A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella)

by N. J. Layouni

  “No. Not yet!” Ma cried, pushing down on Martha’s belly as if by doing so she could delay the inevitable. “Breathe for me, lass. Breathe through the waves while I try and disentangle their limbs. Agatha, bring me that twine. Quickly now!”

  No one spoke while Ma worked, but Martha felt the other women breathing right along with her, willing her not to push. Puffing and panting, she somehow managed to hold back as Ma fumbled around with her insides. She tried to imagine a warm desert island with gentle azure waves lapping lazily upon the shore, but it was no use. All she could see was her massively distended belly shining like a dome in the candle light, and the frightened face of her maid.

  Another contraction began. An even bigger one this time. Oh, how she wanted to push! She… needed… to…

  “Please!” she screamed on a sob.

  “Nearly there.” Ma gently pulled on the twine, and Martha felt a sudden movement within her body. A slight shifting as though something tight had given way. Thankfully, the need to push eased a little.

  With a small sound of satisfaction, Ma leaned gently on Martha’s belly. “Harken to me, lass. I know you’re tired, but if we don’t deliver these babies soon they’ll die, and you along with them.”

  “Tell me… something I don’t… know,” Martha growled through her gritted teeth.

  “Then do precisely as I bid you, exactly when I tell you to. Yes?”

  “Yes. Oooh.” There was another tugging sensation within her belly, and a peculiar feeling of adjustment as something slowly slipped into place. The urge to push returned and this time it was impossible to resist.

  “Now?” she gasped, her eyes clenched tightly shut.

  “Yes. Now! Push, lass. Bear down gently, now. Slower… slower! Yes. His head is almost… out!”

  Martha screamed as something roughly the size of a small boulder popped out from her aching nether regions.

  “Good. Stop pushing, lass. Pant for me. Agatha, do you have the—? Ah. Thank you. Be ready. Alright, m’lady.” Martha opened her eyes and saw Ma smiling her familiar gummy grin from between her open thighs. “I need you to push again.”

  Martha didn’t need telling twice. “Oh, thank Christ!” Fearing Ma would tell her to stop again, she took a deep breath and pushed.

  Beside her, Effie gave a pained little oof! as Martha almost ground her poor fingers into splinters, but to her credit, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she said, encouragingly, “Keep going, m’lady. You’re doing wonderfully well.”

  There was a moment of release, then a weird slithering sensation, and the pressure on her lady parts finally eased. A rush of warm fluid gushed from Martha’s body and pattered in a torrent onto the deep bed of straw.

  With all the showmanship of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Ma held aloft a pink squirming bundle.“You have a son, m’lady!” she cried in delight. “And a fine, strong lad he is too!”

  “Oh, m’lady. It’s a baby!” Effie cried, tears streaming down her face. “A beautiful baby boy.” She leaned over and kissed Martha’s cheek.

  The reedy indignant wail of the baby’s cry increased in volume and frenzy with each breath.

  Our son.

  As Martha looked at him for the very first time, her heart seemed to double in size in a couple of heartbeats. She’d never believed in love at first sight. Not really. Not even with her beloved Vadim. Even he’d had to work to earn his place inside her heart.

  Instant love was a flight of fiction. A tender tool used to sell soppy books and songs. A notion as insubstantial and imaginary as the Tooth Fairy.

  Or so she’d always believed.

  But as Ma laid the outraged baby upon the shrinking mountain of Martha’s belly so that she could deal with tying off the umbilical cord—at the very moment when Martha reached down to stroke the baby’s warm blood-streaked head—a deep and irrevocable dose of insta-love flooded her entire being. Filling her body and soul, it submerged her beneath the gentle cloak of its tender weight until she could hardly breathe for the emotion constricting her throat.

  Lost in the overwhelming joy of this brand new feeling, Martha had not the slightest hope of ever finding her way back to the person she’d been only yesterday. And neither did she want to.

  Responding to her baby’s cry, her breasts tingled and hardened as a rush of milk flooded from her aching nipples, saturating the thin linen of her shift.

