A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella)

by N. J. Layouni

  Although Agatha and Ma were great, they were modern women of their own time. A medieval time. Because of this, some of their remedies seemed decidedly on the dodgy side and didn’t precisely fill Martha with confidence. Heck. They might as well bark at the moon for all the good an amulet made from worms and dried toad parts would do.

  It was at times like this when she missed Lulu the most. Oh, how she longed for a mother figure to help her through what lay ahead—preferably in the form of her wonderful ditsy aunt. How badly Martha missed her kindly face and her garish sense of fashion. The overly-bright lipstick. The intense lilac hair rinses Lulu loved so much.

  Eyes closed, Martha listened to the slow even rhythm of Vadim’s breathing. As she relaxed, she visualized herself walking up the path to Lulu’s front door. She could almost feel the gravel chippings crunching beneath her feet. In her current drugged-up haze, everything felt so real. So intense.

  As she approached the cottage with its square little windows, and the familiar whitewashed stone walls Martha inhaled, filling her lungs with the cool, sweet air of the Lake District.

  It was all so clear, almost as if she were back there.

  Reaching up, she searched the narrow ledge above the red front door, hunting with imaginary fingers for the spare key Lulu insisted on keeping there, despite the recent spate of break-ins around the village. The wee dafty.

  Her ghostly fingers closed around the key and the cold metal teeth bit into her skin.

  Was she awake or was she dreaming?

  Whatever this odd experience was, it felt as real as her current reality in Edgeway. A bit like time travel, albeit of the non-corporeal kind. She liked it, the wonderful drug-induced freedom that enabled her to wander at will. In this state, she could go anywhere. See, taste, and feel a day from long ago or a moment in time from an alternate future.

  This was true freedom. Freedom of the mind and spirit. No wonder Anselm had enjoyed Agatha’s trippy potions so much back when he was ill. Martha hadn’t felt anything like this since Madoc the Seer had visited the castle back when she’d been the previous earl’s prisoner.

  Concentrating hard, she inserted her imaginary key into the door-lock and twisted it to the left. The mechanism gave a soft click and a moment later the front door swung open with the familiar creak Martha knew so well. Effortlessly drifting on her ghostly legs, Martha glided inside the cottage as she’d done once before. Only this time there was no Madoc to guide her.

  This time she was all on her own.

  She wasn’t afraid, though, because now she knew what to expect. This was just a temporary trip. All she had to do was keep herself anchored to the present of one world while her mind journeyed to the present of another. It sounded ridiculous, but on some level, it made complete sense.

  She could do this.

  Tethered by the sounds of daily castle life in Erde, and the easy rhythm of Vadim’s breathing, Martha exchanged her physical world for another one. For the place she’d once called home.

  Now, where the heck was Lulu? There wasn’t much time, and Martha desperately needed to see her aunt again.

  Perhaps for the last time on this side of the great divide.

  Chapter Three

  As the sun descended beneath the horizon, Martha’s labor began in earnest.

  For much of the afternoon, she and Vadim had dozed pleasantly together, Martha snuggled in his arms as was their custom.

  Suddenly, she stiffened. Despite her bulk, she sat post upright, gasping with pain, unable to inhale such was its ferocity.

  Vadim immediately summoned Agatha, calling her back from the room beyond the bedchamber. “Agatha!” The trembling thread of panic in his voice betrayed him.

  In vain he battled to contain his fears, to keep them hidden from his wife as he tried massaging the small of her back in slow circular movements hoping to ease her discomfort. Martha pressed herself hard against his hand and hissed with pain.

  “No… it’s not helping,” said she at length. “I need to walk. Help me up.”

  At such a perilous time as this, she fancied another stroll? But the narrowing of her eyes forestalled Vadim’s objection before his lips could give it life.

  “Now please!” Oh, he recognized that tone all too well. What else could he do but obey her? Only a buffoon with a death craving would obstruct the wishes of a woman approaching her time.

