labor, Vadim raised her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. His breath felt hot against her already overheated skin.
For Vadim’s sake, Martha tried to ignore the fierce contractions that distorted her abdomen, but it was impossible. “Ow! It hurts so much,” she cried.
“I know.” Vadim clutched her hand a little tighter until her fingers ached. “I know it does, love.”
Agatha was over by the window busily concocting one of her mystery potions from the glittering array of bottles and tiny vials spread out before her at the long sideboard. Corks popped, glassware tinkled as she worked.
“Take big deep breaths, my lamb,” she called over her shoulder. “Long and slow. Breathe the pain away. I shall have something for you in a moment.”
“For god’s sake, hurry up. Ooooh!”
“Listen to Agatha, love. Breathe more slowly. One… two… In… out… ”
Part of her wanted to scream at him that she wasn’t a complete idiot, that she knew quite well how to breathe, thank you very much. But instead, Martha bit her lip—yet again—and forced herself to listen to the rhythm of Vadim’s voice. Calm and low, it eventually soothed her. Little by little, she found herself obeying his commands, breathing with him through each new wave of pain. Suddenly, as if by magic, the stabbing pains slowly subsided.
“Good.” Vadim brushed her lips with his. “You are doing so well, my love.”
She wasn’t. Not really. And the fun had barely started yet. However, Martha didn’t have the heart to contradict him.
“Thanks to you,” she said. If it gave him comfort, let Vadim believe he was helping. Already she felt the now familiar pressure of another contraction building.
Oh god. Not again.
“I love you so much,” Vadim murmured against her earlobe, but Martha was too busy gasping to respond.
A powerful bearing-down sensation overwhelmed her, that and an incredible urge to… “I h-have t-to p-push.”
“Not yet.” Agatha cried hurrying back to the bed. She thrust a chunky pottery beaker into Vadim’s hand. “Make sure she drinks that. All of it, mind.” Resuming her position at the foot of the bed, Agatha grabbed a candle and pushed Martha’s knees apart. Grumbling about her aching hips, she crouched down to take a better look at how things were developing down there.
Being careful not to disturb Agatha, Vadim helped Martha into a semi-reclining position, supporting her shoulders so that she could drink the steaming concoction. It was bitter and tasted so rank Martha gagged but she glugged the whole lot down in several quick swallows. Anything to dull the pain. With a grimace and a satisfied little ahhh she handed the empty beaker to Vadim.
“That’s better.” The desperate urge to push receded and a warm cozy fuzziness began to take its place.
“’Tis as I thought,” Agatha said, rising stiffly from between Martha’s thighs. “You are not yet dilated enough to pass the babe. Rest now, lass. ’Tis important that you conserve your strength.”
Because you’re going to need it.
The words hung unspoken in the fluffy void Martha was slowly but surely sliding into. Still, at least she wasn’t frightened anymore. She felt all sort of warm and drifty, bobbing along on a gentle cloud of quiet contentment—a side effect of Agatha’s witchy potion, no doubt.
Her eyelids drooped, suddenly very heavy. A little nap would be lovely. She smiled up at Vadim and patted the mattress invitingly.
“Hey there, Lord Edgeway. Why don’t you hop up here and get your sweet ass into this bed with me, hmm?”
Agatha tutted and shook her head. Turning away, she busied herself with restoring order to her rattling collection of potions and tinctures.
Vadim returned Martha’s come-hither smile with one of his own, one hot enough to curl her toes. “I must say, you are most forward, m’lady.”
“Damn straight I am.” Martha shuffled over to make room for him. “Why? Are you complaining, m’lord?”
“Never.” Kicking off his boots, Vadim climbed onto the bed and settled down beside her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You know how I enjoy your saucy propositions.” Hooking his arm beneath her shoulders, Vadim gently pulled Martha to him until her head rested on his chest.
Martha closed her eyes and breathed in his warm familiar scent of leather, horses, and wood-smoke while listening to the reassuring lub-dub of his heart. Although her ovaries pricked up their ears and sniffed, they soon settled back down to sleep. And why wouldn’t they? After all, they’d already fulfilled their prime directive, and now her belly was full to bursting with the next generation.
If the baby survived.
Cancel that thought. She mustn’t think like that. Not when everything was so perfect. Not when they were so happy. She felt Vadim kiss the top of her head.
“So. Now that you’ve lured me here, what do you intend to do with me, m’lady?” His voice echoed through his chest, vibrating into her ear.
Martha gave a huge yawn. “How does a nice nap sound, you big stud-muffin?”
Vadim chuckled. “My! What a brazen wench you are. You certainly know how to tempt a man.” But she heard him yawning.
P
regnancy hadn’t only wrecked her sleep pattern. Vadim was suffering from the effects of long-term sleep deprivation, too. No matter how hard Martha tried not to disturb him, he always seemed to know when she was awake and insisted on keeping her company. The bigger she grew, the more that proper rest eluded her—eluded them. With her massive boulder belly, it became increasingly impossible to find any comfort at all in their bed. And as for the everlasting need to use the chamber pot… Where the heck did all that pee come from?
But it had been kind of nice, sharing a snack and a nice cup of chamomile tea with her husband in the wee small hours while the rest of the world slept on. Some of Martha’s happiest pregnancy memories had taken place in the dark. For in the middle of the night, Vadim was all hers again.
As the weeks went by, all the broken nights they’d racked up between them began taking their toll. They were both constantly weary these days. All good practice for when the baby was born, she supposed.
If you live to see it.
Her inner Voice of Doom had raised a valid point. Childbirth in medieval times was an extremely risky business for both mother and child. What exactly were the precise survival rates, Martha wondered for the zillionth time. She should have paid more attention during history class at school—not that they’d covered medieval history at her school. For some reason, their teacher had decided they should study the American West instead.
Ah well. Knowing the mortality rates wouldn’t help her now.
“Hush. Go to sleep,” Vadim murmured against her hair. “I can hear you worrying from here.”
How had he known she was worrying?
Because Martha hadn’t wanted to make Vadim any more uptight than he already was, she had never properly discussed her fears about childbirth with him—what was this thing women had about wanting to protect their menfolk from stuff like this, anyway? Her yearning for a hospital in her own time—a blessedly clean structure populated by a veritable army of doctors, nurses, and surgeons, not to mention a host of heavenly pain-busting drugs of every type and flavor—was something she’d always kept to herself.
A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella) Page 2