  Suddenly the baby ceased his outraged caterwauling and thrashing. Instead, he squinted up at her, watching her with eyes of cloudy-blue.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Martha murmured, gently caressing his tiny head with her forefinger. “I’m your mummy.” How she longed to hold him.

  “Aw, look!” Effie cooed with delight. “He knows your voice. See how he stares at you, m’lady!”

  The instant the baby was free of his cord and finally independent of his mother’s body, without even bothering to swaddle him, Agatha plopped the baby down on Martha’s chest. “There you go, lass. Here he is, your son and heir.”

  Martha kissed the baby’s warm plump cheek, marveling at how small and perfect he was.

  “Hello, beautiful.” In fascination, she watched as he curled his tiny fingers around the tip of her index finger, silently staring up at her. Their dear, precious little man. He looked so like Vadim the resemblance was uncanny. “Oh, your daddy is going to adore you, sweetheart.” Vadim. “Effie, give Vadim a shout, would you?”

  Effie glanced at Ma, seeking her consent. The old woman nodded. “Very well. But it had better be a quick visit for the other babe is not far behind.”

  No sooner had Effie opened the door than Vadim near on tumbled into the bedchamber. Like a heat-seeking missile, his eyes instantly sought Martha’s.

  “Is everything well? The baby? Is he—?”

  Martha smiled and beckoned him over. “Everything’s fine, love. Come and say hello to your son.”

  As Vadim beheld his new family for the first time, his eyes glittered. Silent tears escaped his eyes and slipped down his face, but he seemed not to notice them. Dropping to his knees by the side of the bed, he regarded the baby with a look of abject wonder.

  “Welcome to the world, little one,” he said softly as he tentatively stroked the child’s head. “Settle well into your place within our hearts.” Then he leaned over and kissed Martha. Tenderly, almost reverently. “Thank you, my love. Thank you.”

  Because she had neither the words nor the energy to express all the emotions currently tugging at her, jockeying for precedence, Martha let her smile to convey her contentment, instead. Together, she and Vadim watched in fascination as the baby scented milk and slowly turned his head, nuzzling Martha’s breast through the thin barrier of her damp shift.

  Her stomach fluttered. “What shall I do?”

  Vadim chuckled. “It seems to me that our son knows exactly what is required of him, my love.”

  “Hmm. And I wonder who he gets that from, eh?”

  Thankfully, Ma came to the rescue. Yet again. “Here. Let me have him.” Expertly picking the baby up, she carefully rearranged him until he was lying directly beneath Martha’s breast. “Support his head, lass.” She adjusted Martha’s arms until she was satisfied the baby wasn’t about to bounce off the bed and plummet to the floor. “Aye. Just like that.”

  It felt good to hold him, to feel the solid weight of his warm little boy body resting on her arm.

  “May I untie your shift and help the babe latch onto the breast?” Ma asked, her gnarled fingers already poised in readiness over the tie of the garment.

  “Sure. Go for it.” After all the events of today, having someone manhandling her boobs seemed like nothing.

  “You see?” Ma said. “If we stroke the nipple just beneath the baby’s nose like this—”

  Like a tiny roaring, lion, the baby opened his mouth. Wide. Suddenly, Martha’s
nipple and a great chunk of her breast had disappeared from view.

  “Ooh!” Martha squeaked. His, surprisingly demanding, sucks felt a little odd to begin with but there was no pain. Gradually she relaxed. Leaning on Vadim, they watched their boy feeding, smiling at one another whenever they heard the occasional soft ‘gulp’ as the baby swallowed the contents of his bulging cheeks.

  “Ah! Look at that,” Ma said, beaming with bare-gummed delight. “He’s latched on perfectly. Do you feel comfortable enough, lass?”

  “I feel fine.” Better than fine, in fact. Better than she’d felt in months.

  But the baby’s insistent suckling tugged at her womb reminded her of the child who was still inside her waiting to be born.

  And she didn’t have to wait long for the arrival of baby number two.