  Agatha scurried into the bedchamber, her arms piled high with linen sheets. As usual, the ever-faithful Edric followed close behind her, with a steaming pail of water clutched in each hand.

  “Oh, my word!” The plump matron cried, aghast at seeing her charge out of bed. “Whatever are you doing, m’lady? You shouldn’t be up. Effie? Bring the chamber pot—”

  “I… don’t need to… pee,” Martha gasped, her nails digging into Vadim’s forearm. “I just need to… walk.”

  Agatha’s lips tightened, her disapproval plain to see. “This is most unseemly, m’lord. Indeed it is.”

  Perhaps it was. But although Vadim secretly took Agatha’s part, he wasn’t fool enough to say so. What mattered now was what Martha wanted. Nothing else. Besides, who was to say her behavior wasn’t normal for the women of her world? From what he’d heard his wife tell, the physicians and healers in Martha’s time were almost magical, such was their skill in diagnosing and treating the sick and afflicted. So great was their power to save lives, they could even take the living heart and lungs from one person and put them, still functioning, into the chest of another.

  Here in Erde, such a feat would be miraculous, much akin to sorcery, but in Martha’s world it was almost commonplace. Such were the vast differences in their homelands.

  And so, despite the way Agatha kept arching her eyebrows at him, silently appealing to him to exercise his husbandly influence upon his stubborn wife, Vadim made no murmur of protest.

  “Ooh!” Martha doubled over and would have surely fallen had Vadim not been beside her. “God, I can’t do this, Vadim… I c-c-can’t…” A rush of watery vomit cascaded from her mouth and pattered onto the dry straw.

  All he could do was hold her until all the bitter bile had been expelled, murmuring soft words of comfort against her ear; words that neither of them truly believed. Never had he felt this helpless. So… damnably useless.

  When Martha was done emptying the sparse contents of her stomach, Vadim took the damp cloth Agatha handed him and gently dabbed it over Martha’s mouth.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, somehow managing to smile.

  She was thanking him? For what? Wasn’t he was responsible for this—for all of it? Her current pitiable condition was all his fault.

  The candles Edric had hurriedly lit cut welcome swathes of light through the gathering darkness of the room. Alas. That cheery brightness did nothing to banish Vadim’s fears, Now he could see how ashen Martha had become; the deep shadows beneath her lovely eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. For a moment he fancied he glimpsed the skull beneath his wife’s living flesh. He shivered. Surely this must be a portent of doom.

  Emotion robbed him of words along with all of his usual sense.

  His lower jaw flapped uselessly as he struggled to find something to say, words that would comfort his beloved, some wisdom to hearten her and bolster her failing courage during the hours ahead.

  Alas. He couldn’t think of anything.

  But as she so often did, Martha seemed to understand when he himself did not. Raising her hand, she rested her palm against his cheek, grimacing and blinking through her flickering smile. “I’ll be… fine, love. Stop… worrying.”

  “I think you should help your wife to bed,” Agatha said softly from Martha’s other side, hovering like an anxious mother hen. “Come along now, dear. Let’s get you settled before this baby of yours decides to show himself.”

  Martha nodded and extended her other arm to
Agatha. “Yes. I’d like to lie down for a bit.”

  Between them, Vadim and Agatha led Martha back to bed and gently settled her onto the mattress.

  “I don’t suppose I could have another one of your potions, could I?” she asked, closing her eyes.

  “We’ll see, my lamb.” Turning, she dismissed Edric with a curt “That will be all for now, thank you.” Once he had gone, Agatha examined Martha again. “Bring that candle over Effie. Good girl. Hold steady now. Yes, that’s perfect, thank you.”

  If anything, Effie looked almost as wretched as her mistress. Pale and trembling, the young maid cowered at Agatha’s side but somehow she managed to stand her ground and keep the candle aloft.

  Still clutching Martha’s hand, Vadim pressed an urgent kiss to her clammy brow. “It will be over soon, love,” he said for want of anything better to say. But even as he spoke them, his words sounded more of a sentence than a comfort. Hollow and ominous.

  Martha clutched the rumpled coverlet with her other hand, tightly fisting the fabric as another ripple of pain gained momentum. “So, Agatha?” she gasped, her eyes clenched shut. “How about that p-potion now, huh?”

  “’Tis too late for that.” Standing upright again, Agatha re-covered Martha’s pale legs with her night-rail. “You are almost fully dilated, my dear. Soon I will need you to push.”

  “What? Not even some willow-bark tea?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lamb,” Agatha said kindly without explanation, but Vadim knew why. Although willow-bark relieved pain, it was also a renowned blood thinner. The last thing Martha needed was to have her life’s blood spilling from her body like water.

  And she would bleed.

  A lot.

  Vadim gulped, suddenly feeling extremely ill. For the love of Erde, what was wrong with him? He was a warrior. A leader of men. He’d stared death in the eye countless times, so often he could recall each wrinkle and scar concealed by its ghastly cowl, and smell the stench of its unholy breath.

  Even so, he was terribly afraid. Not for himself, of course. For Martha.

  “You may have a cup of mulled wine if you wish,” Agatha said, gently patting Martha’s leg.

  “That would be great… thank you. Ooh!” Martha arched up on the bed. Clutching Vadim’s hand, she struggled to breathe through the pain as he’d instructed her.

  “You are doing so well, my love.” Wait. Hadn’t he already said that? Already he was running out of encouraging things to say.

  His heart thundered wildly in his chest as it had so many times whilst on the threshold of some great battle. But there were no swords here. No invading force to vanquish. No armies or captains to banish.

  This was a battle of a very different kind. Outside, in the world beyond the window, all was still as if Edgeway held its breath and waited. The unnerving calm before an oncoming storm.

  What if the worst happened? What if his secret fear came to pass? What if Martha—?

  No. He would not think of it. She would live, and so would their child.

  Tenderly, he stroked a damp tendril of chestnut hair from her brow and his heart quickened anew. Oh, how he loved her. She looked up at him, love and trust glowing from the depths of her blue eyes. His throat tightened as the unmanly urge to weep descended upon him.

  Clearing his throat, Vadim quickly scrubbed his hand over his face. He had no right to behave this way. Not today. No matter how he wretched he felt on the inside, outwardly he must appear as strong and unyielding as the castle’s curtain wall. Today was about Martha and the precious babe their love had created.

  But what if… ? What if he did lose them. Both of them?

  The sudden softening in Martha’s eyes told him that once again she had seen his fears and, somehow, did not despise him for such unmanly weakness. He managed a smile. She had always been able to read his thoughts as easily as he could read animal tracks in the dirt.

  “This will probably go on for hours. Why don’t you go and see Anselm?” she said kindly, offering him the chance to escape. “And see if Forge is with him, would you?” She smiled. “Those two are spending way too much time together lately.” She gave another sharp hiss of pain. “Go on, love. You know Agatha and Effie will take good care of… me— Oooh!” Another fierce contraction had her squirming like a worm on a hook.

  “Excuse me, m’lord.” With no further preamble, Agatha pushed Vadim aside and grabbed Martha’s hand. “This is all quite normal, lass. Believe me, everything is progressing just as it should.”

  Vadim wasn’t sure if Agatha was trying to convince Martha or herself, for her soothing words bore the slightest hint of fear, something he’d never witnessed in the older woman.

  “Breathe, m’lady. Nice and slow. That’s it. There… that’s better. A little pain is to be expected.”

  A little pain? Martha’s face was the color of the palest marble, such was her suffering.

  Raw, jagged guilt tore at Vadim’s heart. He felt suddenly sick.

  He needed no gift of The Sight to know that Agatha lied. Despite her over-bright assurances, he knew full well that nothing was right about this labor. Everything was going wrong, and still the babe had not yet turned.