  No sooner had Ma and Agatha returned to their gentle ‘tinkerings’ beneath her lady-hood, another fierce contraction took Martha by surprise. Gasping and helpless, she jerked bolt upright in bed.

  A puppet of pain, her body was governed by more undulating strings of agony.

  Vadim was quick to react, deftly plucking their son from her so that Martha could concentrate on the business of pushing out baby number two.

  Of course, baby number one wasn’t best pleased about having his milk supply cut off, and he set off screaming in outrage.

  “Take him,” Vadim cried over the unholy din, thrusting the child at Effie who was standing by with a shawl at the ready. Swaddling the child, she held him close, rocking him and shushing him in a way Martha yearned to.

  And then the pain ratcheted up a few more notches.

  “Oh, God!” Was there to be no end to this torment? Never again, she vowed. Never, ever again.

  Gripping her hand tightly, Vadim muttered fierce words of encouragement against her ear. But Martha could barely hear him. The escalating shards of pain drowned out everything until she could barely see or hear at all.

  Someone grabbed her ankle, squeezing it so hard Martha felt it even above the rising cacophony of pain. Her system rebooted and all her senses returned allowing her to see and hear again.

  “Martha lass!” Ma cried urgently. “Don’t push yet! You must wait until—”

  But it was like her body didn’t belong to her anymore. She was under the thrall of a cruel puppet master, and he’d just yanked on the opposite strings.

  “I c-c-can’t!” Martha wailed. Nothing anyone could say or do could prevent what was to come. One way or another, this baby was going to be born. Now!

  The world slowed. Suddenly there were was only the thrumming of her heartbeat and her ragged gasps for air. The world went into a muffled flat-spin.

  Vadim cupped her face between his hands. Although Martha couldn’t decipher his frantic words, the raw, naked fear within his eyes spoke an eloquent tale. Her beautiful man was seconds away from a major flip-out.

  Martha screamed and pushed down. A long and violent push. There was another odd slithering sensation and the volume of pain lessened a tad.

  Ma lifted another wriggling, red-slicked baby from between Martha’s trembling legs, but this time there were no smiles. No magician’s flourish. Thrusting the baby into Agatha’s waiting hands, Ma grabbed a thick wad of linen and shoved it between Martha’s trembling legs.

  Blood. There was so much blood.

  Her two midwives and the baby were covered in great smears of the red stuff. Agatha rubbed the dark-haired baby briskly with a towel until its puckered little mouth blossomed into a scream of fury.

  But before Martha had a chance to feel relieved that the child seemed okay, everything went to hell.

  A bright red ribbon of blood suddenly spurted from between her legs in a pulsing graceful arc. Ma jerked her head out the way, narrowly avoiding a direct hit.

  Throwing aside a wet clump of crimson-soaked linen, the old lady grabbed another thick, clean wad with her blood-slicked hands and pressed it firmly down upon the flow.

  Handing the other baby to Effie, Agatha hurried to Ma’s side, her face tight with tension.

  From somewhere deep inside a less muddled part of her brain, Martha knew this must be pretty serious, but she wasn’t scared. Safe and warm within her fuzzy cotton-wool world, she witnessed the ensuing drama through an ever-narrowing tunnel as if was happening to someone else. She felt nothing, only mild curiosity combined with bone-weary exhaustion, and the irresistible compulsion to close her eyes.

  Vadim forcibly turned Martha’s head until they were face to face. He was close. So very close. Close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold, glittering like distant stars within the blackness of his beautiful eyes.

  Martha! She couldn’t hear him, only lip-read, but his terror was tangible.

  Stay with me. His lips moved silently, urgently. Willing her to survive. Please! I love you.

  When he pressed his lips to hers, Martha couldn’t feel his kiss, just the glowing warmth of the tender love she carried for him within her heart. She wanted to smile but she hadn’t the strength. Her eyelids flickered downward, desperate with the need to close.

  But still Vadim held her, refusing to let go even though all hope was now surely gone. Shouting urgent words—words Martha couldn’t hear—he tried, again and again, to delay her from taking a trip over the brink of oblivion.