  As much as he desperately wanted to help he knew not how. So, instead, he stood in the shadows and watched, side by side with Effie who looked just as stricken as he was. In silence, they fixed their attention on the bed.

  Eyes screwed up, Martha concentrated on her breathing whilst Agatha palpated the shining mound of her belly.

  How was it that skin could stretch so far? How had Martha not split apart like an over-ripe fruit? Such were the bleak thoughts that occupied Vadim. Rousing himself from the role of a useless onlooker, he cautiously returned to the bed and crouched down beside his woman, stroking her sweat-slicked hair. He wasn’t sure if Martha even recalled his presence anymore.

  Agatha clucked with frustration. “Oh, this child is as stubborn as his mother for he simply will not get into the birth position. Effie? Did you boil up that length of twine as I asked you to?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good girl. Then bring it to me. Oh, but before you do, please escort Lord Edgeway into the other room.”

  Vadim stared at Agatha in astonishment. She actually dared to dismiss him? “But—”

  “But nothing, m’lord. A man has no place in the birthing chamber, and well you know it—no matter how high born he happens to be.”

  Placing a kiss on Martha’s forehead, he rose from his knees, drawing himself up to his full height. “I will remain here. My wife needs me.”

  From deep inside him, a tiny voice laughed and said, Liar!

  Yes, he was a liar.

  Martha didn’t really need him. In truth, it was the other way round. ’Twas he who needed her. Desperately. If they banished him from her bedside, he didn’t know what he would do. Surely he would lose his mind.

  But the alternative was equally grim. How could he bear to stay, helplessly watching while the woman he loved endured such torture?

  Agatha sighed. “Just go, lad. You will only be in the way.” But her words were kindly spoken. “The last thing I need is a man fainting in the birthing chamber.”

  What did she think he was, some pampered, whey-faced maiden? “I would never swoon!” he declared fiercely.

  “Oh?” Despite his lordly bluster, Agatha wasn’t even slightly intimidated. Her eyes twinkled from within her plump face. “So certain of that are you?”

  Absolutely! Well… almost certain.

  Just then, Martha reclaimed their attention. Puffing and panting she pushed herself up into a semi-sitting position, bearing her weight on her elbows. “Vadim? I need to have a quick word with you before you go.”

  Hope and trepidation flared in equal measure within his heart. “Don’t you want me to stay, love?” As much as he wanted to be with
her, part of him feared that he would disappoint her if he did stay.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. Ah, thank the Great Spirit! “But there’s something really important I have to tell you.”

  He strode to the bed and gathered Martha in his arms, holding her as tightly as he dared, prolonging the moment of parting for as long as possible.“What is it, beloved? Speak.”

  He felt her tense as another contraction began to build. “I n-need you to p-promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me that if… the time comes—and you’ll know when—promise me you’ll ask Agatha to cut the baby from my body—”

  “No.” Vadim held her away from him, staring at her in horror, aghast at even the mere thought of such butchery. “No!” he declared a second time, this time with more heat. “I will never consent to—”

  But Martha continued speaking as if he hadn’t interrupted, talking over his protests in a low, urgent whisper.“—you must tell her to find the cleanest, sharpest knife she has and tell her to cut me just here.” She cupped her hand beneath the lower curve of her belly. “Are you listening to me, hon? Please, Vadim. This is really important. Promise me you’ll do as I ask?”

  He shook his head as if by doing so he could block out the terrible images she had planted within his mind. “No,” he declared with passion, “I cannot. I will not. In every other command, I will obey you, my love, but not in this. Do not ask it of me.”

  Martha clutched a fistful of his shirt, her glistening eyes beseeching him in such a way it was painful to resist her will. “If you don’t do as I ask we might both die—me and the baby.”

  “No.” Taking her hand, Vadim kissed her precious fingers one at a time, his eyes blurred with tears of his own. “Ssh, love. Do not speak of this again. Please.”