  Is this it, then? Am I dying? But I want… to stay here… with him. With them…

  As a torrent of tears slipped unchecked down Vadim’s face, Martha realized the end must be very close.

  Making a supreme effort, she forced her lips to shape the words she could no longer speak.

  I love you.

  But the effort of doing so devoured her final dregs of strength. As her eyes closed for the final time, tears of regret stained her cheeks. If only she’d had the chance to hold their other baby. She didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl.

  Poor motherless chicks. What would become of them now?

  And Vadim. What about him?

  If there is… a Great Spirit, then please… take care of them… for me.

  Chapter Eight

  Even the most dreadful of days must eventually end, and so it was with this one.

  Across the cobbles of the bailey, the shadows stretched and lengthened. Some were static. Others seemed to be alive, writhing and sinuous like a nest of snakes, desperate to flee the brilliant orange glow of the setting sun.

  Evening was not far off. But despite the warmth of the day, here in the shadows, far beyond the reach of the sun, the bitter memory of winter dwelt on.

  No doubt eager for the comfort of their firesides, the final merchants and traders had packed away their goods until only the skeletons of their stalls now remained. The last of the goodwives were leaving too, pulling rag-tag broods of squabbling snot-nosed children in their wake, bound for home.

  But the mothers did not scold their bickering offspring. Not today.

  Instead, they chivied their dear ones home with soft touches and gently-spoken words.

  From his place beside the curtain wall—unseen and unnoticed—Anselm huddled deep within the thick folds of his cloak and watched as his brother slowly unraveled.

  Poor fellow. Who could blame him? Not anyone in possession of warm feelings and a good heart.

  Despite the valiant efforts of Ma, Agatha, and the late assistance provided by one of the finest physics in the north who had recently arrived in Edgeway, the news from the keep was decidedly grim.

  The countess, Vadim’s beloved wife Martha, now slept upon the very threshold of death.

  The midwives had eventually managed to stem the hemorrhage, but by then Martha had lost a great deal of blood. Only time would tell whether that loss would be too much.

  All they could do now was wait and hope. And perhaps pray, if one were so inclined.

  But no matter how fond he was
of his sister-in-law, no matter how urgent their need for divine intervention might be, Anselm had not the slightest intention of asking them for help.

  If the Gods did exist—which Anselm very much doubted—then they were malevolent and cruel. Their prime directive seemed to be torturing the very souls who needed their help the most. Like a cat with a mouse, endlessly toying with their hapless victims, repeatedly offering them a faint glimpse of hope before striking the mortal blow.

  Anselm’s faith—such as it had been—had died many years ago, snuffed out beneath the weight of his dear Isobel’s death. In his experience, hoping and praying for a miracle was a futile endeavor. Utterly pointless. Hell, they might as well pray to the sun as the savages did.

  No. Whether they knew it or not, they were all alone in the darkness. Every last one of them.

  But at least Vadim wasn’t wasting his breath with useless prayer. He had chosen another way to fill the intolerable void within his heart. An option that didn’t include begging cruel gods—be they real or imaginary—for compassion.

  Vadim had committed himself to a wiser, much more attainable goal.

  That of getting himself blindly, horribly, drunk.

  As he leaned back against the curtain wall Anselm felt the bitter cold of the vast stone blocks slowly penetrating the layers of his cloak until it had seeped into the very marrow of his bones. But he remained at his post, keeping his lonely vigil.

  Sword drawn, Vadim staggered about the bailey battling terrible demons that only he could see. Cursing and sobbing, he lashed out at the approaching dusk as if by doing so he could keep the darkness at bay. Occasionally he paused to take a swig from the pitcher he held so tightly beneath his left arm, then he was on the move again, never staying in one place for long.

  ’Twas not pleasant, witnessing the ruination of a man who had always been so calm and moderate in every aspect of his life. But then, despair could attack anyone. That dark cloud cared nothing for position or temperament. Be they pauper or king, no one was immune to its bitter touch.